#And it was all standing between thriving and barely surviving

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — five

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 49.5k words… sorry 

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — a late-night visit from mark exposes the cracks in your fragile relationship, pushing you further apart with every unspoken word and lingering wound. distance grows, heartbreak deepens, yet amidst the chaos, your bond becomes raw and consuming. but just as it feels like you might find each other again, one devastating misunderstanding threatens to destroy everything, leaving you questioning if love can survive when the world around you refuses to let it thrive.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit themes, really angsty chapter (get tissues), rough sex, manhandling, fucking against the lockers, degradation, dom (male) and sub (female), oral sex (male receiving), throat fucking, deep throating, hair pulling, choking, spanking, impact play, overstimulation, possessive behavior, degradation, praise mixed with humiliation, rough handling, marking/bruising, choking, spitting, tense conversations and confrontations, so many emotions, so much guilt, fear, and longing, overthinking and overanalyzing girlies unite, moments of rawness and vulnerability, lots of internal conflicts, mark gets heated this chapter, frustrated mark, he eats her up i fear, karina and y/n bestie moments, wholesome girl moments 🫶, jeno and reader bestie moments too, jeno is such a flirt lmao, oh also his dad is a little bitch but we know! boy toy auction (oth viewers you’re welcome!), beautiful gala scene, ending … :((

authors note — this is not the final part! i’ve added another chapter. this is the penultimate chapter. 

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX

Karina’s voice cuts through the quiet, distant and curt. “It’s for you,” she says without sparing you a glance. 

Your brows pull together as you glance at the clock—just past midnight. Confusion lingers until you open the door, and the sight before you instantly shifts your mood. Mark stands there with a familiar, easy smile tugging at his lips, a warmth that never fails to pull you in. His backpack rests over one shoulder, a clear sign he plans to stay the night, and in his hand, he’s holding his guitar case, always an extension of him, always something that feels so uniquely his.

The apartment felt heavy with unspoken tension, the kind that lingered in the air and wrapped itself around every glance. Karina had barely said a word since letting Mark in, her movements sharp and deliberate as she shut the door behind him. She didn’t look at you, didn’t offer her usual teasing remarks or warm goodnights. Instead, her body language did all the talking—the stiff set of her shoulders, the tight grip on her phone, the way she turned away almost immediately after ushering him inside.

You tried not to notice, but it was impossible not to. The silence between you wasn’t loud, but it was deafening. A growing chasm that neither of you had dared to bridge, and tonight was no exception. Karina muttered a curt, “It’s for you,” before retreating to her room without another glance. The faint sound of her door closing echoed down the hallway, leaving you and Mark standing in the dim light of the living room.

The second you see him standing there, your chest tightens with an anxiety you’ve been carrying all week. It’s not just the guilt from avoiding him or the exhaustion from endless deadlines—it’s the weight of what you overheard. Mark’s voice in your mind, the conversation with Jeno replaying like a broken record. You’ve tried to shake it, rationalize it, but the words cling to you, making your stomach twist. Now, standing in front of him, you feel it all at once: the unease curling in your stomach, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands fidget almost unconsciously. Your breaths feel shallow, your heart racing like it’s trying to escape the uncertainty building inside you.

But then he looks at you—soft and unassuming—and shoots you a boyish smile, the one you love so much, the one that never fails to undo you. It’s a simple curve of his lips, but it’s everything. It’s the smile that pulls you into him when you’re hesitant, that tells you you’re safe even when your thoughts are screaming otherwise. His teeth catch on his bottom lip briefly, a fleeting nervous habit you’ve always found endearing, and the warmth in his eyes crinkles the corners just slightly. It’s not a practised grin—it’s him, open and vulnerable in a way only he can be. And just like that, the tension in your chest loosens. It doesn’t disappear entirely, but it dulls enough for you to step closer, to let him in.

Your eyes lingered on him, a mix of warmth and unease unfurling in your chest. It had been a long week, both of you buried under deadlines and responsibilities, and seeing him now—at midnight, no less—sent your heart into an uneven rhythm, caught between relief and guilt. “You’re here,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as you took a step closer. “Hi.”

Mark set his guitar down by the couch, his backpack sliding off his shoulder before his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. “Hi, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice low and familiar as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Missed you.”

You melted into him, your arms looping around his neck as his warmth seeped into you. For a moment, the world outside this embrace didn’t exist—the deadlines, the doubts, the noise in your head. It was just Mark.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, burying your face in his hoodie. But even as the words left your lips, the shadows of last week crept back in, whispering doubts and questions you weren’t ready to voice. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, grounding you in the present, and you sighed softly against him.

When he pulled back, his eyes met yours, warm and steady. “I know you love me, but why are you here at midnight?” you teased, tilting your head slightly.

He blinked at you, deadpan. “We agreed to hang out, dummy. You really forgot?”

A guilty laugh bubbled out of you. “Oh… I don’t remember that.” You glanced down, feeling a pang of guilt as his words sank in.

“I told you on the phone earlier.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, reassuring kiss. “It’s fine. You’ve been swamped. But I’m here now.”

You nodded, your smile returning faintly. “Let’s go to my room,” you murmured, tugging gently at his hand.

As soon as the door closes behind you, the quiet intimacy of your room wraps around you both. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts a warm, amber light over the space, and the faint scent of cinnamon lingers in the air from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier. It feels cozy, almost too intimate for the distance you’ve been feeling lately, but Mark doesn’t hesitate. He sets his backpack down by the desk and carefully leans his guitar against the wall before turning his attention back to you.

You sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed, watching him with a mix of guilt and affection. He shrugs off his hoodie, revealing his bare torso beneath, the lean muscle and smooth skin catching the low light of the room. The way his chest rises and falls with each breath makes your stomach flip, the sight both comforting and electrifying. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he looks at you with that same unreadable softness he always seems to carry.

You see how his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something, but then it closes just as quickly. He watches you closely, his gaze flickering over your face, your body language, your unusual silence. The weight of his attention is almost too much, his eyes catching every detail you wish you could hide. His hands tighten slightly at his sides, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he pieces together the things you’re too afraid to say. He’s about to ask something—you can feel it—but you speak first, your voice soft and edged with distraction.

“Take this off too,” you whisper, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweats, your attempt to shift the focus. The words are meant to sound teasing, playful, but there’s a hollowness in your tone that even you can hear. You tug lightly at the fabric, your lips tilting into a faint, forced smile as you look up at him. He hesitates, his brows furrowing just slightly before he lets out a quiet sigh, his hands reaching down to brush yours away gently.

“Y/N…” His voice trails off, unsure, the usual warmth in it replaced by something heavier—concern, confusion. His fingers linger over yours, trying to read you without pushing too hard. But when you don’t meet his eyes, when your hand slips away from him too quickly, he knows something’s wrong. He kneels slightly, coming to your eye level, his voice low and soft. “Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Come here,” you murmur, extending a hand toward him, trying to redirect the moment, to distract him. But even as he steps closer, even as he leans into your touch, his focus doesn’t waver. He notices how you avoid his gaze, how the softness he’s used to isn’t there.

He steps closer, letting you pull him to stand between your knees. His hands instinctively settle on your waist, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of your shorts. You look up at him, your fingers slipping under his shirt to rest against the warm, firm skin of his stomach. It’s such a simple touch, yet it feels grounding, as if you’re trying to tether yourself to him. But your mind drifts, clouded by the remnants of overheard words and the storm of doubts you haven’t been able to shake all week.

“You okay?” he asks softly, his voice low and careful, the tenderness in it making your chest ache. You don’t register it at first, your thoughts wandering to the weight of everything unsaid between you. He gives your waist a small squeeze, his thumbs pausing their soothing movements. “Baby,” he tries again, leaning down slightly to catch your gaze. “Are you okay?”

You blink, his words finally piercing through your haze. “Hmm?” you mumble, your voice distant, the weak “yes” that follows sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.

Mark tilts his head, his brows knitting together as he studies you, his hands still steady on your waist. “You sure?” he presses gently, the warmth in his tone steady, but his eyes flicker with concern. You don’t meet his gaze fully, your fingers idly brushing against his skin, your body present but your mind far away.

His silence stretches as he watches you, trying to piece together the shift in your demeanor. “What’s going on?” he finally asks, his voice softer now, but laced with worry. The question lingers, the weight of it pressing against the air between you, and you feel his unwavering gaze as he waits for an answer.

You shake your head to assure him it’s nothing, wanting to lie and tell him everything’s okay, but the words catch in your throat, heavy and unconvincing. Instead of speaking, you tug him closer, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and tentative at first. He responds immediately, his grip on your waist tightening as he leans into you. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that leaves you breathless. You can feel the tension in his body, the restraint as he tries to let you set the pace.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your hands trailing up his chest and over his shoulders. “I’m sorry I’ve been… distant,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve just been swamped with assignments, and—”

“Baby, it’s okay,” he cuts you off gently, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I get it. We’ve both been busy.” His lips curl into a small smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—concern, maybe even doubt.

He knows it’s not just that. There’s something else lingering, something you’re not saying, but he doesn’t want to push you—not yet. He hopes you’ll tell him when you’re ready, that you’ll let him in on whatever’s weighing so heavily on your mind. Still, the way your eyes flicker away from his, the faint tension in your shoulders, doesn’t go unnoticed.

“But it’s not just that,” you admit, your hands gripping his shoulders a little tighter. “I’ve been in my head a lot. I didn’t mean to shut you out.” Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to keep going, the weight of the week catching up to you. “I missed you, Mark. I really missed you.”

His expression softens instantly, and he cups your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I missed you too,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to explain everything right now, okay? Just let me be here for you.”

His patience disarms you, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself feel like they’re crumbling. You nod softly, your fingers trailing over his wrist before pulling him down onto the bed with you. He moves easily, settling over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your hands instinctively go to the waistband of his sweatpants, your legs beginning to wrap around his waist—but you stop. The look in his eyes freezes you. It’s not lust, not entirely. It’s something deeper, something raw. His gaze is steady, filled with an emotion you can’t quite name but feel all the way to your core.

He leans closer, his face hovering just inches from yours. You expect him to kiss you, to close the gap, but instead, he just smiles—a soft, almost awe-struck curve of his lips that catches you off guard. You lean up slightly, chasing his mouth, but he pulls back just enough to keep you from reaching him.

Your brows scrunch in confusion. “What?” you whisper, the question more annoyed than breathy.

He shakes his head lightly, the corners of his lips quirking upward even more. “Just can’t believe how fucking beautiful my girl is,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with sincerity. His words make your stomach flip, warmth flooding through you, and you feel yourself falter under the intensity of his gaze.

You hum softly, the sound low and teasing, and he moves with a deliberate ease, shifting to sit back against the headboard. Without hesitation, you follow, you straddle his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly, earning a quiet groan from him that sends a shiver down your spine. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of heat, but there’s a softness in them too—a contradiction you’ve come to crave.

His hands settle on your thighs, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, not being able to help himself as he repeats it. His eyes trace every inch of your face. The sincerity in his voice makes your breath hitch, and you lean in to kiss him again, your lips moving against his with a quiet urgency.

Your hands trail down his neck, over his shoulders to his chest. Your fingers trace the lean muscles, feeling them flex subtly under your touch, his breathing deepening with every movement. His skin is smooth and inviting, a contrast to the sharp ridges of his collarbone and the firmness of his torso. You let your hands roam, memorizing every dip and peak of his chest, 

Your hips start moving with deliberate intensity, every roll of your hips pressing your body tighter against his. You can feel the hard length of him beneath you, and the sensation sparks a shameless hunger in you. His hands grip your waist with a possessive force, his fingers digging into your skin as though he’s trying to steady himself. 

His head falls back, exposing the taut line of his neck, and then he lets out a low, guttural moan that sends heat pooling between your thighs. The sound is raw, primal, and utterly addictive, pushing you to move faster, grinding down with more purpose. Each shift of your hips makes his breath hitch, his muscles tightening under your touch, and the sight of him unravelling beneath you only drives you further, making your own arousal almost unbearable.

“Y/N,” he groans softly, his grip on your thighs tightening. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he looks at you again, his gaze dark and full of heat. “What are you doing to me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you lean in, your lips brushing along the line of his jaw before trailing down his neck. You feel the faint scrape of stubble against your lips as you suck lightly at his pulse point, and the low, guttural sound he makes sends a shiver down your spine.

His hands slide down your back with a gentle firmness, pulling you even closer to him. His eyes soften as he looks up at you. There’s a warmth in his gaze, one that makes your stomach flip and your breath catch—a quiet intensity, as though you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. The way he’s holding you, the pads of his thumbs brushing against your skin, is grounding yet tender, a contrast to the heat coursing through you just moments before.

You tilt your head up so your eyes meet his. “I love you,” he says softly, the words wrapping around you like a warm embrace. His voice is tinged with emotion, steady but with an edge of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. You remember the first time he said it—how it completely took your breath away, leaving you stunned, unsure of how to respond. That night, he’d promised to keep saying it, to keep reminding you, until you were ready to say it back. And true to his word, he’s never let a moment pass without making sure you know how he feels.

But every time he says it, it stirs something inside you, a mix of longing and fear. The way he looks at you—so full of conviction and certainty—makes you feel both cherished and cornered. You want to say it back, you want to be ready, but a part of you feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, afraid of the fall. The words lodge in your throat, heavy and unyielding, and you can’t quite understand why. Instead, you lean into the physical sensations: the heat of his hands on your skin, the way his thumb brushes against your cheek. 

Your rapid movements slow, the deliberate rhythm you’d set now faltering as the weight of his words settles over you. His hands remain on your hips, steady and warm, but your body seems to pause on instinct, absorbing the quiet vulnerability in his tone. Your heart races, your stomach flips, but there’s an ache deep inside you that won’t go away. It’s as though your body reacts in ways your mind refuses to let you.

Mark takes in your silence, his eyes scanning your face for a hint of a reaction. He doesn’t seem hurt—he knows you’re not ready, knows your hesitation isn’t because of him. But tonight, something about you feels different. Your lack of response isn’t just about being unready. There’s a tension in your shoulders, a fleeting look in your eyes, and he knows you’re not entirely here with him. His thumb lingers on your back, his gaze soft but steady. “Baby,” he says quietly, “come closer.”

You shift on his lap again, trying to distract yourself and him. You lean in, to press your hips down, grinding against him slowly. A soft groan escapes his lips, and for a moment, you think he’s going to give in. You move to take off your top, wanting more, needing the physicality to distract you from your swirling thoughts, but his hand catches yours mid-motion.

His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles against your hand. His gaze is steady, almost too steady that it makes you freeze. He studies you, his eyes flickering over your expression with an unreadable softness. “Y/N,” he murmurs, a calm firmness in his tone. “Get up for a second.”

You blink at him, startled. “What?” you pout, your voice laced with confusion and mild frustration. You weren’t expecting him to stop you—normally, he’s the one who initiates, who pulls you closer and makes your body forget everything else. “Why?” you ask, the sulk in your tone more pronounced now.

His lips twitch into a small smile, but his eyes remain steady, searching yours. “Just for a second,” he repeats. “Trust me.”

You hesitate, your body stiff and unmoving as you sit on top of him, still unhappy about this. Mark’s patience begins to wear thin, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he watches your reluctance. Without another word or argument, his hands settle firmly on your waist, guiding you with a quiet authority that leaves no room for resistance. He maneuvers you effortlessly, shifting your body until you’re sitting between his legs, your back pressed snugly against his chest.

After a few seconds of feigned compliance, you shift abruptly, pulling away from his touch and moving to sit beside him on the bed. Crossing your arms and legs with a pout, you glare half-heartedly at the strings, refusing to meet his amused gaze. His smirk grows as he watches your little rebellion, his eyes flicking over you with a mix of amusement and challenge.

You scoff, turning your head sharply to avoid his gaze, your arms tightening across your chest. His smirk only deepens at your defiance. Without a word, Mark reaches over, his hands finding your waist again, firm but playful as he attempts to pull you back toward him.

“Come here, stubborn,” he says, his voice dipping into something softer, more coaxing. You resist at first, leaning further away as if to emphasize your stance, but his grip doesn’t falter. He’s stronger than you give him credit for, and the slight tug sends you stumbling closer, your shoulder bumping against his chest.

“Mark!” you protest, a reluctant laugh bubbling up despite yourself. His arms circle you fully this time, holding you against him in a loose, teasing embrace.

“See?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “This is where you belong—right here. Stop fighting it.” His tone is warm, almost smug, and the proximity of his body to yours is enough to make your pulse quicken.

Your lips curve into a smirk as your fingers trail lightly over his forearm. “Maybe I like fighting it,” you add, your voice lower now, deliberately taunting. You can feel his grip tighten just slightly, and you know you’re getting to him, but you don’t stop. “Maybe I just like seeing if you can handle me.”

Mark’s hands linger on your waist, his grip firm but playful as he tries to pull you back against him. “Stop being difficult, baby,” he mutters, his voice low and tinged with amusement, but there’s a flicker of something darker—something charged—beneath it.

You twist out of his hold again, your body brushing against his in deliberate defiance. His jaw clenches, his patience fraying, and you know exactly what you’re doing. “Make me,” you say, your tone dripping with challenge as you step just out of reach, a coy smile teasing at your lips.

You take a step off the bed, moving slowly, a teasing sway in your hips as you glance back at him over your shoulder. The intention is clear—you’re planning to take control, to slide onto his lap and finally drive him to the point where he can’t resist you. You know exactly what you’re doing and exactly how he reacts when you’re on top of him.

But before you can make your move, his sharp gaze locks onto you, narrowing with purpose. In an instant, Mark lunges forward, grabbing you with swift precision. His hands find your waist again, but this time, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you down onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress as he hovers over you, his weight pressing you into the softness. The heat between your bodies is palpable, and the air around you feels electric.

“You’re such a brat,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, a teasing whisper that makes your breath hitch. You arch up into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and pull him closer. The kiss is hungry, his mouth moving against yours with a need that makes your head spin. His hips press against yours, and you can feel him, hard and unrelenting, through his sweats. You grind up, earning a deep groan from him that vibrates against your lips.

Breaking the kiss, you let your hand wander down his chest, trailing lower until your fingers press over the thick outline of his cock. He stiffens above you, his breath catching, and you smirk up at him, your thumb rubbing deliberately slow circles over him. “I could so beat you in a fight,” you tease, your voice breathy but laced with mischief.

Mark shakes his head, his eyes dark and hooded as he looks down at you. “Yeah?” he rasps, his lips curving into a crooked grin. “I’d let you get a few punches in.”

Your laugh is cut off by a sharp inhale as his hips roll into your hand, the friction sending a jolt of heat through your body. “Mmm, need you,” you moan, your lips parting as your back arches into him. The sound of your voice, needy and raw, makes him falter for a moment, his control slipping.

You take advantage of his hesitation, shifting to push him onto his back, your hands already sliding down his torso. But just as you start to lower yourself, your intentions clear, Mark’s hands shoot out to grab your arms, stopping you in your tracks. “Stop distracting me… fuck,” he groans, his voice rough and strained, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he struggles to compose himself. “I need to teach you how to play my guitar.”

You pout up at him, your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s determined, but the heat in his gaze tells you it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to give in. The tension between you crackles, a tantalizing promise of what’s to come, but for now, he’s not letting you win.

“Mark…” you start, but the words die in your throat when he reaches for his guitar, his movements unhurried. His lips twitch into a small, knowing smile as he adjusts the strap over his shoulder, plucking a few strings to test the tune.

You groan dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the room. “You’re not in the right headspace, baby,” he says simply, his eyes flicking to yours with a gentle challenge. “And I don’t just mean for sex.”

You narrow your eyes at him, propping yourself up on your elbows. “So you’re punishing me by playing guitar instead?”

“Not a punishment,” he corrects, plucking out a soft, familiar melody that makes your heart skip a beat. “A distraction. For both of us.”

Your lips part to protest, but the sound of his fingers against the strings stops you. The notes are soft, almost tender, and the way he glances at you while playing—it’s impossible not to feel your walls start to falter, even if just a little.

Mark nods toward you. “Come on,” he says, his voice laced with that quiet confidence that always disarms you. “I’ll teach you something new.”

You huff but comply, sliding even closer until your back brushes against his. He leans forward, carefully placing the guitar in your lap, his arms brushing against yours as he adjusts your fingers on the strings. The closeness makes your breath hitch, and despite your frustration, you can’t deny the way his touch grounds you.

“Relax your body,” he murmurs, his voice low and patient as his fingers guide yours over the fretboard. “Let me lead, let me take care of you.”

The double meaning in his words isn’t lost on you, and you feel a pang of guilt twist in your chest. You glance to him, finding his gaze already on you, and the tenderness in his eyes nearly undoes you. He doesn’t press for answers, doesn’t push you to explain the storm in your head. He just stays there, steady and unyielding, giving you the space to find your footing.

As he walks you through the chords, his hands linger over yours, his warmth seeping into your skin. But you can’t shake the heaviness in your chest, the quiet battle waging in your mind. You force a smile, laugh at his jokes, but it all feels hollow—forced. And you can tell he notices.

“You’re distracted,” he says after a while, his voice soft but pointed. He sets the guitar aside, turning his full attention to you. 

Your gaze drops to your lap, your throat tightening under the weight of his question. “Nothing,” you mumble, but the crack in your voice betrays you.

Mark leans closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “Baby,” he says, his tone a careful blend of concern and patience. “Talk to me. Please.”

The sincerity in his voice breaks something in you, and for a moment, you consider telling him everything—about the conversation you overheard, the insecurities eating away at you. But the words don’t come. Instead, you shake your head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Just tired,” you lie, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips, hoping to distract him. “I’m okay.”

But the way his eyes linger on you, the unspoken understanding in his expression, makes it clear he knows better. He doesn’t push, though. He just nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

Mark’s embrace is warm, grounding, but it does nothing to silence the storm raging in your head. The memory of his conversation with Jeno echoes like a cruel loop, the words twisting and turning until they’re almost unrecognizable. He didn’t deny anything—he just let Jeno’s accusations hang in the air like they were true. You try to tell yourself you misheard, that you’re overthinking, but the doubt won’t leave. And now, in his arms, you feel the weight of it all pressing down, threatening to crush you.

The comfort you once found in his presence is replaced by a hollow ache, your mind torn between the man who has been your constant and the voice in your head telling you he might not be who you thought. Mark notices your silence almost immediately. His fingers brush against your cheek, his voice soft but tinged with concern. “You okay, baby?”

You nod without looking at him, a forced smile on your lips. But the cracks in your facade are showing, and Mark isn’t someone you can fool. His thumb lingers on your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “You don’t need to hide anything from me, you know.” He says again gently.

Something snaps inside you. Maybe it’s his patience, his persistence, or the way he looks at you like he knows you’re falling apart. “Stop asking me if I’m okay,” you snap, harsher than you intend. His hand drops from your face, the warmth replaced by a sudden chill.

Mark’s brows furrow. “You don’t need to be so pushy and suffocating,” you blurt out, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. The second they’re out, you want to take them back, but the damage is done. His expression hardens, his confusion bleeding into frustration.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he demands, his voice edged with something you’ve never heard from him before. “One minute you’re fine and wanna fuck me, and the next you’re shutting me out, like you don’t want to be here with me.”

You cross your arms, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, like you’ve found any time for me this week.” 

Mark blinks, visibly taken aback. The hurt flashes across his face before he can mask it. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly, the tension in his shoulders betraying his calm tone. “I’ve been here, Y/N. I’ve been here for you through everything, even when you’ve been pushing me away.” He pauses, his voice softening but carrying an edge of frustration. “You’ve been on and off since I came over and you’ve been blunt with your calls and texts, shutting me out, but I’ve still tried. I’ve still been here, trying to make this work because I love you, even when you make it so hard to get through to you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect, cutting through the wall you’ve been trying so desperately to keep up. You feel the tears welling up, hot and insistent, threatening to spill over despite your effort to hold them back. Your chest tightens painfully, and your voice cracks as you mutter, “I don’t know what you want from me.” The words barely make it out, trembling under the weight of your guilt and confusion, and you hate how exposed they make you feel. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your body tense as you try to suppress the emotions threatening to drown you, but it’s futile. The look on Mark’s face—disappointed, hurt, yet still achingly gentle—only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing thicker with every second of silence that stretches between you.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And you’ve been distant and cold these last few days. I can’t just leave you alone—not until you tell me what’s going on.”

His words hang heavy between you, but your mind races, fixating on something else entirely. “But it isn’t like you to rush into a relationship so fast,” you say, barely above a whisper, the memory of his best friend’s words hitting you like a dart. Your throat tightens as you speak, and you gulp, regretting it the second the words leave your mouth.

Mark’s laugh cuts through the silence, dry and sharp, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “Oh, so now you know the choices I make?” he says, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, they don’t feel like a warm embrace—they feel like a mirror, reflecting every insecurity you’ve been burying.

You bite down on your bottom lip, desperate to hold back the tears threatening to spill, but it’s useless. Hot streaks trail down your cheeks, making you feel more exposed, more vulnerable. Mark exhales slowly, the weight of his frustration and sadness cutting deeper than his words ever could. His expression softens, but it doesn’t soothe you. If anything, it makes you feel worse, like you’ve disappointed him in a way you can’t take back.

Then his eyes flash with realization, and you see it—the way his brows knit together, the subtle clench of his jaw. He’s piecing something together, trying to make sense of your unraveling. “Did something happen?” he asks, his tone gentler now, but the concern laced within it only adds to the lump in your throat. When you don’t respond, his voice drops even lower, more insistent. “What did my best friend say to you after I left both of you in the music room?”

“Mark, I’m too tired for this,” you groan, falling back onto the bed, your movements sluggish and deliberate as you reach for the other pillow and toss it onto the floor, a habit ingrained in your time together. The two of you have never needed more than one pillow—always sharing it, always curling into the same space like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It’s an invitation—a silent one. You shift the bed sheets to make room for him but he doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at you, his body tense and his gaze unwavering. You swallow hard, already bracing yourself for his next move, for his words, for the inevitable. His body language—rigid shoulders, the clench of his fists at his sides—speaks volumes.

“I’m gonna go,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, though it carries the weight of a decision he doesn’t want to make. He steps back, and the space between you feels cavernous, even though the room is so small. “I think we’re both in over our heads,” he continues, his tone careful, almost measured. “We need to talk about this later, when you’re ready. Because right now, this isn’t going anywhere.”

He leans down, his face hovering close to yours where your head rests against the pillow. He presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than they need to, and then he pulls the covers up over you—a gesture so soft it makes your heart ache. And then he’s gone. The sound of the door closing behind him echoes in your ears, louder than it has any right to be. 

You’ll replay this moment over and over, dissecting the tilt of his head, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as he turned away. The soft click of the door closing behind him will echo louder each time you think about it, drowning out every whispered promise he made, every lingering touch you thought you understood. You’ll remember the way the warmth of him seemed to vanish the second he stepped out, leaving the room colder, emptier. In this moment, though, you don’t know any of that. All you feel is the heaviness in your chest, the pull of exhaustion, and the quiet denial that this could mean anything more. But deep down, in the part of you you’ve been trying to ignore, you already know—this isn’t just a goodbye. This is a fracture, the kind that only widens with time, until all that’s left are the jagged edges of something you once held close.

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying here, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The minutes bleed into each other, your thoughts swirling so violently that time itself seems to dissolve. It could have been only a few minutes—or maybe hours. You’ve lost track. Your chest tightens as your eyes widen in the darkness, tears streaming silently down your face, hot and relentless. They burn with the weight of everything—the argument, Mark’s retreat, and the finality in his tone when he said, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

You try to even out your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, but your lungs feel like they’re working against you. The storm inside your chest refuses to settle, and the hollow ache of regret begins to gnaw at you. Your mind replays every detail of Mark’s conversation with Jeno, every word exchanged cutting deeper with each repetition. The sharpness in Mark’s laugh—so foreign, so sharp—rings in your ears, each echo twisting the knife further. “Why would I deny it?” The words loop endlessly, merging with Jeno’s accusations, each cycle adding to the unbearable weight pressing against your chest. It feels like you’re trapped, drowning in a sea of doubts and insecurities, unable to break free.

Then, there’s a knock at the door.

You gasp softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet. For a fleeting moment, hope flares in your chest. Could it be him? you wonder, the thought almost enough to propel you out of bed. But you don’t move. Deep down, you know it’s not him. Mark wouldn’t come back after that. He wouldn’t.

The knock comes again, followed by the creak of the door opening. Light spills into the room, harsh and unforgiving, making your eyes burn, but you barely react. You feel numb. A silhouette stands in the doorway, and then a soft, hesitant voice follows.

“Y/N?” Karina’s voice carries a tinge of worry, the kind that she rarely shows, and it cuts through the haze of your thoughts.

You hum faintly in response, not having the energy to form words.

She steps inside, the light framing her figure as she hesitates, scanning the room before approaching your bed. You feel the mattress dip as she sits beside you, her presence cautious but steady. Her hand reaches out to smooth the hair from your face, a gesture so familiar it almost breaks you. Without a word, she hands you a box of tissues, her movements gentle, measured.

Karina doesn’t say anything at first, and you don’t push her to. You don’t have it in you. Instead, you let her fuss over you—wiping your face, smoothing out your blanket. The tension between you from the past week lingers, but neither of you acknowledge it. For the first time in days, you don’t want her to leave. A part of you knows you need her, even if it stings to admit.

“What happened?” she finally asks, her voice soft and careful, like she knows you’ll shatter if she presses too hard.

“I—” Your voice cracks, and you shake your head, unable to finish. You feel her hand rest on your shoulder, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs before leaving the room. You don’t move, don’t bother to ask where she’s going. When she returns moments later, it’s with a small bag of your favourite cookies and more tissues, you’d need it. She places them on the bed beside you and sits down again, looking at you with a quiet patience that feels unfamiliar but comforting.

You sit up slowly, the covers falling from your shoulders as you reach for the cookies. A small, thankful smile breaks through your otherwise sullen expression, and Karina responds with the faintest of nods. For now, it seems, the distance between you is forgotten.

After a few hesitant bites, the words begin to tumble out—slow and fragmented at first, as if testing their weight, and then all at once, spilling over like a dam breaking. You tell her everything, laying bare the tangled mess of insecurities and doubts that have been suffocating you for days. You talk about Mark, about how perfect everything felt the night you made it official, how it seemed like nothing in the world could touch the happiness you shared. The way he held you, the way he made you feel safe, cherished. The best sex, the deepest connection, the overwhelming sense that this was it—the thing you’d been waiting for. But then, you say, it all started to unravel.

The bubble you’d been living in popped, and the world came rushing in. The whispers at cheer practice, the glances that felt too pointed, the comments that cut deeper than you’d like to admit. It was as if your happiness had become a target, something to be scrutinized and torn apart. And then Mark’s best friend—her words sink like stones in your memory, heavy and unrelenting: “It’s not like him to rush into something like this.” You can still hear her voice, the way it lingered like an unspoken warning, shaking the foundation of everything you’d started to believe in.

You tell Karina how those words stuck to you, embedding themselves in your mind like a thorn you couldn’t pull out. They made you question everything—Mark’s intentions, your own worth, the foundation of what you had together. You explain how you overheard Mark’s conversation with Jeno, every word feeling like a dagger and how Mark’s response wasn’t what you expected—it wasn’t defensive or angry, and it wasn’t the outright denial you’d been hoping for. “Why would I deny it?” Those words, you tell her, have been playing on a loop in your head ever since. You’ve tried to rationalise them, to tell yourself you misunderstood, but the doubt lingers, twisting every soft moment between you and Mark into something uncertain.

The weight of it all has been suffocating—pressing against your chest like a vice that refuses to let go. You’ve been trying so hard to put distance between yourself and Mark, using deadlines and exhaustion as your shield. You’d promised yourself not to reach for him, not to give in to the pull that made your chest ache and your head spin. Every time you told yourself, Don’t be so touchy, don’t let him in so easily, it felt like a small victory in protecting yourself from something you couldn’t name. But the second he touches you, the second that boyish smile crosses his lips, it all unravels. Every promise you’ve made to yourself falls apart, and you hate how easily it happens—how little control you seem to have over the way your body and heart react to him.

The pull to him is magnetic, overwhelming in a way that hurts. You feel it in the way your resolve crumbles when his fingers graze your skin, in the way your chest tightens when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You don’t know how to resist it—don’t even know if you want to. It’s a need so visceral, so consuming, that it terrifies you. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, from seeking him out when your mind tells you not to.

You tell her everything, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. You try to explain how it feels every time Mark gets too close, how the feeling in your chest becomes so intense it almost scares you—the way your heart swells and aches at the same time, like it’s too small to hold the depth of what he makes you feel. It’s foreign, this overwhelming warmth that’s equal parts terrifying and beautiful, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Instead of leaning into it, your instinct is to pull away, to create distance as if that will somehow protect both of you. You don’t say it outright, but you know it’s more about protecting him from you—your flaws, your insecurities, the parts of you you’re convinced he’ll eventually tire of.

“It’s like I’m trying to stop something that hasn’t even happened yet,” you whisper, your voice trembling, tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back. “Like if I push him far enough away now, it’ll hurt less when he finally lets go.” But even as you say it, you feel the contradiction tightening around you. Because how could someone like Mark let go? The way he looks at you, so full of trust and love, makes your chest ache even more. It should be enough to quiet the doubts, but it only intensifies the guilt. The looming thought that maybe you don’t deserve this happiness, that maybe it was never meant to last, lingers in your mind like a shadow you can’t escape. And the harder he tries to love you, the heavier that shadow becomes.

Karina listens intently, her face uncharacteristically solemn. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to respond, just lets you speak until the words finally run out. Her hand squeezes yours, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady but laced with a quiet anger—not at you, but at the situation. “Y/N, this isn’t on you,” she says firmly. “This whole mess… it’s bigger than you. Jeno, Mark’s best friend, everyone else—they’ve all brought their own shit into this. You’re just stuck in the middle of it, and that’s not fair.”

Her words catch you off guard, but they don’t stop there. “I get it,” she continues, her tone softening slightly. “I get why you’re questioning everything, why you’re scared. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Mark loves you. And whatever anyone else says or thinks doesn’t change that.” She pauses, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “You need to stop carrying the weight of everyone else’s opinions, Y/N. It’s killing you, and it’s not yours to bear.”

Her words catch you like a gust of wind, unexpected yet grounding. They settle heavily in your chest, stirring up emotions you’ve been trying to suppress. You don’t respond right away, the weight of her sincerity holding you still. “I hear you,” you finally murmur, your voice shaky. “But it’s not that easy.”

Karina doesn’t let up, her hand still resting gently on your knee. “I know it’s not,” she says, her tone patient but firm. “But you’re making yourself miserable trying to live up to what everyone else thinks or expects. The only person who needs to believe in this relationship is you—and Mark. He’s chosen you, Y/N. Every single day, he chooses you. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Her words dig deep, unravelling the knot of doubt and fear tangled inside you. “What if I’m not enough?” you whisper, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “What if I’m the one who ruins it?”

Karina listens quietly, her brows furrowed as she takes in every word, her hand resting lightly on your knee as if to ground you. When you finish, her voice is soft but steady. “You know,” she starts, “the way you’re reacting… it’s not unnatural. When something feels this real, this overwhelming, it’s instinct to want to push it away. You’re scared because it matters so much.” Her words hit you like a gentle nudge, a reminder that your feelings aren’t abnormal, but they still don’t make you feel any less guilty.

“But, Y/N,” she continues, leaning forward, “Mark makes you happy. I can see it. Everyone can see it. He’s good for you in a way no one else has been. He brings out something better in you—makes you lighter, freer, even when you don’t realise it. And I think you do the same for him. That’s rare, and you deserve that. You deserve someone who makes you feel this way, even if it’s scary.”

Her words make your chest tighten, a strange mix of comfort and discomfort. “But why does it feel like I’m ruining it?” you whisper, barely able to meet her gaze.

“Because it’s real,” she says simply. “And when things feel this real, it’s easier to sabotage it than to face it. But pushing him away isn’t going to protect either of you, Y/N. It’s just going to hurt more in the end.”

She hesitates for a moment before asking, “Have you talked to Mark about what you overheard with Jeno?” Her question catches you off guard, and your immediate reaction is to shake your head. Karina sighs, her disappointment subtle but clear. “Y/N,” she says firmly, “you should talk to him.”

The thought makes your stomach twist, and she seems to notice your hesitation. “Listen to me,” she says, her tone more insistent now. “It could all be a misunderstanding, something you’ve interpreted wrong. Mark’s not the kind of guy to leave you in the dark. But if you don’t talk to him, you’ll never know. You can’t keep carrying this weight by yourself. Communication fixes everything.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy and undeniable. “Promise me,” she presses gently, her eyes searching yours. “Promise me you’ll talk to him.”

You gulp, your throat dry as you force yourself to nod. “I’ll try to,” you say, the words shaky and uncertain. But the truth is, even as you say them, the thought of facing him terrifies you. The silence lingers for a moment, heavy with unspoken worries, before you force yourself to break it with a light-hearted laugh.

“Since when did you start sounding so mature?” you tease, the corner of your lips lifting into a faint smile, trying to shift the mood.

Karina shrugs, leaning back slightly. “I’ve always thought like this,” she replies simply, her voice calm but self-assured.

You nod, the smile on your face softening. “I know. You shouldn’t ever hide that, you know.” You pause, your tone a little more serious now. “Sometimes I think you get too caught up in this whole mean girl, cheerleader persona, and people don’t get to see how big your heart is—or how smart you are. Like, really smart. You have such a unique perspective.”

Karina looks at you for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before she sighs and changes the subject, you’re unsure if she’s even registered what you just said. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” she says quietly. “About what I told Jeno at the party.”

You glance at her, surprised by her sudden vulnerability, and shake your head. “It’s okay. I’ve already forgiven you. And… I’m sorry too. For making you feel like I didn’t treasure you or our friendship. Everything you’ve done for us—it means a lot. I know it wasn’t easy keeping us a secret.”

She winces slightly but gives you a small smile. “Still, I was stupid. I shouldn’t have told Jeno. It’s all my fault this is happening,” she says, her voice tinged with regret.

“It was all gonna come out eventually,” you reply, your voice tinged with a bittersweet humor. “The universe never wants me to be happy anyway.” Your words draw a laugh from both of you, the tension in the room easing as you share a moment of levity.

You both fall into an easy rhythm after that, giggling and catching up on everything you’d missed during your weeks of distance. It feels natural, effortless, like slipping into a comfortable routine you didn’t realize you’d missed so much. Hours pass without you even noticing, and before long, the conversation grows softer, your voices laced with exhaustion. Eventually, you both drift off to sleep on your bed, the unspoken forgiveness settling between you like a quiet truce.

───────────────────────────────

The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks as you walk across campus with Karina by your side. The two of you are laughing softly, your breath visible in the cold as it mingles with the faint hum of chatter and the rustling of leaves swirling across the pavement. You do your best to ignore the familiar scenery, focusing instead on Karina’s quip about your professor’s lecture. It’s easier to do with her next to you, her steady presence distracting you from the weight that’s been pressing on your chest for days.

Your laughter falters mid-sentence, the sound dying in your throat as your eyes land on him—Mark. He’s standing just ahead near the library steps, his broad shoulders and familiar stance instantly recognizable, even in the crowded campus. It’s the first time you’ve seen him since that night, since he walked out, a moment that’s been replaying in your mind ever since.

He’s facing your direction, his head tilted slightly, listening as Donghyuck speaks. The light breeze tousles his hair, and for a second, it feels like the entire world slows down. Your chest tightens, and an ache you’ve been trying to suppress rushes to the surface, sharp and unforgiving.

And then, as though some invisible string pulls his attention, his gaze shifts—and locks onto yours.

You freeze. The air feels heavier, your feet rooted to the ground. His eyes, warm and familiar, widen slightly as they meet yours, the surprise on his face quickly melting into something more unreadable. There’s no anger there, no bitterness. Just… Mark. Steady and calm, even in this moment. It’s almost enough to undo you.

Karina’s voice breaks through the haze, calling your name, but it feels distant, muffled. You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on Mark, your chest tightening with every passing second.

He doesn’t move—at first. His expression shifts subtly, his brows knitting together as though he’s debating whether to come over. You can feel it, the pull, the silent gravity that’s always existed between you two. It’s magnetic, undeniable, and so overwhelming that you snap.

Without thinking, you grab Karina’s hand and tug her sharply to the left, pulling her down a different pathway and out of sight. Your pace quickens as your heart pounds in your chest, and you don’t dare look back.

“Y/N,” Karina tuts, her voice low but scolding as she follows your hurried steps. “Do you know how embarrassed I am right now?” she hisses, her voice low but heated. “For you and for both of us?” She glares at you, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “He just saw you run away from him. Like, physically run away. Do you have any idea how bad that looked?”

You don’t respond immediately, the blood rushing in your ears making it hard to think. Only when you’re certain you’re out of Mark’s line of sight do you finally slow down, releasing Karina’s hand and letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to see him,” you mumble, brushing a hand through your hair in an attempt to steady yourself.

Karina crosses her arms, her sharp gaze pinning you in place. “You can’t keep doing this,” she says firmly, the disapproval clear in her tone. “Avoiding him doesn’t make this any better.”

You avert your eyes, the sting of her words cutting deeper than you’d like to admit. “I’m not avoiding him,” you mutter, you can even hear the weakness in your voice.

Karina arches a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Right, because dragging me the other way the second you saw him is totally normal behaviour.”

You sigh heavily, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat. “It’s just easier this way,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to say to him, okay? I don’t know how to… face him.”

