#I will live in this scene until further notice

[academyofbrokenhearts]

˜”°•.˜”°• I don't care if you're black or blue Me and the stars stay up for you I don't care who's wrong or right And I don't care for the UK tonight So stay Stay •°”˜.•°”˜

[jimmysea]

LAWS OF ATTRACTION (2023) >Episode 6

[pirateprincessblog]

sixth sense >> j. yunho

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫.: while all of the city loves their superhero and is ready to defend him with their lives, you seem to be the only fool looking at the bigger picture. and the only one to loathe spiderman. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jeong yunho x f!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, superheroes and supervillains, spiderman!yunho, villain!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: loss of a loved one, injuries, bl00d, SA attempt, mentions of suicide 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this one was in the basement for a year now, thought i'd finish it and see if it helps my writer's block :)

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

***

when will spiderman be held accountable for the consequences of his actions?

yes, your superhero saved your city multiple times. yes, he saved that old lady from falling off the building. yes, he fought off an alien giant that threatened to blow up the continent. yes, he saved that school bus from drowning. that's his job. he is a superhero. it is expected of him.

have you people looked at the aftermath? victory and relief blinds you, you fail to see the demolished buildings, wrecked cars, shattered windows of your favourite shops. has spiderman ever stayed to assist firefighters clear up the scene? has he ever comforted people who were still paying off that car that is now on top of a building somewhere? people who just got their apartment? people who have just opened their shops?

no. spiderman doesn't care about those things. he cares about glory, praises and rewards. he vanishes until a new threat emerges, appearing only when the city has already suffered destruction, and sometimes causing further damage himself. what good is a city that you have to rebuild every few months, watching it get demolished every single time?

wake up, people. it is time to hold spiderman accountable.

the publish button is clicked without hesitation. third article this week, and no sight or sound of the notorious hero. your teeth bite the inside of your cheek again, abusing the already wounded flesh as your eyes scan the article one more time. this one should get his attention. it has to. slowly over the past few months, people are starting to understand you. those who once called you a fool are now on your side, demanding at least an apology from the man who successfully hid after every battle.

"leaving early?" your coworker asks, eyes not moving from his own screen.

"yes." you answer, shutting your laptop and safely putting it away in its bag.

"going home to write more mean things about spidey on your little hate blog?"

"not that it is any of your business, but i am going to the cemetery."

the smirk drops from the man's face, and his eyes notice the flowers on the edge of your desk. "oh. sorry."

"yeah. see you tomorrow, wooyoung."

last time you were here, it was still summer. the grass was green, and the sun reflected the shiny letters on the tombstone. flowers decorated almost every grave, lots of colorful bundles and candles making the place less morbid. now, it was the opposite. you haven't visited since august, and it was already october. autumn has made the grass dry and brown, and tombstones grey and gloomy. his name didn't shine anymore. it was just letters on a stone.

"hi, baby." a shaky whisper leaves your mouth, almost disappearing with the wind. you crouch, placing fresh white lilies in front of the stone. fingers reach to graze the silver letters, tracing each one before tears blur your vision. "i brought you your favorite."

he never had a favourite flower. not until you gave him a compliment that made him blush for a week every time he looked at you.

"you're as pretty as a white lily, seonghwa."

"w-what?"

"what?"

"pretty? i am supposed to be handsome." his cheeks are a pretty pink shade, and his eyes are shiny as he looks at you flustered.

"you are handsome. and you're also very pretty. you're my pretty boy."

and he was.he was beautiful in every way. his eyes, his lips, his words, his soul. he was one of the purest people you've ever met. selfless, full of love and so sweet. you met him in a coffee shop where he worked, and lost him there too. three years ago on this day you met him. one year ago on this day you lost him.

"i miss you. i miss you so much its burning me inside out." you sob, fingers subconsciously caressing the stone like you once caressed his face. "he'll pay for it. i promise you. he will."

a week passes, and still nothing. the city hero has retreated who knows where, unaware of the boiling situation inside you. even as you sit in the emergency room, you do not react to the alcohol making your open wound bubble, instead thinking of ways to get to the man behind the mask.

"what happened again?" the doctor's assistant, who had just arrived in the room flushed with papers in her hands, asked as she looked at your leg.

"we were at the zoo, and we failed to hear that there was a viper on the lose. we found it when my crazy sister casually ripped the animal off her leg and tossed it over my head." your sister explains as she holds your niece, bouncing her on her hip to keep her occupied.

"time is crucial. had you come a few minutes later, you'd be dead, young lady."

"okay." you simply reply, emotionlessly watching as the doctor rubs ointment on the exposed flesh before wrapping it up.

your sister sighs. "right, thank you doctor."

"you must rest for a few days. no walking unless you absolutely must. see me again in a week."

you stand, walking over to the assistant and taking the note, as if you didn't hear what the doctor just said. "thanks. bye."

"i am so sorry." your sister apologizes, then rushes outside to catch up with you, struggling to carry her daughter. "wait!"

"i'm not walking fast."

"why are you like this?" she finally grabs your elbow, making you turn around and face her.

"like what?"

"like this! numb! like you don't care whether you live or die! don't you think about your family? your niece who has to see you like this? the only emotions she sees on you are rage and grief, and it makes her sad to see her once happy auntie turn into whatever this is now."

your eyes land on your niece, the five-year-old resting her head on her mothers shoulder and looking at you with sad eyes. with your fingers, you move the bangs out of her eyes, caressing her cheek in the process. "i don't care whether i live or die."

"what?"

"you heard me. i don't. if i live, i get to avenge seonghwa. if i die, i get to be with seonghwa. simple as that."

"listen," she pulls you aside, hiding you from curious eyes. "i hate to be the one to tell you this, but you need to move on."

"no."