Karina shakes her head, her expression softening slightly. “Easier for who, Y/N? Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem easier for you.” She pauses, her voice taking on a gentler edge. “He’s not the type to just give up on you, you know that, right? You owe it to him to talk, to stop running.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to respond. “I just… I need more time,” you manage, though even as you say it, you’re not sure if it’s true.

Karina doesn’t push further, but the look in her eyes tells you she’s not letting this go entirely. “You’re going to have to face him eventually,” she says simply, her voice softer now. “And the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.”

What you don’t know is that Mark noticed you the moment you stepped onto campus. It wasimpossible not to. Your familiar frame is unmistakable even amidst the bustling crowd of students. He knows your walk, the way your shoulders hunch slightly when you’re distracted, the way you pull your coat tighter around yourself when the wind picks up. It’s second nature to notice you, to let his gaze linger, even if he’s told himself to stop.

You’re walking with Karina, laughing softly, though he can’t make out what you’re saying. From the outside, it would seem normal—like nothing’s wrong. But Mark knows better. He can see it in the way your movements are just a little too brisk, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. He’s been watching you for the past week, piecing together the growing distance you’ve carefully carved between the two of you.

It’s been a week since he last had the chance to really talk to you. Seven days of missed calls, curt texts, and excuses that don’t sit right with him. But today, seeing you here, something shifts in his chest—a mix of relief and frustration that’s hard to untangle. He debates walking up to you, cutting through the crowd, saying something—anything—to bridge the growing distance. But then, he notices what you do next.

You stop mid-step, your eyes locking onto him for the briefest second, wide with something that looks an awful lot like panic. He doesn’t move, waiting, hoping you’ll walk toward him. But instead, you grab Karina’s hand and pull her in the opposite direction, your pace quickening until you disappear down a side path. Mark’s jaw tightens, his chest deflating as the realization sinks in. You’re avoiding him—again.

He huffs, the sound low and sharp as he clenches his fists at his sides. Frustration rises in him, bubbling hot and fast, but it’s not just anger. It’s confusion, hurt, and something heavier that he doesn’t have the words for yet. Mark’s patience has always been one of his greatest strengths, but even he has limits. And you’re pushing them.

It started small, a subtle shift he could almost ignore. The first missed call he figured was just bad timing. The second he chalked up to your busy schedule—assignments, cheer practice, life. But then the replies came later and later, turning from thoughtful paragraphs to vague one-liners that made his chest tighten with unease.

At first, he tried to give you space. Everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes, and he didn’t want to make you feel suffocated. But as the days went on, the excuses piled up, and the sinking feeling in his chest grew harder to ignore. The moments you did answer felt distant, like you were speaking to him from behind a wall he couldn’t see over. And when he asked you about it—gently, trying not to push—you brushed him off with the same tired excuse. He knows he shouldn’t, but his hand moves on instinct, reaching for his phone.

He finds himself scrolling through your old messages, rereading the ones that made him smile, that reminded him of how easy things used to be between you. The sweet messages you’d send him late at night, how you’d open up, the jokes that would make him laugh even when he was exhausted. Every word felt like a relic of something slipping further away, and the contrast to the coldness of your recent replies made his chest ache.

mark — hey, haven’t heard from you lately. everything okay?

you — sorry, been busy. talk soon

That ‘sorry’ stung more than he expected. It felt hollow, like an afterthought, and the absence of anything more left a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared at your response, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He typed out a reply, deleted it, then typed something else. Finally, he settled on something simple.

mark — miss you. just wanted you to know that

The ‘seen’ notification popped up almost immediately, but no response followed. Instead, Mark turned to Donghyuck, who had been standing beside him the entire time, watching silently.

“She’s ignoring me,” Mark said finally, his voice low and strained. His thumb lingered over his phone screen, like he was willing a reply to appear.

Donghyuck didn’t look up from his phone immediately, his fingers casually scrolling. “Then maybe give her some space. Let her come to you,” he said, his tone even, but it carried a subtle weight.

Mark frowned, his hand running through his hair in frustration. “What if she doesn’t?”

Donghyuck paused, finally looking at him, his usual teasing demeanor absent. “Then you go to her. You’re Mark Lee, dude. She’s not gonna ignore you forever.” His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own words.

Mark let out a quiet scoff, his gaze fixed on the ground as his foot tapped restlessly against the floor. “That’s exactly what she’s doing,” he muttered, more to himself than Donghyuck. “She’s scared, and now she’s shutting me out.”

There was no question in his tone, just a quiet certainty that settled heavy in his chest. It didn’t take him long to piece it together—that’s how well he knew you. Every missed call, every vague text, every carefully orchestrated avoidance—it all made sense now. Mark could see it clearly, as if he were watching a story unfold that he’d already read the ending to. This wasn’t just distance. It was you retreating into yourself, building walls he didn’t know how to break down. And the realization didn’t comfort him. If anything, it made his chest tighten further, because knowing why didn’t make it hurt any less.

Donghyuck tilted his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and exasperation. “But why is she scared?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as he studied Mark. “I mean, wasn’t it just, what, a week ago? You guys were all over each other after the river court, right? When she asked you to be her boyfriend?” He paused, letting the implication sink in before adding with a smirk, “Trust me, Mark, the walls are thin. I heard everything. Like, everything, all night long.”

Normally, a comment like that would draw at least a half-hearted laugh or a moan from Mark at the memory, but this time, he didn’t even flinch. His shoulders sagged, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a frustrated sigh. “That’s the thing,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with exhaustion. “I don’t know why she’s scared. She’s not telling me. I don’t know if it’s something I did, or if someone’s said something to her.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “If she’d just talk to me, I could fix it. I could try. But I can’t do anything if she won’t let me in.” His thumb hovered over his phone again, as if it might somehow give him the answers he was searching for. “She’s slipping away, Hyuck. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen, man, I know it feels like shit right now. But people don’t just forget about someone who’s been good to them. You’ve been good to her, Mark. She’ll come around.”

Mark shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know, Hyuck. She’s been so… distant. It’s like she’s already checked out, and I’m the only one holding on.”

Donghyuck hesitated, his usual quick wit replaced by something quieter. “Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she’s dealing with something she doesn’t know how to talk about yet. But if it’s meant to work, it will. You’ve just gotta… hold on a little longer.”

Mark’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Donghyuck’s words pressing against the unease in his chest. “And if it doesn’t work?” he asked quietly, the question hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread.

Donghyuck offered a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you’ll know you tried. And that’s all you can do, man.”

Mark nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest didn’t ease. Donghyuck’s hope was palpable, but it felt misplaced—like trying to hold water in his hands. He wanted to believe it, wanted to cling to the idea that this space, this distance, was just temporary. But deep down, a small voice whispered that it wasn’t.

As Donghyuck turned back to his phone, Mark’s gaze lingered on the screen of his own, your name still at the top of his messages. He locked it with a sigh, shoving it into his pocket as he stared off into the distance. He had hope too, but it felt fragile, like it might shatter the next time you left him on read.

───────────────────────────────

The gym feels suffocating today, even with the high ceilings and the crisp autumn air wafting in through the cracked windows. The sound of sneakers screeching against the polished court echoes harshly, blending with the relentless thud of basketballs hitting the ground. Mark wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, forcing himself to focus on the drill in front of him, but it’s no use. His mind is miles away, stuck on you.

Patience has always been Mark’s virtue. It’s what makes him a leader on the court, the friend everyone can rely on, and the boyfriend who knows how to wait for you to come around during your phases. But this time, patience feels like punishment. The silence between you has been deafening. He keeps waiting for the moment when you’ll come around, when you’ll slip your hand into his, flash him that smile that makes his chest feel lighter, and come right back to him, where he knows you belong. But that moment never comes. And the longer he waits, the heavier the weight on his chest becomes.

Mark throws himself into basketball, his one constant. It’s where he’s always found solace, where his mind goes quiet, the only sound being the steady rhythm of basketballs bouncing and the occasional sharp whistles from the assistant coach. But even that feels hollow now. His movements are sharper, more aggressive—every pass, every shot laced with a frustration he can’t seem to shake. His teammates notice. Jeno, especially, throws him cautious glances every now and then, as if debating whether to say something. But Mark doesn’t stop. If he keeps moving, keeps playing, maybe he can outrun the ache in his chest.

Basketball has always been his escape but today, it feels different. Mark throws himself into every drill with relentless intensity, pushing harder and faster than anyone else on the court. The fluidity that usually defines his game is gone, replaced by sharp, almost aggressive movements. Every pass is thrown with more force than necessary, every drive to the hoop charged with an edge of frustration that lingers in his chest like a dull ache. His breathing quickens, his chest tightens, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. The weight pressing down on him—the unrelenting ache that seems to grow heavier with every passing day—leaves him with no choice but to keep moving, keep running, keep playing. Anything to dull the storm inside.

Mark catches the ball off a pass, his grip tightening around the leather until his knuckles turn white. His breath comes quicker than it should, his heart pounding against his ribs with a force that feels disproportionate to the effort he’s putting in. He shakes it off, driving to the basket with sharp precision, but the ball bounces off the rim.

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Mark, slow down!” Jaemin shouts, his voice cutting through the squeak of sneakers and the relentless pounding of the ball against the floor. Another failed pass ricochets off the wall, the sound sharp and jarring. “You’re gonna wear yourself out—or worse, kill us all trying to keep up!” His words are laced with frustration, but there’s something else there too, something cautious. His gaze lingers on Mark a moment too long, a flicker of concern flashing in his eyes, like he knows there’s more to Mark’s relentless pace than just a bad day.

Mark barely glances in Jaemin’s direction, his jaw tightening as he moves back into position. The others exchange wary glances, but no one pushes him further. They know better. They’ve seen Mark like this before—focused to the point of obsession, determined to outrun whatever’s gnawing at him. But this time, it’s different.

His chest tightens again, a subtle pull that he dismisses as fatigue. He grabs his knees, bending forward as he tries to catch his breath. It’s just practice, he tells himself. He’s pushed through worse. The weight in his chest feels heavier than usual, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

The piercing sound of Kun’s whistle sliced through the air, cutting through the rhythmic pounding of basketballs and the shuffling of feet on polished wood. Mark exhaled deeply, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he dragged a forearm across his damp brow. The other boys, equally drained, slowed their movements and began to shuffle reluctantly toward the center of the court, their groans and muttered complaints barely audible over the lingering echo of the whistle.

Kun stood there, clipboard in hand, his usual calm demeanor slightly strained. He waited for the team to gather, his sharp eyes scanning the circle as if measuring their endurance. “Alright, listen up,” Kun started, his voice firm but not unkind. “First of all, good work this morning. You’ve been pushing hard, and I can see the effort.”

The boys exchanged exhausted glances, but no one spoke. They were used to Kun’s praise, usually tempered with a challenge to do better.

“But,” Kun continued, adjusting his clipboard, “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is.”

At that, murmurs rippled through the group. Chenle whispered something to Jaemin, who nodded, both of their faces etched with confusion.

“As you guys know,” Kun said, raising his voice slightly to regain their attention, “Coach Suh will be absent for the time being due to him recovering from surgery.”

A few gasps and surprised exclamations broke out. Jeno’s brows furrowed, and Jaemin’s mouth dropped open. Mark frowned, his jaw tightening at the unexpected news. None of them had heard anything about this.

“Rest assured, he’s okay,” Kun added quickly, his tone reassuring. “It’s nothing life-threatening, but he’ll need some time to recover.” Mark felt the tension ease slightly at Kun’s words, though the uncertainty of what came next still loomed over the group.

Kun glanced at his clipboard, hesitating for just a moment before speaking again. “That said, we’ve got the state championships coming up, and I’m not qualified to lead you guys solely through that.”

The boys exchanged worried looks. Jeno muttered, “This can’t be good,” under his breath.

Kun took a deep breath, bracing himself. “So, we’ve had to make the difficult decision of finding a temporary placement.”

Jeno tilted his head, his expression wary. “Temporary placement?”

Kun’s lips twitched into a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Guys… please don’t kill me.”

Before anyone could respond, the double doors at the far end of the gym creaked open. The sound echoed, and the boys instinctively turned to look. Taeyong strides in with the kind of energy that makes the entire room shift. He’s dressed sharply, his black track pants and a fitted zip-up jacket seeming more intimidating than practical. His clipboard is tucked firmly under one arm, and his eyes scan the court with a piercing sharpness, like he’s already sizing everyone up. His expression is cold, brows drawn into a subtle frown that gives nothing away except impatience. His strides are purposeful, almost militant, and the click of his shoes against the polished floor reverberates through the gym. The team immediately stiffens.

Taeyong doesn’t waste a second. “Alright, listen up,” he barks, his tone clipped and stern, cutting through the murmurs like a knife. His voice carries an authority that dares anyone to challenge him. “Coach Suh is out for the next few weeks. Surgery recovery. I’ll be stepping in as your coach until he’s back.”

The silence that follows is thick and palpable. No one expected this—not Taeyong, of all people. The boys exchange wide-eyed glances, their shock barely concealed. Even assistant coach Kun looks uneasy, shifting on his feet as he observes the team’s reactions, his whistle still dangling from his hand.

“Wait, what?” Chenle blurts out, his voice laced with disbelief. “Since when?”

Taeyong’s head snaps in Chenle’s direction, and his eyes narrow into a glare so sharp it could cut through steel. “Since now,” he replies curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Any other questions?”

Jaemin hesitantly raises a hand, his usual carefree demeanor visibly muted under Taeyong’s gaze. “Yeah, uh, why you?”

The slight lift of Taeyong’s eyebrow is more intimidating than any verbal response. He takes a deliberate step forward, his eyes locking on Jaemin like a hawk. “Because I was asked. Problem?”

Jaemin swallows hard and shakes his head quickly. “Nope. No problem.”

The team collectively exhales, but the tension remains suffocating. Kun clears his throat, clearly attempting to break the awkward silence. “Right, uh, let’s stay focused,” he says, but even his tone wavers slightly under Taeyong’s presence. He blows his whistle, the shrill sound bouncing off the walls, signaling for the team to gather around.

Taeyong flips open his clipboard, his movements methodical and precise. “State championships are around the corner, and as much as I’d love to sit here and hold your hands, we don’t have time for that.” His eyes scan the group, landing on each player as if daring them to even blink out of turn. “You’re not here to have fun. You’re here to win. If anyone has a problem with that, there’s the door.”

Jeno shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Mark, who stands stoically, his jaw tight. Jaemin fidgets, his hand running nervously through his hair, while Chenle mutters something under his breath that earns him a glare from Taeyong.

Kun’s lips press into a thin line, his arms crossed over his chest. “Taeyong,” he starts, his tone measured but cautious, “let’s not forget that this team is used to a different coaching style. Maybe ease into—”

“Easing into it is exactly why we haven’t taken the championship in years,” Taeyong interrupts, his voice slicing through Kun’s words without hesitation. He turns back to the team, his posture rigid, his expression unyielding. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get results.”

Kun’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he steps back slightly, his disapproval evident in the way his brows knit together.

Taeyong doesn’t miss a beat. “Now, get into your positions. We’re running drills. And don’t even think about slacking—I’ll notice, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The boys shuffle reluctantly into their places, the weight of Taeyong’s authority heavy on their shoulders. As the first drill starts, Taeyong’s voice booms across the court, barking orders with the precision of a drill sergeant. “Jaemin, move your feet! Jeno, is that your idea of defense? Pathetic! Mark, faster—you’re dragging the pace down.”

Mark grits his teeth, his chest heaving with exertion as he pushes himself harder. His frustration simmers just beneath the surface, but he channels it into his movements, every pass sharper, every shot more aggressive. Jaemin mutters something under his breath, earning him another sharp reprimand from Taeyong.

“Did you say something, Jaemin?” Taeyong snaps, his tone icy.

Jaemin shakes his head quickly. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then run it again. All of you.”

The team exchanges weary glances, and even Kun’s whistle sounds less enthusiastic when he calls them back to the court. The practice continues under Taeyong’s unrelenting scrutiny, the weight of his expectations pressing down on everyone like a vice.

Later, after what felt like hours of relentless drills, Taeyong called the team to center court. His expression was as stern as ever, his posture straight and commanding as he looked over the exhausted group.

“You’re here because you want to win,” he started, his tone firm but deliberate. “And winning doesn’t come from half-assed effort or lazy attitudes. You don’t walk onto that court expecting a trophy—you earn it.”

His eyes swept over the team, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment. “I expect focus. Discipline. Every single one of you needs to give 110% every time you step on this court. If you don’t, you’re not just letting yourselves down—you’re letting the entire team down.”

The boys stood in silence, their exhaustion evident, but Taeyong wasn’t finished.

“Mark,” he said, locking eyes with him. “You’re fast, but speed means nothing if you’re not thinking three steps ahead. Start using your brain.”

“Jeno,” he continued, his tone sharp. “You’re the captain. That means leading by example, not coasting through just because you’ve got skills. I need you to push harder.”

“Jaemin,” Taeyong’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Stop waiting for someone else to make a play. Step up, or step aside.”

Kun’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interject, even as the tension in the room grew thicker. Taeyong’s words weren’t just critiques—they were challenges, demands for more than the boys had ever given before.

“If you want to walk into that championship as winners,” Taeyong said, his voice rising, “then you’d better start acting like it now. No excuses, no shortcuts, no mercy—for yourselves or your opponents. Understood?”

The boys nodded, some reluctantly, others with quiet determination. Taeyong’s words hung heavy in the air, a weight they couldn’t ignore.

“Good,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “Now, hit the showers. Practice starts at 6 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

As the team dispersed, murmurs of exhaustion and disbelief filled the air. Kun watched them go, his expression unreadable, before turning to Taeyong.

“You know they’re not soldiers, right?” Kun said, his voice low.

Taeyong raised an eyebrow, his clipboard tucked under his arm. “They’ll thank me when they’re holding that trophy.”

Kun sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s hope they don’t collapse before then.”

As the players started practice again, it turned into absolute chaos—players running suicides at a punishing pace, the sound of dribbling basketballs echoing against the gym walls, and the strained grunts of exhaustion cutting through it all. Taeyong, barking orders like a drill sergeant, paced the sidelines with clipboard in hand, seemingly unfazed by the sweat-drenched and visibly struggling team. 

Kun’s eyes flicked over the players, his concern growing with each faltering step. Finally, he let out a sharp whistle, the sound cutting through the noise. “Alright, let’s take a breather,” he ordered, his tone firm but laced with compassion. “Five minutes. Get some water.” The players slumped in relief, dragging themselves toward the benches, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Taeyong looks at Kun like he’s just committed a cardinal sin. “Five minutes? They’ve barely broken a sweat.”

Kun meets Taeyong’s gaze evenly, his voice calm but resolute. “They need to recover if you want results. Let them breathe.”

Taeyong doesn’t respond immediately, but the tension between the two is palpable. Finally, he gives a curt nod, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he concedes, his tone making it clear he thinks it’s unnecessary.

The boys slump onto the benches or stretch out on the court, their exhaustion palpable. The gym is filled with the sound of labored breathing and the sharp sting of sweat-soaked air. Jeno leans toward Mark, sitting beside him, his elbow resting on his knee as he stares ahead, his jaw working like he’s searching for the right words.

Mark blinks, caught off guard by the proximity. Jeno hadn’t been this close to him, let alone spoken to him with any warmth, in what felt like ages. Ever since the night of the party, he’d been distant—cold, clipped, and virtually nonexistent. The divide between them had loomed large, an unspoken chasm filled with bitterness and resentment. For weeks, Mark had resigned himself to the silence, letting the gap grow wider with each passing day.

Jeno shifts closer, his presence lingering in Mark’s peripheral vision as he finally breaks the silence. “So, how’s it going with Y/N?” he asks nonchalantly, his tone too casual to be genuine, like he’s testing the waters.

Mark’s eyes narrow slightly as he turns to look at Jeno, his expression deadpan. Without a word, he scowls, his annoyance clear as he screws him off with a shake of his head. The silence between them stretches for a moment before Jeno finally leans back, undeterred, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

And then, as if sensing the shift in the air, Jeno glances toward Taeyong, who stands near the edge of the court, clipboard in hand, his posture rigid. “This guy’s gonna kill us,” Jeno says, his voice low but tinged with a rare, conspiratorial edge. His laugh is dry as he gestures subtly toward their father, who looks every bit the control freak he is, hunched over his notes with an intensity that borders on manic.

Mark’s eyebrows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He plays along, responding like nothing had ever gone wrong. “Yeah,” he mutters, wiping the sweat from his forehead and glancing toward Taeyong, who is hunched over his clipboard, scribbling with an intensity that feels borderline obsessive. “But we’re not gonna let him.”

Jeno turns to him, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Mark mirrors the expression, his own smirk creeping up. “I may be thinking worse,” he replies, a quiet defiance in his voice. “You know how much I hate that man.”

The shared admission hangs in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken solidarity.

Jeno’s smirk widens. “Alright, let’s do this.”

And with that, they begin planning—a silent rebellion disguised as teamwork. Their father’s stern commands and rigid rules? Ignored. Every play Taeyong demands? Subverted. Instead, they rely on what Coach Suh had always taught them, his strategies embedded in their muscle memory. The more they work together, the more their movements align—fluid, synchronised, and completely at odds with everything Taeyong has demanded of them.

It feels good. Not just the act of defiance, but the ease of working alongside Jeno again. Mark glances at his brother and finds him already looking back, a rare glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You ready?” Jeno asks, his voice barely audible over the chaos of the court.

Mark nods, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Always.”

The plan unfolds with precision—perfectly timed passes, unexpected plays, and a seamless understanding of each other’s movements. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and it’s everything Coach Suh would’ve praised. By the time the whistle blows, Mark and Jeno are laughing, nudging each other like nothing had ever been wrong between them. It’s as if all the tension and resentment from before have dissolved into the sweat-soaked air.

Under the sharp glare of the gym lights, Taeyong’s expression darkened like a brewing storm. His clipboard was gripped tightly in one hand, the edge of the plastic digging into his palm, while the other rested firmly on his hip in a posture that radiated control and growing irritation. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly as his piercing eyes shifted between Mark and Jeno. The two of them, oblivious or simply uncaring, leaned into each other with quiet laughter, nudging shoulders like troublemakers who’d just pulled off a perfect prank.

For a brief moment, Taeyong said nothing, his silence more cutting than any outburst. It hung heavily in the air, dragging everyone’s attention toward him. Even those who hadn’t witnessed the duo’s subtle rebellion could feel the intensity rolling off him in waves. When his voice finally broke the stillness, it was sharp and cold, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

“You think this is funny?” he said, his tone low but deadly, each word deliberate and measured. His eyes narrowed, locking onto Mark and Jeno with the weight of unspoken authority, daring them to keep smiling. The warmth usually carried by Coach Suh’s presence was absent, replaced by something unyielding and unrelenting.

The rest of the team exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to stay silent or step in, but the tension was too thick to cut through. Even Kun, who stood off to the side with a restrained sigh, seemed reluctant to intervene, his own disapproval clear in the subtle furrow of his brow.

When neither Mark nor Jeno offered a response, Taeyong clicked the pen on his clipboard with exaggerated finality and exhaled slowly through his nose. His displeasure wasn’t just palpable—it was suffocating. Seeing Jeno laugh alongside Mark, his estranged brother—after everything Taeyong had drilled into him, every lesson about keeping distance, about loyalty to the family line—was a direct challenge to his authority.

Jeno had always been the obedient one, the son who followed orders, who understood the boundaries Taeyong had set. But now? Now, he was openly defying the very foundation Taeyong had laid, and it stung his ego like a raw wound. It wasn’t just irritating—it was a blow to his pride. He had spent years ensuring that Jeno understood his place, ensuring that the divide between him and Mark remained intact. Yet here they were, laughing and nudging each other like brothers who had never been torn apart by family politics and carefully planted resentment.

It was infuriating.

“Jeno,” Taeyong’s voice cut through the gym like a whip, sharp and controlled. The laughter between Mark and Jeno faltered, the air shifting as they turned toward him, their expressions neutral but their postures guarded. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Jeno’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t falter. “Playing basketball,” he said sarcastically, his tone cool and unaffected.

The answer was like gasoline to a fire. Taeyong’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw ticking again as his gaze bore into Jeno. “Playing basketball,” he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you call deliberately ignoring every instruction I’ve given you?”

Jeno shrugged, the motion slow and deliberate, as if he were daring Taeyong to push further. “It worked, didn’t it? We scored.”

The audacity in Jeno’s response made Taeyong’s chest tighten, his breath catching as his ego took another hit. He shifted his attention to Mark, his expression colder now. “And you,” he snapped. “You think this is some kind of joke? You’re not here to improvise or show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s defiance didn’t waver. Instead, his lips curled into a sharp, humorless laugh that echoed through the gym. “What system?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain. “You think barking orders and running us into the ground is a system? That’s not a system. That’s just your ego talking.”

Taeyong’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around the clipboard as if it was the only thing stopping him from snapping entirely. The room felt colder, the weight of his authority clashing against Mark’s outright rebellion. “You want to keep laughing?” Taeyong said, his voice dangerously low. “You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark didn’t flinch. If anything, he squared his shoulders, refusing to let Taeyong’s presence intimidate him. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck tensing as he held his ground. When he spoke, his voice was low but deliberate, every word a dagger. “It’s not difficult to be above you.”

The room seemed to still, as if even the air itself had recoiled from Mark’s words. A few teammates exchanged wide-eyed glances, some shifting uncomfortably on their feet. Even Jeno, who had been watching quietly, looked taken aback by the venom in Mark’s tone.

Taeyong stepped in close, shoving a hand against Mark’s chest, his palm colliding with a sharp, deliberate force. It wasn’t just a gesture—it was a challenge. Mark’s body tensed instantly, his instincts flaring as he shoved him back with both hands, his palms hitting Taeyong’s chest hard enough to send him stumbling a step. The sound of the contact echoed sharply through the gym, cutting through the silence like a slap. It was pure adrenaline—Mark wasn’t thinking, just reacting, his jaw clenched as he squared up. 

Taeyong steadied himself, his grip tightening on his clipboard, but Mark stood firm, his shoulders rigid, his chest heaving. It was a move meant to assert, to say without words that he wouldn’t be pushed around. 

“You don’t scare me,” Mark said, his voice dangerously steady. His hand dropped back to his side as he took a deliberate step forward, forcing Taeyong to retreat slightly. “Mark’s voice was low but sharp, each word laced with years of pent-up frustration. “You’ve been throwing your weight around since I was a kid, acting like everything you say is gospel, like you can control every part of my life without being in it. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on Taeyong’s with unflinching defiance. “This team isn’t about you and your bullshit need to prove something. It’s bigger than your ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you.” His chest heaved, his anger palpable, but his voice remained steady, cutting through the tension like a blade. “I’ve put up with this for long enough, and I’m done standing for it.”

Taeyong’s face flushed with anger, his clipboard now gripped so tightly it looked like it might snap in half. He looked ready to respond, his lips parting, but before he could speak, the gym doors creaked open, the loud sound slicing through the tension like a blade.

Everyone’s heads turned toward the door, the spell of confrontation broken. The interruption seemed to drain some of the heat from the moment, but Taeyong’s glare didn’t waver as he stared Mark down one last time. Mark finally took a step back, his expression unreadable as he glanced toward the entrance. But the way his shoulders remained squared, his chin lifted, made one thing clear: he wasn’t backing down, not now, not ever.

The gym doors swing open, and the cheerleaders spill in, their bright chatter slicing through the thick tension like a breath of fresh air. Mark barely notices them at first—until he sees you. His breath falters, his heart stumbling in his chest. You’re walking beside Karina, your heads close as you whisper and laugh about something he’ll never be privy to. It’s the sound of your laughter that pulls him in first, soft and melodic, but it’s the sight of you that leaves him rooted in place.

The gym’s fluorescent lights seem to bend to you, catching the subtle sheen of your legs, bare and endless beneath the short pleats of your cheer skirt. Each step you take is unhurried, confident, your hips swaying just enough to draw his gaze and hold it there. The fitted fabric of your top clings to your body, framing every curve in a way that makes it impossible for him to look away.

Your hair falls perfectly, brushing against your shoulders, catching the light as if it’s been kissed by it. The faint shimmer of your skin—whether from the coolness of the autumn air or the rush of the walk—has his chest tightening painfully. There’s something magnetic in the way you carry yourself, something so effortlessly sensual yet completely unintentional, and it drives him crazy.

And then there’s your face—soft and radiant, your lips curved in an easy smile, your eyes sparkling with something private and untouchable as Karina leans in to say something that makes you laugh again. The sound twists something deep in his gut, equal parts longing and frustration.

You look carefree, so light and untethered, like nothing in the world could weigh you down. And yet, for Mark, the sight of you feels heavy, like every inch of space between you is a cruel reminder of just how far away you are—how far you’ve pulled yourself.

Mark bites his bottom lip, his gaze glued to you as he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. He groans softly under his breath, the sound low enough that only Jeno catches it. Jeno smirks, following Mark’s gaze until it lands on you.

But you don’t look back at Mark—not even once. Despite how obvious it is that he’s checking you out, his gaze is steady and unrelenting, tracking you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier. Every other cheerleader’s eyes flick toward him—some bold, others coy—but it’s only you he sees. His focus never wavers, not for a single moment, and yet, you don’t give him so much as a glance. Your indifference is sharp, deliberate, and it cuts deeper than he’d like to admit.

You walk past where he and Jeno sit on the bleachers, your chin held high, your stride deliberate. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your expression serene, your focus clearly somewhere else. It’s as if he’s not even there. Like he’s invisible to you.

The indifference cuts deeper than Mark wants to admit. He swallows hard, his chest tightening as you pass, your scent—a soft, familiar blend of vanilla laced with a faint hint of jasmine—lingering in the air. His fingers curl against his thighs, a faint frustration simmering beneath his skin. He wants to call out to you, to break through the wall you’ve built, but the way you carry yourself, so composed, so distant, makes him hesitate.

And when you’re gone, slipping into the crowd of cheerleaders like a dream he can’t quite reach, the weight of your dismissal lingers, heavy and undeniable.

Jeno shifts uncomfortably, his voice quieter and more hesitant than usual. “What was that about? I thought you two were…” He trails off, his tone not quite neutral—there’s an awkward edge to it, like he’s unsure if he should even be asking.

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we are,” he says, though the words feel more like an attempt to convince himself than Jeno. “She’s just… confusing. It’s fine, though. We’ll figure it out.” His voice falters slightly, the forced casualness betraying the tension he’s trying to hide.

Jeno doesn’t push further, and neither does Mark. Instead, they turn their focus back to the game, the tension between them dissipating like it was never there. The conversation shifts seamlessly, their banter flowing like it used to. They joke, they laugh, and for a moment, it feels like the rift between them never existed.

Mark mutters something under his breath, a sly grin on his lips, and Jeno shakes his head, laughing softly. “You’re so full of shit,” Jeno says, but there’s no bite in his tone—only familiarity. Mark grins wider, passing the ball back to him with an ease that feels effortless, natural.

And with that, Mark turns to Jeno and the two of them start talking as if everything was okay. Because maybe it was. Maybe a reconciliation didn’t have to be a massive thing, full of apologies and explanations. Maybe it was enough that they could stand shoulder to shoulder, passing a ball back and forth, falling into their usual rhythm without a second thought. They were brothers, after all. Arguing and falling apart came just as naturally as making up like nothing had happened.

Their jokes and laughter carried across the gym, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the air between them wasn’t heavy. It was light. Easy. And it was all the more meaningful because of who was watching.

Still, Mark couldn’t fully shake the other layer to all of this—the revelation that had simmered beneath his anger since the party. It wasn’t just about how Jeno had spoken to you, though that had been enough to make Mark snap. It was the unspoken truth that Jeno had been fucking his best friend behind his back. The secrecy of it all had gnawed at Mark, not just because of Jeno’s actions but because it was something deeply personal between Mark and her—a situation he hadn’t even begun to address yet.

He found the whole thing strange, almost surreal, but there was a part of him that knew he needed to let it go. For now, at least. The wounds between him and his best friend were still raw, her texts unanswered and her attempts to reach out met with silence. That was a bridge he wasn’t ready to cross yet. But Jeno? Mark could find it in himself to put that aside, even if the situation still felt unresolved. Because their bond, flawed and complicated as it was, mattered too much to hold onto grudges.

Taeyong stood off to the side, his knuckles whitening as he watched the two of them reconnect right in front of him. The disdain and anger in his eyes burned with an intensity he didn’t bother to mask. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Jeno, his prodigal son, had no business finding common ground with Mark.

But Mark and Jeno didn’t notice. Or maybe they just didn’t care. They were too absorbed in their own brotherly bond, the way they nudged each other and smirked like nothing else in the world mattered. For once, the weight of Taeyong’s presence wasn’t enough to fracture them. And as their laughter filled the gym, Taeyong’s bitterness only deepened, the cracks in his control spreading wider with every easy grin they exchanged.

What Mark doesn’t notice is the way your eyes find him, no matter how hard you try to keep them elsewhere. You tell yourself not to look, to focus on anything else—the cheer routine, Karina’s chatter, the gym’s polished floor—but the pull is magnetic, impossible to resist. It’s unfair, really, how effortlessly he draws your attention, even when you know you shouldn’t give it. Even now, as he laughs with Jeno, his shoulders shaking lightly, there’s a weight in his expression that you recognize all too well, one that feels like a reflection of your own.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the curve of his smile, the way his hand casually shoves Jeno’s shoulder. They’re nudging each other like brothers again, their bond seemingly as strong as ever. Your chest tightens painfully at the sight, your throat constricting around the thought that won’t leave you alone: Of course they made up after you pulled away. The bitterness of it is sharp, cutting into the ache already rooted in your chest. Was you the thorn all along?

The confusion twists through you as much as the ache. What? The last time you saw them together, they weren’t like this. You remember the tension so vividly—the clenched fists, the sharp glares, the words spat between them. They’d barely been able to look at each other, let alone work together on the court. The memory of their fight—the way they came to blows—sits heavily in your chest. How had they gone from that to this? It’s not jealousy, you tell yourself, not exactly. But the suddenness of their reconciliation only adds to the feeling that you were the problem, the piece that didn’t fit in their puzzle. They don’t need you. They never did.

There’s a bittersweet comfort in seeing them like this. You’ve always known they deserved this closeness, this bond, free of the tension your presence seemed to create. But even as that relief blooms faintly, it’s crushed by the suffocating thought that you were the reason they drifted apart in the first place, that their happiness was stifled by your existence in the space between them.

And yet, somewhere in the depth of that ache, there’s a flicker of something else—hope, faint and fragile, like the embers of a fire you know you shouldn’t stoke. It’s selfish, you know that. To cling to the possibility of repair when you were the one who broke it in the first place. The hope feels undeserved, almost cruel, because you’re the reason the distance exists. You pulled away, you created the gap, and now here you are, daring to wish it wasn’t there.

You tell yourself it’s ridiculous, but it’s impossible to ignore the small moments that feed it. The way Mark’s eyes scan the room, like he’s searching for someone he doesn’t realize is already watching him. The fleeting pause in his laughter, the way his smile falters for just a second when his gaze brushes past you. It’s selfish to think it means anything. Selfish to believe that after all the pushing, all the walls you’ve built, he’s still holding on.

You stay frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to move toward him, but also unable to look away. The hope is a contradiction, a double-edged sword—it soothes and stings in equal measure. Because deep down, you know the truth: you brought this on yourself. You created the distance, and now, watching him laugh with Jeno, seeing the bond you convinced yourself you’d fractured somehow repair itself, you realise just how heavy that truth is. But even as guilt presses down on you, the flicker of hope remains, fragile but stubborn. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe you haven’t ruined everything. But the thought only twists the knife further, because you’re not sure if you deserve the chance to find out.

Karina nudges you lightly, her voice pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. “You okay?” she asks softly, her tone unusually gentle.

You nod quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah,” you mutter, your voice barely audible over the noise of the gym.

But Karina doesn’t buy it. Her gaze follows yours, narrowing slightly when she sees where—or rather, who—you’re looking at. “You’re staring at him like he’s a ghost.”

Your chest tightens at her words, and you shake your head, trying to dismiss it. “I’m not,” you insist, though the crack in your voice betrays you. “It’s just… it makes me happy knowing he and Jeno have somehow made up. It just hurts that it had to happen when I removed myself from the equation.” You sigh, glancing down at your shoes as the words settle in. “I wish Jeno would let me talk to him.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate. “I’m sure Mark would’ve made up with Jeno if you hadn’t kept the distance too,” she says, her tone sharp but not unkind.

You glance back at Mark, unable to stop yourself. He’s leaning against the bleachers now, his head tilted back slightly as he laughs at something Jeno said. He looks so at ease, so untouched by the chaos that’s been consuming you. And for a moment, you wonder if you made the right choice. Maybe he really is better off without you, without the mess you bring into his life.

But then, as if sensing your gaze, Mark glances in your direction. The moment your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat. His laughter falters, his expression shifting into something softer, something unreadable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to say something, to do something—anything. But you can’t. You break eye contact almost immediately, turning away as if the connection never happened.

Mark’s stomach sinks as he watches you turn back to Karina, your body language closed off, your attention focused elsewhere. The pain in his chest is sharp, but he masks it with a sigh, running a hand through his damp hair.

“She looked at you,” Jeno says quietly, his tone more neutral than accusatory but still laced with curiosity. “Why didn’t you go talk to her?”

Mark shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “She doesn’t want to talk to me,” he mutters, frustration edging into his voice. “Every time I try, she pulls away.”

Jeno studies him for a moment, his brows furrowing in thought. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s hurting just as much as you are.”

Mark doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicker back to you, his chest tightening as he watches you laugh at something Karina said. The sound of your laughter should bring him relief, but all it does is remind him of how far away you feel. “Doesn’t matter,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s not letting me in.”

Jeno leans back against the bleachers, sighing. “She can be an idiot sometimes,” he says, his tone softening. “She’s just trying to push you away because it’s too real and she’s scared, you know that, right?”

Mark huffs a quiet laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Yeah,” he mutters, his gaze still fixed on you. “I know.” Mark furrowed his eyebrows, his lips curling into a sarcastic smirk. “I guess you know best,” he said dryly, his tone laced with playful scepticism. “You were the guy who was with her during our teenage years up to now, after all.”

Jeno cringed visibly, scrunching his nose at the reminder. The relationship he once shared with you was a distant memory, one both of you had mutually chosen to forget. “Eugh, don’t remind me,” he muttered, shaking his head like he was trying to physically erase the thought.

“We were together for so long, but I still feel like I barely know her,” he admitted, his voice tinged with something between amusement and resignation. “I don’t know her as well as you do, that’s for sure. I don’t even know her favourite colour or her favourite food.”

“Black and sushi,” Mark answered without hesitation, his tone calm and confident, as if he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t know.

Jeno raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk. “All I ever knew was how she liked to be fucked and her favorite position.”

Mark winced visibly, his jaw tightening, but before he could respond, Jeno continued, unable to resist pushing further. “Doggy,” he said confidently.

“Missionary,” Mark shot back at the exact same time, his voice firm.

The room went still for a beat, the words hanging awkwardly in the air before Jeno blinked in surprise. “Wait, seriously? Missionary?”

Mark crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Yeah,” he said, his tone clipped. “But she likes every way I fuck her.” His voice carried a hint of defiance, but the statement sent an unbidden wave of heat through him. Images flashed in his mind—your hands gripping his shoulders, the way you’d gasp his name, the softness of your skin under his touch. His throat tightened, and he had to shift in place to shake off the restless ache building in his chest.

He really fucking missed you. The thought was a punch to his gut, raw and unrelenting, making it harder to mask the tension that had settled into his entire frame. Mark clenched his jaw, refusing to let Jeno—or anyone—see just how much he was unravelling without you.

Jeno’s smirk faltered for a moment before he let out a low laugh, his tone light but deliberately provoking. “Touché,” he said, leaning back like he was letting Mark win that round. But the glint in his eyes gave him away—he wasn’t done.

Seeing the way Mark shifted uncomfortably, Jeno leaned forward with a teasing grin, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. “Bit weird though, isn’t it? Being so obsessed with my ex-girlfriend?” It was a jab meant to wind Mark up, not something Jeno actually believed anymore. His smirk widened as he watched Mark’s jaw tighten, clearly reveling in how much he could push his buttons. It wasn’t serious—Jeno didn’t care anymore, not really—but he couldn’t resist stirring the pot. Old habits died hard.

Mark didn’t flinch, his expression steady as his eyes met Jeno’s. “She’s my girlfriend now,” he said firmly, his voice unwavering, a quiet but unmistakable declaration of where he stood.

Jeno raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as his smirk widened. “Does she know that?” he asked, his tone laced with mock curiosity, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.

Mark’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile as he replied, “Touché.” But there was no humour in his voice, just a simmering frustration beneath the surface.

Jeno scoffed, leaning back against the bleachers with a faint chuckle, his words testing the waters more than anything. “I bet I already know the answer, but if I were to tell you I didn’t want you to get with her, what would you do?”

Mark’s response was immediate, his tone casual but firm. “I wouldn’t listen to you.”

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk faint but deliberate. “Yeah, figured as much. You’ve never cared what I think when it comes to her, have you?”

Mark didn’t rise to the bait, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze dropped for a moment. “No,” he admitted honestly. “I haven’t.”

Jeno laughed dryly, crossing his arms as he let out a small sigh. “That’s what I thought. Not that it matters or changes anything, but you have my full blessing to make her yours. Don’t feel guilty anymore. And I’ll talk to her too,” he added, his tone softening slightly. “I think she feels guilty. I don’t know why though. She’s very confusing and difficult to understand.”

Mark’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he nodded. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” But they both knew, deep down, that Mark would have tried with or without Jeno’s so-called blessing. His voice dropped a little lower, his tone calm but confident. “She’s already mine though.”  

“But yeah,” Mark continued after a pause, his voice quieter but sure, “I think you have to talk to her. She’s the one who needs your blessing, not me.”

Jeno’s voice was quieter now, more introspective as he said, “Also, I’m sorry about all the stuff I’ve said before—about you wanting my life. I know that was never your intention. It just… stung. When it came out that you’d been sneaking around with her, it hurt my ego. I guess I kept accusing you of wanting my life because it made me feel like the victim. It made it easier to stay angry. Made it simpler to push the blame somewhere else.”

Mark’s nod was measured, his gaze steady on Jeno as he let the words settle between them. “It’s okay, man,” he said quietly, his voice calm but resolute. “I don’t want your life. I never have.” He paused, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as he chose his next words carefully. “And for what it’s worth, the only reason she wanted to keep things quiet was to give herself time to figure it all out. It wasn’t ever malicious or about wanting to hurt you.”

Jeno exhaled sharply, the sound falling somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he shook his head. “Yeah, I get that now,” he admitted, his voice quieter, almost contemplative. He glanced at Mark, his expression softening. “But you know I still care about Y/N, right? I thought we were on good terms now—better than we’ve ever been, actually.”

Mark tilted his head slightly, listening as Jeno continued, his voice more vulnerable than before. “I see her as someone who’s seen me at my worst, someone I’ve made it a point to be honest with. That’s why it hurts. Not because she chose you or whatever, but because she wasn’t honest with me about it. That’s what stung the most. It felt… disrespectful.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady, deliberate. “It wasn’t about disrespecting you. She feels like everything is on her—keeping the peace, making sure no one gets hurt. She carries that weight constantly. She was scared of how you’d react, and honestly, I didn’t want to push her into anything she wasn’t ready for.”

Jeno tilted his head slightly, frowning as he processed Mark’s words. “I get that,” he said finally, his tone thoughtful. “But for the record, my anger was never about jealousy. It wasn’t about thinking Y/N was ‘mine,’ because I know she’s not—and she never was. Not when we were together, and definitely not now. I just… I guess I felt blindsided, and I hated how it made me look.”

Mark’s expression didn’t falter. His response was calm, steady, but there was an unmistakable edge of possessiveness in his tone. “Yeah, well, she’s mine.” His words were simple, but they carried a weight that left no room for argument.

Jeno’s smirk faltered slightly, his expression shifting to something softer—more thoughtful. After a moment, he shook his head again, this time with a hint of resignation. “You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?”

Mark’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Yeah. And I love her. That’s not changing.”

Jeno didn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the court. “Well,” he said finally, his tone quieter but still tinged with teasing, “good luck fixing things, lover boy. You’ll need it.”

Mark nodded, his gaze drifting toward the gym doors where you had disappeared moments ago. “I know,” he said softly, more to himself than to Jeno.

“Why don’t you talk to her now?” Jeno asks, his gaze shifting across the gym to where you and Karina stand on the other side, your heads close as you talk.

Mark exhales heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. “I can’t,” he mutters, his tone laced with frustration. “Look, she’s already leaving. She notices I’m in the same place or room as her, and then she’ll just… go the other way, avoid me completely.”

Jeno doesn’t respond immediately, watching as Karina turns her head, trying to be subtle as she glances toward him and Mark. Her brows knit together in confusion before she leans toward you, whispering something. Whatever she says, it makes your expression tighten, your movements slightly more rushed as you gather your things to leave.

Karina’s voice is low but full of intrigue as she murmurs to you, “They’re actually getting along. Laughing and smiling. What the fuck happened?” Her tone makes it clear she can’t quite believe the sight of Mark and Jeno talking like old friends.

You hum softly, your lips pulling into a small, strained smile. “I’m glad they are,” you reply, though the tightness in your voice betrays your words.

Karina’s sharp eyes flick back to you, and a mischievous glint sparks to life. She leans closer, her voice dropping into a teasing, sultry mimic. “They’re talking about you,” she whispers dramatically, fluttering her lashes for effect. Her voice dips lower, full of exaggerated lust as she mimics what she believes Mark was saying. “Oh, I want to put my hands under Y/N’s skirt, I want her to bounce on my cock, God, I want to be inside her.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, your cheeks burning as you bite down on your bottom lip, trying and failing to suppress the laugh bubbling up. You give her a playful shove, your eyes darting to see if anyone heard. The way she grins at your flustered reaction only makes the heat crawl higher up your neck.

“You’re going to have to face him eventually, you know,” Karina says as she glances at you out of the corner of her eye, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind.

“I know,” you murmur, the words barely audible over the thrum of your own heartbeat.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier. The gym doors swing shut behind you, and the crisp autumn air hits your face, biting at your skin and pulling you back into reality. The chill settles into your bones, but it’s nothing compared to the cold that’s rooted itself in your chest. As much as you try to ignore it, you can’t stop wondering if you’ve already lost him. If the space you’ve created between you and Mark isn’t something that can ever be bridged again.

The thought twists in your stomach, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Part of you wants to turn around, to go back into the gym and tell him everything. Every fear, every insecurity, every truth you’ve been too afraid to say aloud. But your feet keep moving forward, carrying you further and further away.

Away from him.

Away from the only person who’s ever made you feel truly whole.

──────────────────────────────

The energy in the gymnasium was electric, a sea of cheers and jubilant screams filling the space as the final whistle blew. The Seoul Ravens had won, securing their place in the state championship finals. The players were elated, their smiles wide and their bodies slack with relief as they exchanged high-fives and celebratory embraces. The cheerleaders mirrored the excitement, jumping and clapping in unison. Even the crowd buzzed with energy, their voices loud enough to rattle the rafters.

Despite the atmosphere of celebration, Taeyong stood on the sidelines, his expression hard and unsmiling. His clipboard was tucked tightly under his arm as he surveyed the scene with thinly veiled irritation. It was no surprise when his sharp whistle cut through the revelry, silencing the cheers like a guillotine. The players hesitated, their smiles faltering as he barked, “Everyone, circle up. Now.”

The team reluctantly shuffled into a huddle, their happiness evaporating under Taeyong’s stern glare. Even Assistant Coach Kun looked uneasy, his hand instinctively clutching the whistle around his neck as if debating whether to intervene. Taeyong wasted no time launching into a tirade, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

“That was not the game I wanted from you,” he snapped, pacing around the group like a predator circling its prey. “Sure, you won. But how many of you actually followed the plays I called? Huh? Jeno, what was that sloppy rebound in the second quarter? And Mark”—his eyes darted toward his son—“how many times do I have to tell you to stop improvising out there? You think you’re some kind of hero?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the floor, while Jeno’s lips pressed into a thin line. The rest of the team exchanged uncomfortable glances, their earlier joy now replaced with tension. Even the cheerleaders, still lingering near the court, watched with unease, their whispers hushed as Taeyong continued.

Before the mood could sour further, a voice from the crowd cut through the tension like a blade. “Alright, Taeyong, that’s enough.”

All eyes turned to see Doyoung making his way down from the bleachers, his expression calm but firm. His presence alone seemed to shift the energy in the room. “Let them celebrate. They earned this win.”

Taeyong’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Stay out of this, Doyoung,” he hissed. “You’re not the one coaching this team.”

“No, but I am the one who knows how to recognize a victory when I see one,” Doyoung shot back, his tone steady but unyielding. “You’re killing their morale, and for what? Because you didn’t get your way? Let them enjoy this.”

The tension between the brothers was palpable, a heavy weight that seemed to fill the space between them. From your place near the sidelines, you narrowed your eyes, watching the way they squared off like two sides of the same coin—one cold and rigid, the other warm but firm. Your gaze shifted, almost instinctively, to Mark and Jeno. The sight of them laughing quietly to themselves, seemingly unfazed by the drama, made your chest tighten.

Two generations of brothers, you thought, so different and yet so eerily similar. But unlike Taeyong and Doyoung, Mark and Jeno were trying. Whatever rift had existed between them seemed to be healing, their laughter a stark contrast to the animosity their father and uncle displayed.

Kun stepped out from the shadows, his face etched with exhaustion as he unclipped the lanyard from his neck. The whistle swung lightly at the end as he approached Doyoung, holding it out along with the clipboard. His movements were deliberate, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the decision he was making.

“You take my place and temporarily become the assistant coach,” Kun said, his voice a mix of pleading and quiet authority. He paused, glancing toward Taeyong, who stood rigid in the background, his presence casting a long shadow over the team. “I can’t be here without Coach Suh… Taeyong is too much.”

Doyoung chuckled softly, the sound light but tinged with understanding as he accepted the clipboard. “I don’t have any experience,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked down at the notes scrawled across the board.

Kun shook his head firmly, his expression softening but his tone resolute. “You’ll be great,” he said, his eyes filled with a quiet hope that Doyoung would agree.

Doyoung hesitated only a moment before nodding. His fingers tightened around the board, his gaze flickering briefly to Taeyong, whose stern eyes bore into him from across the court. But he didn’t flinch. You could tell he’d already made his decision—not because he wanted the role, but because he knew it was necessary.

He wasn’t here for glory or recognition. He was here because he was the only one who could stand up to his younger brother’s cruelty and unchecked authority. He could safeguard the team, make sure they weren’t trampled under Taeyong’s oppressive rule. Doyoung would be their protector, their buffer, ensuring they could win the state championships without sacrificing their spirits—or their well-being—in the process.

It didn’t take long for Doyoung to step into the role. “Alright, guys,” he called out, addressing the team with a tone that was both authoritative and encouraging. “Go celebrate. Party tonight. Have fun—but be safe. You deserve it after how hard you worked out there.”

The gym erupted in cheers, clapping, and laughter as everyone celebrated the hard-fought win. You stood on the sidelines, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, wondering when you’d finally get to go home. The energy in the room was contagious, but you felt like a spectator in your own life, caught between the celebration and your own swirling thoughts.

Chenle moved through the crowd of cheerleaders, hugging them one by one. When he reached you, his arms wrapped around you in a brief, polite gesture. But his eyes… they didn’t quite meet yours. They were disconnected, distant, as though he were going through the motions rather than acknowledging you. It earned a sad gulp from you, your throat tightening as the reality of it sank in. Of course. It made sense—Chenle was one of Mark’s closest friends. His loyalty wasn’t with you. Not anymore.

And then you saw Jeno.

Your body froze instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest as he strode toward you, his grin wide and his energy infectious. For a moment, you thought he’d walk past you entirely, but instead, he stopped in front of you, his expression still bright from the win. Before you could react, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

It was quick—too quick for you to even process it. Almost thoughtless, like he hadn’t even realized who he was hugging. Just a gesture born out of the adrenaline and joy of the moment. And just as suddenly as it started, it ended. Jeno moved on, his focus shifting as he hugged the rest of his teammates and cheerleaders with the same enthusiasm.

But you couldn’t move.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you tried to remind yourself it meant nothing. He was happy, caught up in the win, and you were just another person in the room. But the ghost of his touch lingered, curling around you like a bittersweet reminder of what used to be. It gave you a false sense of hope you couldn’t quite shake, no matter how much you told yourself otherwise.

As the celebration continued, your gaze drifted back to Mark. He was standing near the centre of the court, his grin wide as he laughed at something one of his teammates said. He looked so at ease, so alive in a way that made your heart ache. Basketball had always been his sanctuary, the place where he found belonging and joy. Seeing him like this, so genuinely happy, reminded you why you’d fallen for him in the first place.

But as your eyes lingered, you noticed the exhaustion etched into his features. You’d seen it during the game—the way he pushed himself harder than anyone else, the way his breaths came too fast, too shallow. He was panting, struggling to keep up even as he gave everything he had. A pang of worry settled in your chest, the weight of it almost unbearable.

As if on cue, Taeyong appeared at your side, his hand gripping your wrist before you could step away. His smile was sharp, his eyes glinting with a mix of malice and triumph. “I’m sure you’re as worried about your boyfriend as I am about my son,” he said smoothly, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

Your brow furrowed, unease prickling at the back of your neck. “What are you talking about?” you asked warily.

Taeyong’s smirk widened. “You noticed it, didn’t you? How out of breath he was, how he’s been struggling to keep up. That’s not just exhaustion. That’s something else entirely.”

“What?” The word slipped out before you could stop it, a mix of disbelief and fear lacing your tone. You didn’t trust him—he was manipulative, always twisting the truth to suit his narrative. But there was something in his voice, something almost too genuine, that made your stomach drop.

“My poor son,” Taeyong drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Didn’t inherit my good looks, my brains, or my fortune. No, he had to inherit my heart condition. What a shame that’s the only thing he got from me.”

Your mouth went dry, your pulse quickening as you stared at him. “You’re lying,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

Taeyong chuckled darkly, his grip on your wrist tightening. “Oh, honey, trust me. I know the signs. I’ve lived with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy since I was a teenager. I know what it looks like, and I know how it feels. Mark’s reckless, overly ambitious, pushing himself too far. Sound familiar?”

HCM. Your mind raced, fragments of memories piecing together—his panting breaths during the game, the way he seemed to push himself to the brink without hesitation. A cold wave of fear washed over you as Taeyong leaned in closer.

“He’s not taking his medication,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He wouldn’t be allowed to play the full game if he was. But he doesn’t care, does he? He’s willing to risk his life just to stay on that court. What a waste.”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, your knees threatening to give out as the weight of his revelation settled over you. You didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the doubt had already taken root, and Taeyong’s smirk told you he knew it.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the panic was overwhelming. The thought of Mark—your Mark—pushing himself to the edge without a care for his own safety was too much to bear. Taeyong’s victory was evident in the way his eyes gleamed, his goal achieved: planting seeds of doubt and division where there was already a fragile foundation.

And as you stood there, shaking and guilt-ridden, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d already failed him.

You stood frozen, your eyes locked onto Mark’s across the gym. Your breath hitched, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescents in your skin. The overwhelming weight of anger and fear tangled together inside you, rendering you immobile. Was it justified? How angry yet terrified you felt? You weren’t so sure. 

Karina’s worried voice snapped you back into reality. “Hey! Hey!” She clapped her hands sharply in front of your face, her tone teasing, though her eyes searched yours with genuine concern. “What’s up with you? You look like you’re about to explode or something.”

You gritted your teeth, a shaky breath escaping as you muttered, “Give me one good reason not to go over to Mark right now, Karina. It has to be good, or I’m going to drag him out of here and—fuck.” You cut yourself off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. You couldn’t explain the real reason, not to Karina. Mark clearly didn’t want anyone to know about his HCM.

Karina raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Um… I mean, look at all those girls surrounding him, batting their eyelashes and practically throwing themselves at him. Aisha, Mia, Yeji—honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if—”

“Shut up.” You grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the gym as fast as you could, your heart pounding. You didn’t dare look back. Her words rang true; the girls were all over him, their touches lingering, their voices sickly sweet. Mark didn’t seem fazed by the attention, but that almost made it worse.

The image of Aisha running her fingers through her hair while leaning into his space made your blood boil. Yeji’s loud laugh at something he’d said echoed in your mind, and Mia’s hand brushing his arm lingered in your periphery like a thorn. You hated how possessive you felt, hated how your emotions clawed at you. You couldn’t tell Karina the other reason for your spiralling thoughts—the worry about Mark’s health—but the jealousy alone was enough to leave you shaking.

“You’re being really weird,” Karina muttered as you dragged her to the car, her tone carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation. It felt like the tenth time she’d told you that this week, and her steps quickened to match your frantic pace.

You exhaled sharply, gripping your keys. “Distract me,” you muttered, trying to push the images of Mark surrounded by all those girls out of your head. “You need to distract me, Rina.”

Karina’s eyes lit up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “You remember what’s tomorrow, right?” She wiggled her eyebrows as though her enthusiasm might be infectious.

You groaned. “No,” you muttered, dreading the answer. Knowing Karina, it was bound to be some exhausting social event. You were exhausted. 

“The Boy Toy Auction!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. Her excitement was palpable, and before you could even protest, she was already pulling up the location on her phone. “Come on, we need to hit the mall. The gala is soon too, we can’t show up looking basic—we need dresses. Expensive ones.” Her grin was practically ear-to-ear, clearly relishing the idea of dragging you along for the ride.

“What’s that again? The Boy Toy auction?” you asked, the name ringing a faint bell, though it sounded ridiculous.

Karina gasped, feigning offense. “You don’t remember? We’ve been to, like, ten of them! It’s the event where the boys on the basketball team get auctioned off to raise money. This year, it’s for Coach Suh’s surgery. Plus, there’s a bonus this time—whoever wins the bid gets to be their date for the gala.”

The car was barely parked when Karina unbuckled her seatbelt with the energy of someone on a mission. “Come on,” she urged, practically dragging you out. Her enthusiasm was relentless, and before you knew it, the two of you were stepping into the grand expanse of the mall.

Your groan deepened as the sleek glass doors slid open, revealing the bright, bustling interior. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers stretched above rows of luxurious boutiques, the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café mingling with the faint hint of expensive perfume. The sheer extravagance of it all only made you more aware of how much Karina was about to make you spend.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, but Karina’s infectious excitement was already pulling you in as she looped her arm through yours, her eyes scanning the stores like a hawk ready to strike.

The shopping mall was a cathedral of excess. Glass-fronted boutiques stretched along gleaming marble floors, their displays adorned with mannequins draped in sequins, satin, and velvet. The hum of soft jazz music played overhead, mingling with the low chatter of shoppers and the faint click of heels on tile. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a golden glow over everything.

Karina wasted no time dragging you into the first boutique. “We need to find the perfect gown,” she declared, her eyes scanning racks of shimmering fabrics.

“Perfect for what?” you muttered, though you couldn’t deny the small thrill of anticipation that stirred in your chest.

“For making every guy at the gala regret not bidding on us,” Karina teased, shooting you a wink.

You rolled your eyes but followed her deeper into the store, your fingers brushing over silks and tulles. You tried on dress after dress, each one more extravagant than the last. A mermaid gown in deep red hugged your curves but felt too bold. A black off-the-shoulder number made you feel like a movie star but was too heavy for dancing.

“Try this one,” Karina said, holding up a floor-length gown in emerald green with a daring thigh-high slit. The fabric sparkled subtly under the lights, catching the gold of the chandelier above.

You stepped into the changing room, the soft carpet underfoot muffling your movements as you slipped into the gown. The cool fabric slid over your skin like water, and when you looked in the mirror, you barely recognized yourself.

Karina gasped when you stepped out. “That’s it,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You’re buying it.”

After what felt like hours, you both emerged from the final boutique, each of you clutching garment bags that contained your chosen gowns. Karina had settled on a deep midnight blue dress with a plunging neckline, while yours was the emerald green masterpiece.

“And these,” Karina said, holding up a pair of lacy lingerie sets she’d bought for both of you.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quivering into a small smile. “I have no one to show this to.”

Karina shrugged, unfazed, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “Neither do I. But if we don’t end up moaning like bitches in heat at the end of gala night, I’ll invite you over, and we can show each other our lingerie. We deserve the attention anyway—look at us, we’re hot.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “What makes you think I can wait until gala night to see you in it?”

Karina gasped, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. “Y/N, are you trying to seduce me?”

You laughed, shoving her lightly. “Maybe I am. Can you blame me?”

──────────────────────────────

The hall was alive with anticipation, the dim, golden lights wrapping the space in a warm, luxurious glow. Grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals shimmering like stars above the polished floors that gleamed with every step. Crimson curtains framed the stage at the front, their velvety folds brushing against the polished wood, and the faint outline of figures moving behind them only added to the buzz of excitement. Long tables draped in white cloth were scattered with bidding paddles and flutes of champagne, the delicate clinking sound adding an elegant backdrop to the chaos.

Bursts of laughter and animated voices filled the air, a symphony of energy that seemed to amplify the thrill in the room. Groups of students crowded together, some perched on chairs for a better view, others leaning casually against the walls. The cheerleaders occupied a prominent corner near the stage, their polished appearances catching the light as they whispered and giggled. The crowd’s collective focus shifted with every sound of the microphone, each small noise a prelude to the next act. The tension was palpable, a blend of excitement and competition that charged the air.

The faint hum of music played softly in the background, an almost teasing addition to the grandeur of the event. The room itself seemed alive, every detail—from the ornate golden trim along the walls to the opulent floral arrangements at the entrance—speaking to the prestige of the evening. It wasn’t just an auction; it was a celebration of excess and spectacle, and everyone there felt like they were part of something bigger than just the bidding wars ahead.

You stood near the back, you were supposed to be mingling with the other cheerleaders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tolerate those fake bitches right now. Your arms were crossed tightly, a defensive posture as Karina chattered excitedly beside you, her energy a sharp contrast to your own reluctance. You didn’t want to be here—not for the auction, not for the glitzy events that would follow, and definitely not for the incessant hum of curiosity surrounding you. But Karina had insisted. As a cheerleader, attendance at these events was non-negotiable. Appearances were everything, after all, even when you felt like fading into the background entirely.

“This is gonna be a couple of draining weeks,” you muttered under your breath.

Karina laughed, nudging you playfully as if trying to lighten your mood. You were part of a college that thrived on being over the top, you thought bitterly. Boy Toy Auction, gala, state championships… What’s next? A surprise masquerade ball? A fireworks display in someone’s honour? The endless string of events felt particularly draining, each one tugging at your already dwindling energy and making you question why you bothered keeping up appearances at all.

You sighed, your gaze sweeping across the crowd. The Boy Toy Auction was infamous—a ridiculous tradition where the basketball team’s players were “auctioned” off to the highest bidders. Winning meant you could take the guy home for the night and that he had to be your date for the gala. It was ridiculous, borderline cringeworthy, but it raised a lot of money for the school and its causes. This year, the proceeds were going toward Coach Suh’s recovery fund after his surgery.

As if on cue, Coach Suh’s familiar voice boomed through the microphone. “Good evening, everyone!” he greeted, his energy cutting through the noise. The crowd erupted into cheers, some standing and clapping as he waved from the stage. “No, I’m not fully back yet,” he continued, grinning at the applause. “Still on the mend, but I couldn’t miss this night. You all know how much I love the Boy Toy Auction!”

The hall laughed, the mood lightening even further. Karina clapped beside you, her smile wide as Coach Suh went on.

“Now,” he said, glancing down at his clipboard, “you all know the drill. Each of these fine gentlemen will come up here, and you’ll have the chance to bid on them. Remember, the winner not only gets to take them home but also gets to take them to the gala. Let’s make this a night to remember, and let’s raise some serious money!”

The crowd erupted into cheers again as the first boy was called up.

Chenle was first, bounding onto the stage with his signature boyish charm. Dressed in a jersey and basketball shorts, he incorporated his love for basketball into his routine, dribbling expertly before tossing a perfect shot into the small hoop set up at the back of the stage. The crowd went wild, cheers and screams echoing as the bids began flying.

“Aisha! fifty!” Coach Suh announced, his eyes wide as he scanned the crowd. “Mia raises it to seventy-five! Heejin, ninety!”

The numbers climbed quickly, but it was Ningning who won with an impressive bid of one hundred and fifty. Chenle stepped off the stage, walking straight to Ningning and planting a kiss on her cheek. The room erupted into whistles and applause, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Cute,” Karina whispered, grinning. “They’re definitely dating.”

Next was Donghyuck, and he brought the house down. Instead of the typical basketball-centric routine, he danced, his moves sharp and fluid, perfectly in sync with the music. The crowd roared their approval, the energy in the room shifting as girls screamed and shouted bids.

Even Coach Suh couldn’t help but comment. “Clearly, this auction isn’t limited to basketball players anymore. Everyone loves Donghyuck!”

Karina stayed by your side, the two of you giggling together as the auction progressed. Her sharp commentary only added to your amusement. “Look at them,” she whispered, pointing discreetly to a group of girls at the front. “Screaming like banshees and throwing their money around like it’s Monopoly cash. Desperate doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You bit back a laugh, trying to focus on the stage as Donghyuck made his entrance. His performance was undeniably captivating—a smooth, well-choreographed dance routine that left the crowd roaring. Coach Suh couldn’t help but chime in, his voice cutting through the cheers. “Clearly, this isn’t just limited to the Seoul Ravens,” he announced, gesturing to Donghyuck with a wry smile. “The whole school loves him.”

The applause swelled, and Karina, who had just been mocking the other girls, suddenly shifted. Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward, clutching her paddle like a lifeline. “That’s my man,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with something that almost sounded serious. You gasped, turning to look at her in shock. Her tone hinted at something deeper, but you reminded yourself how she liked to be unserious. Surely, if something was actually going on, she’d tell you… right?

You watched, half-amused and half-horrified, as Karina repeatedly raised her paddle, her voice cutting through the noise with a desperation that mirrored the girls she had mocked earlier. “One hundred! One-fifty!” she screamed, practically jumping with excitement.

When she finally won, Donghyuck flashed her a dazzling grin as he stepped off the stage. Karina turned to you, her cheeks flushed and her grin triumphant. “Told you I’d get him,” she said smugly, her earlier mockery of the other girls conveniently forgotten.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at her antics. “By screaming like a banshee, huh?” you teased, and her only response was a shameless shrug.

The auction continued in full swing. San was next to take the stage, and he wasted no time raising the stakes. With a sly grin, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it into the crowd, revealing his sculpted torso. The hall erupted into cheers, screams echoing off the walls as girls raised their paddles in a frenzy. Even some of the guys in the back were laughing and whistling. San soaked it all in, flexing playfully and winking at the audience. It wasn’t just confidence—it was chaos, and the bids reflected it.

Wooyoung followed, his entrance dramatic as ever. He strutted onto the stage with exaggerated flair, striking poses and pointing to random sections of the audience like he was some kind of rockstar. When the bids started rolling in, he played along, hyping up the crowd with over-the-top gestures. “Come on! I know I’m worth more than that!” he shouted, earning a wave of laughter and higher bids. Earlier, he even raised his own paddle to bid on San and he ended up winning, which sent the room into hysterics. Coach Suh shook his head, muttering something about how he’d “lost control of the team,” but his amused smirk said otherwise.

Then came Soobin, who shuffled onto the stage with a sheepish expression. “I don’t want to be bid on,” he muttered into the microphone, his voice low but clear enough to be heard. The crowd immediately pounced on his reluctance, turning it into a game. Paddles shot up faster than ever, girls screaming out numbers as Soobin stood there, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Somehow, his awkward charm only fueled the chaos, and by the end, he had the highest bid of the night—an astronomical number that left everyone stunned. Even Soobin’s eyes widened in disbelief as he was led off the stage by his victorious bidder, who looked like she’d just won the lottery.

The atmosphere was wild, the noise level almost unbearable, but the energy was infectious. It didn’t matter if you were cheering, bidding, or just watching from the sidelines—there was something magnetic about the entire event. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, though a part of you couldn’t shake the growing tension as the night crept closer to Mark and Jeno’s turns on the stage.

Coach Suh stepped up to the microphone, his voice cutting through the chaotic hum of the crowd like a sharp blade. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment many of you have been waiting for,” he announced, his tone laced with playful anticipation. The noise in the room dimmed slightly, replaced by murmurs and excited whispers. “Seoul Ravens’ very own, Mark Lee!”

The shift in the room was almost palpable. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Mark emerged from behind the curtains, the soft glow of the stage lights illuminating him like he belonged in the spotlight. He moved with an effortless confidence, his basketball jersey perfectly fitted, the bold number 23 across his chest catching every eye. The jersey hung just low enough to hint at his lean, toned physique, and his casual stance—hands stuffed into his pockets, head tilted slightly as he scanned the crowd—only added to his allure.

The whispers turned to hushed squeals, and then to outright cheers, as his trademark smirk spread across his face. He didn’t need to dance or strip like the others; his presence alone was enough to command the room. The weight of his gaze as it swept across the hall was electrifying, each girl seemingly holding her breath, hoping he’d stop and look at her.

But you? You couldn’t move. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat heavy and insistent, as if it were trying to escape. Your breath hitched, your lips parting unconsciously as Mark’s eyes lingered in your direction for the briefest second, and yet it felt like forever. There was something maddeningly intimate about his gaze, like he was daring you, calling you out, challenging you to do something—anything. The way the soft lights caught on the lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of his jersey just right, made your stomach clench with a desperate ache you couldn’t quite name.

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, a subtle shift you prayed no one would notice. Mark hadn’t even done anything—just stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his shamelessly flirtatious smile drawing the room into the palm of his hand. The jersey clung to him in a way that was both infuriatingly casual and deeply sensual, exposing just enough of his collarbone to make you wonder how soft his skin would feel under your fingertips. He exuded confidence, and it wasn’t fair how easily he had every person in the room hanging onto his every move—yourself included.

The chaos in the room swelled as the bidding started immediately, Coach Suh scrambling to keep up with the torrent of voices. “Okay! 50—no, 100! 150!” he shouted, trying to cut through the screams. “Mia! 175! Oh, Yeji with 200! Wait, who just said 250?”

Your stomach churned at the sound of Aisha’s high-pitched voice cutting through the air. “300!” she yelled, her paddle raised high as she stood on her tiptoes, practically bouncing with excitement.

“350!” Mia countered, her eyes sharp as she stared Aisha down, the tension between them palpable.

You stayed frozen, clutching your arms tightly to your chest as the numbers climbed higher and higher, the voices around you becoming desperate. Every girl in the room seemed determined to have him, their paddles flying up as if their lives depended on it.

“400!” Heejin shouted, her cheeks flushed, and the crowd roared even louder.

Coach Suh wiped his brow dramatically. “Ladies, please, one at a time! I’m going to need a calculator at this rate!” The laughter in his voice did little to hide the exhaustion in his eyes as he tried to keep up with the chaos.

A sharp pang of jealousy clawed at your chest, relentless and overwhelming. You could feel it in every breath, every beat of your heart. Each scream, each outrageous bid, was like another twist of the knife. The thought of any one of them winning him, taking him home, being the one on his arm at the gala—it was too much to bear. Your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, but every glance at him, at his easy smile and the way he stood unbothered by the madness, only made it worse.

Shrieks and cheers reverberated through the hall, a deafening wave of excitement that grew with each passing second. “Oh my God, Mark!” Xiaoting’s voice cut through the chaos, high-pitched and desperate as she clutched her paddle with trembling hands. Around her, a group of girls erupted into a chorus of shouts, their voices blending into a cacophony of unrestrained glee.

“500!”

“750!”

“1000!”

“Look at them,” Karina whispered beside you, her tone a mix of amusement and disbelief. “They’re losing their minds. You okay over there?” She nudged your side lightly, but you didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him long enough to even form a coherent thought. Around you, paddles shot up in rapid succession—Aisha, then Mia, then Yeji—all of them screaming his name like it was their only hope for salvation. Your grip tightened against the fabric of your skirt, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents on your palms.

Karina leaned closer, her voice soft and teasing. “You look like you’re about to lose it. Should I raise my paddle for you?”

You almost did it. You almost gave in. The paddle in your hand felt heavier, your arm twitching with the effort of holding it down. A possessive urge bubbled dangerously close to the surface, threatening to break the fragile restraint you’d clung to all evening. You wanted to raise it, to scream louder than anyone else, to claim him as yours in front of everyone.

You were so close to bidding every last bit of your money, the paddle trembling in your grip, when a soft laugh broke through the haze clouding your thoughts.

“You’re not seriously going to let them take him, are you?” The familiar voice startled you, and you turned to see Mark’s best friend sliding up beside you. Her tone was light and teasing, but there was an unmistakable warmth in her expression. She looked completely at ease, like the past few weeks of tension between you had never happened. “Don’t worry,” she added with a small smirk. “If you won’t bid on Mark, I will. I need to talk to him anyway.”

You blinked, your focus shifting entirely to her. She didn’t look angry, didn’t have a trace of the resentment you feared might linger. Instead, she seemed relaxed, her smile genuine, as though everything had already been forgiven. Your mind flashed to yesterday, to seeing her with Mark after the match. They’d been laughing, talking like old times. It was clear now—they’d made up.

Before you could say a word, she raised her paddle confidently, her bid loud and firm above the noise. The room stilled for a moment, a collective gasp rippling through the crowd. Girls glared daggers at her, their competitive energy now tinged with frustration, but none of them dared to go higher. The competition was over, and she’d won.

“Sold!” Coach Suh boomed through the microphone, his voice full of finality. “To Mark’s best friend.”

Relief washed over you, so potent it nearly made your knees weak. He was going home with her. Someone safe. Someone who wouldn’t expect anything more from him than conversation and companionship. The ache in your chest loosened its grip, the possessive tension you’d been carrying finally beginning to ease. For the first time all evening, you felt like you could breathe again.

Karina smirked beside you, leaning in to whisper, “Look at Mia and Aisha sulking. They thought they had a chance.”

You couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at your lips. “Serves them right.”

The energy in the room shifted dramatically as the final name was called.

Jeno.

The girls who had been sulking after losing Mark’s bid perked up instantly, their disappointment morphing into fervent excitement. Jeno came onto the stage with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly what kind of chaos he could create. His shirt was already unbuttoned, exposing his toned chest, and the sharp smirk on his lips promised more than anyone could handle.

“Let’s give them a show,” Coach Suh muttered into the microphone with an amused chuckle, stepping back as Jeno took center stage.

Jeno made a slow turn, his gaze sweeping across the room, locking briefly on the girls already screaming his name. He let out a low laugh, the sound carrying through the microphone and sending the crowd into a frenzy. Then, with a teasing glance toward the audience, he peeled off his shirt and flung it into the air.

A cluster of girls shrieked as the fabric landed, clawing at each other in a desperate attempt to claim it. Jeno didn’t seem to care who caught it. He was already kicking off his sneakers with a casual, almost lazy flair, dragging out every movement like he had all the time in the world.

When he reached for the waistband of his pants, the room collectively held its breath. His fingers lingered there, teasingly slow, before he popped the button and slid the zipper down inch by torturous inch. The fabric pooled at his ankles, and he stepped out of them with an easy grace, standing tall and unapologetic in nothing but his snug black boxers.

The eruption of screams was deafening. Girls jumped to their feet, paddles shooting into the air as they shouted over each other, their bids flying fast and loud.

“500!”

“750!”

“1,200!”

“Jeno, take it all off!” one bold voice screamed, earning a wave of laughter and a raised eyebrow from Jeno, who tilted his head slightly as if considering the request.

“Keep dreaming,” he drawled into the mic, his tone dripping with amusement as he reached for his discarded pants and slung them over his shoulder. The devilish smirk returned, and he gave a playful wink toward the source of the shout. “But I’ll let you imagine.”

Another girl’s voice rang out. “Jeno, fuck me!”

Jeno let out a low, throaty laugh, adjusting his stance on stage. “Patience, sweetheart. Gotta win me first.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, stifling a laugh as your cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment. Beside you, Karina wasn’t nearly as subtle. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as a snort escaped her.

The bids soared higher, the girls growing more frantic with each passing second. He leaned into the chaos, running a hand through his hair, the sharp line of his jaw catching the dim lights. He didn’t say much after that, but he didn’t have to. Every glance, every shift of his body spoke volumes, and the crowd hung on every second of his unapologetic display.

Karina nudged you, fanning herself dramatically. “Oh my God. That man is too much.”

You hummed in agreement, your eyes flicking to Jeno as he posed on stage, clearly revelling in the attention. “Mmm,” you teased, fanning yourself as well. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

But before you could even process what was happening, Mark’s best friend suddenly looped her arm through yours, her expression shifting to something more serious. “You have to bid on him,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

You blinked, startled. “What? Why me?”

She sighed, her gaze darting toward the stage where Jeno was basking in the chaos he’d created. “Because if you don’t, one of these desperate whores is going to win, and I can’t let that happen. It’s… complicated between us,” she admitted, her tone softening. “But I don’t want anyone else to be his date.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you should get involved. But the raw honesty in her voice struck a chord. The thought of Jeno leaving with someone who only wanted him for his body and status—or worse, someone who would treat it like a joke—made your chest tighten painfully.

With a deep breath, you raised your paddle, your voice cutting through the noise as you called out a bid so high it left the room in stunned silence. The other girls shot you venomous glares, their frustration palpable, but no one dared to challenge you.

“Sold!” Coach Suh announced, his booming voice breaking the tension. “To Y/N!”

Jeno stepped off the stage, his eyes locking onto yours. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of amusement, annoyance, and something else you couldn’t quite place. As the crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and murmurs, the weight of the night pressed heavier on your shoulders.

The gala was going to be… complicated.

You’d tried to slip away quietly, eager to retreat home and bury yourself under a pile of blankets, but Karina had intercepted you, twirling your car keys with a sly grin. “Nope. You’re staying,” she said firmly, pressing the keys into her pocket. “It’ll be good for you to socialise.”

Now, you regretted not fighting harder for your escape. You stood near one of the ornate pillars in the lavishly decorated hall, trying to melt into the shadows. The weight of the evening pressed heavily on your chest, amplified by the sight of Mark and his best friend talking quietly in the distance. You hadn’t planned on eavesdropping, but where you stood, their voices carried too clearly to ignore.

They laughed softly, their tones warm and easy, as if they’d patched up all the tension that once lingered between them. Mark’s voice rang out, a soft but happy lilt to his words. “I missed this. It feels good to have you back.”

The laughter echoed, and something inside you twisted painfully. Tears pricked your eyes, but you stayed rooted in place. Leaving would mean admitting how much it hurt, while staying felt like punishment—a way to drown yourself in the ache you couldn’t shake. You were conflicted, trapped between wanting to run and wanting to absorb every bit of Mark you could, even if it tore you apart. The image of his flushed face on the court, breathless and pushing himself too hard, flashed in your mind, making the weight of the moment even harder to bear. His health lingered at the forefront of your thoughts, feeding the guilt that gnawed at you for pulling away.

You missed him. God, you missed him so much it physically hurt. Every laugh he shared with his best friend felt like another crack in your already fragile heart. The bond they had seemed effortless, and it reminded you of everything you’d lost.

The worst part was noticing how easily he seemed to mend things with everyone else when you weren’t in the picture. His best friend, Jeno—they’d all found their way back to him, their connections seemingly stronger than ever. It was like your absence had been the missing piece, the thing that allowed everything to fall perfectly into place. And maybe it was true. Maybe you really had been the wedge all along, the one thing keeping him from the harmony he deserved. The thought lodged itself deep in your chest, sharp and unrelenting. As much as you wanted to be happy for him, to see him surrounded by people who cared, it only reminded you of how removed you were from that equation. You weren’t part of his happiness anymore.

Mark turned his head, his gaze finding you through the crowd like it always did. For a moment, time froze. His expression softened, but it was unreadable—caught somewhere between longing and restraint. You wanted to hold his gaze, but the weight of your emotions made you falter, your eyes dropping to the ground.

Beside you, Jeno stood close, his posture slightly tense as he glanced around the room, trying to appear at ease. The only reason he was here, standing beside you, was because in true Boy Toy Auction fashion, you were obligated to spend the night together. He was also your date to the upcoming gala, though it hardly felt like anything significant. Obviously, nothing would happen between you and Jeno—nothing could come out of this anymore. Whatever history you’d shared was firmly in the past, buried under the weight of everything that had changed. This was nothing more than a favor done for Mark’s best friend, a gesture born out of necessity rather than desire.

Jeno's eyes flicked to you every so often, clearly noticing the way your gaze lingered on Mark. Your expression must have given away more than you intended—sadness etched into your features, your shoulders slightly hunched.

He sighed softly, the tension between you strange but not hostile. He shifted closer, his tone light and teasing as he finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence. “Hey, Y/N, remember the last Boy Toy Auction? You bid on me, and I spent the entire night balls deep inside of you—”

Before you could even react, Mark’s head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing into a deadpan glare. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck taut as his gaze bore into Jeno, warning him—no, daring him— to say another word.

Jeno just chuckled, shaking his head with a mischievous grin. “What?” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “It’s true. I think it was twice, actually—maybe three times. We lost count after the—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, cutting him off, your cheeks heating as you shoved him lightly. “Seriously, Jeno. Enough.”

His laughter bubbled out as he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.” But the glint in his eye said he was enjoying the way both you and Mark bristled far too much.

You shook your head, sighing heavily. “Guess I’m stuck with you tonight,” you muttered, avoiding Mark’s gaze as you turned back to Jeno. The thought of spending the evening with him wasn’t unbearable, but it wasn’t exactly your first choice either.

Mark’s best friend looped her arm around his as they turned to leave together, her laugh ringing out like a chime. Watching them walk away, you felt a small, bitter pang of relief. At least it wasn’t one of the other girls. At least it was her, someone you could trust not to cross any lines.

Still, as you glanced at Jeno and then back at the disappearing figure of Mark, the weight in your chest didn’t lift. If anything, it settled deeper.

──────────────────────────────

The sun dipped lower into the horizon, painting the campus in warm hues of amber and crimson. Shadows stretched across the empty quad, long and languid, as the soft rustle of leaves filled the cool evening air. The building you were in was quiet, almost hauntingly so, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of old wood floors. It was the kind of stillness that usually gave you comfort, a reprieve from the chaos of your thoughts. But tonight, it felt heavier, as though the silence itself was listening.

Jeno lingered near the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with his car keys in hand. He had been ready to leave—ready to take you home—but when you mentioned you’d be staying behind to work, he pocketed the keys without a word. Now he sat on a metal stool a few feet away, his arms folded loosely across his chest, watching you.

You turned your focus to the dim red glow of the darkroom, where you’d set up trays of chemicals and hung lines for drying prints. The faint smell of developer and fixer hung in the air as you carefully placed a piece of photographic paper into the first tray, watching the image begin to bloom like magic on the surface. You worked quietly, your hands steady, the process grounding you. Photography has always been your sanctuary—a way to escape and dissolve into your own world. It was the one place where you could control the narrative, capture the beauty of fleeting moments, and make sense of chaos.

If Jeno weren’t here, you’d have your headphones on by now, fully absorbed in the ritual. Music and the rhythmic motions of developing film would have drowned out everything else. But tonight, you were hyper-aware of his presence. There was something about the way he sat silently, his posture relaxed but his gaze unyielding, that filled the small darkroom with an almost palpable weight. It wasn’t intrusive, but it was inescapable. 

He was present in a way that demanded acknowledgment, his stillness commanding as if he were daring you to forget he was there. Every time you moved, you felt his eyes tracking your motions, not judging, but consuming the details of what you were doing. It was as though he occupied more space than his body physically took up, and that kind of focus—steady, deliberate—was both grounding and unnerving. It made you hyper-aware of yourself in a way that felt slightly unnerving, his intensity lingering in the air like a storm just before it breaks.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him staring. “Jeno, you can go if you want to,” you said, laughing softly to ease the tension. “You don’t need to stick around.”

“Ouch,” he replied, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s not like that. It’s just… no one’s gonna keep tabs on us to make sure we spend the night together after the Boy Toy Auction. It’s not that deep.”

“But what if I wanna spend the night with you?” Jeno’s voice dipped lower, his tone carrying that unmistakable flirtatious edge. You rolled your eyes, stifling a smile. He could never resist moments like this—always finding a way to slip in a sly comment. It was, after all, quintessentially Jeno.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” you asked, your tone sharp enough to cut through the tension. “Because the last time we spoke, you called me a ‘slut.’” You addressed the elephant in the room with finality, your gaze locking onto his.

“Not the first time that’s happened,” Jeno replied smoothly, his voice dipping lower as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His words immediately brought a rush of memories from your shared past, ones you didn’t want to linger on right now.

“Okay, you really need to stop flirting,” you laughed, shaking your head at his shamelessness.

Jeno sobered slightly, his gaze softening. “Look, I’m sorry for what I called you. I know it wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean it, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. The weight you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying lifted slightly. “So, you’re not angry anymore?”

He shook his head, his tone soft but firm. “No, I’m not angry anymore. I already told Mark this. My frustration wasn’t about thinking I had some kind of claim over you—I know I don’t, and I never have. It was more… I don’t know… the way it happened. It caught me off guard.” He paused, his brows knitting together as if piecing his thoughts together. “It hurt because I thought we were in a good place. You’re someone I’ve always been real with, and when you kept it from me, it felt like you didn’t trust me. Like I didn’t matter enough to know.”

You swallowed hard, his words settling over you like a heavy weight. Slowly, you reached out, placing your hand on top of his. His palm was warm, steady, and it grounded you in the moment. You laced your fingers over his gently, an earnest gesture of connection, before meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly but full of sincerity. “I never wanted to hurt you, Jeno. And it wasn’t about not trusting you—I swear. It was… everything felt so complicated, so overwhelming. I thought keeping it quiet would make things easier, not just for me but for everyone.” You sighed, glancing down at where your hands met. “But looking back, I see how that might have felt to you. Like I was shutting you out.”

You met his eyes again, your grip tightening on his hand. “You’ve always been important to me, Jeno. I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t matter or that I didn’t care. I was just trying to figure everything out without making it worse, but I see now that I didn’t handle it right. I’m really, truly sorry.”

Jeno nodded, his expression softening. “I get that now. And I’m sorry for how I reacted. But I want you to know—you have my blessing to be with Mark. Not that you need it,” he added with a small smile. “But if you’ve been distant because of me, don’t. I want you both to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. “It’s more complicated than that,” you murmured, your gaze dropping to your hands.

“Then help me understand,” Jeno said gently. “What’s going on?”

For a moment, the words wouldn’t come. But then, slowly, you began to unravel the knot inside you, letting everything spill out in a quiet, trembling stream. You told him about the guilt that gnawed at you, how you felt like your presence in Mark’s life only complicated things—how you feared you were hurting him more than you were helping. You admitted how hard it was to see him push himself to the brink, ignoring the signs that something was wrong, and how that fear clung to you, heavy and unrelenting, in every quiet moment. The ache of watching him, knowing you couldn’t fix what was broken, kept you awake at night, the weight of it almost unbearable.

Jeno listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but his presence steady, grounding. The way his gaze softened as you spoke, how his hand lingered close to yours on the table, made it easier to keep going. You admitted that you’d been pulling away from Mark—not because you didn’t care, but because of the nagging feeling that you weren’t enough for him. The way he looked at you—with all that patience, all that steadiness—only made it harder. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t deserve it, that you couldn’t match the unwavering way he held space for you in his life.

Mark deserved someone who could meet him halfway, someone who wouldn’t let fear or insecurity cloud every interaction. But you? You felt like all you ever did was run—run from the emotions that overwhelmed you, run from the problems you didn’t know how to solve, and, worst of all, run from him when things got too real. You weren’t pushing him away because you didn’t want him. You were pulling away because you wanted him more than anything. Because you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, his life would be simpler without you in it. That maybe, in trying to hold onto him, you were holding him back.

And when you finally stopped, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was heavy, charged, but somehow comforting. It was as though, for the first time, someone truly saw the tangled mess you were trying to navigate, and you could breathe just a little easier because of it. Jeno reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You’re overthinking everything,” he said softly. “Mark’s a big boy. He knows what he wants, and trust me—what he wants is you. Let him prove that to you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Jeno raised a hand, stopping you before you could get the words out. “I mean it. You’re sitting here tying yourself in knots about whether you’re enough for him, but did you ever stop to think that maybe he doesn’t need you to be anything more than you already are?” His gaze held yours, steady and unrelenting, daring you to argue. “Mark doesn’t look at you like someone who complicates his life. He looks at you like someone who is his life. And yeah, I get it. Loving someone that much can be scary as hell. But running from it? That’s not protecting him. That’s just shutting him out.”

Jeno leaned back slightly, his hand dropping from your shoulder, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’re not holding him back. You’re the one he’s choosing, over and over again, even when it’s hard. Let him make that choice. Stop deciding for him.” He softened his tone, a hint of teasing slipping through as he added, “And honestly? If anyone deserves to be scared here, it’s Mark. You’re way out of his league.”

The teasing brought the faintest smile to your lips, but his words sank deeper than he realized. For the first time, you considered what it might mean to stop running—to let Mark see you, flaws and all, and trust that he wouldn’t walk away. It was a terrifying thought, but maybe Jeno was right. Maybe it was time to stop deciding for him

“Since when did you speak with so much wisdom?” you asked, your faint smile doing little to hide the weight of your emotions.

Jeno’s lips quirked into a playful smirk, his tone casual. “I’m a man of many surprises.”

Your chest tightened, but for the first time in weeks, there was a glimmer of clarity. “Thanks, Jeno,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Anytime,” he replied, his smirk widening. “But if you really want to thank me, let’s wrap this up. I’m starving.”

You laughed, the sound light and unrestrained, and for a brief moment, the heaviness didn’t feel so unbearable.

You return back to your work shortly after. You were putting the final touches on your pinboard, pinning a collection of photographs with meticulous care, lost in the rhythm of your own movements. The familiar process was soothing, the smell of chemicals and the tactile sensation of the glossy prints grounding you. You didn’t even notice Jeno had wandered over until he was suddenly standing beside you, his presence undeniable as he loomed just close enough to see everything.

Jeno shifted on his feet, crossing his arms as he leaned against the frame. “Are you almost done?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. “I’m starving.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you replied absently, not looking up as you adjusted the placement of a photo. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Jeno let out a dramatic sigh, stepping further into the room. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening. I’m not leaving you here to drown in whatever artsy rabbit hole you’re about to fall into. Plus, if I wait any longer, I’m gonna start eating the film chemicals.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Five more minutes, Jeno. I promise.”

He muttered something under his breath about starving to death and moved closer, his curiosity getting the better of him as his eyes scanned the board. But then he froze, his gaze narrowing on a set of photos in the corner—ones that made his lips quirk into a knowing smirk. “Oh,” he said, drawing out the word. “These are… interesting.”

Without another word, he plucked the prints from the board.

“Jeno, give those back!” you snapped, turning to snatch them from his hands. But he was already holding them high above his head, his teasing grin firmly in place.

“I’m just curious,” he said innocently, though the glint in his eye betrayed him. “What’s with all these Mark photos, huh?”

The shots of Mark at the river court—the ones you’d spent hours perfecting—stood out against the collage of other images. Mark mid-laugh, the sunlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw. Mark looking contemplative as he dribbled a ball, sweat glistening on his skin. Mark, raw and unfiltered, through the lens of someone who saw him for everything he was.

Jeno’s brows furrowed slightly, his lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Oh, these are interesting,” he teased, plucking the photos from the board before you could stop him.

“Jeno, stop that!” you snapped, scrambling after him as he held the prints out of your reach.

“No way,” he replied, holding them high above his head like a sibling tormenting their younger counterpart. “Not until I confirm something.”

You huffed, frustrated, and tried to grab them, but his teasing grin softened into something more serious as he glanced back at the pictures in his hand. “You love him, don’t you?”

The question hit you like a freight train. You froze, the air around you growing heavier as his words settled in your chest. Love. It was a simple word, yet it carried so much weight. Loving Mark wasn’t just an emotion—it was a possibility, a dream, and a fear all rolled into one. The thought of it warmed you from the inside, a quiet, steady heat that promised something safe, something real. But it also terrified you. Love wasn’t simple. It was messy and vulnerable, and it felt like opening yourself up to something that could shatter you completely.

“Just give me the photos, Jen,” you said quietly, your voice trembling just slightly.

“Not until you admit it,” he pressed, his eyes searching yours. But when he saw the raw emotion in your expression, his smirk faded. “You do love him.”

You didn’t respond, but the silence between you said everything.

“He loves you so much, you know,” Jeno added, his voice softer now, more sincere. “So you need to stop being an idiot.”

The bluntness of his words made you laugh faintly, but it was hollow. “I’m glad you both made up,” you said instead, deflecting.

Jeno rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your subject change, but he let it slide. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Before you could say anything else, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. It wasn’t planned, but the weight of everything you’d been holding in—the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming love you felt—finally spilled over. Your chest heaved as the first sob broke free, and before you knew it, you were crying into Jeno’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything at first, just held you firmly, one hand gently stroking your back while the other rested protectively on your head. “Hey, hey,” he murmured softly. “I got you. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, but when your sobs finally subsided, Jeno pressed a light kiss to your forehead, the gesture so tender it made your chest ache. “I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt, okay?” he said quietly. “You’re not alone in this.”

You sniffled, pulling back slightly to look at him, your lips twitching into a faint smile. “You never used to comfort me this well when we were together.”

He laughed, his usual teasing tone slipping back into place. “Yeah, well, I had a lot to learn back then. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jeno slung his arm around your shoulders as the two of you finally left the darkroom, his warmth grounding you against the chill of the hallway. His presence, steady and reassuring, felt like an anchor after the emotional storm you’d just weathered. Still, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder—was his sudden change, his emotional depth and patience, because of someone he’d been seeing?

You rolled your eyes at yourself, but the thought lingered, tugging at your curiosity. Finally, you broke the silence, glancing up at him with a faint smirk. “So,” you began, your tone light but laced with genuine interest, “what’s going on with you and Mark’s best friend?”

Jeno chuckled softly, his grip on your shoulder tightening just slightly. “What, are you jealous?” he teased, though the faint flicker of something unreadable in his expression made you wonder if he’d answer seriously.

──────────────────────────────

The bedroom was a mix of soft lighting and laughter, the faint hum of music playing from Karina’s phone as she sat across from you, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her hands worked with precision, blending and dabbing with a level of effort that made you feel like you were her only priority. It was almost amusing how much effort she seemed to be putting into your look—more than she’d probably spent on her own.

Karina’s hands moved like an artist painting her masterpiece, each brushstroke precise, deliberate, and filled with care. Her brows furrowed in intense focus, the tip of her tongue peeking out slightly as she tilted your chin this way and that, ensuring every angle caught the light just right. It wasn’t just makeup—it was a quiet ritual, a transformation unfolding under her deft touch.

The soft glam she created was understated yet mesmerizing, like the way sunlight filters through a lace curtain—delicate, natural, but impossible to ignore. A soft shimmer adorned your eyelids, catching the light like the faintest sparkle of dew at dawn. The blush on your cheeks was barely there, just enough to mimic the warmth of laughter, while your lips gleamed with a subtle gloss, like a whisper of silk against your skin. Karina’s artistry didn’t mask you; it elevated you, amplifying what was already there. You looked at your reflection and felt something bloom—beauty, confidence, and the quiet awe of seeing yourself through her eyes.

When she stepped back to admire her work, her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You know, I think today is the perfect opportunity to make up with Mark. Tell him how sorry you are, how hot he looks, and how badly you want to suck his cock.”

“Karina!” you tut, swatting her arm as your cheeks heat. “Stop that.” You sighed, glancing at your reflection and biting your lip. “I won’t even see him today. Remember? I’m going with Jeno, and he’s going with his best friend.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, giving you a knowing look. You hesitated, trying to shove down the thought tugging at your mind: a tiny part of you did wish you were going with Mark. But it felt selfish, so you didn’t say it out loud. Instead, you let yourself wonder for just a moment how the night might have gone if you were by his side, before sighing again. It’s not meant to be.

“Now, change into your dress, sexy,” Karina said, snapping you out of your thoughts with a playful slap on your bum. You giggled, standing up as she ushered you toward the wardrobe.

“And don’t forget the lingerie,” she called after you.

You groaned but knew better than to argue. The black two-piece set was impossibly revealing, the lace pattern delicate but bold against your skin. The thong sat high on your hips, elongating your legs, while the matching bra was all thin straps and intricate lace, teasing just enough without being overbearing. You adjusted it in front of the mirror, taking a deep breath before pulling on the gown.

The dress was elegance with an edge, an emerald green design that skimmed your curves with perfect precision. The silk fabric shimmered faintly under the light, subtle and luxurious, catching the movement of your body as though it was alive. Its plunging neckline framed your collarbones and offered a delicate hint of skin, daring yet refined, never crossing the line into excess.

The backless design swept low, exposing the curve of your spine, with slender crisscross straps resting lightly on your shoulders. The thigh-high slit added just enough intrigue, revealing glimpses of your leg as you moved, while the gentle train behind you added a touch of timeless sophistication. It was a dress that balanced boldness and class effortlessly, designed to draw attention without demanding it.

As you stood before the mirror, adjusting the soft, flowing fabric over your hips, you couldn’t help but admire the way the gown seemed to transform you. The deep green brought out the warmth of your skin, while your choice of gold jewelry—delicate earrings, a thin chain that kissed your collarbones, and a simple bracelet—added a touch of understated elegance.

Underneath, the black lace lingerie you wore felt like a quiet secret, something just for you, a small reminder of confidence tucked away beneath the fabric. You smoothed the dress one last time, feeling beautiful, poised, and ready. It wasn’t just the dress—it was the way it made you feel, comfortable in your own skin, confident enough to face whatever the night had in store.

Karina stood beside you, crossing her arms as she gave you an approving once-over. “God, I’d do you,” she said, her tone half-joking but her gaze serious.

You wiggled your eyebrows, smirking as you turned toward her. “We could just ditch the ball and stay home, we could just make out instead. What do you think?”

She burst into laughter, shaking her head. “Tempting, but we can’t waste these looks. Let’s go turn some heads.”

You grabbed your matching clutches, sharing one last amused look with her before heading downstairs.

The messages from Jeno sat unanswered on your phone, a trail of confusion and mild irritation tugging at your mood.

You’d asked him when he’d pick you up—no response. Then if he was ready—again, no response. Your final attempt, a half-joking “Are you alive?” was also met with silence. You stared at the empty notifications, wondering what was up with him. 

A knock at the door jolted you from your thoughts, and you sighed in relief. Finally, he was probably here. Ready to open the door and scold him, you were halfway to turning the knob when your phone buzzed with a new message. Narrowing your eyes, you glanced down.

jeno — sorry

jeno — you’re gonna thank me one day!

Confusion prickled at your mind. If he was outside, why was he messaging you? Still frowning, you swung the door open, ready to ask what he meant.

And froze.

Standing in front of you wasn’t Jeno. It was Mark.

His soft brown eyes held yours with a quiet intensity, grounding you in place as your pulse quickened. He looked effortlessly captivating—his tailored black suit accentuating the strong lines of his broad shoulders and lean frame, the sharp cut softened by the warmth in his gaze. Loose strands of hair fell just perfectly, framing his face in a way that made him look both polished and impossibly familiar, as though he belonged right here, at your doorstep, waiting for you.

The bouquet in his hands was a vibrant array of peonies, their soft, layered petals in shades of blush pink and ivory catching the dim light. They were nestled among delicate sprigs of baby’s breath, their tiny white blooms adding a gentle contrast, and a few stems of eucalyptus, their pale green leaves curling elegantly around the arrangement. The scent was subtle yet intoxicating—a mix of fresh florals and earthy undertones that filled the air between you. The flowers were perfect, chosen with care, as though he had known exactly what would make your heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitched. “Mark.” His name slipped from your lips in a quiet whisper, soft and instinctive, as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken.

The corners of his mouth curved into a gentle smile, warm and knowing. “Hi, beautiful.”

His greeting made your heart stutter, but you pushed the feeling aside. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, your voice colder than you intended.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Donghyuck standing awkwardly by the side, clearly uncomfortable but too amused to leave just yet. Karina’s wide eyes and poorly hidden smirk added to the chaos. For once, she stayed silent, taking in the unexpected scene with an air of approval.

Mark’s voice wrapped around you, soft yet commanding, every word feeling like it was meant only for you. “I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, holding yours as if nothing else in the world mattered. “Jeno and I agreed to swap—so I could be here, with you.”

“I need—” you stammered, your voice shaking as panic clawed at your chest. “I need some air. I need to get my phone from my room.” The words tumbled out, frantic and disjointed, as you tried to pull away, your pulse pounding in your ears.

But before you could take a step, his hand wrapped around your wrist, firm yet careful, his warmth searing into your skin. The contact sent a jolt through your entire body, leaving you frozen in place. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but glance at where his fingers pressed against you, firm and unwavering. 

“You’re holding your phone,” he said, his voice calm but edged with a knowing smirk that made your stomach flip. His thumb brushed against your wrist absentmindedly, and the sensation sent your thoughts spiraling further into chaos.

Your voice cracked as you tried again. “I need my headphones.”

Mark didn’t budge. His grip stayed firm but never forceful, grounding you in a way that sent your heart racing. He didn’t break eye contact for a second, his gaze steady and unwavering, pinning you in place as though he could see every chaotic thought racing through your mind. “Karina,” he called over his shoulder, his tone calm yet laced with authority, making Karina’s eyes widen in surprise. “Get Y/N’s headphones.”

You narrowed your eyes as Karina veered the opposite way, heading toward the front door instead of your roomX She exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Donghyuck, then gave you a playful shrug, mouthing “Good luck!” as she stepped outside with him. The door clicked shut behind them, and the weight of the silence that followed was suffocating. You stood there, your pulse racing, Mark’s gaze never leaving you, the space between you shrinking with every shaky breath.

“Mark,” you murmured, your voice trembling despite the sulk you tried to force into it. His name fell from your lips as if it belonged there, as natural and instinctive as breathing. You felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his gaze, the intensity in his eyes leaving you vulnerable in ways you weren’t prepared for.

He stepped closer, his presence filling every inch of space between you, and before you could stop yourself, your arms looped around his shoulders. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, grounding you in his warmth. “I’m here because I want to be with you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but carrying an unmistakable depth. “I only wanted you to be my date at the gala. I wished you’d bid on me that night.”

“Why?” you whispered, your throat tight, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free.

His hesitation was brief, his eyes searching yours as if to make sure you understood every word. “Because I love you,” he said, his tone soft yet firm, wrapping around you like a promise. “You’re mine, and you know that. No matter how much you try to push me away, it doesn’t change the truth. I’d fight for you, harder than anyone. You know that, don’t you?”

His words shattered something fragile inside you, unravelling emotions you’d worked so hard to contain. Your chest tightened, your throat ached, and you could barely keep the tears at bay. “Don’t make me cry with this makeup on,” you mumbled, biting your lip in a futile attempt to hold everything back.

Mark cupped your face gently, tilting your chin so you couldn’t look away. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, his tone firm but impossibly tender. His thumbs brushed against your cheekbones, careful not to smudge the makeup you’d so painstakingly applied.

You wanted to be angry at how he was holding you, at how he was effortlessly pulling you into his world when you were supposed to be distancing yourself. But the way he looked at you—steady, warm, like you were the only thing that mattered—made it impossible. The conflict raged inside you. How could you act like everything was fine? How could you let yourself fall into his arms after all the ways you’d hurt him, after all the ways you knew you didn’t deserve this?

But Mark had always been the only thing that could ground you, and tonight was no exception. Against every logical thought, against every ounce of guilt that clawed at you, your body betrayed you. You stepped closer, your arms tightening around him, burying your face in his shoulder. Mark sighed, the sound deep and almost relieved, as if this moment meant as much to him as it did to you. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you closer, anchoring you.

The tension between you crackled like static, heavy and charged. Mark leaned in slowly, the movement deliberate, his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath was warm, shallow, mingling with your own as the space between you grew smaller, impossibly close. Your eyes flickered to his lips—soft, slightly parted, achingly tempting. Everything about this moment felt like a gravitational pull, and it took all the strength you had to resist closing the distance.

His hand brushed lightly along your arm, sending shivers racing down your spine. You wanted to give in, to feel his lips against yours, to let the moment consume you entirely. But as the seconds stretched, you pulled back just enough to break the spell, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

Mark didn’t miss a beat. A soft smile curved his lips, as if he understood your hesitation but refused to let the moment fall away. “I missed you, baby,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as his hands found yours. In one smooth motion, he raised your hands above your head and spun you in a playful circle, his laughter low and intimate. When he stopped you to face him again, his eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail with a slow, deliberate sweep that made your cheeks flush. He let out a low whistle, his lips curving into a soft, boyish smile. “Look at my girl,” he whispered, his voice rich with affection and awe. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His words were a quiet litany of praise, murmured softly into your ear as his fingers brushed along your arm, your waist, your back. Each compliment sank into you, warming your cheeks and making your pulse race. For the first time in what felt like forever, the smile that spread across your face wasn’t forced or fleeting. It was real. It was yours. And it was because of him.

You gulped, feeling the weight of everything between you—the unspoken words, the fragile tension, the undeniable pull that had always existed. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely steady. “We can be like… this. But just for tonight.”

Mark tilted his head, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. His eyes darkened, not with frustration but with something deeper—tenderness, longing, and a quiet determination that seemed to anchor the air between you. “Just tonight?” he repeated softly, his voice low and deliberate, as if testing the words on his tongue. His tone made it clear he didn’t believe you, not for a second.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek, the touch featherlight yet grounding. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his expression unreadable but warm. “You don’t mean that,” he murmured, his breath brushing your skin. “Because you know I don’t do halfway. Not with you.”

The way he said it, the certainty in his voice, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t a question or a plea—it was a promise, one you weren’t sure you deserved but couldn’t bring yourself to deny. His eyes searched yours as if he could see every fear, every hesitation, and was ready to hold them all for you.

“I’m scared,” you mumbled, your voice breaking as the vulnerability spilled out. Your gaze dropped to where his hand rested at his side, but before you could pull away, he closed the distance between you. 

Mark’s hand slid up your arm, tracing a slow path to your shoulder, then to your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your cheek, a tender, grounding touch that made you feel like you might fall apart and hold steady all at once. “I know,” he whispered, his breath warm as it ghosted over your lips.

He brought your hand to his mouth, his lips pressing gently to your knuckles, the kiss lingering as if to reassure you in ways words couldn’t. His forehead rested against yours for a moment, the closeness making you feel drawn into him, in his steady, unwavering presence.

He leaned in, the warmth radiating from him enveloping you like a quiet promise, his tone softer this time—a reassurance wrapped in tenderness. “But I got you,” he murmured, his voice a soft promise that wrapped around you. His other hand found its way to the small of your back, pulling you closer, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your gown.

“You got me,” you hummed, the words spilling out instinctively as if they’d been waiting to be said. Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer. For the first time in a long while, the fear in your chest began to ebb, replaced by the steady, unshakable rhythm of his presence.

Mark pulls you closer, his hands steadying you as they hold your waist, thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of your back. He pulled back just enough to rest his lips against your temple, murmuring softly, “You’re safe with me. Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms holding you firmly yet gently, the world seemed to still. Every touch, every whispered word, anchored you, replacing your fear with the quiet comfort of his love.

──────────────────────────────

The grand double doors creaked open, revealing you at the top of the staircase, and in an instant, the entire room shifted. Conversations hushed, glasses paused mid-air, and all eyes turned toward you, drawn as if by an invisible force. The entrance was nothing short of cinematic, a moment that felt suspended in time.

The stairs stretched wide beneath your feet, their polished marble gleaming under the soft golden glow of the chandeliers. Each step was bordered by intricate railings adorned with garlands of greenery and delicate blossoms, a testament to the care and precision poured into every detail of the evening. The music swelled at just the right moment—a stringed harmony that seemed to follow your every move, adding an almost otherworldly quality to your entrance.

As you reached the first step of the grand staircase, you instinctively turned to look for him. But instead of being by your side, as you’d expected, Mark was a few steps behind, standing near the entrance to the hall. The realization hit you immediately. He was giving you your moment, stepping back so you could have the spotlight entirely to yourself. His expression held no trace of impatience, only quiet pride, as if he wanted the world to see you exactly as he did—radiant, breathtaking, and completely deserving of all the attention. His smile was devastatingly handsome, the kind that felt like it could melt away every ounce of your anxiety. 

His gaze never wavered, fixed on you with an intensity that made the rest of the room blur into nothing. He didn’t need to say a word; the look in his eyes told you everything. He was proud of you, enamored by you, and willing to fade into the background so you could have your moment in the spotlight. And in that instant, it didn’t matter that the hall was filled with whispers, envious stares, and admiring gasps—because all you could see was him.

As you reached the bottom of the staircase, Mark’s eyes softened the moment they met yours, and a warm smile spread across his face as he stepped closer. Without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed your forehead—a gentle, grounding touch that sent a wave of warmth through you.

“I have to do some crap with the basketball team since this is a sports gala,” he murmured, his voice low and meant only for you. His lips brushed against your temple as he pulled back slightly, his gaze lingering. “But I’ll find you later, yeah? I won’t be too long.”

You nodded, your lips curving into a small smile. “Yeah, I’ll be here,” you replied softly, your voice steady even though your heart felt a twinge of disappointment at his brief departure.

Mark gave you one last look, his hand squeezing yours before he stepped away, his broad frame moving effortlessly through the crowd. You watched him for a moment, the way his presence commanded attention even when he wasn’t trying, before turning to make your way toward the far side of the hall where your friends were waiting.

As you approached, all eyes were on you—not just the envious stares from around the room, but the wide-eyed gazes of your cheer squad. Karina was the first to react, her expression breaking into one of delight as she practically rushed toward you, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

“Look at you!” Karina exclaimed, her hands clasping yours tightly as her eyes swept over your gown, her expression a mix of pride and awe. “Y/N, you look absolutely stunning—like, I knew you would, but this? You’re completely stealing the show!” Her voice was brimming with excitement, so enthusiastic and full of admiration that it was easy to forget she had been the one helping you get ready just hours ago. You couldn’t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest as you took in how genuine she was, acting as though she were seeing you for the first time. That was what you loved most about her—how her energy made even the simplest moments feel special, as if this wasn’t just your night but hers to celebrate, too.

Winter wasn’t far behind, circling you with an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god, is this custom?” she teased, her eyes narrowing as she inspected every detail of your gown. For a moment, you thought she was joking, but then her expression softened, her tone surprisingly genuine. “I mean it, Y/N. This dress? It’s stunning—you’re stunning. Honestly, if anyone doesn’t say it, they’re just jealous.” Her words caught you off guard, and you blinked at her, momentarily speechless. Winter rarely compliments anyone—least of all you—and the unexpected sincerity in her voice made the moment even more surreal. It was so unlike her that you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of gratitude and disbelief, her admiration settling over you like an unfamiliar but welcome warmth.

Even Aisha and Mia, who usually kept their compliments begrudging at best, exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting from mild disinterest to reluctant acknowledgment. They both nodded, a quiet, mutual agreement passing between them. For once, they couldn’t deny it—you had outshone everyone tonight, and even they weren’t stubborn enough to ignore it.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension you’d been carrying earlier melting away under their praise. “Thanks, guys,” you said, your voice light but full of gratitude.

The girls huddled closer, each of them gushing over the intricate details of your gown—the subtle shimmer, the perfect fit, the way the slit revealed just enough to make a statement without being overdone. It felt like a moment straight out of a movie, their chatter blending with the soft hum of the music and the occasional clink of glasses in the background.

The grandeur of the hall became more apparent the longer you stood there, its opulence creating the perfect backdrop for the evening. Soft, golden lighting spilled from grand chandeliers overhead, their crystals sparkling like tiny fireflies against the high ceilings. Rich drapes lined the walls, the fabric so luxurious it seemed to glow in the warm light. The polished floors reflected the grandeur above, their surface so pristine it looked almost like glass.

A live orchestra played in the corner, their music smooth and timeless, weaving a melody that felt like it belonged to another era. The sound wrapped around the room, adding a sense of intimacy to the elegance. Students moved gracefully across the space, their gowns and sharp suits adding splashes of color to the muted golds and whites of the venue. Laughter floated through the air, mingling with the soft clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of applause from a corner of the room.

This wasn’t just another event—it was the event. The end-of-year gala was a cornerstone of the campus social calendar, a tradition rooted in celebration and anticipation. It wasn’t just about dressing up and mingling; it was about honoring the basketball team’s journey and rallying the entire school behind them as they prepared for the upcoming state championships. The gala served as both a fundraiser and a morale booster, bringing together students, faculty, and sponsors to show their support. For the players, it was a night of recognition, a moment to celebrate their hard work before stepping into the high-stakes games ahead.

For Mark, tonight wasn’t about being in the spotlight but about supporting Jeno, the team’s captain. While the responsibilities of leading the team weren’t Mark’s to shoulder, he stood by Jeno, helping him navigate the attention and endless conversations with faculty, donors, and supporters. Mark had always been quietly dependable, offering his steady presence and easy charm to smooth over the tensions that came with such a high-profile night. But even with his focus on helping Jeno, it was clear where his attention truly lay. Because for all the glamour and importance of the gala, none of it really mattered to him.

What mattered was you.

When Mark finally found you again, it was as if the entire room faded away. His gaze locked onto yours instantly, and the magnetic pull of his eyes was undeniable. They burned with a quiet intensity, soft yet unwavering, as though they could see straight through to your soul. The connection between you was immediate, unshakable, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the world simply didn’t exist.

As he made his way across the hall, his focus never wavered. His steps were confident, deliberate, and the closer he got, the more the butterflies in your stomach stirred. Around you, the chatter of your friends faded, their gazes darting between the two of you as they exchanged knowing glances.

Aisha and Mia’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and begrudging acknowledgment flashing across their faces. Karina, on the other hand, beamed like a proud mother, her smile practically glowing as she nudged Winter with her elbow. “Look at that,” she whispered, loud enough for you to hear but without drawing too much attention. “He only has eyes for her.”

And he did.

When he finally reached you, Mark’s smile widened, soft but undeniably real. He stopped just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, his presence commanding and grounding all at once.

After a brief exchange of teasing from the girls, he leaned in slightly, his voice low and meant only for you. “Dance with me?”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat, and he took your hand. His touch was warm, grounding, as he led you to the center of the room. The grandeur of the hall, the shimmer of lights and muted conversations, all faded into the background the moment his hand slid into yours. The other rested lightly on your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

The music swelled, soft and sweeping, as you moved together effortlessly, each step in perfect harmony. His touch was firm but delicate, and the gentle pressure of his thumb brushing against the bare skin of your back through the slit of your dress sent warmth blooming across your cheeks. You tilted your head slightly to look at him, the closeness between you making it impossible to focus on anything else.

The jealous stares from cheerleaders, the murmured whispers—none of it registered. You could notice it if you wanted to, the way their gazes lingered, the quiet judgment hidden behind their half-smiles. But for the first time, you realized you didn’t care. It didn’t affect you anymore, because this moment—being with him—was more important than any of their opinions. They didn’t know the history between you, the nights spent laughing until sunrise, the quiet moments when he held you together without needing to say a word. And here, now, in his arms, you felt the steady beat of his heart against yours. His gaze never left your face, as if memorizing every detail, and you felt your resolve to keep him at arm’s length unraveling, piece by piece. Nothing outside this moment mattered, not when his presence was enough to drown out the rest of the world.

He shifted his hand slightly, his fingers brushing a little higher along your back, drawing you closer as he guided you through another step. The rhythm of the music matched the quiet intensity between you, and the feel of his breath, warm against your temple, sent a shiver down your spine.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking through the haze of the moment.

“I missed you more,” you murmured back, the words trembling with honesty.

His grip on you tightened slightly, his hand brushing along your back, grounding you even further. “I love you,” he said, his voice earnest and steady, like a vow. “And I just want you to know—whatever happened, whoever hurt you, I’ll always be on your side. Okay? When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be here. Always.”

You nodded, the lump in your throat threatening to spill over. His words held a warmth that wrapped around you, but they also chipped away at the walls you’d spent weeks building. “Okay,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible.

Mark’s lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to commit every inch of it to memory. “And if you want to push me away for good,” he added, his voice dipping lower, “you’re going to have to try harder.”

Something about the way he said it—his voice, his unwavering gaze, the way his touch lingered—undid you. His eyes burned into yours, brimming with love, longing, and something so steadfast it made you ache. It was as though he was silently pulling you closer, daring you to cross the invisible line you’d been holding yourself back from. He wasn’t just standing there; he was holding you in every possible way—grounding you with his presence, consuming you with his touch, and filling the air between you with the kind of tension that begged to be resolved. Tonight, he looked so effortlessly captivating, so familiar and yet more devastatingly handsome than ever. He wasn’t just the man you’d fallen for; he was everything.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to pull him closer and claim him as yours again. The need was undeniable, rushing through you like a flood you couldn’t stop. Instinctively, your eyes darted around the room, taking in the happiness blooming in every corner. Chenle was twirling Ningning around in an exaggerated dance, her laughter spilling out like music. Jeno was leaned over, cracking some joke with Mark’s best friend, their grins wide and unrestrained. Jaemin and Winter stood by the refreshment table, sharing whispered jokes and sly glances that made her cheeks flush. Even Karina and Donghyuck, who usually bickered over everything, were smiling and giggling together, their heads close as if sharing a secret. It felt like the entire room was alive with warmth and joy, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you wanted to let yourself have some of it.

You wanted to give yourself this—to let the happiness you saw around you settle in your chest, even if just for a moment. For so long, you had let other people’s opinions and expectations dictate your choices, weighing their judgment heavier than your own feelings. But as you stood there, surrounded by the unfiltered joy radiating from every corner of the room, you realized something monumental: it wasn’t your priority to make them happy.

Their whispers, their raised brows, their assumptions—they didn’t matter. They weren’t the ones living with your choices, carrying your heartbreak, or holding your love. You were tired of sacrificing your happiness for the approval of people who would never truly understand the depths of what you felt. This moment wasn’t about them; it was about you. And for once, you decided to let go of the need to please anyone but yourself.

You gulped, your heart racing as you felt your body betray every ounce of hesitation still clinging to you. Before you could stop the pull, before your second thoughts could win, you broke. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his suit as you leaned in. Your forehead brushed against his, the soft touch making your breath hitch before you tilted your face upward.

And then, you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was hard, desperate, and full of everything you’d been holding back. Your lips crashed into his like they’d been starving, and Mark didn’t hesitate. His arms moved instantly, encircling you tightly, holding you close as if he feared you might slip away. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that somehow contradicted the sheer intensity of the moment. Every kiss felt like a confession, every brush of his lips a vow, as he poured all the words he hadn’t said into the kiss.

His fingers found the bare skin of your back through the slit of your dress, the warmth of his touch searing through the thin fabric and sending a shiver down your spine. You could feel him smile against your lips, that quiet, confident grin that had always undone you. You couldn’t help but smile back, the connection between you so real, so electric, that it almost hurt. But the ache in your chest wasn’t enough to stop you—it only drove you closer, needing to feel him, to know that this wasn’t a dream. His hands trailed up to your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if you were something fragile, something precious. Every touch was soft yet deliberate, and the way he held you made you feel seen, safe, and whole.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, Mark’s gaze was waiting for you, warm and steady. He looked at you like you were his whole world, and it was almost too much to bear.

But then it hit you—all at once, like a tidal wave crashing over the calm you’d just found. The weight of everything between you came rushing back with brutal force. The guilt—sharp and unrelenting—overwhelmed the brief happiness that had blossomed in his arms. The fear—the kind that clung to your chest and made it hard to breathe—reminded you of everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t faced. And then there was the truth, raw and unforgiving: Mark’s heart condition, the secret he’d been carrying alone, something he had hidden from you not out of malice but to shield you from worry. It made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t put into words, the thought of his quiet suffering twisting the knife of guilt even deeper.

You felt the sting of realization claw at you, tearing through the moment you had just shared. How could you let yourself have this—this happiness, this closeness—when there were so many unresolved pieces between you? The thought of how much he had endured alone, of the strength he always seemed to carry for you and everyone else, only made the weight heavier. And beneath it all, the whisper of self-doubt grew louder: You’re not enough for him. Not yet. Not when you were still struggling to piece yourself back together. Not when you couldn’t protect him the way he always seemed to protect you.

The whiplash of emotions was dizzying—joy to guilt, hope to fear—all spinning so fast that you felt like you couldn’t catch your breath. The kiss had been everything you wanted, but reality came crashing in, reminding you why you’d held back in the first place. The walls you thought you’d let crumble began rebuilding themselves, your mind scrambling to retreat into safety. You couldn’t do this, not now. Not like this.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, your body betrayed you. With a trembling gasp, you wrenched yourself out of his hold, stepping back as though the distance could somehow quiet the storm raging inside you. His hands fell to his sides, the loss of his touch like a jolt of cold air against your skin.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking with something between shock and desperation.

“I need to go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. You didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare face the hurt you knew would be etched into his features. Instead, you turned, your legs shaky as you bolted toward the exit, each step tearing at the fragile bond that tethered you to him.

You bolted through the grand hall, past the murmurs of onlookers and the faint strains of music, your chest heaving as the weight of everything crashed down on you. The guilt, the fear, and the raw vulnerability of Mark’s presence—it was too much. The cool night air hit your face like a slap when you pushed through the doors, your breath hitching as tears spilled over your lashes. You didn’t stop running, didn’t look back.

Behind you, you heard him call your name, the anguish in his voice almost making you stop. Almost. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because staying meant facing everything you weren’t ready to confront, and right now, running felt like the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Your heels clicked against the pavement as you darted across campus, weaving through familiar paths without a destination in mind. You just needed to get away, to put distance between you and the emotions that felt too big to handle.

“Y/N!” His voice rang out, closer this time, rough and full of urgency. You didn’t slow down, forcing your legs to carry you further even as they burned. You could hear his footsteps pounding behind you, relentless, closing in like he wouldn’t let you go.

Finally, your path led you to the back of the sports complex, where the basketball locker rooms loomed, dimly lit and eerily quiet in the late hour. You shoved the door open, stepping into the stark fluorescent light, the scent of sweat and disinfectant overwhelming you. It was a place you’d been before, but tonight it felt foreign, almost suffocating.

Mark caught up with you just as the door swung shut behind him. “What the hell, Y/N?” he demanded, his voice harsh and breathless. He was angry—angrier than you’d ever seen him. His broad shoulders were tense, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

“Just tell me what’s going on.” Mark’s tone was low, firm, but it carried an edge you weren’t used to. When you didn’t stop, his footsteps quickened, closing the gap between you. “Y/N, stop,” he demanded, his hand grabbing your arm gently but insistently, turning you to face him. “I’m done waiting.”

You turned away from him, your hands gripping one of the metal lockers for support as you fought to calm the storm raging inside you. “Leave me alone!” you snapped, pulling your arm away. “Just… forget it, okay?” you said, your voice trembling, but it didn’t have the conviction you wanted.

Mark froze, his jaw tightening. The flicker of hurt in his eyes was replaced by something you hadn’t seen before—anger. Not frustration, not disappointment, but a raw, simmering fury that made your chest tighten. “You know what? I’m so fucking done with you,” he said, his voice louder, harsher.

You gasped, your heart skipping a beat at the sheer force of his tone. Mark had always been patient, gentle even when things got difficult. But this? This was a side of him you hadn’t seen before, a side that made you realize how much he’d been holding back. His anger was more intense than Jeno’s, which said everything about how deeply you’d pushed him.

“I’ve been so patient,” he continued, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. “So understanding. And what have you given back? Absolutely fucking nothing.”

“Mark,” you started, but he cut you off, his voice sharp and unwavering.

“You pushed me away. You shut me out. And then you made decisions for both of us without even giving me a choice. Do you even realise how unfair that is? You don’t get to decide what’s best for me and then run.”

“Why do you love me so much?” you screamed, the words bursting out of you before you could stop them. “Why can’t you just let me go?”

“Because I do!” he shouted back, his voice raw with emotion. “You don’t get to tell me who I can love or not. That’s for me to decide. That’s mine. No one can tell me—not my friends, not my family, not even you. I love you because I do. I don’t need to fucking justify it.”

The tension between you was suffocating, his words breaking through every barrier you’d tried to put up. “You’re scared, I get it,” he continued, his tone softening but still intense. “But you bury it so deep that it ends up hurting us both.”

“Scared?” you shot back, your voice sharper now, almost defensive. “You keep throwing that word at me like it explains everything. But maybe you’re the one who’s scared. Scared to see that I’m not who you think I am. Scared to admit that this—us—might not be as perfect as you want it to be.”

“Stop deflecting,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your defenses like a blade. “You’re scared of being vulnerable. You’re scared of me seeing the worst of you. And instead of letting me in, you use me as an excuse to keep running. This isn’t about me—it’s about you.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop. “It’s like you’re waiting for me to give up on you, just so you can say you were right. Well, I won’t. I’m not giving up on us, but you have to stop running. You have to stop hiding.”

“I don’t know how!” you admitted, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You think I need perfect?” he asked, his voice quieter now but still filled with intensity. “I don’t. I need you. All of you. The messy, broken, scared parts, too. But you won’t even let me fight for you. You think I wouldn’t give everything for us? That I wouldn’t fight through all the shit just to be with you?”

You couldn’t respond, the lump in your throat choking you as his words sank in.

“Do you know how fucking hard it is to feel like you’re the only one trying?” he continued, his voice trembling now, betraying the pain he’d been holding back. “To feel like I’m standing here, giving you everything, and you’re just… gone?”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you covered your face with your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t know how to deal with any of this.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

But the sympathy you expected didn’t come. His jaw clenched, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Sorry?” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’ve been shutting me out, pushing me away for weeks, and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. I don’t deserve this. This is absolute crap. What happened to us promising each other that we’d be open, that we’d communicate?”

The dam inside you finally broke. “You think I’m the only one who’s not fucking communicating and being open?” you yelled, your voice trembling with anger. “You have a heart condition, Mark! And you’ve been playing like nothing’s wrong! You’re a fucking idiot.”

His expression froze, his eyes widening in shock. “How do you know?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

You swallowed hard, your voice quieter but no less biting. “Your dad told me,” you admitted, the weight of the secret you’d been holding finally slipping out.

Mark took a step back, his jaw tightening. “My dad told you?” he repeated, his voice rising again, anger lacing every word. “So you’ve been holding this over me, knowing, and you didn’t say anything? You just let it fester instead of coming to me?”

“You’re mad at me?” you shot back, your voice shaking with frustration. “You’ve been hiding this, playing with your life like it doesn’t matter, and I’m the one you’re angry with?”

“Yes, I’m mad!” he snapped. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. And instead of trusting me, you go and act like it’s some weapon to use when you’re ready to blow up.”

Your fists clenched, your nails digging into your palms. “I didn’t use it as a weapon! I didn’t even know how to process it. Do you know how it feels to see you out there, pushing yourself, knowing you could—” Your voice broke, the words catching in your throat. “Knowing you could collapse and it would be your fault for not telling anyone? For not doing anything about it?” 

He raked a hand through his hair, his own frustration spilling over. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I don’t know my limits?”

“Clearly, you don’t!” you fired back, your voice cracking. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be out there risking everything. You wouldn’t be hiding it.”

“And what would telling you have done?” he countered, his voice quieter but no less heated. “You’d have worried yourself sick, and then what? You’d have tried to fix something you can’t fix, like you always do.”

The words hit you hard, the truth in them stinging more than you wanted to admit. “That’s not fair,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Mark. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His gaze softened for a fleeting second before his frustration returned. “And you don’t get to decide that hiding things, shutting me out, is somehow okay. We promised each other, didn’t we? Or does that only matter when it’s convenient for you?”

Your mind raced, the weight of everything between you pressing down like an unbearable force. You didn’t know what was going to happen next—whether the silence would shatter with another heated argument or if you’d both just turn away, leaving everything unresolved.

Your eyes betrayed you, roaming over him despite the chaos in your head. The way his broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his skin under the dim light. The way his chest heaved with every ragged breath. His shirt stuck to his body in places, damp with sweat from both the argument and his barely-contained anger.

Mark’s jaw clenches so tightly you could see the muscles flex beneath his skin. His hair was messy, strands falling across his forehead, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. You could feel the frustration radiating off him in waves, filling the room with an electric tension that sent shivers down your spine.

His frustration only made him look hotter, his expression stormy, his eyes sharp and burning into yours. It was infuriating—how someone could look so good when you were this furious. And yet, beneath your anger, something primal stirred.

You hated how much he affected you.

You shifted uncomfortably, your thighs pressing together as heat pooled low in your stomach, the ache demanding attention. You hated how much you wanted him, how the argument and his frustration only made you ache for him more. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t fair, but it was undeniable. This wasn’t how you wanted to feel—not now, not after everything but the ache was undeniable. Memories flood your mind, how he fits, how he feels—how perfectly he fills you, how he takes control and leaves you gasping. 

And before you could second-guess yourself, you gasped and grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric and yanking him toward you roughly. Your lips collided with his in a kiss that wasn’t soft or forgiving—it was feral, raw, and dripping with need. You pushed at his chest, your nails digging into the hard planes of his body through the fabric as if desperate to tear it off. He didn’t hesitate for even a second. His hands found their way into your hair, tangling roughly as he yanked your head back, the sharp sting making you whimper against his lips. His kiss was brutal, his mouth claiming yours with a force that made your knees buckle.

Mark didn’t care about being gentle. He kissed you like he was trying to mark his territory, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before he pulled it between his, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. His grip was firm, almost punishing, as if he didn’t care how much it might hurt, as if all he cares about is keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His other hand slides down to your waist, gripping you so hard you’d swear there’d be bruises. Each press of his lips was punishing, every movement unrelenting, leaving you breathless and trembling in his hold.

“You’re so fucking childish,” he growled against your lips, his voice rough and unforgiving. “You don’t know how to talk, so you do this instead?”

His words stung, but they only made you want him more. “I—” you gasped, trying to speak between frantic kisses, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his pants. “I—miss—this. I miss you. Please, Mark.”

He laughed darkly, low and mocking, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before pulling away just enough to look at you. “Missed me?” His hands gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You think I didn’t notice? You’re fucking pathetic. You can’t even admit you’re wrong, and now you’re begging for my cock?”

You whimpered, the heat in his voice sending shockwaves through your body. “Please, Mark,” you repeated, your voice trembling. “I need you. I need—”

Mark’s grip on your hair tightened as he tilted your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his. His jaw was clenched, his expression a mix of anger and barely restrained desire. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “You want me inside you?” he asked, his tone sharp and commanding. “Then get on your knees and suck my cock. Show me just how badly you need me.”

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you sank to the floor, your hands trembling as you reached for his belt. He didn’t need to tell you what to do; the fire in his eyes said it all. The leather slid free from the loops with a sharp snap, and you glanced up at him, your breath hitching at the intensity in his gaze. His fingers tapped against your cheek, demanding your attention. “Open,” he commanded.

You obeyed without hesitation, your gaze fixed on him as heat pulsed through your body. The sound of his zipper being dragged down felt deafening in the charged silence, every movement deliberate and commanding. When he freed himself, your breath hitched, and a moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. He was big, impossibly thick, his cock standing proudly against the taut muscles of his stomach, the tip flushed a deep, needy red and glistening with arousal.

The veins running along his length added to the raw, masculine appeal, and the weight of him as he stroked himself briefly made your mouth water. He was perfect, every inch of him overwhelming and enticing, the kind of sight that made your thighs clench involuntarily. You licked your lips instinctively, unable to tear your eyes away, leaning forward like you were drawn to him, your hands trembling as they reached out to touch him.

Mark smirked down at you, the sheer dominance in his stance making your stomach knot—broad shoulders squared, jaw rigid, and those dark, unforgiving eyes searing into you. He tapped the thick, swollen head of his cock against your lips, smearing the bead of precum across them with deliberate, mocking slowness. “Look at you,” he spat, his tone rough and dripping with contempt. “Fucking desperate, aren’t you? Can’t even think straight without this in your mouth. Go on,” he growled, gripping your chin harshly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Show me how much you’ve missed choking on it.”

Mark didn’t give you a second to think, let alone hesitate. His hand fisted harshly in your hair, tugging your head back as he shoved himself past your lips without mercy. The stretch was immediate and brutal, your throat tightening as you gagged around him, tears pricking at your eyes. Your hands scrambled for purchase on his thighs, nails digging into his skin as you tried to steady yourself against the overwhelming intrusion.

“Take it,” he growled, his voice rough and unforgiving, the sound vibrating through the air like a command. His hips snapped forward with deliberate, punishing force, pushing deeper until you choked. “That’s it. Gag on it. You can handle it, can’t you?” His groan was low and guttural, a primal noise that only spurred his movements as he fucked into your mouth with no hint of restraint.

You nodded frantically, the motion clumsy and desperate as tears streamed down your flushed cheeks. Drool spilled freely from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin in messy streaks. Mark’s rough thumb wiped at it, but instead of cleaning you up, he smeared it across your swollen lips, his smirk cruel. Without a word, he pushed back in, the thick length of him stretching your throat until you gagged again, your hands trembling against his thighs.

His grip on your hair tightened painfully, yanking your head into place as he buried himself to the hilt. “Pathetic,” he growled, holding you there, his cock pulsing against the back of your throat as you fought for breath. “You’re going to sit there and cry about it? I thought you said you missed me.” He pulled back just enough for you to gasp for air, only to thrust back in, harder this time, forcing another choked whimper from you.

“You can do better than that,” he snarled, his voice a dark, taunting drawl. “Come on, baby. Prove it. Show me how fucking desperate you are to please me.”

You moaned around him, the sound raw and desperate, sending vibrations along his cock that had him groaning deep in his chest. Your trembling hands gripped his hips tightly, nails biting into his skin as you fought to steady yourself against the relentless pace. The guttural noise he let out was pure need, his head tipping back as a string of curses fell from his lips. “Fuck, you’re filthy for this,” he muttered, his voice rough and laced with satisfaction. His grip on your hair loosened just enough to let you move, but his hips still rolled forward with a brutal rhythm. “So eager to be used, aren’t you? So desperate for my cock.”

His words sent a thrill shooting through your entire body, making you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, your tongue swirling around him with deliberate precision. He cursed again, his hand sliding from your hair to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek as he looked down at you. “Look at this fucking mess,” he said, his tone sharp but tinged with something darker, more possessive. “You’re perfect for me—just like this. On your knees, drooling, choking, fucking begging for it.”

Your teary eyes lifted to meet his, and the sheer adoration mixed with desperation in your gaze made him falter for a split second. His thumb brushed against the tear-streaked skin of your cheek, smearing the wetness as his expression softened just slightly, though the hunger in his eyes burned just as fiercely. “You love this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and taunting, his lips curling into a smirk. “You love being my pretty little toy. Just here to make me feel good, aren’t you?”

You nodded frantically, the movement shaky but certain, and he chuckled darkly, his hand tightening on your jaw. Your lips slid over him with renewed effort, taking him deeper, the stretch burning in the best way. When he hit the back of your throat, you gagged again, a muffled moan spilling from your lips. He groaned at the sound, his free hand tangling back in your hair as he forced you to take him even deeper.

“That’s it,” he growled, his tone rough and unforgiving. “Take every fucking inch. Show me how much you need this—how much you fucking missed this.”

“Fuck,” Mark hissed, his hand yanking your hair so hard it made your scalp sting, forcing your head to stay exactly where he wanted. His hips snapped forward, unrelenting as he drove into your throat with brutal, punishing thrusts. You gagged around him, tears streaming down your face, but he didn’t slow—not for a second. Each movement was rough, raw, and filled with his pent-up frustration.

“Gonna make me come like this,” he growled, his voice thick and ragged as his cock plunged deeper with every thrust. “You feel that? How fucking good you’re taking it?” His tone was mocking, but the desperation in his words betrayed how close he was, his breaths uneven and sharp.

The heat coursing through you only grew, spurred on by his harsh words and the way he fucked your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. You hollowed your cheeks as best as you could, the stretch overwhelming, your hands reaching up to cup his balls, adding to the intensity. His groan was guttural, his head tipping forward, sweat dripping from his hairline as he stared down at you with a feral hunger.

“You’re so fucking perfect for this,” he muttered, the words spilling from his lips in a cracked, breathless tone. His hips jerked harder, deeper, as he used your mouth without restraint. “Take it all, baby. Every inch. Don’t you dare stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

His breathing turned erratic, his grip on your hair tightening painfully, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge. “So good,” he growled, his voice raw, nearly breaking. “So fucking good to me. You’re gonna swallow every fucking drop, aren’t you? Show me what a good little slut you are.”

His hips slammed into your face without rhythm, each thrust rough and desperate, his breaths turning into sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck—fuck, just like that,” he growled, his voice low and feral, vibrating with raw need. His head tipped back, a moan tearing from his throat that echoed through the room, louder than anything you’d ever heard from him before. His entire body tensed, muscles flexing as he buried himself in your mouth one last time before pulling out abruptly, his cock throbbing and slick with your spit.

“Look at you,” he groaned, fisting himself roughly as he angled his cock towards your face, the tip swollen and dripping. “Open wide, baby. You’re taking all of it.”

You barely had a second to react before he threw his head back, his hips jerking forward as thick ropes of his release painted your face in hot, sticky streaks. His cock pulsed in his hand as he pumped himself through it, each spurt landing on your lips, your cheeks, and down to your chin. His moans were unrestrained, loud and filthy, mingling with the sound of his hand working over himself.

Your tongue darted out instinctively, catching the remnants of his release on your lips as you leaned forward, desperate to take him back in. His cock twitched in your hand as you wrapped your swollen lips around the sensitive tip, sucking gently but firmly. The taste of him coated your tongue, salty and thick, and you moaned softly as you sucked in your cheeks, determined to take every last drop. Your hands gripped his thighs for balance as you worked your mouth over him, slurping up the mess that lingered along his shaft. Even as his body shuddered from the overstimulation, you didn’t stop, your tongue swirling and teasing every vein until you felt him twitch again against your tongue.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he rasped, his voice shaking from the force of his climax. His hand moved to smear the mess across your skin, his thumb pressing his cum into your lips. “Covered in me. This is where you belong—fucking dripping for me.”

You blinked up at him, your chest heaving, tears and cum mixing on your cheeks. He stared down at you, his eyes dark and still burning with satisfaction, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “Such a good little slut,” he muttered, his voice husky as he let his cock fall against his thigh, still half-hard. “Look at the fucking mess you made.”

His hand tugged at your hair again, tilting your head back so he could admire his work. “You’re not cleaning this up,” he said, his tone sharp, commanding. “You’re wearing it. I want you to remember who you fucking belong to.”

When he finally pulled back, you inhaled sharply, your chest rising and falling as you fought to catch your breath. Your lips were swollen and slick, and his thumb pressed against them, smearing the mess further as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes burned with a mix of satisfaction and unrelenting hunger, his smirk wicked and deliberate. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, dripping with possessive heat. “You think I’m done? Not even close.”

He stepped back, his hand tugging you up by your arm with just enough force to make your legs stumble. “Get up,” he commanded, his tone sharp and leaving no room for hesitation. His eyes roamed over you slowly, possessively, as his smirk deepened. “I want to see every inch of you,” he growled, his voice heavy with the promise of everything he wasn’t finished with yet.

Mark’s grip on your hips was bruising, his fingers digging into your flesh as he slammed you against the lockers, the loud metallic clang echoing through the room. His mouth claimed yours immediately, the kiss harsh and all-consuming, teeth scraping against your lip as his tongue plunged inside with a dominance that left you breathless. The zipper of your dress gave way under his rough, impatient hands, the fabric slipping down your body as he tore it open.

With a grunt, he spun you around abruptly, pressing your front against the cold, unforgiving metal. His body crowded yours, his chest pressed flush against your back as his hands roamed over your exposed skin, rough and claiming. His lips didn’t leave yours for long, breaking only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck before returning to your mouth. 

“Is this what you’ve been running from?” he growled, his voice rough and dripping with raw lust as he thrust his hips into you, grinding against you through the thin fabric of your dress. His tone was mocking, cruel, his words punctuated by another sharp roll of his hips. “This? Me?”

You couldn’t answer, your breath catching in your throat as a loud, desperate moan escaped instead. Your fingers clawed at the lockers, your body arching back into him, seeking more, needing more. His dark chuckle against your ear sent a shiver down your spine as one of his hands slipped lower, his palm spreading over your stomach before sliding between your thighs.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he muttered, his voice low and guttural. His teeth grazed your ear as his fingers pressed harder, his movements deliberate and teasing. “You can’t even deny it, can you? You’ve been craving this—craving me.”

Mark’s fingers fumbled with the zippers on your gown, his frustration mounting with every failed attempt. His brows knitted together, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he yanked at the fabric, his movements rough and impatient. “You look so fucking beautiful,” he spat through gritted teeth, his voice rough and strained with desire, “but why the hell are you wearing a dress with a million zips? What are you trying to do, fucking torture me?” He tugged harder, the force jerking your body slightly as he finally managed to loosen the stubborn fabric, piece by piece.

When the dress finally hit the floor, Mark froze. His breath caught, and a loud, groan ripped from his throat, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your body. You stood there in a black lace set that barely covered you, every inch of the delicate material designed to tease him. The thong clung to your hips, the lace framing your ass and leaving your cheeks fully exposed, while the sheer bra did nothing to hide the hard peaks of your nipples pressing against the fabric.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice thick with raw hunger as his hands gripped your waist, his touch rough and claiming. His thumbs dug into your skin, his fingers spreading over your hips as if he couldn’t get enough of feeling you beneath him. “You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck before sinking into your skin. He bit down hard, his lips sucking and pulling until he left angry red marks behind, his growls vibrating against your throat.

Mark’s hands slid down to your ass, grabbing it roughly, his fingers kneading the soft flesh before delivering a sharp slap that made you yelp. “You’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven as his lips moved to your collarbone, trailing heated, open-mouthed kisses. “This body—fuck, it’s mine. These tits, this ass, this pussy—it’s all fucking mine. Made for me. You hear me?” His cock pressed hard against your stomach through his trousers, the friction making you gasp.

You whimpered, your hips instinctively grinding against him, your hands gripping his as your desperation mounted. “Mark, please,” you breathed, your voice shaky, your need for him unbearable.

He groaned at your words, his head dropping forward as his hands roamed your body feverishly. His movements were rough, erratic, his need for you written in the way he gripped, grabbed, and claimed every inch of your skin. “I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he growled, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the lace. His thumbs teased over your nipples before he leaned down, his tongue flicking over the hardened peaks through the sheer fabric. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and then he bit down just enough to make you gasp, his chuckle dark and satisfied.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling back to take in the sight of your flushed face, your swollen lips parted as you panted for him. “So fucking needy. Do you even realize how desperate you are for me right now?” His voice was filled with awe and disbelief, as though your desire for him was something he couldn’t fully comprehend.

“Of course I’m desperate,” you shot back, your voice trembling but bold. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “I need you. Stop teasing, Mark.”

His laugh was low and wicked, vibrating against your ear like a growl as he slammed you harder against the lockers. His hips pinned you in place, the pressure bruising and unrelenting. “You think I’m teasing?” he snarled, his voice sharp and dripping with dominance, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Before you could respond, his hand shot up to your neck, his grip rough and possessive, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. He yanked your head to the side, forcing your face toward his, his eyes dark and burning with lust as his lips crashed onto yours. The kiss was raw, consuming, and impossibly rough. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before biting down hard enough to sting, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a dominance that made your knees weak.

The kiss was a battle for control you knew you couldn’t win, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that bordered on savage. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, pulling you impossibly closer, while his lips moved over yours with bruising force. The heat of him overwhelmed you, his breath mingling with yours as the two of you kissed with feverish desperation, your touches frantic, your breaths ragged, as though trying to erase any distance that had ever existed between you.

You whimpered against his mouth, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for something—anything—to ground yourself. But there was nothing, no surface to brace against, no escape, only him. His body was the only thing keeping you upright, the solid wall of his chest pressing into yours, pinning you against the lockers. His hips locked you in place, trapping you with a bruising force that left no room for movement, no room to even catch your breath.

Mark’s hand slid down your body with an unforgiving roughness, his fingers trailing heat as they gripped and claimed every inch of your skin. When he reached the delicate lace of your thong, he didn’t hesitate, yanking them to the side with a sharp tug that left the elastic biting into your hip. The cool air against your soaked heat made you gasp, a sharp inhale that turned into a shaky whimper when his fingers brushed against you. His touch was teasing at first, deliberate and maddening as he dragged his fingertips slowly through your slick folds, spreading your arousal. He hovered just where you needed him most, his thumb brushing lightly against your clit before pulling back, his dark chuckle vibrating against your ear.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, his tone a mix of pride and raw desperation. His fingers dipped lower, gathering your wetness before sliding one finger inside you, slow at first but with enough pressure to make you moan. He didn’t stop there, adding a second finger almost immediately, thrusting them deep and curling them against your walls with deliberate precision. Your breath hitched, your knees trembling as the stretch made your core clench around him. He pumped his fingers in and out at a punishing rhythm, his thumb pressing against your clit in tight, teasing circles that left you gasping. “Look at how you take me,” he growled, his voice dripping with possession. “So fucking tight, so ready for me. This is all for me, isn’t it? You’re fucking dripping, baby. God, I’ve missed this.”

Mark didn’t let up, his pace growing rougher as he thrust his fingers into you with relentless force. His free hand grabbed your hip, holding you in place as your legs began to shake under his touch. “Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he muttered, his tone dropping into a dark, almost feral growl. His fingers curled inside you again, hitting that spot that made your whole body jerk forward, your forehead pressing against the cold metal of the lockers as you let out a broken moan. “That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb flicking your clit in quick, brutal strokes. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back, baby. I want to hear every fucking sound you make.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand as the pressure in your core built rapidly, your walls fluttering around his fingers. He groaned low in his throat, the sound raw and guttural as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “You feel that?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust. “You’re fucking dripping all over my hand. This pussy was made for me. No one else gets to have you like this. No one else gets to hear you fall apart.”

His fingers drove into you faster now, the wet, obscene sound of your arousal filling the hallway as his thumb applied just the right amount of pressure to your clit. Your knees buckled, your hands clawing at the lockers for support as the intensity became too much, but Mark wasn’t done. He slowed for just a second, dragging his fingers out almost completely before slamming them back in, his knuckles brushing your folds as he fucked you with a brutal rhythm. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and commanding. “Say it. Say you’re mine, or I swear I’ll stop right now.”

You bit your lip hard, struggling to suppress the moan that threatened to spill out, the sound barely muffled as it echoed faintly in the empty hallway. “Mark… someone might hear—”

“Let them,” he cut you off, his voice dripping with authority, a low, feral growl that made your knees weak. Before you could respond, his fingers disappeared, leaving you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness drawing a desperate whimper from your lips. He didn’t give you a moment to protest. With one hand gripping your hip and the other guiding himself to your entrance, he lined himself up, and then, with a single brutal thrust, buried himself inside you to the hilt.

The force of it sent you crashing forward, your chest slamming into the lockers with a metallic clang, the cold metal biting into your skin as your mouth opened in a silent scream. His cock stretched you completely, the overwhelming fullness stealing the air from your lungs. Mark groaned loudly, his head tipping back as his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as your walls fluttered and clenched around him.

“You feel that?” Mark growled, his voice dark and feral, barely audible over the sharp, relentless rhythm of his thrusts. “You were fucking made for me. No one else could ever handle this—handle me. This tight little pussy is mine.” His words were brutal, his tone dripping with dominance, each syllable punctuated by the punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slid up your back with purpose, rough fingers tangling in your hair before yanking it back hard enough to make your scalp sting. The movement forced you to arch for him, your body bending to his will as he fucked into you even deeper, the angle pulling a loud, broken cry from your lips. “Tell me it’s mine,” he demanded, his voice sharp and unforgiving, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“It’s yours, Mark!” you sobbed, your voice trembling and breaking as your walls clenched around him, the force of his thrusts driving you to the edge. Your hands clawed at the lockers, desperate for something to ground you, your body trembling uncontrollably as he pushed you closer and closer to oblivion.

You turned your head to the side, gasping for air, your cheek brushing against the cold metal as you locked eyes with him. His dark gaze was scorching, his lips curling into a wicked smirk as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. His lips crushed against yours for a moment, the kiss rough and messy, his teeth catching your lower lip before he pulled back.

“Open,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, dripping with raw authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips without hesitation, your chest heaving as you panted for breath. His dark, piercing gaze locked onto yours, radiating dominance as he leaned closer. The deliberate, filthy motion of him spitting into your open mouth sent your core tightening with heat. “Swallow,” he ordered, his tone razor-sharp and leaving no room for refusal.

You gulped immediately, the heat in his eyes burning into you as you felt the liquid slide down your throat. The act was degrading, raw, and yet it ignited something primal within you. His groan was primal, the sound reverberating through the air as he watched you with unrestrained satisfaction. “Good fucking girl,” he rasped, his voice rough and dripping with lust. His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips for a fleeting moment before his palm cracked sharply against your face.

You gasped, the sting of his slap sending a jolt of white-hot arousal straight through you. Your cheeks burned, both from the impact and the way it made your entire body thrum with need. Before you could fully process it, his other hand came down hard on your ass, the force making you yelp as your chest slammed against the lockers. He didn’t let up, his palm colliding with your skin again and again, alternating between spanking your cheek and ass with relentless intensity.

“You love this, don’t you?” he sneered, his voice dark and full of mockery, his hands gripping you tightly between each punishing slap. “You love being my little toy. Taking every fucking thing I give you, letting me use you however I want.”

“Yes,” you whimpered, your voice shaky as your hands scrambled against the lockers, your body trembling under his control.

“Yes, what?” he growled, his hand gripping your jaw roughly, tilting your head back to force your gaze to meet his. “Say it. Say you fucking love it.”

“I love it,” you gasped, the confession tumbling from your lips without hesitation, your entire body thrumming with the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure. “I love being yours.” 

“Good girl,” he spat, his hand releasing your hair only to slide down to your throat, gripping it tightly. “You take me so well, baby. So fucking good for me.” His words were rough, his tone dripping with possession as his hips snapped forward with brutal precision, each thrust pulling broken moans from your lips.

The relentless pace he set was unforgiving, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision, each thrust rougher than the last. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the hallway, obscene and loud, as he drove into you mercilessly. “You take me so well,” he grunted, his voice low and guttural in your ear. “Every inch of me. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your hands clawed helplessly at the lockers, desperate for anything to hold on to, but all you had was him. His cock filled you relentlessly, stretching you so perfectly it bordered on overwhelming, every brutal thrust slamming into that devastatingly deep spot that made your vision blur. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, your moans spilling freely into the air, mingling with the raw, guttural sounds he made with every movement. The sharp, filthy slap of skin on skin only heightened the unbearable tension building low in your stomach, threatening to snap at any second.

“Mark, I—fuck—I can’t—” you stammered, the words tumbling out in a broken cry, barely coherent under the force of him pounding into you.

“Yes, you can,” he snarled, his voice thick with command and feral hunger, his lips grazing your ear before his teeth sank into the sensitive skin of your neck, making you cry out. “You can take it. You’re going to take every fucking inch of me,” he growled, his tone dripping with possession. His pace quickened, hips snapping into yours with brutal force, each thrust driving you harder against the lockers, your body trembling uncontrollably under his control.

Then, without warning, his hands shifted, gripping your hips with bruising strength as he pulled you back. You gasped sharply, a scream ripping from your throat at the intensity as his body pinned yours away from the lockers, his cock never faltering inside you. His hands were everywhere—holding, gripping, controlling—and it was only him keeping you upright, his strength overwhelming as he drove into you with punishing precision.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough and dripping with satisfaction. “Do you feel that? It’s just me—my hands, my body, my cock. You’re fucking helpless, baby. You’re mine. Completely fucking mine.”

Then one of his hands slid upward, wrapping firmly around your throat. The pressure was immediate, his fingers circling your neck and squeezing just enough to make you choke out a broken moan. The contrast of his cock slamming into you from behind and his hand controlling your breath sent a rush of arousal crashing through you, your nails clawing at his hand instinctively. You gripped his wrist tightly, not to pull him away, but to press him harder, needing more of the dizzying pressure as you panted and gasped for air.

“This pussy was made for me,” he snarled, his voice sharp and cutting, his words a brutal growl against your ear as he buried himself even deeper. The thick stretch made your breath hitch, your body trembling with each relentless thrust. “So tight, so fucking wet for me. Look at you, baby—falling apart on my cock.”

Your nails bit into the flesh of his wrist, your fingers gripping him desperately, both to balance yourself and to encourage him to tighten his hold. The feeling of his hand squeezing your neck, combined with the bruising rhythm of his hips, sent you spiraling. Your vision blurred, pleasure and pain blending together in a way that left you trembling.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice dripping with dominance as his hips snapped harder, each punishing thrust pulling cries from your lips. The combination of his cock stretching you perfectly, his hand controlling your breath, and the force of his body against yours left you utterly undone. “Say it,” he demanded, his tone harsh. “Say how much you love being mine, taking everything I give you.”

“Yes, Mark—fuck—I love it,” you cried, your voice trembling as the tension inside you coiled impossibly tight. Your body shook with every punishing thrust, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot as your pleasure built to a breaking point.

“That’s right,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a brutal, consuming kiss. His tongue claimed your mouth, his teeth biting at your swollen lips before pulling back just enough to watch your expression. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? I can feel it. You’re close—so fucking close. Come for me, baby. Show me who you belong to.”

Before you could even respond, he moved with a sudden, punishing force, slamming you back against the lockers with a metallic clang. His body pressed into yours tightly, his grip on your neck tightening briefly before both his hands seized your hips, holding you so firmly it felt like you might break under the pressure. His cock drove into you relentlessly, the sharp, filthy slap of skin against skin filling the hallway as he fucked you harder, his strength keeping you pinned. His chest crushed against your back, every thrust so deep and brutal that it pushed you higher, closer to the edge, his ragged grunts and growls in your ear spurring you on. “Come now,” he snarled, his voice vibrating through you. “Come while I’m fucking you, and don’t you dare hold back.”

His words pushed you over the edge, your orgasm slamming into you with a force that made your entire body tremble. You screamed his name, your walls clenching around him so tightly it dragged a guttural groan from his chest. His thrusts turned erratic, his grip tightening as he chased his own release, his hips snapping forward with bruising force.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his voice ragged and guttural as he slammed into you one last time, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you. His groan was primal, vibrating against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could, his body tensing before finally relaxing. His hands lingered on your hips, rough fingers brushing over your skin, possessive even in the aftermath, as the sound of both your heavy breaths filled the space around you.

The contrast of the cold lockers against your chest and the heat of his body against your back only heightened the overwhelming sensation. “You’re fucking dripping for me,” he rasped, his hand sliding between your thighs to find your clit. His fingers circled it roughly, in time with the punishing thrusts of his hips, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. “You love this, don’t you? Being fucked like this, being mine.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop it. “Mark—fuck, yes. I’m yours.”

“Damn right, you are,” he growled, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his release. “Say it again. Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, your voice breaking as the intensity reached its peak, your body trembling under his relentless assault.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered, his voice dark and full of satisfaction, his pace never faltering as he drove you closer to the edge. “Come for me. Come all over my cock.”

Your body shattered at his command, the coil of heat in your stomach snapping violently as your orgasm ripped through you. You cried out, your walls clenching around him, gripping him so tightly it dragged a guttural groan from deep in his chest. The sound was raw and primal, his hips snapping harder as he chased his own release, his thrusts erratic and bruising.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Mark growled, his voice thick with desperation as his fingers dug into your hips so hard it bordered on pain. His pace grew frantic, his cock driving into you with unrelenting force. “You’re fucking perfect. So tight, so good—mine. All fucking mine.” His voice cracked on the last word, and with one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could, his entire body tensing as he came hard, his cock pulsing inside you. His moan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your skin as his release spilled into you, hot and overwhelming.

He stayed there for a moment, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, both of you panting heavily. The sound of your mingled breaths filled the air, your bodies still trembling from the intensity. His hands remained firm on your hips, holding you in place as he rode out the aftershocks, his cock still twitching inside you.

Slowly, Mark pulled out, the sensation making you gasp softly as the emptiness left a dull ache. His hands slid up your sides, rough and possessive, brushing over your sweat-damp skin as he leaned in close. His lips ghosted over the back of your neck before he spoke, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, the dominance still thick in his tone, even as his breath fanned across your skin.

He straightened, his fingers trailing down to your ass, giving it a sharp slap that made you jolt forward against the lockers. His chuckle was dark and teasing, his hands gripping you again as if he wasn’t done. “And don’t think for a second that we’re done yet,” he added, his tone carrying a dangerous promise. “I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

──────────────────────────────

Mark didn’t waste a second taking you to his apartment. You barely registered the ride there, too blissfully fucked out and hazy to argue or care. His arms stayed wrapped around you the entire time, carrying you through the door and into his bathroom as though you weighed nothing. The soreness in your limbs made you wince, but Mark noticed every little flinch, whispering soft apologies under his breath as he held you close.

“Thank you,” you murmured, leaning into him as his strong hands massaged the ache from your thighs and hips, the tenderness of his touch a stark contrast to the way he’d just handled you. He kissed the top of your head as he muttered another quiet “sorry,” lowering you gently into the warm bath he’d prepared, bubbles and the familiar scent of your favorite soap wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

You sank into the water with a soft sigh, your body easing into his as he slid in behind you, his chest firm and warm against your back. He didn’t say much, his fingers working gently to massage your shoulders and arms as his stormy eyes stayed fixed on you, a mix of guilt, tenderness, and love swirling in his gaze.

When the bathwater cooled, he wrapped you in a towel, lifting you effortlessly and sitting you on the bathroom countertop. You sat there, completely bare, the steam from the bath still clinging to your skin as you waited for him to return. He came back moments later with one of his shirts, freshly laundered and soft, helping you slip it over your head. He brushed a hand through your damp hair as he leaned in to kiss your forehead.

The tension between you softened further as he carried you effortlessly to his bed, his strong arms cradling you like you were something fragile, something he couldn’t risk breaking. He laid you down gently, sliding under the covers with you, his warmth enveloping you before you could even think to protest. Instinctively, you moved closer to him, your body betraying every wall your mind tried to rebuild. He mirrored you, pulling you against him with a quiet desperation, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt as though he feared you might disappear.

Your legs tangled naturally with his, his strong thigh slotting between yours as you pressed yourself into the solid heat of his chest. You rested your head over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath your cheek grounding you, each beat a silent reminder that he was here, alive, and holding you. His hand moved slowly, soothingly, smoothing up and down your back in soft, deliberate strokes, his touch warm and tender. The simple act melted away the last of your resistance, leaving nothing but the raw, unspoken connection between you, a bond that neither of you could deny, no matter how hard you tried.

“I’m still fucking mad at you,” he whispered into the quiet, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“And I’m fucking mad at you too,” you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion as you jabbed his chest. “I can’t believe how careless you are. You have a fucking heart condition, Mark, and you’re out here playing like everything is fine?”

“Y/N—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “What if something happens? What if you collapse during a game, and—and—Mark, I can’t live without you. I can’t. You’re my entire life, I swear to fucking God, if you don’t—”

“Hey, hey,” he whispered gently, his voice low and filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled freely down your cheeks. His touch was so soft, so deliberate, as if he was trying to erase your pain with each tender stroke. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, his gaze steady and full of reassurance.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he added, his tone quiet but firm, laced with a calmness meant to ground you. “It’s only dangerous because of the sports, and I know what I’m doing. I promise, it’s not as serious as it feels right now.” His words were meant to comfort, but it was the way his voice wavered ever so slightly, betraying the concern he tried to mask, that made you feel like he truly meant it. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as though to seal his promise there, anchoring you to him in that moment.

You rolled your eyes through your tears. “That makes me feel so much better,” you snapped, but your voice wavered with the depth of your fear.

“You don’t need to be worried for me,” he said, his gaze soft but serious. “I know my limits. I’m not dumb enough to risk my life—”

“But I am worried!” you cried, jabbing his chest again for emphasis. “And you are dumb enough. You’ve been playing with it like it’s nothing, Mark. I don’t want you to die. Actually, it doesn’t matter if you do, because I’m literally just going to kill you first before your heart condition does.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “You’re cute when you’re such a worried girlfriend… borderline crazy though.”

“This isn’t funny,” you snapped, your tears spilling over again.

His expression softened, the weight of your fear reflected in his eyes as his hand moved to gently tilt your face upward, his fingers cradling your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart twist. “Look at me,” he said, his voice firm but not harsh, the kind of tone that demanded your attention without pushing you away. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unwavering, as if he needed you to believe every word he was about to say.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, okay?” he continued, his thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone, grounding you in his touch. “When have I ever broken a promise to you?” His voice softened, a flicker of vulnerability seeping through. “I’m not ever going to leave you. I love you too much for that to happen.” The sincerity in his words, the raw emotion in his tone, made your chest ache, and you couldn’t stop the tears that spilled again, overwhelmed by the depth of his reassurance and love.

His words hit you like a wave, the emotion crashing over you and tightening your chest until it was almost hard to breathe. Unable to hold back, you pulled him closer, your arms wrapping around him as your fingers tangled gently in his hair, grounding yourself in the familiar softness. Your voice trembled as you whispered, barely audible, “How long have you known?” You whispered, your voice soft and trembling.

“A few months,” he admitted, his tone quiet.

“So… before we got together?” you asked, and he nodded.

“Mark,” you huffed, your voice sharp with a mix of frustration and exasperation, “I seriously don’t understand how you can keep fucking me so hard when you know you have a heart problem! Do you have any idea how scared I am? I don’t want you keeling over mid-thrust and having a damn heart attack!”

Mark paused for a moment, his lips twitching into that infuriatingly boyish smirk, clearly amused despite the seriousness in your voice. “Baby,” he said, his tone low and teasing, “if I go out like that, at least I’ll die knowing I had the best pussy wrapped around me.”

You stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, your jaw dropping at his audacity. “Mark Lee, that is not funny!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, and reached out to pull you closer, his hands settling on your hips. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper against your ear, “if it’s gonna happen, there’s no better way to go, is there?”

Without a word, you smacked his chest, narrowing your eyes as you shifted to straddle him, your movements slow and deliberate. His grin faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of something softer, more serious, as your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You need to promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts fear and determination. “Promise me you’ll tell your coach, go to the doctors, and get your medication. I don’t care if you hate it. I don’t care if you’re scared. I don’t care if you hate that your dad has the same condition.” You paused, your voice breaking slightly as your fingers tightened against his skin. “None of that matters, Mark. The only thing that matters is you. I need you alive. I need you happy and healthy. You’re everything to me.”

His breath hitched at your words, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The cocky bravado melted away, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place. He stared at you for a long moment, his dark eyes glassy as a single tear slipped down his cheek. “Okay,” he murmured finally, his voice cracking under the weight of your words.

“Okay?” you repeated, blinking at him, surprised by the lack of resistance.

A faint smile returned to his face as he extended his pinky to you, sealing the promise in the simplest, most intimate way. You hooked your pinky with his, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, your touch filled with the weight of the moment. His hands slid to your waist, holding you close as though you were his anchor, and for a while, the two of you just stayed like that, holding each other, letting the silence speak for everything you couldn’t put into words.

“I think now would be a good time to tell you everything that’s been going on,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I’m listening,” he murmured, his tone steady and patient, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back. He waited, his gaze fixed on you with a quiet understanding that made your chest ache.

You inhaled shakily, your fingers trembling as they curled into his shirt, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I’m scared, Mark,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of your confession. “I’m scared all the time. It’s like this storm in my head that never stops.” Your chest tightened painfully, your breathing shallow as tears filled your eyes. “I’m terrified of losing you, of something going wrong between us and not being able to stop it, not being able to fix it.”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush, raw and uneven, as though they’d been clawing at your throat for too long. “It’s always there,” you continued, your voice trembling. “This weight crushing me, like no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. I can’t make it go away.” Your hands tightened their grip on his shirt as your tears began to fall, your fear spilling over, leaving you vulnerable and exposed in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

Your voice broke as the tears finally fell, your throat tight as you forced yourself to continue. “And it’s not just the big things, Mark. It’s everything. Every argument, every time we feel even a little off, it’s like my brain jumps straight to the worst-case scenario. Like maybe… maybe it’s the beginning of the end, and I can’t stop it.” A sob slipped out, and you buried your face in his chest, unable to meet his eyes, too afraid of what you’d see there.

Mark’s arms wrapped around you tightly, his grip tight, pulling you closer until you were pressed against him completely. He kissed your temple softly, the warmth of his lips lingering as though he could will the fear out of you with his touch. “I didn’t know it was this bad,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt and pain. His tone was so tender, so full of quiet understanding, that it only made you cry harder. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t know.” His hold on you tightened, his chest rising and falling unevenly as if your pain was his own.

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s just my mind jumping to the worst-case scenarios, twisting everything until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just in my head.”

He hummed again, nodding for you to continue, his patience unwavering as his thumb traced soothing circles on your skin.

“The last few weeks have been… a lot,” you said after a moment. “There were two things that finally broke me. The first was when you left me with your best friend to talk. She told me it’s unlike you to rush into a relationship so fast. That she doesn’t buy our connection and doesn’t believe you love me.”

Mark’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening instantly. “She said what?” he asked, his voice low and laced with anger.

“She said it out of anger,” you said quickly, placing a calming hand on his chest. “She was upset about everything going on with you and Jeno, and I was there, so she took it out on me. We made up, and she hasn’t apologised, but she’s been acting like my friend again. At the boy toy auction, she was supportive and kind. I just need you to promise me something.”

Mark’s brow furrowed deeply, his confusion mingling with frustration as he nodded. “What?” he asked, his voice sharp but low, laced with the beginnings of anger.

“Don’t let her know you know,” you said firmly, holding his gaze, willing him to understand. “She’s your best friend, Mark. I know how much she means to you, and I know how much you mean to her too. She said what she said out of anger, not because she really believes it. And as much as it hurt me in the moment, I know it wasn’t about me—it was about everything else that’s been happening, everything with you and Jeno, all the pressure she’s been feeling. She just… took it out on me because I was there.” You paused, your voice softening as your fingers brushed against his. “And I forgave her, because I get it. I’ve done the same thing before. I just… I’m tired, Mark. I don’t want to keep adding fuel to the fire. I just want things to be okay between all of us. I don’t want to come between you two.”

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly as he exhaled slowly, his shoulders tense with barely-contained frustration. “Fine,” he muttered after a long pause, his voice heavy with reluctance. His eyes flickered with anger he couldn’t quite hide, but there was something softer there too—a resignation born of love. He didn’t like it but he’d bite his tongue for you, even when it was the hardest fucking thing to do. For you, he’d set aside his pride and anger, because keeping the peace mattered more to him than holding onto his frustration.

Your chest ached at the weight of his words, knowing how much he was holding back for your sake. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. For a moment, the world felt a little quieter, a little softer, as he silently promised to carry the weight of this for you, no matter how much it hurt.

You hesitated before continuing, your breath hitching as you fought to find the right words. Your voice was quieter now, almost shaky. “The second thing… was when you and Jeno were still mad at each other. I overheard your conversation.” You paused, your throat tightening as anxiety clawed its way up your chest. “He said you only wanted me to get back at him, that it was part of some stupid bet from your first river court showdown. And… and you didn’t deny it, Mark. You just let him say it. It felt like you just… took it.”

Mark’s arms stiffened around you immediately, his body going rigid against yours as his confusion broke through his usual calm. He pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studied your face. “Y/N?” he said, his tone equal parts disbelief and concern.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. His brows were furrowed, his jaw tight, but there was no anger in his expression—just a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what you heard,” he began carefully, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “But I remember that conversation. I told Jeno to shut the fuck up and nearly punched him.”

Your eyes widened at his words, your heart stumbling in your chest. “What?”

“At first, I ignored him,” Mark explained, his voice sharper now, more defensive. “I’d had enough of Jeno’s shit, so I just shook it off. Told him he could think whatever he wanted because I didn’t have the energy to argue. But when he kept pushing, saying that shit about you and us, I lost it. I wasn’t going to entertain his bullshit, but I wasn’t going to let him drag you into it either. I defended you. I defended us, Y/N. I wasn’t quiet about it.”

“Oh,” you said softly, the single word carrying the weight of your realization. Guilt hit you hard, crashing over you in waves as you replayed the moment in your mind.

Mark raised a brow, his lips twitching despite his frustration. “Oh?” he echoed, his voice laced with a faint chuckle, though the irritation still lingered beneath it.

You gulped, the shame settling in as your cheeks flushed. The truth of it was clear now—your anxiety had twisted the situation into something it wasn’t, feeding into your fears and doubts until they felt like reality. Maybe you hadn’t heard him defend you, or maybe you’d disassociated during the argument, too overwhelmed to register what was happening. Either way, you’d let your own fears convince you of something that wasn’t true.

“I believe you,” you said finally, your voice small and wavering but sincere. “I’m sorry, Mark. I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

Mark’s expression softened instantly, his tension easing as he pulled you closer. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting. “I get it. I know how your mind works sometimes, and it’s okay. But for the record,” he added, his tone firm but tender, “I’ll defend you and us every single time. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat as you buried your face in his chest. His warmth surrounded you, his embrace grounding you in a way that made it easier to breathe. The fears that had been gnawing at you began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the quiet reassurance of his presence. For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that everything was going to be okay.

Mark sat close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, but there was a gap between you—a physical manifestation of the emotional distance neither of you knew how to bridge. Your hands fidgeted in your lap, fingers twisting together nervously as your eyes darted between him and the floor. He didn’t look away, his gaze fixed on you, unwavering but heavy.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice was steady, but there was a vulnerability in it that made your chest tighten. “Do you wanna give ‘us’ another try?” he asked, the words quiet but loaded with hope, as though he’d been holding them in for too long. His eyes softened as he searched yours, silently pleading for the answer he so desperately wanted.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze. The question hung in the air, echoing in your mind as a whirlwind of emotions tore through you. A flicker of something stirred in your chest—hope, longing, affection—but it was quickly overshadowed by the weight of your fears. Anxiety clawed at you, the what-ifs and worst-case scenarios screaming in your head. Your fingers tightened in your lap, your throat dry as you struggled to find the words.

You wanted to say yes. Every part of you yearned to take his hand, to close the distance between you and fall back into him completely. But deep down, you knew you weren’t ready. Not yet. The fear of letting him down, of rushing into something you weren’t emotionally prepared for, was too strong.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You forced yourself to continue, though each word felt like it was being ripped out of you. “To be your girlfriend, I mean. I think… I think I rushed into everything, thinking it would all be fine.”

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed on your lap, too afraid to see the hurt you knew would be in his expression. “It’s not that I don’t want this,” you added, your voice barely audible now. “I do. But I’m scared. Scared of ruining it again. Scared I’m not enough. I just… I need time, Mark. I need to figure myself out before I can give you what you deserve.”

The silence that followed was deafening, stretching out like an unspoken void between you. It pressed down heavily, wrapping around your chest and making it hard to breathe. You could feel the weight of your words settling into the space, solid and immovable, creating a chasm where moments ago there had been fragile, tentative hope. Every second that passed seemed to magnify the distance, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions.

Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the faint noises of the world around you. It wasn’t just the quiet that unnerved you—it was the way Mark’s expression shifted, his features hardening ever so slightly as he processed what you’d said. His gaze dropped briefly, his shoulders stiffening, and the heaviness in the air grew almost unbearable. It felt like you had broken something fragile, something that couldn’t be put back together, and the realization sent a wave of guilt and anxiety crashing over you. You braced yourself, heart pounding, afraid he might lash out, might walk away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, his head tilting back as he let out a deep, controlled breath. When he looked at you again, he gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I get it,” he said softly, though his voice carried a weight that betrayed him. “If this is what you need, I’ll try to understand.”

The forced calmness in his tone broke something inside you. You hated the sadness and disappointment he was trying so hard to hide. Desperate to ease the tension, to fill the unbearable void between you, the words slipped out before you could stop them. “Just friends?” you blurted, your voice hesitant, almost shaky. It felt wrong, hollow, even as you said it, but you hoped it might soften the heaviness in the air. You weren’t offering it because it’s what you wanted—you were offering it because you thought it might make things less painful for him, might somehow bridge the gap that felt wider with each passing second.

Mark froze for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. You saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the struggle to compose himself evident in the tension in his jaw. “Friends,” he repeated quietly, the word cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

The silence stretched again, and your heart raced, terrified he might say no, that you’d lose him entirely. But then, he nodded. Slowly, reluctantly, but he nodded.

“Friends,” he said again, the word thick in his throat.

You could see it in his eyes—how much it hurt him to agree, how much more he wanted. But you could also see the love behind his restraint, the way he forced himself to accept it because he knew it’s what you needed.

“Slow steps though?” you whispered, lifting your pinky toward him. Your heart hammered in your chest as you waited, hoping, praying he wouldn’t turn away.

Mark’s eyes softened, even through the hurt. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his hand trembling slightly as he hooked his pinky with yours. The gesture was small, but it felt monumental, like an unspoken promise hanging between you.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Slow steps.”

His words were forced, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—a glimmer of hope he couldn’t completely hide. His hand lingered, his pinky curled tightly around yours as though letting go would mean losing everything.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. The guilt clawed at you, heavy and suffocating as you watched him struggle to keep himself together. You knew he wanted more—so much more—and it broke your heart to hold back, but you also knew this was the only way. “I just… I need to heal, Mark. I don’t want to mess this up again.”

He nodded, but his silence spoke louder than anything he could have said. His jaw tensed, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he worked to contain the wave of emotions threatening to break free.

You shifted closer, unable to ignore the ache in your chest. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out and brushed your fingers against his, letting them linger. “You mean so much to me,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to think this changes that.”

Mark’s gaze finally met yours, and the sadness in his eyes was almost unbearable. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice strained but steady. “I get it. You need time. I just…” He paused, inhaling deeply as he tried to steady himself. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

His words hit you hard, the sheer depth of his love and patience shining through even in the midst of his heartbreak. Tears welled in your eyes, and you blinked them away quickly, not wanting to break down now.

“Friends, then,” you said again, trying to sound lighter, trying to ease the tension.

Mark gave you a small, pained smile, his fingers brushing yours in a gesture that felt both comforting and bittersweet. “Friends,” he repeated, though the word still sounded foreign coming from him.

But even as the word lingered between you, his actions betrayed him. His hand didn’t leave yours, and when you shifted just a little closer, his knee pressed against yours, grounding you both in the connection that still remained.

As the silence stretched, it didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. Instead, there was a quiet intimacy in the way you sat together, in the way his gaze softened when it met yours, in the way your pinky promise lingered a moment longer than necessary.

And though the heartbreak was palpable, so was the hope. Hope that this wasn’t the end, that this was just a pause, a moment to regroup and rebuild.

When you leaned your head against his shoulder, Mark’s breath hitched softly, but he didn’t pull away. His arm came up to rest lightly across your back, a subtle but reassuring touch. Neither of you said anything, but the unspoken promise hung in the air: slow steps, time to heal, and a chance to find your way back to each other.

Mark’s voice broke the quiet, barely above a whisper. “I’ll wait,” he said again, and this time, the words carried a quiet strength that steadied you.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that everything would be okay.

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

taglist — @bigjugz03 @hyuckkklee @hegdus @sungchannel @kidult0325 @hcluvie @second-floors @xjxnox @keelbeel @hyuckkklee @ahgasezennie @lovetaroandtaemin @steadyparkjisungbookishspy @carelessshootanonymous @remgeolli @toroufriteh @sinsgaybutthatsokay @fancypeacepersona @cathamada @gomdoleemyson @ppeachyttae @strcwberi @yunjinsart @millyswife

[andromeda-lv]

Just found they won't prolongate my employment contract which expires in *checks notes* 3 business days excuse me while I succumb to mental illness and poverty.

[superawesome40]

Imagine this:

It starts with Bobby John. Dean can't let the baby go, he reminds him too much of Sam, way back when Sam was this age, and Daddy was always sad (or drunk), and when Dean tried to speak the words got stuck, and he could not make a sound. He can't let the baby go, so he doesn't.

Over time, they gather more. Bobby John, Ben, Joe and Ryan, Emma, Alex, Krissy and Aiden and Josephine, Magda, Claire, Jack. They find Jesse again, 16 years old and alone and scared of himself. They find Charlie and Kevin, and even though they aren't quite their kids, they treat them with the same care.

Somewhere in between the always rising tide of children, they find the Bunker. It's perfect - dozens of rooms for everyone to spread out, to have their own space. Bobby doesn't die, but he does move to the bunker "To keep an eye on ya' idjits,”. The modifications they make to the Bunker for his wheelchair are worth it to see the pride in his eyes. Linda Tran moves in, and she and Dean have an ongoing war over who's in control of the kitchen.

Of course, things aren't perfect. Chuck is still a problem, and eventually he must be dealt with. They win, but the cost is heavy. Cas and Jack are gone, and Dean... well he's as good as gone. He never leaves his room anymore, except to get a drink. Their dysfunctional family is mourning, both for those who they've lost and for themselves. Disappearing and coming back is much more traumatic than you'd expect.

Eventually, in an attempt to cheer him up, they convince him to go on a hunt. Just a small thing, a nest of vamps. They've killed a man and mutilated his wife, as well as taken their kids, two small boys. Someone (later, no one will remember exactly who) jokes that they can take in the boys. Sam and Dean leave, looking more cheerful than they’ve been in weeks.

They get the call a few hours later. Sam tells them over the phone, barely understandable through his tears, that Dean was hurt in the fight and that the doctors aren’t sure if he’ll pull through. Using the variety of cars in the bunker, they break a handful of laws and probably the sound barrier on their way to the hospital. Bobby pulls Sam aside and he explains, in detail, what happened. They wait for hours before a doctor finally enters the waiting room, asking for the family of Dean Fletcher* (Millie Winchester’s maiden name).

Dean survives, barely. Recovery is an uphill battle, and the damage done to his spine, muscles, and nerves leave him wheelchair-bound and in near-constant pain. Eventually, he’s able to move around for short periods of time using forearm crutches and leg braces, but it’s only after a few years and a lot of physical therapy. At the very least, the Bunker needs no new changes to accommodate him, having been updated for Bobby ages ago.

A year passes. The two boys from the vamp hunt are moved into the Bunker after their mother succumbs to her injuries in the hospital, and quickly adjust and thrive in the new location. Sam and Eileen quit hunting, permanently. They move to town, only fifteen minutes away, and visit every Saturday for family dinner. When they get married, Sam Winchester becomes Sam Leahy. Jody retires, and moves her hoard to the Bunker. They’ve got the room, after all. Donna follows not too long after. Miracle is officially trained as a service animal, to help Dean with his panic attacks.

One night, Dean can’t sleep. He hauls himself into his wheelchair and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. He stops at the sight of three people sitting at the table.

The reunion is a tearful one. Dean cries from relief, and guilt, and of course the burning pain that rips through his back as a result of him temporarily forgetting he can’t stand and launching himself out of his chair. Cas also cries, sobbing apologies into Dean’s hair from where they are curled on the floor. Jack, pressed between the two of them and both overwhelmed and overstimulated, can only beg for Dean’s forgiveness. His dads wipe away his tears and press kisses to his cheeks, assuring him that he has nothing to apologize for.

The only one who doesn’t cry is Adam, sitting slightly stony faced at the table. Later, once the commotion of the reunion has died and Sam has been woken and summoned to the Bunker, the three sit down to chat.

Adam tells them that he’s not angry anymore, and begs them to explain everything to him, starting from the beginning. He is especially curious about their father, and realizes through their stories that John badly mistreated them. Dean invites Adam to stay in the Bunker, but Adam declines. He says that there’s a lot he needs to do, but hesitantly suggests that they stay in touch. Their relationship is tentative at first, but eventually he becomes a permanent fixture in the family.

Cas and Jack are filled in on what they missed. Dean pulls them each aside and apologizes privately for the things he said and did before the end. He assures Jack that he is part of the family, and always will be. He tells him he’s willing to be Jack’s dad, if that’s what Jack wants. Jack enthusiastically agrees.

He can’t quite bring himself to say “I love you” to Cas, but he says something along the lines of “maybe one day.” He also implies to Cas that John was extremely homophobic, and the combination of that and the sexual trauma he has experienced through his life (getting money for food/rent as a teen, Hell, Lydia) makes him hesitant now to form romantic relationships. Cas, understanding as always, agrees and comments on how he has improved at opening up, to which Dean replies that there wasn’t much else to do when he was trapped in bed and couldn’t escape Sam and his relentless therapy-talks.

Jack tells them as a group that he has decided there doesn’t need to be a God, and has stepped down after reforming Heaven. He says that he used his power for the last time to bring back Castile and find Adam. He confesses to his parents that the power is not gone, and likely never will be. He also says that he would like to grow up as human as possible, and promptly shrinks to the size of a toddler, much to the bewildered amusement of his parents. They discover that he no longer has his memories, and Bobby suggests that they may come back when he’s older, and that forgetting is his young mind's way of protecting itself.

As time passes, Cas and Dean open the Bunker to other hunters as a research facility and safe space to stay for a few nights. Neither of them hunt anymore, but they offer support and badly needed organization. With Charlie and Kevin’s help, they set up a system like the one Sam originally had.

When Eileen and Sam announce they are expecting, Dean is ecstatic. When they reveal the baby is a boy and that they are naming him “Dean II”, he cries for a solid hour. He’s the first, outside of Sam and Eileen, to hold the baby, who he affectionately nicknames “Junior”.

In the end, they are happy. They live together peacefully.

Would anyone be interested in reading this on ao3? I miiiight be planning to write this… also any suggestions/question/concerns are welcome! Also, if I missed any kiddos (canon only, please), feel free to tell me! I’m perfectly open to expanding their hoard.

Also, I cannot take complete credit for this story. Quite a few elements are inspired by foolondahill17’s stories, Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans), and the miracles ‘verse by the same author. Both are absolutely amazing stories, and I highly recommend.

*According to the Supernatural Wiki, Adam Glass wanted the actress Louise Fletcher to play Millie Winchester should she appear on screen.

[catarufermecat]

FEAST

"Let's eat. Let's survive," Jimmy whispered with an aura that reminded Curly of his greatest sin: his pride. Jimmy was too proud to accept his wrongdoings. He was too proud to apologize to those he had hurt. He was too proud to care about what anyone had to say. He was too proud to take responsibility. But now, it didn't matter anymore. It was just him, some corpses, and an incapacitated Curly that could only weep and shake. Nobody would call Jimmy out anymore. It was just him and his pride surrounded by his victims. But he was too blind to see.

or,

that one scene where Jimmy cuts Curly's leg and feeds it to him

Curly found himself lying on the table, his co-workers' corpses beside him.

Curly could only pray. He was never a religious person, but in such situations, he couldn't care less. His morals, his motivations, his dreams, his meaning, his hope - all gone. So he prayed. He prayed Jimmy would kill him. He prayed it would be fast. He prayed and he prayed and he prayed some more. Was he heard? It didn't matter. Not anymore. He just wanted to be freed from all the pain he had been enduring for so, so long.

Then, there was Jimmy. He was standing proudly at the table, smiling. He seemed happy, celebrating his little party, and Curly was the cake. What's a party with no guests? He had gathered his friends too. They all wore birthday hats and all. Was he insane? Perhaps. Perhaps he had always been insane. His gaze alternated between the crew members as if they were speaking to him, however he was completely ignoring Curly, although he was the only living one. Quite ironic.

He gave one last smile before he took the knife that sat at Curly's head. He got up with a proud nod, chuckling while looking at his co-workers. He took a seat closer to Curly's legs (if you can even call them that anymore), and put the blade on his flesh. And then he did it.

Jimmy started to slice through Curly's leg, the dull blade cutting painfully slow through the exposed muscle. Curly couldn't bear it anymore. He screamed and screamed and screamed until his vocal cords gave up and he just made some sore, dry noises that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Not to Jimmy, though. To him, Curly's screams were like music. They sounded like a beautiful orchestra, making Jimmy smile as Curly cried out in pain.

Curly only wished everything would stop. As Jimmy started to cut through his bone, he couldn't help but shake and hit and attempt to get away, but to no avail. If only Jimmy had chosen to cut into his knee, then it would've been easier. The cartilage would've given out. But here he was, slicing through Curly's thigh, smiling as he screamed in agony. And then the knife finally hit the table, and Curly could only cry silently.

Jimmy didn't seem distressed at all. He started cutting the flesh into smaller pieces. "A lot of people struggle to put food on their plates, but that wasn't enough," he stated as he started putting the bits of flesh onto the crew's plates, as if he was serving his guests some cake. "Right, Captain?" He asked mockingly, looking into Curly's single eye with a big smile.

"The lowest rung of your ladder is our highest. Until it was all swept from under your feet." Jimmy punched the table in frustration, feeling belittled. Even now that Curly was barely holding on, just a corpse of a man, Jimmy was still jealous, like he always was. He could never take responsibility.

"Life isn't even worth living at the same level as us. But I forgive you. All of us do." That sold it for Curly. Jimmy was clearly gone. But what could he do except lay down and stare and pray to be killed? If Jimmy really cared about Curly, he would kill him. Free him from all this pain.

But he doesn't. He just continued his monologue.

"I won't give up on you, even like this. I believe in you. We're going to make it through this." He put all the plates down and sat back in his seat, putting a plate next to Curly's head."Sometimes we thrive, travel the endless reaches of space. But other times we just have to accept days like these. You taught me that, Curly." Jimmy smiled again, proud of himself for learning such a great lesson from his friend. Although, that didn't really apply here. He wasn't even sure if it was actually Curly that Taught him that, or if it was another one of his episodes, but he didn't care.

"Let's eat. Let's survive," Jimmy whispered with an aura that reminded Curly of his greatest sin: his pride. Jimmy was too proud to accept his wrongdoings. He was too proud to apologize to those he had hurt. He was too proud to care about what anyone had to say. He was too proud to take responsibility. But now, it didn't matter anymore. It was just him, some corpses, and an incapacitated Curly that could only weep and shake. Nobody would call Jimmy out anymore. It was just him and his pride surrounded by his victims. But he was too blind to see.

Jimmy started eating. It made Curly sick to his stomach. He could only watch as Jimmy tore the tender flesh from the bone and chewed away at its hard, burnt exterior. Curly wanted to look away, to ignore what was happening, to not see his own blood run down his friend's chin as he fed on his body. But he couldn't. If you asked Curly a few months ago if he could picture his best friend eating his flesh raw and talking to corpses, he would've called you insane. Yet here he was, watching it unfold before his very eye.

After Jimmy had finished eating, he got up and looked at Curly with a menacing smile. He took the fork in his hand and separated the flesh from the bone and took the meat in his hand and laughed manically. He grabbed Curly's mouth, prying it open before putting the flesh in his mouth. Curly tried his best to keep still so that he wouldn't choke, but that didn't really matter since Jimmy decided to "help" Curly by forcing the meat down his throat with his fingers. Curly choked and cried and shook and prayed some more, but Jimmy didn't care. He just started laughing and let his head fall on the table, crying hysterically.

"I'm sorry, Curly."

Wanna leave some Kudos on ao3, maybe?

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER THREE: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic: TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically the third in the series

Keep reading after the cut

Daybreak: you come to in a spare room in Hannibal Lecter's house, as dark about you as a bloody inner mouth; pain decants itself between your thighs, and you remember what was done to you, in the punishing night.

You rise on your knees and scream in despair at your violation, at your abandonment, at your misfortune in falling tail-side of a coin flip, condemning you to the treacherous care of two men engaged in the pretence that there is some benevolent end to this.

Yet it occurs to you, from the sylphs of memory, that perhaps only one of the pair is pretending: Will Graham, still so glued to the principles of society that he put up a hero’s protest against the rape. He had shaken like a rib-kicked dog after fucking you, face-down, on this very rock of a mattress, while Hannibal’s firm hands guided you onto his colleague’s cock, so gentle, so deathly that your cunt still throbs sickly at the thought of them.

Their beauty, their talent, so fabulously cruel, arranging your suffering to their aesthetic approval—

Dr Lecter didn’t accept you for inpatient care to better you, but to ruin, and make worse all the dun and violet horrors of your tortured mind. You are a jewel in the hand of a god of death to be held captive; you must serve to survive, or else perish for your pride like the girls in all the recent headlines, never to be found till you are roaches and dust.

Will and Hannibal will not have you starve to death, but they might well be your decay in another fashion, now that you are the bruised and buckle-kneed prey to their hunter dreams. You hate the devil-horse drag in your stomach as you think of their hands on you, making a doe of you in their degradation.

You scrub the bedsheet between your thighs, choking at the dirt-salt scent of the stain the endeavour leaves behind. Standing up, you feel strain and bruising in every limb; you stagger about, taking inventory of the studiously bare surfaces, locked drawers, a barred window, an en-suite bathroom with its absence of a razor. There is a toothbrush and paste, expensive soaps, which you are obviously expected to use.

The sight of them reminds you that you are here on an indefinite stay, that according to your loved ones—and likely to the law—you are precisely where you need to be. No one will guess at your abuse, beguiled by the beautiful sham of the prestigious doctor and his accolades. They will think you fortunate, to have been accepted at such a discount, for your family is not rich, and had, in fact, been overjoyed by Hannibal’s gracious reception of their plea to see you.

They’ll want you to do well, here, to strengthen, to thrive, but how can you, when the doctor and his friend will fuck you for your failings, and dope you into drunken insensibility, should you protest?

You cling to the sink and cry until you heave, clammy and juddering in a fit of abject despair. Then, with slow, weary resignation, you wash, scarcely wanting to touch yourself, to feel where you are most hurt.

You return to the bedroom, noticing immediately a set of clothes laid out on the quilt. Cold touches the back of your neck as you realise that Dr Lecter must have put them there, likely heard you sobbing through the door.

How smug he must be, to have provoked you into so amusing a reaction.

Fear strikes a sort of sense in you, and you dress quickly, hating how soft and luxurious the garments feel upon your skin. You crave your own clothes, the comfort of the known, of routine. Yet as you try the bedroom door and let yourself cautiously out into the chill hallway beyond you’ve made the decision to go along with Dr Lecter’s treatment until an opportunity to escape comes to you, which you know it must, being that he is not God, and cannot watch you in perpetuity.

The house is, of course, quite beautiful, grand, and dark, and full of art, magnificent and elaborate; you are intimidated by Dr Lecter’s commitment to beauty, and wonder at your place within it. You feel cheap and inelegant, cumbersome as you blunder from room to room in search of your keeper. He did not take you in for your beauty, you think, with a grim and bitter certainty, unless it is the breaking of your mind beneath his ministrations that is lovely to him.

The sound of an instrument winds through the house, sinisterly pretty, like something played in the court of Marie Antoinette. From the quality of the noise you discern that it is a recording; you had noticed a harpsichord in Hannibal’s office, and wonder if this is a piece he himself has composed to make elegant even the sonic elements of his home.

As you descend the staircase, one shaking hand squeezing the bannister, the music ceases, and Dr Lecter emerges from a doorway, artfully casual with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The expanse of skin revealed to you feels intimate, and as you remember the inferno of your flesh beneath those very arms, you retreat into the shadows of the stairway

He is lower than the devil, this man, yet possesses all of his cunning, and more.

“I am glad to see you this morning,” he says, pleasantly. “I was unsure if you would leave your room. It can be daunting, venturing into an unfamiliar place.”

You don’t answer, can think of nothing to say; it is like making conversation with a puma, more inclined to claw out the garnet hollows of your throat than entertain the vapidity of words.

Hannibal studies you, taking in your appearance in your borrowed clothes with noted pleasure.

“I have made breakfast,” he announces. “French toast: brioche, nutmeg, cinnamon, topped in caramelised sugar. Such simple sweetness is a necessary counter to so bitter a night spent under my roof. A shame that your first evening here was not as welcoming as it should have been.”

You find yourself repulsed by his manners, a taunting pretence of civility. This is a man who knows what he is, and carries himself with pride and comfort in that being; his abuse would be easier to bear had he been coarse, and mad.

“I’m not hungry,” you whisper.

A lie: you are always starving, a walking ache, thinking of little from daylight to darkness but the sustenance you cannot allow yourself, gluttony in the slightest morsel.

Hannibal looks at you with pity, and yet a cold and knowing pleasure, also.

“You must eat, little one,” he says. “Your health is my responsibility, and I am required to see that you fuel your survival, by whatever means I deem appropriate. If neither reason nor encouragement will bring down the battlements you have built around yourself, then I am not opposed to alternative methods of siege.”

You remember the feeding tube shown to you on the previous night, and sag against the bannisters, felled by the impossibility of your situation.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, let me go home. Why are you doing this?”

Hannibal moves towards the stairs and extends his arm to you, meaning to help you down, as though you would ever accept his assistance. His calm is a slaughterhouse silence, the echo of the chamber when all the killing is done, and it lies empty but for the recollection of screams.

"I'm willing to answer any questions you have for me," he says, congenially. "If you will do something for me, in return."

You step past him, avoiding his arm.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, softly. “What do you want me to do?”

The answer is a penumbra in his eyes.

"For each question I address, you must finish a mouthful of the meal I have set out for you. Finish the plate, and I will allow you a phone call home, to let your parents know that you are settled. It will be supervised, of course."

Suppressed, he means, a hand poised to snatch the receiver, should you speak ill of him and his trembling brute of a colleague. Yet you see that consent to Dr Lecter’s will is the currency that will buy you consolation, in this house, so you nod slowly, coughing down a lump in your throat.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

Hannibal smiles, the rictus of some corpse-eating entity.

“That is all I ask of you.”

Some minutes later, seated at a table in a room the blue of some under-sea cavern, opposite the man who aided in your assault, you think how pathetic it is that your greatest ordeal of the past day is neither your kidnapping, nor the attack, but the food oozing butter as though from some golden wound before you.

You cannot count the calories, which are surely around the seven-hundred mark, cannot imagine the fat and the filth contained on that slippery plate, an indulgence you haven’t allowed yourself in years.

“Can’t I have something else?” you plead. “This is too much. I can’t eat this.”

“I suspect that you would find an equal challenge in anything I put before you,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “I believe in setting a precedent for what difficulties you may expect, under my care, not only to take note of your strengths for study, but to enhance your understanding of your circumstances. Hunger is the power with which you have averted combat with every assailant of the mind. It is time you went to war, little one, and what better place to begin than at my table?”

The toast smells divine, this you cannot deny; you have heard, vaguely, of Dr Lecter’s mastery of the kitchen, one of many facts clumsily reeled off to you by your parents to assure you of his character and esteem. You know that if you allow yourself to eat there will be as much pleasure as agony in every bite; you percieve, suddenly, the parallels between eating this meal, and having been fucked, ingenious, insidious.

“I can’t eat it,” you say again, rather desperately. “You don’t get it. I can’t just... eat, like other people. I didn't choose to be this way.”

Hannibal looks at you with an expression so close to sympathy that you find yourself confused, unable to reconcile the care in his eyes with his sure evil.

“It's not your fault,” he says. “This mechanism is a friendly fire whose direction you cannot change. Nevertheless, you have no choice but to proceed against it. You may discover a certain liberty in having no other option afforded you.��

A tear rolls from your left eye, fracturing like a bead of glass on the tabletop. Hannibal utters your name so gently that you find yourself hardening against him, reaching for the fork out of spite alone, for all that your illness screams at the act.

You cut a slither of toast and look at it balefully, considering how much exercise and restriction will atone for the sin of swallowing. But eat it you do, ashamed of how delicious that sole piece is, how your stomach roars for the rest of it.

Dr Lecter watches you with the faintest and most odious smile upon his lips.

“I must congratulate you,” he says. “The greatest obstacle before you was to begin, and you have conquered it admirably.”

His praise makes it difficult to swallow. The urge to spit the bread back onto the plate is restrained only by what knowledge you may purchase, if you acquiesce.

“Are you a real doctor?” you ask, your voice small, difficult, coarse with tears.

“I am,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “I assume that your implication is that my profession is a guise for my unconventional curiosities. In that case, I would argue that all workers are tainted by the passions that drive them. Would you discredit the teacher for the selfish pride he feels in imparting knowledge upon an ignorant pupil?”

“I heard you talking to that man,” you say, pointedly ignoring the metaphor. “Your friend, Will? I know this isn’t just about treating me. What you did to me— you enjoyed it, both of you, and... and you’d do it again. How is assaulting me supposed to help me?”

Hannibal raises a delicate little coffee cup, ingesting its dark aroma before he drinks.

“If you wish me to respond, then you must eat.”

With a pained little shudder, you force down another mouthful, chewing it so many times that its texture is pulp as it goes down.

“There,” you rasp. “Answer me.”

A disgruntled gleam passes the man’s gaze, fading so swiftly that it might have only been a reflection from the windowpane.

“From consulting your records, and having spoken to you myself, I perceive your stubborn absence of response to sensitivity,” says Dr Lecter. “You rebel against it, interpreting any benevolent aid as its opposite. Under pressure— fear, anger, violence—you perform well, however. You submit to change in order to survive. Therefore, it is these methods that will most effectively control your disorder, and I see no shame in resorting to that which will foster the greater good.”

So many words, you think, with so very little honesty behind them.

“There’s some other reason,” you insist. “I know there is. Will Graham— why did you make him do it? Why does he have to be part of this?”

You saw off another piece of toast, suppressing a moan at the spill of salty butter across your tongue. Hannibal observes, knowing, without expressing it aloud, how much you love his cooking, so expert as to be a thing of art.

“I am as dedicated to Will’s growth as I am to yours,” says Dr Lecter. “There is a mutual benefit in his involvement in your care. He lacks confidence in his identity, and certain skills; I aim to coax it out of him.”

“You mean, make him messed up,” you snipe, cutting aggressive slivers from your toast. “Just like you. Like you’re doing to me.”

Your flared sense of injustice stifles the pain of having to eat, the agitation of it.

“Why me, out of all your patients? I’m not special.”

“On the contrary, your particular ailment intrigues me,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another measure of coffee. “As individuals, you and I are at direct opposition. I intend to foster an enthusiasm for eating in you that is akin to mine. The complexity of doing so possesses an allure in the frontiers that we both must cross.”

Your jaw pounds from the effort of mastication; you’ve long forgotten how it feels to eat so much.

“Will you let me go home when you’re... finished with me?” you ask, without much hope.

Dr Lecter’s face betrays little of his inner mind, so controlled as to be a pleasant blank.

“Once you are fully recovered, you will be free to leave at will. Until then, I must withhold your liberty.”

You eat, tortured by the repetition, and by the growing pain in your abdomen, unused to being filled.

“Who else knows what you’ve done to me?” you ask. “And what you’re planning to do?”

“Beyond this room, only Will is aware of my most unorthodox practices,” Hannibal replies. “Those unaccustomed to experimentation may find it distasteful, even disturbing.”

You push your plate across the table with a screech of porcelain.

“I find it disturbing,” you say. “You’re really just going to hold me prisoner?”

“Finish your breakfast, or I cannot give you my reply.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I feel sick.”

The French toast, cooling in its basin of fat, suddenly revolts you, and you wish that you were in the habit of purging, to bring up the sodden bread you’ve ingested.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Dr Lecter. “In that case, I am afraid you will not be permitted to speak to your parents.”

With an air of disappointment, he rises, coming behind you to take away your plate. Your dominant hand clenches your fork, and you wait for the man to lean down, offering you an angle to pierce his throat. You’ve never killed before, are unsure if you’d have it in you to drive home the slaughtering blow.

As it stands, you will never know.

Dr Lecter’s hand closes over your tensed arm, bringing it up against your windpipe, choking you with the pressure of your own wrist upon you. His body is a prison bar at your back; he holds you securely, and without any particular violence, as though doing nothing more unusual than shaking your hand.

“You did not yet strike,” says Hannibal, as you hack and cough for air. “So your punishment for considering my murder will be mild. You will sit in a corner and face the wall until I leave for my first appointment at the office. After this, you will return to your room, where you will stay until I come home. If you must behave like an unreasonable child, then I will respond, likewise.”

Fear makes you almost insensible as Hannibal’s lips draw close to your cheek.

“I am aware of your habit to regress, in such dire moments," he murmurs. "I heard the name that passed your lips, when Will withdrew from you—"

Daddy, you'd called him, in your hopeless vulnerability.

"—Your loved ones failed you, at some vital point, in your youth. We will not.”

He releases you, and in the adrenaline fog of regaining your breath you realise, with a flush of horror, that you are no longer hungry.

What else will be taken from you, child as you are in the ravenous dark of this house?

[juststoriesintheend]

What would an au where Sol lives look like?

ohohohohoh boy howdy have i been thinking about this

i have a couple ideas, one for my horny brain that is in love with him and one that's more logical. since i've already kind of summarized my horny thoughts into a vague fic idea, i'll focus on a more logical string of thoughts

when vernestra finds him, he's barely clinging on to life (it's giving palpatine + vader parallels quite frankly)

they get him back on the ship, get him an oxygen mask, and eventually return to coruscant, but all the medical assistance in the world can't un-do the power of the force wrapped around your throat

his voice is permanently changed, much more hoarse and painful for him to talk. he has memory problems bc being deprived of oxygen for that long gave him brain damage

he stands trial for what he did on brendok 16 years ago. i feel like he might be able to be talked into taking the fall for every single death on khofar too, but if not then i could vernestra waving it away as "osha attacked him to save her own life & now he's delirious w/ grief and has lost his grip on reality"

maybe he's exiled? maybe he's sent to prison on coruscant? i think either way, he is no longer a jedi and he's going somewhere to rot for his crimes, and he goes willingly bc he feels like he deserves it

if he's aware that mae is with the jedi, he'd probably be torn between letting her be and being obsessed with reconnecting with her - to ease his conscience? to beg for death? he probably doesn't even know what he wants

all sol knows is that he made a mistake and he (and everyone he's ever loved) paid for it at osha's hand. he's plagued by flashbacks and nightmares. when he talks to other jedi or prisoners about a sith villain who threatens the republic, he's written off as a crazy old man

and maybe he is. osha choking him snapped his mind, it utterly broke him. if he had died there, it might have been enough to heal him, cleanse him of his sins. but surviving has only allowed his guilt to thrive. bc death would have been his penance

basically, he's still scapegoated and he probably loses his sanity over the years. i do not see anything happy or good for him in this scenario

which is why i don't like to think about it lol

alternatively, in some happier universe:

i like the idea of sol being able to escape. maybe vernestra thinks he's really dead bc he's quite literally on the cusp between life and death. and when she starts to drag him off for a sad, lonely jedi funeral, she realizes he's alive and mostly an amnesiac, so she decides to help him

she does what she can to help him heal in whatever short time she has and then she sends him off in an escape pod, gives him this second chance to go somewhere and live out the rest of his life in peace

the jedi he once was died on brendok, at his daughter's hand. now he can just be sol. no guilt or trauma to weigh him down. he can be a farmer. or a tradesman. a teacher. he can live

i think sol always wanted to be a father but couldn't bc of the way the order is structured/the jedi tenets, so maybe in this alternate life he can adopt some other orphan (amnesiacs sol and mae becoming found family for each other, anyone??)

maybe he meets someone his own age that he can love and become attached to in a better, slightly healthier way. someone he can wake up beside and dote upon. someone who makes him want to be the best person he can be

pls for the love of god, let this man have something happy for once in his life

[wordy-little-witch]

It may not come as a surprise that I am OBSESSED with the paranormal, and thus I posit a silly little thought nugget-

Devil Fruit eaters in general being No Longer Human. Like. Not even just Zoan users, but ALL of them.

The Fruits were created by the Sea Devil, offering odd and incredible powers in exchange for a weakness to water, a tomb of seasalt. The abilities are varied and dynamic, but they are still, by definition, an exchange - a Deal. It is Give and Take, a contract forged with the life-span of the eater as the signature. The Fruit braids itself into their genome, into their Soul, and makes them Other.

More beneath the cut, I just have so many thoughts send help

For some, this is an instinctive change. They Know things, information fed from the magic in their veins and marrow to their brain, all that the Fruit has learned from previous users in an abstract way. For some, the information from their Fruit is Locked, tidbits bleeding through the cracks and grooves of the chest which contains the treasure trove of knowledge which they are not equipped to handle. The Fruits are only truly Conscious when they are Bound, Eaten, Active, after all. To needlessly overwhelm and kill their hosts would be unfortunate.

In that vein, one could argue that the eaters are something of a sacrifice, a symbiotic relationship between our world and the one beyond it.

Some Fruits however simply do not HAVE the knowledge to pass on. Some have not been active in a very long time. Some have not had the experience in thriving with their Host. Some just simply rarely get eaten for whatever reason.

Some simply protect their Host from the Truth.

What all Devil Fruit eaters have in common, loosely though it is, is an innate ability to recognize one another, to identify each other, and to toe the line between the mortal world and the Other. The sharpness of the awareness varies person to person, soul to soul, but all Notice in their own ways, can reach beyond the veil to varying degrees and with varies intentions.

Luffy can See into others, an ability he's had always, but after eating his Fruit, it sharpened. His gaze cut deeper, his sight clearer, and he could read a person as easily as a scholar with a juvenile practice book would read the text therein. His gaze is clearest beneath the skin of others.

Luffy, inhuman as parts are, must feed both aspects:

The body he has, and the form which his Devil Fruit has woven itself into, must eat. He loves meat, a trait often found in Ds, but his appetite is voracious even then, feeding and feeding and feeding. What few realize is that his hunger is both mortal and not, a craving for meat of any variety. He will eat anything. Anything. His natural defaults mesh well with his Fruit, and he simply catalogues it easily within his existing paradigm

The soul he carries is fueled by love, freedom, expression. He is emotional and unhindered by expectations because he chooses not to be. He gives himself the freedom to do so. He wants to be untethered and to feel and experience and BE. He wants for others to have much the same. He finds people who are Chained and he takes their shackles in hand, asks them why they are there, and then he shatters them beneath the force of his Care and Ambition and Temptation. He opens the doors of change and growth and liberation, and then he lays the choices before those he can. It's a subconscious thing, mostly, but he Feeds the carnal, bare bones Drive of his Fruit in the same breath as him feeding his own freedom and thus his own soul.

<>

Buggy on the other hand does not have the same basis to work from. Whereas Luffy's Fruit is Other Than and thus not as impacted by its infrequency in circulation, Buggy's is not so blessed. The Bara Bara no mi is not a common Fruit to be eaten. It has had precious few holders who survived long enough to learn much of anything regarding its properties. As it stands, Buggy himself is the longest survivor of this power. Not only does it initial stage impact the nervous system in unique and bizarre ways but it also changes the musculoskeletal structures and the host's brain. In order to be able to split and still function, your spatial awareness needs to be far higher than average, and the synapses in your brain must be able to handle the strain.

Many holders of the Chop Chop Fruit were driven mad by this. Be it the influx of information or the psychosomatic pain of a limb loss or worse, it would often lad to death - and not always by the hands of another.

Buggy was always more cerebral than his crewmates, than Shanks and the others. He was a thinker, and his specialty was operating outside of normal conventions - it was how his weapons making skills improved leaps and bounds. Chemistry, physics and mechanics were his biggest passions, followed closely by some dabbling in medicine and botany. There were no limits in his mind, on questions and redirected pathways. Where one path did not lead to an expected result, another would open, would branch off, and the yield of these actions would be cataloged and coveted.

The Bara Bara no mi was not much different in this. That Devil Fruit was perfect for Buggy, for his natural processes and his demeanor. Buggy already toed the line of fragmented, puzzle thinking, and his Fruit simply exacerbated this.

He feeds his mind with the options and dynamicism he exhibits with his body.

He does not however feed his BODY with the same. Oh, he eats when he remembers or someone reminds him. He has noticed some things taste better, make him FEEL better than others. But he doesn't seek them out.

This is partly due to mental health issues, and an unidentified food aversion which began in his childhood. Food was often used as a punishment/reward system, and things, unattended to, spiraled from there. Buggy doesn't even realize it.

Another problem is that his tastes in foods he has had the best responses with remind him of things he would rather not think on. Specifically, they remind him of his late captain. Roger always preferred his steaks rare and juicy. Buggy adores his much the same.

And a final issue is that the few times Buggy DID act on the Hunger, the Drive for something, he was punished for it, told it was bad and not okay. In their defense, he was a child, and raw meat is not safe for consumption, especially in one who has such a problematic immune system as Buggy. He always draws the short end of the stick in things.

He subsides loosely on intimidation tactics, licking the blood from his knives, a habit which began after the loss of his family. He does not acknowledge the baying hunger in his chest when he does this. He has buried it along with so many other things.

Buggy is good with his Devil Fruit, but he is good with it while starved and unwell.

It truly would be beneficial for another Devil Fruit User with long term experience to ask him what he Feeds on, wouldn't it?

[sasha199]

Mayhem and Madness Part 20

First there was the hunger. A burning, aching hunger. It grew so intense at times I believed my blood to be on fire. If I even had blood. I still bled, like before. But it ran cold, my wounds congealed and clotted too quickly. It made me difficult to kill. Mores the pity.

The hunger remains, but of a different sort.

Shadowheart is always a vision. Elegant, powerful, everything about her radiates danger. She stands before me as a pinnacle of her mistresses power, and anger thrives behind those lovely green eyes. I knew immediately in the Grove that she would be a menace. She would need to be dealt with. What an ignorant, simple fool I was.

“You disappoint me, Astarion.” She’s speaking in elvish, the forbidden language. Cazador wanted no reminders of who we had been before. He wanted to ensure that we knew we were nothing but spawn. To speak my native tongue is an act of rebellion, and I relish every syllable.

“Oh dear,” I bemoan, keeping my eyes on the knife point balanced between my fingers, “and it was only ever my intention to please you, darling.”

I turn my eyes away from the path to look at her. There is no sound or movement coming from that direction.

“What would please me,” she responds with all the acridity I deserve, “would be an end to this foolish charade. The game is up, better to admit when you’ve lost and recoup what you can. To continue to wallow in your failure is folly.”

“I have lost NOTHING.” I snap, snatching the dagger out of the air, quick as a viper.

The weight of her limp body in my arms… already stiffening.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present.

She barely quirks an eyebrow. “This ends here.” Her voice is quiet, measured.

I ignore the stab of pain in my heart. Where my heart should be.

“It never ends.”

“Mores the pity.” She crosses her arms, but her face does soften. I realize she’s reflecting my own expression and I adjust the mask.

I can feel it settle across my features. It irks me. My eyes have drifted back to the path and I force myself to turn away, to meet Shadowheart’s gaze.

She is safe. She is alive, I heard her heart stir again, felt the warmth of her skin beneath my hands. Marlie is alive.

“My goddess calls to me.”

“Indeed.” I have more to say, something witty begins to formulate in my brain but Shadowheart continues as if I have not spoken.

“This will be the end of everything. Lady Shar’s mighty darkness will consume all once I fulfill my destiny. And then you will be out of time.”

That’s all she says before she walks away. Every step measured and confident. As I watch her slender form disappears into the shadows, I memory surfaces, unheeded. A moment of joy, of gleeful freedom. During our infiltration of the goblin camp, Shadowheart had made a remark, a casual, flirty comment. She had asked why I’d agreed to join this party, and I’d kissed her. A spontaneous, playful kiss. Because I was happy. Happy to be a part of this, whatever it was…

Before she turns a corner Shadowheart glances back. Her eyes are heavy, regretful. A striking pale green, like spring.

We do what we must.

I feel a coldness creep over me as I find myself alone.

How? What was I doing risking everything for her? For her obnoxious, arrogant sister?

Sasha had marked me from the beginning. Hated everything about me. And rightly so. The thought curdles like cold congealed blood, but why lie to myself? I know myself, who I am. Don’t I?

I was using Marlie. Everything she gave freely I took and twisted for my benefit. Her body, her kindness, her feelings. Survival was always the goal. Even in my unexpected freedom, I'd had nothing. No power, no strength, and now no plan.

You are a weakling. A plaything. Sing for me, my spawn. Your screams are always sweetest.

“Astarion?”

I look up. She stands before me. A vision. Even with her hair gone. Scratch nuzzles my hand, the feel of his cold wet nose grounds me. I stroke his head absently. My hand comes away grey. Curse these wretched Shadowlands.

“Thank you.” she continues, sitting on the stone next to me. Scratch lopes away after Shadowheart.

“Of course, darling. Which of my great acts of benevolence are you referring to?”

“For sending Scratch to me. But...also for before. She’s wrong about you. Sasha. She can’t see past her own ignorance. But you saved her, and in that you proved her wrong.”

I try to laugh, its an awkward half hearted thing. “I don’t know. Perhaps I was just trying to avoid your wrath.”

She takes my hand in hers. It feels like sunlight. “I was dead.”

I flinch, my hand clenching around hers involuntarily. I treasure the weight of it, the life in it. She had been so unbearably still. She is warm, she is not growing cold. Slipping away before my eyes...

“There wouldn’t have been time to revive us both, and you chose her.”

“What a depressing thought.” The very idea of being stuck here in the Shadowlands with only Sasha and Gale for company is nightmare inducing.

“Agreed. I’m not upset about it. I’m grateful. She...well. It's complicated, but she's all I have left.”

I glance at her. She seems to mean it. I adore her ferocity, her ruthlessness. She would never hesitate to kill for me. But when it comes to Sasha...her sister...something comes into play that I can't quite understand.

There is a...duplicity there. A complication that is soft and earnest yet angry and righteous. Like a perfectly balanced blade.

She kisses me. It is a chaste thing, hesitant and questioning. I can feel her pulse through her soft lips, even that small bit of contact is intoxicating.

I deepen the kiss pulling her roughly against me. The hunger is back, gnawing in my gut as we breathe together. Panting, the intimacy builds and our limbs entwine, slowly as if we have all the time in the world. It’s not enough. Not enough. I need more.

She climbs into my lap, at my urging, tugging, pulling, her pulse quickens, finally. The roar of her blood is rushing in my ears. She straddles me and I reach up to to pull out the cord holding back her hair. Golden waves tumble about her shoulders, and I revel in the scent of it. The scent of her.

Vanilla and amber.

“Do you need to-to feed?” she mutters into my mouth. The thought makes my trousers tighten, all I can do is nod frantically between kisses. Her silky tongue brushes against mine and I can’t quite hold back a whimper. She lifts her wrist, but I grip a handful of her hair and wrench her head back, exposing the delicate skin of her neck. She gasps as I sink my fangs into the throbbing pulse point there. I trail my hand down her body, tracing the soft curves and hard planes of her delicate form.

As I feed, the tangy metallic taste of her life’s essence fills my mouth, bubbles against my tongue. A growl builds deep in my throat and as I swallow, it drifts up into a giggle.

I feel giddy, lightheaded. Intoxicated.

My fingers dip further down, trailing over her firm belly and they slip into her trouser and find her soft core...she's so warm. What must it be like to be filled with such life? Every blink and swallow an effortless act. As easy as drawing breath. Everything about her is so real. So alive. I can feel moisture gathering as her arousal increases. It’s intoxicating.

She taps my shoulder and I pull my fangs back, gasping. My mouth is smeared with her sacred fluid. A drop trickles from the puncture wounds, down over her breast. Ripping the laces of her blouse, I dart to catch the wayward drop with my tongue. I trace a damp trail back to the source.

“Astarion,” she whispers, her fingers tangled in my hair, she strokes the tips of my ears. A jolt of pleasure races down my spine.

She rolls her hips against me, slowly, sensually. I rut against her, even clothed her every movement is delicious, thrilling. I bring my hand out of her hair and down to her backside, caressing the taunt flesh. I am enjoying her, envious of her. The way she feels pressed against me, her breath becomes ragged in my ear. I flick my fingers deftly against her swollen clit, dip them inside her. In battle she is strong, fearless, untouchable. But with me...she is different...delicate.

She moans wantonly, her hips bucking against my hand. My cock twitches and pulsates beneath her, straining against my trousers. Her scent, her sweet smell. Overwhelming. Intoxicating.

With a gasp I lurch forward, moving with her, the whole world compresses to a single act, to one rhythm. She cries out after a moment, arching into me, fluttering around my fingers as she comes. I forget to pretend to breathe.

I hold her, as I come back to myself, the aftershocks of own my release ebbing. I kiss her breasts, her throat, working my way slowly back up to her mouth.

Damn it. Shadowheart is right. Marlie is right.

I’m out of time. I’ll have to tell her everything.

Everything. I am ruined.

[yanderes-galore]

I know that tomorrow’s the 17th and that the time period for requests is later in the west, but I had to request it know knowing JoJo’s on the list! Where there is fanfics, I’ll be there. When headcannons are afoot, I will be there!

Anyways, sorry for the ramble on my current hyperfixations. Prompts 3 and 10 for Narancia.

Sure! Sorry this took so long, I was struggling- Hope this works for you... I appreciate feedback!

Yandere! Narancia Prompts 3 + 10

"You'll love me, even if we have to sit and wait for it to happen."

"I've given myself all to you! Yet you call me a monster!"

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Violence, Implied attempted murder/Murder, Manipulation, Clingy behavior, Possessive behavior, Stalking, Overprotective behavior, Fear of abandonment, Angst, Delusional behavior, Forced relationship.

You remember when you first met Narancia. Part of you wishes you could go back to those simpler times. Maybe then you'd be a lot less... stressed.

When you met Narancia you did petty theft. You lived with a relative of yours and you grew up rather poor. You still went to school most of the time... but you barely had enough money to eat.

That's when you met Narancia... a friend who also seemed to be in a bad spot. He felt that the best thing in life and survival is friendship... it's no wonder he befriended you. Friends help each other.

You two became close. Narancia helped you steal to get money and even knew your relative. You two might even be partners in crime.

Then disaster hit.

Your relative was caught and sent to jail. Narancia was set up and also went to jail. Now... now you were all alone with a dwindling food supply.

Soon you dropped out of school. You yourself ended up thriving on the streets. This was your life for years as you grew up.

Soon you yourself ended up signing up for Passione. You needed a job, you needed money, you needed somewhere to go. You were tired of being some sort of street rat.

By some means you pass Polpo's test and gain yourself a stand. This leads you into Passione... where you end up meeting an old friend.

Truthfully you both never thought you'd see each other again...

Maybe it was best you didn't?

Narancia was ecstatic when he saw you again. The other members of Bucciarati's gang were surprised when Narancia leaped onto you with childish joy. You yourself even froze for a moment.

There he was... once again... your friend. You can't help but sadly smile as you hug him back. It was after this you were introduced to the gang.

From there you thought things were rather normal. Narancia hovered around you but that was expected when you catch up. You two talked a lot and the gang noticed Narancia got less angry at times.

Especially during studying with Fugo... his temper goes down to a simmer when you're around eagerly listening to the lesson.

The gang became your family along with Narancia. For a long time you feel happy. There's always moments between the members, both good and bad, but you love it.

Well... loved it... things got strange with Narancia after awhile.

Narancia got more and more clingy with you. At first you assumed it was just him being protective. After all... now he knows how easy it is to lose you.

But now he clings to you as though you'll abandon him. Instead of being calm his aggression spikes when you speak with others. It scares you how fast he pulls his blade on people around you now.

It's as though he's scared they'll take you.

The way Narancia looks at you is so different now. His eyes don't hold that same friendship anymore. Instead it's drowned out with a certain darkness as looks at you.

You hate that he seems to know exactly what you're doing at all times.

You know something's wrong. You just aren't sure how to deal with it. As a result you end up distancing yourself from Narancia. You instead find yourself talking to other people, not just the people in the gang.

It only seems to bring more issues.

You don't realize how far Narancia's gone until he does something drastic. You see him come back from a mission smelling of soot and blood one day. When you ask him what happened...his answer scares you.

"Oh... well I was off on a mission for Bucciarati... then I saw a certain guy you've been talking with... then I got a bit... carried away-"

The thought of what he means scares you. As a result you instead close to the gang more. However... even then it's not enough.

Narancia doesn't even like that anymore.

Soon Narancia corners you in private. You already fear to be around him... but you listen because you're friends, aren't you?

"Do you like me?"

Not anymore....

"Of course I do, Nara, we're friends until the end... always have been-"

"No, not like that. I mean... I want to be your boyfriend. We've been through similar pains, haven't we? ... don't you want to be with me?"

"Narancia..."

"Why have you been ignoring me?"

You curse yourself when he pins you, purple eyes swirling with a certain possessive tinge. Your fear increases when when he tightens his grip. It's then you try to reason....

"Narancia, please-"

"Answer my question..."

"You... you scare me, Nara. You won't let me talk to anyone but you-"

"You aren't supposed to!" He sneers. "You talk to anyone else... I'll lose you again."

"You won't Nara-"

"I need you to be with me... please say you will. I'll do anything!"

"Nara, I can't-" You whisper, trying to push him away.

"What do I need to do? Do I need to kill for you? I've done it before, I'll do it again!"

You pause for a moment, staring at Narancia. He seems to caught up in the moment to realize what he's said. He only pauses when he sees you shaking.

"So that's what happened..." You whisper, thinking of when he came back covered in blood and smelling of fire. "You're a monster..."

Then you see Narancia snap.

"I've given myself all to you! Yet you call me a monster!" Narancia yells, his grip tightening. His temper flares and it causes you to cry a bit. You want to go back to the rest of the gang.

Narancia seems to notice your shivering and sobs. His heart pangs in guilt. He's hurting you...

He's hurting you because he's selfish...

He doesn't want to lose you.

You don't move when Narancia pulls you into a hug. His gaze holds a delusional glint as he holds your shaking figure against him. He loves you too much... too much for his own good.

Why won't you reciprocate?

"You'll love me, even if we have to sit and wait for it to happen." Narancia whispers, kissing the top of your head. To him, he wants no one else.

You two belong to each other...

He's known that since he's met you... this is fate... he just has to be even more patient.

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Tunguska (4x08)

Rats are survivors. Natural born killers who do the work of destructors; by no means impervious, but they’ll attack the weak, anything that stands in their way. They adapt and survive.

Alex Krycek respects that. Maybe it’s why Mulder’s “insult” had felt like a compliment. 

Yeah, he’s learned to live like the rats. 

And yeah, Mulder. He’s had little trouble adapting. 

The relentless agent sits across from him now in this miserable cell, picking at the underside of his boot. Conversation doesn’t really work for them. They’ve been through enough shit together; you’d think he’s earned an iota of trust.

“So,” Alex ventures. “We gonna die here?”

Mulder glowers. “If we ever do get out, I’m gonna kill you myself, Krycek.”

Alex smirks. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh, no?”

“You’ve had a hundred opportunities. You haven’t taken any of them.”

Mulder’s eyes narrow. He says nothing. Spooky Mulder would never deny the truth.

They sit, the faint scratching of roaches and vermin echoing around the cell. Perhaps silence is preferable, but Alex can’t help himself. He wants the upper hand. He needs the upper hand. 

And he knows exactly how to get it.

“Whaddya think Scully’s up to?” he asks. Mulder’s eyes dart towards him, then away again. Here we go. As expected, Agent Scully is his trigger. Adapt, Alex. 

“Scully, Scully, Scully,” he purrs. “I remember when I met her. She could barely look at me. Like our partnership personally offended her.” He looks at Mulder, trying to make eye contact. “Most agents get a partner or two in their career. Maybe it works out, maybe it doesn’t. They move on. Not you two, though.”

His cellmate remains silent, but now wears  a searing glare. 

“We’re gonna die here anyway, Mulder, so you may as well confess. What’s she like, you know… in the sack? Carpet match the drapes?”

If looks could kill, Alex would be a dead man. He thrives off this, off making Mulder squirm. It’s just so fucking easy.

Sometimes he wonders how things would be if he’d just join forces with Mulder. He’s the obvious choice for an ally, morality-wise. But morality isn’t the medium with which Alex paints. He isn’t like Mulder. And anyway, there’s something he relishes more than his admiration of the man: the power Alex wields over him. 

Like right now.

Mulder clenches his jaw and looks away, unable to meet Alex’s eye. Once again, his honesty betrays him.

“Are you serious?” Alex’s eyes go wide. He was absolutely certain they were sleeping together. Talk about an X-File. “Shit. You two really had me fooled.”

His incredulity aside, this approach isn’t working. He needs to take a different route to get a rise out of Mulder. Something worse. 

“You know,” Alex says, lowering his voice. “Back when she was abducted, I suggested just… killing her.” Mulder bristles. “They underestimated your determination, but I never did. I warned them you’d never stop. They didn’t listen.”

A loud clang comes from somewhere in the gulag. A horrific scream. 

“Guess there’s still time,” Alex shrugs. “They don’t make the same mistake twice.”

That does it. Mulder lurches across the cell and wraps his hands around Alex’s neck for the second time today. There’s rage in his eyes, a primal savagery. And Alex likes it. He isn’t even sure why he does this, why he wants it. Maybe it’s the kind of thing he needs to feel alive. To feel like he isn't alone in the dark.

Like he does on occasion, he thinks of the missile silo. Mulder would probably like that story. But he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for talk. His arm is jammed beneath Alex’s chin, pinning him against the wall. He can feel his airway closing, but he knows it won’t last. Mulder will let him go. 

“Don’t ever say her name to me again,” Mulder seethes. For a wild moment it feels like they might kiss, and it’s not the first time he’s felt that way. There's an undeniable energy between them. Maybe it’s the knowledge there’s no one on the planet he hates more. Maybe Mulder’s passion is contagious. 

Maybe they’re both just animals.

As expected, Mulder lets him go with a ceaseless penetrating glare. Their little game is over for now; at least, until they play another one. 

They sit on opposite sides of the cell for hours until dinner is served. He and Mulder spit out the roach-infested soup in temporary camaraderie, but then a guard makes his way inside, and Alex takes his shot. He’s got one play left and he’s going to use it, no matter the cost.

The guard hesitates. Mulder asks for a translation, understandably concerned. Alex replies honestly: “That I want to see his supervisor.”

If he doesn’t want to see you, you’ll be accountable, the guard replies in Russian. He appears taken aback, unaccustomed to a prisoner's authoritative tone. 

I’ll be accountable, Alex insists. Mulder dumbly looks back and forth between them. 

The guard acquiesces, and opens the door. Freedom lies ahead if he can play this correctly, if he can just find one more dark pipeline to squeeze through. Maybe he’ll get out of this shithole alive after all. 

He’s brought before the head honcho and sings like a canary. The Americans are working on their own vaccine; he’s even got the name of the head doctor. He mentions an old comrade, Vasily Peskow. That gets their attention. 

Alex Krycek has been no stranger to loyalty. But as he betrays the country he genuinely loves, he realizes the truth: his loyalty is only to himself. 

As he’s escorted from the gulag, he’s taken past Mulder’s cell again. He peers inside where his adversary awaits whatever fate Alex’s defection has unleashed. There’s a slight twinge of regret inside him, but it quickly passes. 

He steps outside as the chilled air of Tunguska slaps him in the face. Beneath him, a rat scampers by, disappearing into the woodwork.

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own

@admiralty-xfd

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

[In-progress Obimaul, post TCW, updates tuesdays! New? Read the prequel "Desertification" on Ao3! 18+, Link at the end. ]

~~~~Chapter 8: Research and Rest~~~~

Darth Maul does not sweat.

A feature of zabrak, Dryden had believed, or nightbrothers specifically, considering the fetid swamps that bore them. Neither humidity nor dry desert heat seemed to bother him. The efforts of battle, business, and pleasure alike failed to bring any telltale gleam to crimson skin. The sith didn't even sweat in a hot bath, whenever they’d shared such on First Light or when visiting the Black Sun’s impressive bathhouses.

Now, as he watches sweat bead across tattooed skin and green mist seep from between bared teeth, Dryden has to wonder at the power of these psychic attacks. In the wake of it Maul growls and shakes, and radiates that same luscious aura of darkness all sith artifacts do. Even from a distance the force boiled hard enough that with just a barely-there connection he had felt it twisting.

A shiver runs crisp and chill down his spine. How quaint Maul’s warning suddenly feels, about the beguiling dangers of the objects in this room. By far the most seductive thing here is the sith lord driven to his knees before him. Dryden murmurs a question, barely recalls the words even as he says them. It serves its purpose, calling Maul’s attention to him. Bloodshot eyes open and rise to his. Sulfurous and dilated, only a thin ring of color around two dark pools. From this angle the zabrak is just sharp horns and burning irises framed in furious black.

Lovely, really.

The impulse to touch drives his hands together, fingers laced and steepled before his mouth. Dryden entertains the idea of running his fingers down the marks of a damp brow only briefly, truthfully far too engaged in watching how gracefully the sith rises to his feet, so very… wraithlike. The motion is too smooth to be anything but force-assisted.

When the other man turns his back Dryden follows, riveted by the fine tremor in black-clothed shoulders. After nearly three years of working together, Lord Maul has finally brought him here, to Dathomir… and how illuminating this visit has been, in such a short bit of time too.

It was to Maul’s credit that Crimson Dawn had survived the birth of a new Empire. Thrived, despite the chaos swirling around a young regime eager to swallow all who could or would stand opposed to it. Dryden had come to respect, and at times even depend on, Maul’s power. His efficient, unrelenting drive. However, the sith’s occasional habit of, hmmm… disappearing was, in Dryden’s opinion, another matter.

Sometimes it was simply not answering comms, other times...

Visits to worlds in the unknown regions. Excursions into imperial occupied space. Days in a trance, speaking to -apparently- ghosts. He’d rather feared this event was yet another distraction when Maul had gone quiet some weeks ago. Ensconced on Dathomir, off in his own horned head, again, leaving Dryden to manage their organization alone.

So unutterably boring compared to having him around.

But Maul’s summons had ended that monotony in spectacular fashion. A mystery, an unknown assailant, a dark power… and an exclusive invitation. Dryden’s patience had paid off so very well.

For a second time he is forced to stop his fingers from touching.

He does wonder though, who else had his lord contacted for help, before him? No one useful it seemed. No one with answers. These Dryden would provide, through the Dawn’s network.

The other man begins drifting back the way they came and Dryden smirks as he follows, self-amused. That Darth Maul has no one else is a delightful little theory Dryden finds himself lending more credence to by the hour.

They return upstairs to the ichor lit living space, such as it is. Maul retrieves his two books and goes to curl up in a nook of the stone couch. Dryden settles in beside him, not quite touching, and smiles a belladonna smile. With a faint creek from ancient bindings, Maul opens one of the books. His fingers are the slightest bit unsteady, a tremor making the edge of a floating page quiver. Oh yes, delightful.

"My lord,“ he interrupts before the sith can really get to reading.

Maul is immediately tense, turning to glare, a black lip curled just enough to show a hint of teeth. Heat creeps up Dryden’s neck as his markings flush in kind. Irritability is par for the course with Lord Maul, but that’s a bit more aggression aimed his way than is warranted, really. He’s here to help after all.

Staring back, he rolls his wrists over to show open palms. When the sith puts his teeth away and blinks, Dryden softens his own expression into an indulgent pout, reaching out to rest his arm on the couch behind Maul’s back. “What else might I do for you?”

Sharp teeth flash again when Maul replies. “Find me more references."

Tsk.

“Of course.” Dryden replies smoothly, and sits back on the couch- more of a bench, considering the lack of padding… perhaps he could get away with gifting the sith a collection of cushions? The carved scrollwork everywhere is lovely, but the lack of finishing touches is rather unfortunate.

“I will contact the personnel out hunting for us, yes?” he asks rhetorically, and uses his datapad to remote access First Light's encrypted holonet connection. “Perhaps they’ve found something by now.”

Maul grunts, and turns to his reading.

Dryden does as promised, checking in with his auction hunters and archivists.

Nothing pending, unfortunately. He reports the state of things in an apologetic murmur, and turns to working on other matters for a time. It wouldn’t do to press the irritated man for more details so soon; these will come in time.

Beside him, Maul reads with dogged focus. This turns out to be an activity involving near-constant muttering, rifling back and forth through the pages, and frequent small noises made at the text. This amusing intensity of concentration is broken an hour or so in, when the world tilts and—

Dryden sways in his seat, faintly startled. There are… chimes? Strings? Floating unseen through the air and reaching, seeking not through the air, but in the force, some great, intangible spider weaving a silken web from the energy of the universe itself. Plucked threads hum in a resonance felt rather than heard, bell tones melting in the ears across dimensions as they call, beckoning, coiling in an oil slick embrace around—

Maul makes a noise like a speeder failing to start and drops his book. It flops to the floor, and the sith hunches over. Energy surges out to throw the strings back, tearing, rending, shredding.

Dryden braces his hands on the stone couch, fighting to keep hold of which way is up as the raging chill of the dark side rips the beguiling music into a discordant cacophony, filling the world with screaming noise, windchimes in a hurricane.

When he can focus past the sheer noise, Dryden finds Maul curled in on himself, entire body gone indistinct and hazy. The sith's form wavers like a mirage, the lines of him dissolving into grey, curling mist. It’s the only part of him that’s moving, whipped into tatters by the storm playing out in the force.

Dryden has a hand out before he can even stop himself, surprised when his fingers are met with solid warmth.

The heat of Maul’s body is like a furnace beneath the black, roughspun fabric, bones shifting subtly against Dryden’s palm as the sith breathes— hard, panting. A far more pleasant thing to focus on than the dizzying sensation of clattering bells reverberating through his entire being, strings plucking and catching at him as they whip past in the force.

Swallowing back nausea, Dryden dares to reach toward the sith with what little force presence he has, pressing himself toward the questionable shelter of the icy claws ripping the noise asunder. A chill burns down his spine, vertigo gives one last, hard twist, and suddenly he’s… numb. The chimes and strings and furious energy is replaced by buzzing, as though a door had been shut on it all. Maul’s back heaves against his palm, and he takes a deep breath of his own, looking down to see his arm beginning to blur.

"Remarkable," he manages, raising his other hand before his eyes. A laugh rises in his throat as he watches his fingers all but disappear into shadows. In a matter of seconds his body appears no more corporeal than Maul’s.

Buffered from the attack, he is free to watch the man fight. A delight in any context, truly. The sith’s energy- what he can perceive of it- lashes around them. A deadly whirlwind pushing and shredding and holding back the dizzying, frigid presence that tries to intrude. Grinning, he reaches out with his own pale command of the force, moonlight compared to the wrath of a sun, reveling in the burn and rush of true power.

By the time whatever it is eases away, the cloth under his palm is damp, and his sith is shuddering from the strain.

“What-?” Dryden says in a whisper, then stops.

He isn’t sure how to phrase what he wants to ask. Adrenaline has made him giddy, questions clamoring in his mind, but Maul is growling again. The vibration of it rolls up his arm. He takes his hand away, but the zabrak doesn’t seem focused on him, too busy retrieving the fallen book with shaky fingers. It sits unopened in Maul’s lap for a time, while Dryden puts his thoughts in order and the sith’s breathing returns to normal.

A wordless sigh, and Maul goes to his reading like nothing had happened.

Dryden doesn’t. Couldn't possibly. “Do you… have anything stronger than tea, my lord?”

"Mnh," the man replies, seeming to think it over before setting his book aside and disappearing down the hall. The zabrak returns with an ancient bottle of something golden, and one crystal tumbler.

“Oh ,” he says at the sight of it, and ends up pouring four fingers for himself.

Dryden whiles away the rest of their evening working on his datapad, comforted by a glass of something like whiskey, if it was made from distilled sunshine. Maul reads beside him, disappearing to the kitchen on occasion for food, or presumably to weather yet another of the psychic assaults far enough away to spare him the radiant effects.

He can’t quite decide if he’s grateful or disappointed by that.

When the other man has finished devouring both books, to no evident result, he sets them on the low table and rises.

"I am going to rest,” Maul informs him, apropos of nothing, “Are you returning to your ship?”

"Hmmmm," Dryden stalls, nibbling lightly on his lower lip and swirling the dregs in his glass, "What are the odds something dathomirian would kill me in my sleep?"

"Small, but not zero. Everything on this world wants to kill and eat everything else, always," Maul says, blunt as ever.

Dryden looks up at him from under his blonde eyelashes. "Does that include you, my lord?"

"Mm, naturally,” the man responds, hands behind his back, shoulders too straight, a bright gleam in those bloodshot yellow eyes.

He laughs, entertained. Such a mild threat was practically a warm welcome, wasn’t it?

“I shall stay then,” he purrs against the rim of his glass, “if it pleases you?"

“Mh,” Maul has to say about that, “come then.”

Evidently, it does. Dryden tosses back the last of his whiskey and rises, turning to his droid. “Tee-four, retrieve my day bag, yes? Oh, and my crane robe. The black silk one with yellow tips on the feathers, from Ziton.”

He turns to smile at his sithly host, gesturing toward the hall he presumes leads toward the bedrooms. “After you.”

Maul leads him through a roughly hewn archway and down a hallway leading off to several little cave-like rooms, most of them empty apart from what’s clearly an office, shockingly modern. Dryden’s brief glance gives him the impression of a room transplanted straight from an Imperial starship, repainted in black. Curious.

Down past the office, the carved stone corridor opens up into a sprawling room that he takes for another storage space but… no, this must be the bedroom. They had passed by nothing else that would fit the description, and this room does indeed have a bed in it. A very large one- ovoid, of modern design- placed two steps up on an elevated dais that fills the far left of the room.

After a long look he can t ell how the room’s design had begun. Black ashwood furniture and tiled floors, luxury fixtures in bronze. The redstone of the walls and ceiling have been worked smooth, then carved onto decorative moulding, pilasters, and arabesques.

Whereas the rest of Maul’s apartments look half-done, this sanctuary stands as the example of what they all might become. Rough stone and eclectic styles, smoothed and harmonized into something… elevated. Dathomir’s wild sensibilities intertwined with sharp civil luxury, all bathed in the red gleam of the sunset pouring in through a wall of windows.

At some point, however, it seems the room’s thread had been lost. Countless candles, scattered about, substitute where electric fixtures seem to be inoperable. Their unsteady magelight reveals an odd and extensive collection of extra furnishings and storage crates, shoved and packed at random into the darkened edges of the room. Their surfaces are covered in… things. Partially disassembled electronics lay alongside priceless artifacts and sporadic clutter. Books, datapads, scrolls, tablets, and dripping candles. He spots the geometry of no less than three holocrons within the mess, edges shining in red and gold.

Maul’s dimly-lit hoard reduces the floorspace of what should be a grand room to perhaps half its useful potential.

He allows himself a long count of five to be overwhelmed by it all, then forces his mind toward relevant questions. Meanwhile, Maul has gone ahead, winding his way across the room.

"...my lord?" he asks, seeking direction.

The sith stops at the large bed and reaches to unlatch something at his middle, sounding distracted when he replies. Or… perhaps that’s tired? He’s never heard lord Maul sound tired before.

“Sleep where you please. Though I warn you, the attacks will continue through the night."

Well. That explains some things, including the bloodshot look his sith is sporting. Granted, his eyes were always somewhat rimmed in red, but not usually quite this much.

Dryden surveys the space, considering. There's a canapé à confidante style sofa with a long plush section that would do, if he cleared it off. What looks like a daybed is tucked up next to the windows, covered with more pillows than Iego has moons. Perhaps some of those might be migrated to the living room couch? Anyway, these two options may prove far enough away from Maul to avoid interrupting Dryden’s sleep with further assaults from those awful strings… but the sith had proven quite capable of shielding them both, and why invite him here in the first place, if not for company?

His shoes click on the tile as Dryden crosses the room to test those waters, moving up the two steps to join Maul on the dais. There’s more tiled redstone here, softened near the bed by a collection of dark pelts. He walks up to the edge of the mattress, mindful of the zabrak’s personal space -or more accurately the reach of his claws- and sits. No reaction comes.

Hm!

He looks over to find the sith tossing his robes onto the back of a chair. The last gasp of sunset highlights his lord’s skin with orange and gold. Taking off his cape, Dryden reclines on his elbows, tipping his head back to keep Maul in sight. “Tell me you’ve been able to get some sleep, hm? I know you can survive without, but that seems dreadfully unpleasant.”

The zabrak climbs into his bed, rolling over to fall back into the pillows. "Mnh."

When that’s all the answer he gets, Dryden lets his eyes wander over the view left bare to him, the rise and fall of a tattooed chest already slowing toward sleep. They’d shared beds before but never had the sith actually slept in his presence, so far as he knew. What a day of firsts it’s turning out to be, all thanks to this odd affliction.

Really though, what could be powerful enough to do this to his lord? Who could be daring and motivated enough to risk such advances?

PA-LT4 trundles in, balancing an oversized suitcase, and the crime lord turns these questions over idly as he stands to retrieve it. He’s imagined no truly realistic answers even in the time it takes to complete his nightly twelve-step hygiene routine, the droid kept busy fetching water. Its comings and goings don’t seem to bother Maul, who hasn’t stirred once since collapsing on top of the bedclothes in nothing but the pants he likely didn’t want to bother getting off over his cybernetic knees.

Dryden considers his motionless form briefly, and decides a pair of shorts are indeed enough. What was that saying? 'When in Onderon, do as they do'? Besides, Maul has never once cared about his state of dress, and the air here is a hint warm for his tastes.

He folds his crane robe and sets it aside on a small leather ottoman, then finds his way under the duvet Maul had ignored entirely. Black shimmersilk sheets await him, and he comments on them quietly, in case the man is still awake to hear him.

"My thanks for your hospitality, my lord, in these difficult times."

"Mnnnn," the sith hums softly. Not asleep quite yet then.

Dryden smiles as he makes himself comfortable. A night or two of poor sleep, presumably to be interrupted by the strange attacks, is an exceedingly small price to pay for everything he is gaining from this venture. He pillows his head on an arm and watches Maul’s pulse beat in the hollows of his neck, wondering what new things tomorrow will bring.

…and if he’ll get to take a longer look at that storage space.

Tag List: (comment to be added)

@savageopressbignaturals

[hourcat]

Piarles + 6 ("Are you jealous?") 🙏

It's not like he's expecting all that much on a race weekend, of all things. Pierre knows that every team's media responsibilities are different, and that Ferrari especially thrives off of the content it's putting out between race weekends. He's been training himself not to be bothered by it...or, at the very least, trying his damnedest.

It's been getting harder, lately, considering Carlos' driving has been infuriating Pierre for the better half of this year so far and Charles still giggles and laughs along with him whenever they're in front of Josh's work phone.

Josh, of all people! Pierre's friend. He'd never wish anything bad on him, truly, but the little jealous creature that is permanently entrenched deep in his gut wishes he'd never left AlphaTauri. He'd been good at playing up the heavy bromance between himself and Yuki back in the day, which will only mean it will work just as well with Charles and Carlos. It's a nauseating thought.

But he's trying not to have it. It's especially difficult this weekend, because Monza is so steeped in Ferrari lore that there's no way Pierre is going to escape without being forced to witness some god-awful onslaught of red teammate shenanigans on his Instagram feed, but he is trying. It's what has him clenching his fist as he walks through the motorhome lot, the water bottle in his other hand getting the white-knuckling treatment as he thinks about how he is not thinking about Charles getting too close to Carlos to make the tifosi happy. "It is only a weekend," he mumbles aloud like he's actually going to listen to himself. It's only a weekend, and Jack had texted him earlier in the week that the two of them will be doing some TikTok trend because Esteban is too busy to have fun or whatever. He'll survive.

And then he hears a bright peal of laughter as he's walking by the alley between the Ferrari and McLaren motorhomes, and his confidence in that statement wanes dramatically. When he turns towards the sound, Pierre is greeted with the sight of Carlos fucking Sainz leaned onto Charles, tickling him as someone not named Josh films the two of them for some stupid challenge. He's almost chest-to-back with him, one arm hooked around his waist, and oh Pierre is seeing red. Is there a color beyond red for this? If there is, he's being swallowed up in it. Charles lifts his head at the perfect moment, mouth open wide and giggling as he seems to register Pierre's presence. His eyes are sparkling with joy.

Pierre doesn't even have the wherewithal to wave. With a noise that feels like it's been clawed from deep in his chest, he stalks off the rest of the way to Alpine's setup, anger boiling in his blood and filling his ears from what he'd just seen. There is no personal space between them, he thinks hotly, there is never any fucking space. He's rationalized instances like this before, and he will again, but the sight of Carlos pressed so intimately against Charles is burned into his retinas right now. He swings his driver's room door open and then slams it shut. Ben asks him if he's alright through the door and Pierre barely manages an I'm fine before he throws himself onto the couch like a child having a tantrum. "Fucking Monza," he mutters to the empty room. Like he didn't win here once upon a time. Like he doesn't love Italy with his whole heart.

Truthfully, Pierre doesn't know how much time he's actually spent coiled up in anger when the knock at his door breaks the silence. "Pierrot," Charles' voice is sweet and concerned, which means Pierre doesn't stand a chance against him right now. He sighs and sags further into the couch.

"Come in, Charles," he answers. The door clicks open immediately and Charles doesn't even bother waiting for it to swing shut again before he's clambering onto the couch, wrapping his arms around Pierre's shoulders to deliver a wet kiss to his cheek. The wildfire of rage in him cools off a little.

"Hi," Charles murmurs, nose smushed against the line of Pierre's beard. His mouth is warm. Pierre wants nothing more than to tug him into his lap and kiss him senseless--kiss him until he forgets his teammate, his team, his purpose here in the first place.

Instead, he sighs. "Hi," he responds, trying to keep from sounding too despondent. "What are you doing here, calamar?"

Charles peels back to raise his eyebrows. "What do you mean," he says flatly. "I did just witness you storm off like you were going to commit a murder, Pierre. Was I not supposed to come make sure you were not in trouble?" His mouth is quirked in a little smile, but his eyes hold a glint of concern that makes Pierre feel a little guilty.

"I'm fine," he replies. But it sounds flimsy to his own ears, and Charles snorts and shakes his head. "Don't worry about me, Charles. I'm alright. Nothing is wrong." He tries to pull Charles into his lap, now, but Charles is firmly settled into Pierre's side right now, and is apparently using all of his toned muscle to stay there.

"You're a terrible liar," he mumbles. "You can tell me any--" but then he cuts off, inhaling sharply all of a sudden, and Pierre swallows because this is exactly what he does when he figures out how exactly to read the mood. "Are you jealous?"

He sounds so incredulous that Pierre can't help the flush that colors his cheeks. "No," he lies. Charles tuts softly and grabs at Pierre's jaw, tilting his head so that they're now facing one another properly. He can't hide this for long.

"You are a terrible liar," Charles repeats, voice even quieter. "Pierre, I don't--you have nothing to be jealous over, Carlos is my teammate. I have to do this with him. We are a brand, no matter how much I don't like it." He wrinkles his nose. "You know I only love you."

Pierre does. Hearing Charles say it out loud again makes him blush even more, embarrassment putting more and more of his heated feelings out. He does know Charles loves him and him alone, and he does know that it's all Ferrari mandates and propagandas, but...

"Charlie," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. I know." When he tugs at Charles again, this time, he's rewarded: the Monegasque hums softly and goes along with it, settles in Pierre's lap like a weighted blanket and drapes his arms over Pierre's shoulders. The expression on his face is loving and knowing and nonplussed all at once.

"I know you are not his biggest fan," he hums. "And you know I am mad at him for what he has done to you this season. But I can't avoid him, mon petit." Charles rubs a gentle hand against Pierre's chest. "Please don't be upset. Please?" He's giving Pierre the big doe eyes that always, always work on him. Damn his boyfriend for knowing him so well.

He swallows, then reaches up to rest his hand against Charles' cheek. "I won't be," he answers. Then: "I will try my hardest, Charlie. For you."

Charles' face breaks into a grin. "For me," he echoes. "Thank you, mon petit." He swoops in for a kiss--chaste, quick, warm. Pierre wants to keep him trapped in his arms all day long. "I love you." Their noses bump. Pierre sighs, then leans in again for another kiss. (He can't help it. Habit.)

"And I love you."

[ros3mari3]

From Shadows to Light

Part One.

Part 2

Part 3

Carl Grimes x reader.

For the sake of this imagine I'm not exactly following the right ages. So Carl isn't 12 when they're at the prison, he's about 15 and so is the reader.

The world had ended long ago, but the struggles for survival continued. You joined the group a few months after they found relative safety in an old, abandoned prison. The high fences and strong walls provided a semblance of security against the undead outside, but inside, tensions ran high. Resources were scarce, and tempers often flared.

You were a fighter, always had been. Your survival instincts and independence kept you alive, but they also made it hard for you to integrate into the group. You respected Rick and his leadership, but you often clashed with his son, Carl. He was a around the same age as you, and his intense blue eyes held a depth of experience and pain that matched your own.

“Hey, we’re going out for a supply run. You in?” Glenn asked, poking his head into the small cell you had claimed as your own.

“Sure,” you replied, standing up and grabbing your knife. “Anything to get out of here for a while.”

As you walked to the yard, you spotted Carl loading his gun. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you could already see the annoyance there.

“You’re coming?” he asked, barely hiding his disdain.

“Yes, Carl, I’m coming,” you replied, your tone matching his. “Try not to sound so excited.”

“Just don’t slow us down,” he muttered, turning away.

You rolled your eyes but bit back a retort. The last thing you needed was another argument, especially before a run. For kids, the two of you were surprisingly hostile, but I guess the world going to shit would do that to a kid.

The drive into town was tense. Glenn, Maggie, and Michonne tried to make small talk, but you and Carl remained silent, staring out opposite windows. The truck bumped along the road, the silence between you two heavy with unresolved tension.

When you reached the outskirts of a small, deserted town, Glenn pulled the truck over. “Alright, we’re looking for food, medical supplies, and any ammo we can find. Stay sharp.”

You nodded, following the group as they spread out. You ended up in a small convenience store with Carl. The silence between you was deafening as you picked through the remnants of what had once been a thriving business. Whilst picking through random objects, you had found a handful of pretty lip-glosses, all a variety of colors. But in a world like this, no one can have pretty things. You sighed and walked away, not realizing Carl was observing you quietly.

“You think we’ll find anything useful?” Carl asked, breaking the silence.

“Doubt it,” you replied, not looking up.

“Great,” he muttered. “Another waste of time.”

You snapped your head up, glaring at him. “If you have a problem with me being here, just say it, Carl.”

He met your gaze, his eyes cold. “I don’t have a problem with you. I just don’t trust you.”

You felt a pang of hurt but masked it with anger. “Fine. Trust is earned, not given. And I don’t trust you either.”

He scoffed, turning away. “Whatever.”

The rest of the run was uneventful, the silence between you and Carl thick with unspoken words. When you returned to the prison, you handed over the supplies you’d found and retreated to your cell, exhaustion washing over you.

The days turned into weeks, and despite the ongoing tension, you and Carl found yourselves paired together more often than not. Rick insisted it was good for both of you, that working together would help build trust. You weren’t so sure, but you didn’t argue.

One hot afternoon, you and Carl were out scavenging in the woods near the prison. You had snuck out, not realizing Carl had followed you until it was to late.

"Why are you following me, Carl?"

"Because I don't trust you. You could betray us, or something." his voice didn't sound accusing.

You scoffed, "Right."

The sun beat down, and the air was thick with humidity. You wiped sweat from your brow, glancing over at Carl. You opened your mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything to say.

As you pushed through the underbrush, you heard a rustling noise behind you. You turned just in time to see a walker stumbling toward Carl, who was preoccupied with something on the ground.

“Carl, look out!” you shouted, running towards him.

He spun around, eyes wide, and raised his gun. But you were closer, and before he could fire, you lunged at the walker, driving your knife into its skull. The walker crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Carl stared at you, shock and something else—maybe gratitude—in his eyes. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, a little breathless. “Just pay more attention next time.”

He rolled his eyes but nodded, the tension between you easing slightly. “Yeah, I will.”

For the first time, you felt a small spark of something other than animosity. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for you two after all.

Over the next few weeks, the encounters between you and Carl became less hostile. You started to notice things about him you hadn’t before—the way he always looked out for the younger kids in the group, the quiet strength he showed even in the toughest situations.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, you found yourself sitting on the steps outside the prison, staring at the sunset. Carl came out and sat beside you, neither of you speaking for a long time.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry, you know. For being such a jerk when you first joined us.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “It’s fine. We all have our issues.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands. “I just… I’ve lost so many people. It’s hard to trust anyone new.”

You felt a pang of sympathy, your own losses flashing through your mind. “I get it. I’ve lost people too.”

He looked up at you, his eyes softening. “Maybe we can try to be… I don’t know, friends?”

You smiled, a genuine smile that felt foreign after so long. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[thefalseapp]

Wraith Wrath - Chapter II

It took Kaz’s every bit of strength to conceal the rush of emotions that surged within him when Anika told him about the return of The Wraith. His heart was pounding. Too fast for his liking. Way too fast. He hadn’t planned this. Or maybe he did. He couldn’t tell between the moments he dreamed of her coming back and those where he wished for her to stay away from this city and him so he wouldn’t have to deal with the feelings that came along with her company. 

I can help you. Those were the very first words she ever addressed to him. And she did help him. In more ways than one. But he was certain he couldn’t live up to the expectations she had for him. He couldn’t be the boy he was before Jordie. That boy wouldn’t survive in a city like this. And he didn’t want to be that boy again. He had let him sink at the bottom of the sea along his brother’s body for a reason. Kaz Brekker was the only way to survive and thrive. Even if all the broken pieces couldn’t be put back together anymore. Even if he was only half a man. Kaz Brekker had been who he needed to be. 

All those years, working together, side by side, he had done everything to make sure Inej wouldn’t believe he would become something he was not. But she was headstrong. Way more than he was. She made him yield quite a few times. He never quite understood the hold she had on him. But the only thing he was certain of was that they had saved each other. Again and again. 

The sharp pain in his leg warned him of his fastened pace. Patience was not on his side today so he shifted his weight to rely more on his cane. He needed to slow down if he wanted to arrive at the Slat standing. 

Those two last years have been pretty time-consuming. Pekka Rollins vanished into thin air. The Dime Lions left behind became stray cats. Roaming the city to find a place. All the gangs wanted to put their head in Pekka Rollins’s old crown and their feet on his desk, claiming the title of King of the Barrel high and loud. After all the trouble Kaz brought in the Barrel, he wasn’t going to leave any crumbs behind to pick after. He was going to make sure that nobody would become the next Pekka Rollins, the next Jakob Hertzoon. And it took a lot of work. A lot of bruised shoulders, a lot of persuasions, and a lot of transactions. Diplomacy wasn’t his forte. He preferred to leave that to what was left of the Merchant Council. By the end of last year, a lot of the members had been replaced by new ones. Roeder was still helping him keep tabs on all of them. Even if they were barely adult enough to take some serious missions, their youth, their desire to please, and their recklessness could become serious threats. 

But right now, all of this could wait. He turned right in an alley and took the main one leading to the Slat. Kaz flexed his gloved fingers. Saying that he was nervous would be an understatement. He was completely frightened. Like a boy. Suddenly, fighting a Grisha drugged with Jurda parem didn’t seem so terrifying after all. 

He crossed the hall and started climbing the stairs. He knew where she was. He composed himself before opening the door but when he did, the tiny bit of confidence he built after each step suddenly left him. He was right. She was there. He had forgotten how enchanting she could be, sitting on that window ledge, her legs dangling in the air, with strands of her soft hair around her face. Her beautiful dark eyes were closed and her long lashes were caressing her cheeks.

For how long had he stood there looking at her? Turn around. He turned his back to her and went towards the sink. He set aside his cane, took good care at removing his gloves, and put his hands under cold water. This simple routine helped him recover a sense of control. 

“Hello, Inej”. His voice had been deeper than anticipated. 

He could sense her presence getting closer. He finally dared himself to look in the mirror and his eyes met hers. Her gaze on him was so timid yet tender that, once again, he completely lost the ability to command his own body. How absurd it was of him to think that observing her through the mirror would be more reassuring than meeting her eyes directly.

His hands were freezing, still in the faucet. Neither of them were sure what to expect from the other. He could tell. But she will always have her place in Ketterdam. And she will always have her place near him. 

“Hello, Kaz”. Her voice was like honey and he was ready to feed on every drop of it.  

“You and your crew have a place to stay?”, Kaz said in a tone that he sincerely hoped seemed detached. 

“I was hoping you could help with that.” 

“I cleared the two top floors of the tavern that replace the Kaelish Prince across the street from the club. One for your crew, and one for you.” 

“Are you hoping that after two years at sea, my men will fill the coffers of the Crow Club?” Her eyes were playful and so intense that he had to look away for a minute. Coward.

“I don’t need your men to fill the coffers. Plenty of pigeons have already taken that task very seriously. But who am I to refuse honest workers a seat in my establishment? What they do after is up to them. And you, Captain Ghafa.” 

An honest smile captured her face while she looked down at her feet. He missed this. But mostly he missed her. Her presence. They could be talking or staying silent, it was her company that he cherished the most. 

“I don’t need an entire floor, Kaz.” 

“You can sleep in the broom closet if you like, but the top floor is yours”, Kaz said firmly. 

No need to argue this one out. The two top floors have always been vacant. Many of the Dregs were curious about that. Kaz Brekker doesn’t do something for nothing. Especially when it can mean financial gain. The thing is, he didn’t owe any of them an explanation. 

The truth, however, is that Kaz had always hoped Inej would come back to Ketterdam, to him, and he wanted her to have something more than what he was able to offer her before. That something was Sanktum.

[sebstanaddict]

Love Song

Sebastian Stan x Female Reader Story

Chapter 18 - Go

Summary : A romantic comedy story between Sebastian Stan and female reader where we witness their journey after they said I do.

After a hard and unexpected honeymoon, reader and Sebastian finally goes back home to New York. But all their hopes of getting some peace and calm are squashed as they are still the hottest gossip the whole world is talking about. All the things that have been happening since their wedding bogged down in reader's heart and made her decide to do the hardest thing in her life. Will she successfully go through with her plan?

Pairings : Sebastian Stan x Female!Reader

Chapters : 18/21 (might add more)

Chapter List >

Warning : Death, grief, loss of mother, death during childbirth, divorce and separation mention

Word count : 6.3k

This is a sequel to my first Sebastian fic Always You. If you want to understand more about Sebastian's and reader's relationship, please read it first. But it's not necessary to understand this story. Check it here.

---

For all the love we've made

Just one thing stays the same

The lamp gets dusty

The pipes get rusty

But I don't want to wash my hands clean

You say you love me too

Then why won't you go through

With the nightly kisses

With the hits and the misses

If you can make it on your own then

Go if you want to go

But stay if you want to know

The way through the mess we've made

And lie in a bed you know

Or go

I heard your moving van

But I didn't take a stand

You can't leave with them

You can't live without them

I never thought I'd want to let you

Go if you want to go

But stay if you want to know

The way through the mess we've made

And lie in a bed you know

Or go

Go - Hanson

A/N : this song is sung by Zac Hanson, the real man that inspired Y/n's ex in this story. Just a fun fact 😁

---

Soho, New York - May 29th 2023 - 2 pm

"Yes, it was all just a misunderstanding. We're not cheating on each other. We're happier than ever. Right, honey?" Sebastian turned to look at her, smiled wide, put his arms around her shoulders and squeezed her tight.

"Oh.. yeah. That's right. We couldn't be happier." She said, startled at Sebastian's sudden gesture towards her. She quickly regained her composure and gave the interviewer a smile that didn't reach her eyes. 

Happy ever after. That was all anyone who got married thought that they would get once they exchanged their vows and said 'I do'. But she was sure anyone who got married didn't anticipate how hard it was to maintain a marriage. Well, at least she didn't.

Love. The sacred word everyone longs for. The word that some say was the reason God created the world and all of His creations. God's Love - infuses every being in the universe and makes sure every being thrives, survives, and continues to spread across the universe. How powerful the word is. How powerful the word should be and that was what she thought too.

She thought love was enough to keep two people in a marriage. But she realized how so naive she was.

The moment their plane touched the landing in New York several days ago instead of feeling glad and happy to be back, she felt a sinking dread in her stomach. The pap walk she did with Sebastian seemed to backfire at them. Instead of it clearing their image, it distorted their image even further with the image of the girl dumping an egg on her head spread around the world like wildfire. 

As she had suspected, they were bombarded again by paparazzis at the New York JFK airport. Some of the paparazzis even followed them to their apartment, hoping to get more pictures and footage of them after the embarrassing event in Rome.

For several days they could barely get out of their apartment without being bombarded and followed by them. Seeing that fact and how they had gotten a lot of pressure from Sebastian's PR team, they finally agreed on giving an interview to the press to clarify everything.

"Any comment on the charges a paparazzi has on you over what happened in Paris?" The interviewer, who was a beautiful woman in her thirties, turned to Sebastian.

"I just want to say that I did what every husband would do to protect their wife. I'm sure you've seen the footage. You've heard what he said to my wife? Right?!" Sebastian asked, releasing his hold on Y/n, his voice raised a little.

"Yes.. yes.. he called you.. excuse me.. a sl*t?" The interviewer asked, turning to Y/n.

She just nodded, avoiding the gaze of the interviewer. Not sure how else to respond.

"Yes. So, you see. I don't know what his problem is. It's not like I go around punching people in the face for fun. He deserved what he got." Sebastian said in a stern voice.

"I see. So, what's next for you Sebastian? There are rumors that Marvel thought about replacing you with someone else as Bucky for Thunderbolts. Can you share something about that?"

"The rumors are unfortunately true. But everything has been cleared up between Marvel and me and I'm still going to play Bucky. In fact, I will be leaving for Atlanta on June 1st." Sebastian responded.

As Sebastian and the interviewer continued to talk, Y/n's mind wandered back to yesterday, to the moment she finally decided to do what she needed to do later on today, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how resolute her heart is on the matter.

Her heart ached as she remembered it. She couldn't believe that she could act so well and play along with being fine in their marriage while in her mind their marriage was at the brink of sinking. 

After days of being stalked by paparazzis in their apartment and feeling frustrated and suffocated that she couldn't yet feel normal in her own home, she finally found an opportunity to slip out and get her mind cleared, right when the paparazzis were finally away from standing around in front of their apartment. They were probably away having lunch. She had thought.

She told Sebastian that she needed to visit her mother's grave. She had not visited her in a while and she missed her terribly. Sebastian had wanted to accompany her but she insisted on going alone. Besides, going with him would just attract people's attention. Just as they had experienced for several days. In the end he finally agreed and she left both Sebastian and Starlene back at the apartment while she went to New Brunswick, New Jersey - where her mother was buried - alone.

She laid down the bouquet of flowers she had bought earlier on top of her mother's grave and knelt down, her fingers traced her mother's name on the tombstone.

Y/M/F/N Y/M/L/N

1953 - 2016

Mother, wife and most of all, an amazing woman

Tears fell from her eyes as she read the writings on the tombstone. 

Mom, I miss you so much. 

She sobbed and couldn't help but sink down onto her mother's grave on all fours. 

Her mother would know what to do and what to say to her during times like these. She had successfully hid the turmoil in her heart from Sebastian for several days. But it all came out on her mother's grave that day. All the confusion and negative thoughts surrounding her mind regarding her marriage to Sebastian overtook her heart and mind and all she could feel was ache and pain. Her heart felt like it broke into a thousand pieces as she contemplated on doing what she wanted to do to their marriage. 

She never thought she would think about it. But, after all that had happened, she felt she should put herself first and foremost. She should prioritize herself. She was tired of sacrificing herself for Sebastian, no matter how much she loved him. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that they just weren't meant to be. 

Right after they got back, she thought he was going to be more attentive towards her. Especially after what happened in Rome. But it took him only one day to fall back into his workaholic self. 

Apparently, the whole fiasco of him having punched the paparazzi had attracted Ric Flair's attention. He had asked to meet Sebastian, especially since Sebastian was going to play him in his biopic. Sebastian had asked her to come with him but she was still feeling tired and wary of being in the public eye. Especially since Ric was planning on calling on the paparazzis for their meeting. So in the end she didn't come with him.

After that he was busy going to the gym everyday as he prepared to play Bucky. He was also mostly focusing on learning his lines for Thunderbolts throughout the day, so that he barely had time to help her taking care of Starlene and Lucky. She couldn't help but feel neglected again.

She understood that he needed to prepare for Thunderbolts. But she was hoping that he would be more attentive and helpful towards her. Of course, she couldn't expect him to change overnight. His job had always been number one for him. She should've known that after knowing him for 22 years. But she couldn't help but feel annoyed at his behavior. Especially since they were going to be separated again in several days.

Yes, despite everything that had happened, they had decided to separate again during the filming of Thunderbolts. Having Starlene on set really was a distraction to everyone. And she wouldn't be able to get any help over in Atlanta to take care of Starlene while in New York she could ask for his mother's help or Shannon's. He had requested to Marvel so they would allow him to go back to New York every month, just for a weekend, and thankfully they allowed him. So they could still see each other regularly throughout the whole five months of shooting.

Everything seemed to be okay on the surface. But deep in her heart this was not what she wanted.

"Never settle for just anyone, my dear. If a man truly loves you, he would move mountains for you. He would sacrifice everything for you. He would do whatever it takes to make you happy, and he would always be honest with you. Remember that, my dear. Find someone who loves you as much as I love you." 

She remembered her mother's words on her deathbed 7 years ago. Tears continued to fall freely from her eyes as she remembered how her mother had touched her cheek gently after saying those words, and how those words were the last words she ever heard from her ever again.

She knew she wasn't just settling for anyone. Sebastian was the love of her life, and she was his. But the kind of life that he led was just not what she wanted. She felt she had sacrificed so much for him and got nothing back in return except embarrassment and anxiety. It was all too much.

She couldn't imagine being happy staying back home while he went out of town to shoot movies all over the world. She couldn't imagine the jealousy she would inevitably feel towards his co-stars, no matter how many times he would assure her that he would never cheat on her. She trusted him but she couldn't trust herself not to feel those feelings of jealousy. Moreover, the fact that they could both lie to each other so easily still bothered her. And something in her gut told her that he still hides something from her. Not to mention all the hate she got from his fans. It was like the trigger that finally pushed her towards the edge and broke her, more than anything else.

Her mind wandered back again to everything that had happened since they got married. How terrible things turned out for them. Maybe those superstitions were true. She finally concluded. And if those superstitions were true, there was only one possible outcome of their marriage.

The thought stung her heart again and she wept and wept. 

"Y/n?" a gentle male voice suddenly sounded in her ears.

She stopped crying immediately and wiped the tears from her eyes and nose with her sleeves. Feeling utterly embarrassed at whoever it was that caught her crying in the middle of the grave.

She looked up and saw familiar bright blue eyes. The owner of the eyes smiled at her. Showing dimples on his cheek.

"Michael?!" She exclaimed in surprise. 

"Oh, it's really you, Y/n! Oh my God, how are you?" Michael asked, kneeling down beside her and embraced her tight.

"Uh.. yeah.. hi Michael." She said awkwardly as she hugged him back.

What were the odds of her meeting another one of her ex at this moment? She thought in disbelief. But then again, Michael did live in New Brunswick, so it wasn't entirely impossible.

"It seems you're not okay." Michael said, his face looked at her in concern as he released her from his embrace.

"No. I've been better." She sighed.

"Oh yeah. I.. uh.. I saw what happened between you and Sebastian in the news. It must have been so hard on you." He said.

"It is.. yeah." She nodded and she stood up slowly.

"Well.. if you need anyone to talk to." He said, standing up as well and smiling warmly at her.

"Uh.. thanks Michael. I'm okay. I was just.. remembering my mom." She sniffled. Pouring her heart out to her ex really wasn't the best idea, she realized that.

"Oh yeah, of course." He nodded. 

She looked down and noticed he held a bouquet of flowers.

"I was about to visit my late wife's grave." He smiled.

Late wife?! She thought in shock.

"Oh.. I'm sorry Michael. I didn't know." She said, reaching out to touch his hand and squeezed it.

"Well yeah, we lost contact years ago. Of course you didn't know." He shrugged.

"I.. yeah. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I realize I wasn't the best boyfriend for you. So.. anyway, maybe you'd like to come with me and 'meet' my late wife? I'm sure you both would've gotten along well if you knew her." He smiled with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"Oh sure." She nodded.

"Bye mom. I'll come again soon." She said, putting her fingers on her lips then putting her hand on her mother's tombstone. She sighed and turned around to find Michael looking at her sadly.

"Shall we?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure." She nodded.

He continued to walk and after passing rows of rows of tombstones he finally stopped.

"Well Y/n, meet Stacey, my late wife." He smiled wistfully as he put the bouquet of flowers in his hand on top of Stacey's grave.

"Hi Stacey." She said gently as she looked down on Stacey's tombstone. She looked at her birth and death year and was startled to learn that Stacey was only 30 years old when she died. It must have been so hard on Michael, her heart broke for him.

"Michael, I'm sorry. Do you mind telling me how she died?" She asked gently.

"She died during childbirth." He sighed. She didn't think she could feel even more sorry for him but she did.

"Oh.. I'm really sorry, Michael." She said as she put her hand on his arm gently.

"She died giving birth to two of the most beautiful girls in the world. My twin daughters, Michelle and Lily." He smiled but she could see his eyes watered a little.

"Oh, you have twin daughters? That's amazing." She smiled.

"Yeah. They're the best thing that ever happened to me." He smiled.

"Yeah, I couldn't agree more." She said, remembering Starlene back home.

"Where are they?" She asked.

"Oh, they're at ballet practice. They have a recital coming up in two weeks." 

"That sounds amazing!"

"Yeah. You know they're only 9 years old but they play Odette and Odille in Swan Lake already." He chuckled.

"Oh wow! They must be very good!" She exclaimed.

"Yeah, would you believe they started ballet when they were only 3." He said with pride in his voice.

"You must be so proud of them." She smiled.

"I am. Yeah." He nodded. He pulled out his cellphone and swiped on it. After some time he showed her a picture of him and his daughters. Both had long blonde hair and a cute smile, with eyes as bright as his. She couldn't help but feel touched looking at them.

He continued to show pictures of his daughters, from when they were just born up until they were in elementary school. He really was there for them. He was there during their kindergarten graduation, soccer practice, musicals, and their ballet recitals of course. There were also many pictures of them on vacation together. Just the three of them. Never in a million years she thought Michael would ever be a good dad. But here he was, having two beautiful little girls. And he brought them up all by himself. She couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and pride at him. 

"Anyway, I have to get going. They'll be finished soon." He said, putting his cellphone back in his pocket. 

"Oh yeah, of course." She nodded.

"Do you.. maybe want to meet them?" He asked slowly.

"Oh! I.. uh.." She pondered on what to do. The last time she went out with her ex things didn't end well. So she was really hesitant to do it.

"If you don't want to it's okay. I completely understand. You're kind of famous these days." He chuckled.

She sighed in defeat. "Yeah.. I'm sorry Michael. As much as I would love to meet your daughters, it's just not a good idea right now."

"I know." He smiled, understanding in his eyes.

"Well, maybe we can meet again next time you're around? And with Sebastian too of course." He said.

"Yeah.. maybe.." She said, feeling the ache again in her heart again as she remembered Sebastian.

"Okay. Well, see you around, Y/n. Take care of yourself." He smiled and nodded.

"See you around, Michael. You take care too." She smiled back.

He turned around and walked away, leaving her feeling a slight amazement at how things turned out for Michael. She never thought he would be a dad, ever, with him being so selfish. But, people changed it seemed. And she was happy that Michael turned out okay. 

He was clearly single and that made her think. He could definitely be a good dad to Starlene.

She quickly stopped herself at that thought and grimaced. 

Was she seriously thinking of going back with Michael and leaving Sebastian? What was wrong with her?

Sebastian's face came to her mind and her heart ached again. The love she felt for him was still there. But also all the anxiety and the feeling of unease and distrust.

All the things that had happened since their wedding came back to her mind like a freight train. Her heart felt heavy. But in order to survive she needed to do this. She hoped one day Sebastian would forgive her and accepted her decision. No matter how hard and heartbreaking it was.

"Honey? Are you okay?" She felt her hand being touched gently.

The voice brought her back to the present day with full force.

She blinked and turned to look at Sebastian, who was looking at her full with concern.

"I.. I'm sorry. What was the question again?" She asked, turning to look at the interviewer.

"I was just asking how are you dealing with all the hate you get from Sebastian's fans." The interviewer said.

"Oh. I.. well. I try to put myself in their shoes. Although it's very hard, of course. But I could somehow understand them. So, yeah. There's no hard feelings from me to them. It was all a giant misunderstanding." She smiled although once again her smile didn't reach her eyes.

She could feel her hand being squeezed by Sebastian and she turned to look at him. He stared at her as if the world laid under her feet and it made her heart skip a beat.

How could she still feel like this towards him after all that she had decided? She started to wonder if she could go through with what she needed to do. Or will she fall into his arms again and just forget everything and be under his mercy again.

"Thank you so much to you both for giving us your time." The interviewer said, smiling at them both.

"Of course. Thank you for being here. We really appreciate it." Sebastian smiled back.

They shook hands and soon the interviewer and the whole camera crew left their apartment. Leaving them to deal with reality again. At least for her because it seemed to Sebastian everything was perfect.

As soon as the interviewer and her crew went out the door, Sebastian approached her and gave her a tight hug.

"Thank you so much, honey. You have no idea how much I appreciate you doing this for me." He said, placing his chin on her head.

She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with his familiar scent. For the last time. She thought wistfully. 

"You're welcome, Seb." She said.

Sebastian released her from his embrace and looked down with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Sweetheart, is something wrong?" 

"Umm.. yes actually. I.. I need to talk to you." She said, pulling his hand gently and guided him to sit on the sofa.

"Honey, you're scaring me. What's going on?" He asked as soon as he sat on the sofa.

She gazed at his beautiful ocean blue eyes and felt the ache again in her heart. Never will she be able to look at him like this again. He would most likely hate her forever for doing this. But she had to do it. For her own sake.

"I.. " she looked down and fiddled with her fingers. She couldn't look at him while saying this.

"First of all, I'm really sorry for what I'm about to say. It's not you. Well.. it's you but it's mostly me. So.."

"Honey, what are you on about?" He asked, his voice started to sound agitated.

She looked up and decided to just say it. Like pulling on a band aid. The faster she did it, the faster the pain would go away even though it would hurt like hell when she pulled it.

"I.. I want a divorce, Seb." She said slowly.

Sebastian didn't answer right away. She stared at him and all she could see was the shock on his face. He looked like he was just hit by a car.

"Y/n.. don't play games with me." He finally responded, his voice shook.

"I'm not. I have thought about this a lot ever since we came back. I.. this isn't the life that I want, Seb. As much as I love you, I'm just not happy." She said with a slight tremble in her voice.

"You're not happy? Tell me what I did wrong. I can fix it! Just.. just don't give up on us, Y/n!" He reached out his hands to hers, squeezing them tight.

"Everything is just wrong, Seb. I'm.. I'm sorry.." She said, releasing her hands from his and stood up as tears started to fall from her eyes.

She started to pace the room as her brain tried to put together what she had wanted to say to him.

"Is it the fans? You can't deal with the hate from them?" He asked, looking up at her with anxiety in his eyes.

"It's not the fans, Seb." She sighed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Then what is it? What did I do wrong?" He asked, utter confusion written on his face.

"Seb.. I just feel we both want different things. And I don't see any of us giving up and sacrifice ourselves for the other."

"What do you want Y/n? You know if I can, I can give you the moon. Just please.. please don't go." He stood up and approached her, holding both her hands in his again. His voice trembled and tears started to fall from his eyes, prompting her to cry too.

"Oh, Seb." She sobbed and he reached out and embraced her tight.

"Tell me what you want, honey. I'll give it to you. I promise, I will." He said, his voice shook as he rubbed her back gently.

She sniffled and let herself go from his embrace.

"I'm not sure you can give it to me, Seb." She said slowly, looking up at him and placed her hand gently on his cheek.

"Try me. I love you so much Y/n.. You know I would do anything for you." He said, cupping his hands on the sides of her face, gazing at her with fear and anxiety in his eyes.

She gazed back at him, watching the turmoil behind his beautiful blue eyes, contemplating on what to say to him. 

"I want you.. to stop.. being an actor." She finally said slowly. 

Sebastian's eyes widened in shock.

"What?!" He dropped his hands from her face and stared at her in disbelief.

"I know you can't do that." She smiled wistfully.

"Y/n.. it's my job. I can't give it up!" He said, his voice raised a little.

"I know. That's why I said, I'm not sure you can give it to me." 

"Y/n.. I.. I can give you anything else but that. I'm sure we can work something out. Please.. please.. honey. If you want me to work less in a year then I'll do that." He pleaded.

"Seb, I want you to be there for me and for Starlene for a whole year onwards. You were barely there during our honeymoon. I'm not sure you can be there for us going forward if you're still an actor. I'm sorry." 

"Sweetheart, I promise I'll be there for you and Starlene. I mean, for Thunderbolts I'm going to come back home every month. Then after this I know there's that Ric Flair biopic. But Steven's a nice guy, I'm sure we can work something out. Just.. Y/n.. give us a chance. I.. I don't know if I can live without you." His voice shook and he started to cry again.

She knew this was coming. She knew he wasn't going to give their marriage up so easily. So it was time to put out her deadliest weapon. Something she hoped she didn't have to use because the damage it would bring to their relationship would be so immense that he wouldn't have a choice but to let her go. She hated having to use it. But in her mind that was the only logical thing to do. For her own survival.

"Seb.. I'm sorry but.. Zac kissed me." She said slowly. Every word left her mouth as if each was a bullet and shot his heart. She could clearly see the pain on his face as she said those damaging words.

"What?!" He exclaimed out loud. He wiped the tears from his eyes as anger started to color his face.

"Zac.. he.. when you were in Cannes, he came up to our hotel room and asked to meet me. At first he just said he wanted to give Starlene a good bye present. But then he admitted that he still had feelings for me and he.. he kissed me." She explained, studying his face carefully. Wondering if it was working. If he was going to let her go.

"That son of a b***h!" He cursed and he started to pace the room, brushing his hair in agitation.

"Did you kiss him back?" He asked, stopping to look at her with fear in his eyes.

"I.. I was shocked, Seb. So I didn't push him away at first. But I didn't kiss him back." She answered and she could see relief in his eyes.

"Okay.. okay." He nodded, making her confused.

"Seb.. are you okay with this?" She asked.

"No, obviously not. But.. Y/n. I.. um.. " he took a deep breath and sighed.

"What is it, Seb? Now you're scaring me." She said, wondering what was on his mind.

"Come here and sit down, Y/n." He said as he walked back towards the sofa and gesturing for her to sit on it.

She obliged and he sat across from her. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, wondering what he had to say. 

"I'm sorry honey, I really am. But.. the night I met Stephanie during my Bachelor's party, something happened between us." He said and her heart dropped to her stomach. 

"What?!" This really wasn't what she expected him to say.

"She.. she kissed me, Y/n." He finally revealed, making her feel a ton of bricks had fallen on her head.

"What?! And you didn't tell me all this time?!" She asked, anger started to creep into her heart.

Her gut feeling was right, he had been hiding something from her all this time!

"I'm.. I'm sorry Y/n. I just didn't want to hurt you." He said, his face fell.

She sighed. The universe really liked to play games with them. How could they both hide the exact same thing from each other? It was mind boggling.

"Did you kiss her back?" She asked as she prepared for the worse.

"No, of course not." He shook his head vigorously.

"Did anything else happen between you?" She asked, dreading what his answer would be.

"I.. I hugged her, Y/n. On the bed. At the hotel in Cannes. She was being suicidal, telling me that she thought it was better that she died. She scared me. I just wanted her to feel better. She asked if I could hug her, so I did. I'm sorry. And.. that was actually the reason I went out of the room. I didn't want anything else to happen between us." He explained.

She couldn't wrap her mind around it. He had been hiding this from her all this time just like she had been hiding the kiss from Zac?!

"Do you.. do you still have feelings for her?" She asked slowly, her bottom lip trembled as she tried hard not to cry.

"Oh God, of course not, honey!" He said and he reached out to take her hand in his, staring at her with pleading eyes.

"Are you still in contact with her? You said you wanted to help her find a job."

"No." He shook his head. "She said it was better that she was out of my life. And I couldn't agree more."

She sighed and felt relieved at his answer. But she was still hurt that he would lie to her about it. She knew she was being unfair because she herself lied to him. But the fact still hurt her.

"Why didn't you tell me this, Seb? I asked you if anything happened between you and her back in Paris and you didn't tell me!" She protested.

"Well look who's talking. You didn't tell me Zac kissed you either!" He yelled.

Great. This was what she wanted. She knew she was going to hurt him but she didn't know that he was going to hurt her too.

"I didn't tell you because you're so jealous of him! And I.. I didn't want to hurt you either." She explained.

"Well look at where we are now. Both hurt. All because you want so much attention from me." He spat.

"Seb?! I'm asking what a woman would normally ask her husband!" She protested, feeling angry at the audacity of him saying that to her.

"A wife wouldn't ask his husband to change a job he loves so much." He said with hatred.

"Well a husband should realize that his wife had sacrificed so much and all she wanted was just his God d**n help around the house but all he does is f*****g work! He can't even leave his work during their honeymoon!" 

"Oh you're going to play that card with me over and over again are you?!" 

"Yes cause it just seems like you don't get it!" She yelled. Her chest heaving in anger.

"But I have a movie to shoot in several days Y/n! I need to come prepared!" 

"Yes.. your job is always number one for you, isn't it?! Nothing else matters for you but your f*****g job!"

"That's not true! You, Starlene, my mom. You guys are everything to me."

"Then give up your job, Seb. Choose me or your job!" She yelled. 

They stared at each other, both sets of eyes seething with anger.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she waited for his answer. Moments went by and he just stared back at her with anger in his eyes.

She did it. He was going to let her go after all. His job really was more important to him than her. The realization hit her like a freight train and she felt her heart crushed again and again. 

In her twisted mind she knew she had won. But she didn't expect it to be so painful. She didn't expect it to open so many rotting secrets between them. So she stood up and quickly left the living room and went to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, knowing the breakdown that she surely was going to experience.

She heard the front door was slammed shut and realized Sebastian must have gone out. All hopes of him crawling back to her gone in an instant. 

The realization crushed her yet again and she fell down on the bed and cried hard as the grief of losing the love of her life overcame her like a wave.

---

Soho, New York - May 31st 2023 - 10 am

"Do you have everything?" Sebastian asked, looking at her from the bedroom door, his face stone like, unreadable to her. He had Starlene in his arms.

"Yeah." She zipped her suitcase close and stood up.

After the world war broke between them they spent the nights sleeping separately. She slept in the bedroom while he slept on the couch in the living room. They barely talked to each other except saying necessary things.

The day after their fight she decided to leave New York and go to California where her father was. The paparazzis were still stalking their apartment despite the interview that they had done. It seemed they had sixth sense about the scandal that they really were in and they wouldn't leave them alone. So she decided to leave. She couldn't bear staying in New York while Sebastian was gone to Atlanta with those paparazzis still camping in front of their apartment. Besides, the status of their relationship was still unclear. She did ask for divorce but he hadn't exactly agreed on it. 

"A break." He finally said the day she told him she was going to California. 

"Let's have a break for now." He said and she couldn't agree more. 

So there she was on that fateful Wednesday morning, getting ready to leave her husband on a break.

She picked up her handbag, slung it around her shoulders and walked towards him. She picked Starlene up from his hold, finding him a little resistant on giving her up.

"Let me hold her longer." He said, holding on to Starlene, sadness in his eyes.

"Okay." She let Starlene go and felt the sadness too in her heart.

She turned around and picked up Starlene's diaper bag and pulled her suitcase towards the bedroom door.

"You be a good girl to your mommy, okay Starlene? I will see you soon. Okay? I'm gonna miss you so much my darling, little star." He said, gazing at his daughter's innocent face with love and sadness in his eyes.

Starlene put her hand up on his cheek and said "Da-da."

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest as she listened to her. After all this time Starlene finally called him 'Da-da'! On the day they were leaving him?! She shook her head in disbelief. 

"Oh my God! Starlene! Say that again!" Sebastian exclaimed excitedly.

"Da-da.. Da-da.. " Starlene giggled.

"Yes! That's it my darling little star! I'm your Da-da!" He said, kissing Starlene's cheeks noisily, making her giggle even more.

Oh Starlene.. how was she able to leave him like this?

"Did you hear what she said?" He asked, looking at her still with excitement on his face.

"Yeah.. I did, Seb." She smiled wistfully.

"Is there anyway you could change your mind?" He asked with hope in his eyes.

"Seb.. what's the use? You're leaving to Atlanta anyway tomorrow. We're still going to be separated." She protested.

"Well.. yeah. But maybe you could come with me to Atlanta? We can somehow make it work. I know we can." He pleaded.

"Seb.. I.. " she said, not sure what to say. As much as she wanted them to be together again, she really needed the break.

"I love you." He blurted out and she couldn't help but smiled wistfully at him.

"Love is not enough, Seb." She said slowly.

His face fell and it broke her heart. But she needed to do this.

"Okay. Then go. But remember that I love you. I said I love you no matter what happens. And that's the truth." He said, gazing at her with love and sadness in his eyes.

She took a deep breath and let it go.

"I love you too, Seb."

And with that he immediately pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely, startling her.

He kissed her with so much passion and desperation that she felt she was going to drown in him. There was nothing more than she would love than to let go and just sink into his love. But she knew it was premature.

"Seb.. " she said, pushing him away gently.

"Y/n.." he said breathlessly.

"Would you quit being an actor for me?" She asked slowly.

He didn't answer right away and that was all she needed to make her decision more resolute.

She pushed him away and dragged her suitcase with her as she walked towards the front door. Sebastian followed her quietly.

"I'm sorry.. Y/n.." he said as they reached the front door.

"I'm sorry too, Seb." She said in regret.

All the way to the airport they were silent in the taxi they were in. More than once she contemplated on just giving up and follow him to Atlanta. But she knew she needed to do this. She needed to be away from him and gain more perspective. Besides, she missed her father too. So as hard and painful as it was, she stuck by her decision.

They finally arrived at the airport and she stopped right before the entrance to the departure area. 

"I guess this is it." She said, looking up at him sadly.

"I guess." He said, his voice trembled a little.

She picked Starlene up from his arms and quickly turned around. Unsure if she could go through with it if she stared at him longer.

Before she could walk very far she felt his warm hand on her arm, prompting her to turn around.

"I love you." He said gently, his beautiful ocean blue eyes gazed at her. She could see a mixture of love and sadness in the depths of his eyes.

She felt her eyes prickled at the sight of him. Knowing what was coming, she just nodded and smiled, not daring to say it back. Then she turned around just as a tear dropped from her eyes.

She blinked several times to stop herself from crying. Then she lifted her chin up and walked towards the departure area with a big gaping hole in her chest and a feeling like she had left part of her soul behind.

Chapter 19 >

Taglist

@sebsgirl71479 @dhoruwolfie

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Here I am once again, but this time I have been tagged by the beautiful and talented @tallmatcha. <3 What are we doing? The usual...poking my "idiots" with a stick and seeing what happens. I'd like to tag @oblivions-dawn @sneaksandsweets @blossom-adventures @rose-like-the-phoenix @elder-dragon-reposes @nerevar-quote-and-star. As per usual, no pressure, but I would love to see what chaos you're all up to. <3

Snippet:

The next days slowly trickle into weeks, and as the frosts set in, they reach out with their spindly fingers to permanently freeze the grounds surrounding Windhelm. However, even as the temperatures fall, time steadily marches forward. It is the one thing that the biting Winters of Eastmarch cannot detain with their unrelenting chill. As such, none but the strongest and most determined survive as each living thing finds its own way to continue growing in any way that it can. The only other option is to be snuffed out, buried under the cold snow drifts to perish bitterly without a trace. Truly thriving in these climates is not for the faint-hearted; it is a conscious choice in defiance of the elements, and time is the most unyielding of them all.

Despite this, Ulfric and Dahlia are far more determined. They will not bend, and they will not bow to anyone. 

Since returning to the Palace and resuming their day-to-day responsibilities as the Jarl and Lady of Windhelm, both of them have barely stopped to sleep. Collectively, they have been a flurry of movement between calling council meetings, writing correspondences, and checking on the progress of rebuilding Helgen.

Which brings them to their next duty: dealing with Torsten Cruel-Sea.

While he has proved himself to be a loyal follower, his enthusiasm towards the “navy” Ulfric has promised him is grating on the Jarl’s nerves. Day in and day out, he visits the Palace and stands in line graciously with the rest of the petitioners to give him an update on the progress, yet he has not provided the cargo ships he promised them.

“Torsten, please.” Ulfric has to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“The hulls are starting to come together and the bases seem to be quite solid. Wherever did you get the red cedar wood? That isn’t native—”

The Jarl begins to lift one of his clenched fists from the armrest of his throne, but his wife catches it in her own before it crashes back down into the stone. It would have only hurt him rather than signaling his displeasure to the oblivious Lord.