"listen to me-"

"leave me alone. don't touch me." you yank your arm from her grip, hitting your niece with your elbow in the process.

the older woman gasps, and so does the child, before her eyes become shiny with tears and lips form a pout. you gulp, stepping back.

"don't ask about me. don't call me. don't visit me. forget about me."

the ground sways beneath your feet as you walk home. brain cluttered, heart racing, and leg aching, you barely make it to the park and fall on the wooden bench. you've never felt this ill before. not even when you got drunk on your last birthday. the autumn sun mercifully warms you as you doze off on the bench, not having the energy to care about whispers and pointed fingers.

when you wake up, you almost have to peel your eyes open. your lips remain shut, and you struggle to breathe. once your eyes gets used to the dark, they lock with other ones. a scream leaves your mouth, but is muffled by a hand firmly planted on your face. the stranger sits on your legs, having full control over your body. fuck, is this how you'll die?

"come on now, sweet thing. you were all sprawled out in the middle of the park. it's basically an invitation. why the sudden rejection?"

you were ready to be wounded. you were ready to be held captive. you were ready to be tortured. you were ready to die. but you were not ready to have another man touch what belonged to seonghwa. his touch still lingers, and you will not allow him to tarnish it.

"there, there. it'll be over quickly. or not. i'll decide how you deserve it."

his other hand doesn't bother to take your clothes off. instead, he unzips your jacket, then rips your shirt open. the cool air hits your clothed chest, and tears graze your cheeks as you realize there might not be a way out of this. he is strong, and big. and scary. the city is full of people, making it easy for freaks to blend in. you couldn't tell whether he was human or not.

his eyes glow in the dark, and they are hungry. hungry for your flesh or your essence, you did not know. you only knew one. seonghwa. finally, you cared whether you live or die. you'd rather die before this man touches you. you didn't want to live to go through this. you'd never forgive yourself.

"you're boring me." he sighs, annoyed. then, he removes his hand from your mouth. "scream, cry, beg. go on."

sharp pain cuts through your head, making you wince and shut your eyes.

"what the fuck?" you hear him say, then get off you.

when you open your eyes, your vision is... colorful. you no longer see the man, but a shadow that glows red, yellow, green and blue. you gasp, blinking a few times. it stays the same, and it scares you. what did he do to you?

"are those fucking fangs?"

your fingers reach to touch your mouth, and indeed: fangs.

"stay the hell away from me." he steps back.

"no- wait!"

the man you ran from is now running away from you. and you chase him, seeking help in danger. you follow the figure, soon catching up to it and knocking it to the floor. "no! get off me, you monster!"

"what did you do to me?!" your hands grip the fabric of his clothes, shaking his body for answers. "what did you do?!"

he spits in your face, causing you to fall back and give him a mere second to get up. thinking he is faster than you, he stops behind a tree to catch his breath. but you see him. you smell him. and you'll kill him.

"did you just fucking spit on me? after trying to rape my unconscious body?"

a choked gasp leaves his mouth, seeing your figure appear in front of him. "i'm so-"

before he can finish his pathetic apology, your fangs sink into his neck, causing him to shriek in pain. a foreign force takes over your body, making your nails plunge into his stomach, and fangs release liquid inside his flesh. once his squirming stops, you step away, letting his lifeless body fall to the ground. you no longer see vibrant colours, and your vision turns normal.

you don't get the chance to be surprised by your own actions, because you feel a rock hit your back, causing you to shift your attention to a family behind you, fingers pointed and jaws dropped. "viper!"

***

when you called in sick, everyone rushed to your door to make sure you're alright. you had never called in sick before, except the week when seonghwa passed away, and since then, you've been a raging workaholic. working for yourself, for him, and for spiderman. for his destruction. for his misery. you wanted him to feel what you felt that day. you wanted him to feel what you still feel every day. dying little by little, hoping to reunite with your lover but not having the confidence to do anything about it. you wished to see the hero grieving and miserable.

and it might be possible now more than ever. you stand in front of the mirror, finally gaining control over your vision. you could switch to infrared whenever you wanted, and you were quickly learning what exactly is happening in your body. it took you waking up and seeing your changed face in the mirror to finally visit an old friend.

"a radioactive viper." the scientist explained after examining your vitals. "gave you its powers. so cool."

"mingi, nothing about this is cool."

"is too! you can see infrared, you have venom in your fangs, and, uh, you have fangs! you just need to learn how to control all of it." he pokes your forehead, then makes his way to his desk and sits. you follow, desperation evident in your voice.

"mingi, please-"

"knock-knock!"

you run to mingi's closet, not wanting to show your fangs to another poor soul and scar them.

"you don't have to- oh what the hell." the blonde man gives up, letting you hide. "come in!"

"you free?"

"sort of. what is it?"

you watch through the crack as another tall man enters the office, a backpack loosely hanging from his shoulder. he is dressed casually, in loose black jeans and a red and blue college jacket. his hair is dark and falls over his brown eyes, which are curiously examining mingi's messy lab.

"experimenting? i've never seen your lab this messy."

"i just finished a research. nothing of importance so far. what's up, yunho?"

"i was hoping you'd help me with an assignment."

"come on! i finished college ages ago!"

while they're busy bickering, you slip from the closet and carefully make your way to the door. they sit at the round table, mingi finally obliging to help with the assignment. as the student reaches for his notebooks, he catches your figure by the door.

"hey, aren't you that journalist?"

fuck.

"you haven't dropped anything in a while. is everything alright?"

you can't tell if he is worried, or just thirsty for more of this one sided drama you have with the spiderman. you turn around, and your fangs retract in time. he also fully turns around, spinning on his chair in the process and eyes locking with yours.

"yes, it is. just... a writer's block. i'm taking a break from..."

"hating spiderman?" he finishes for you, causing you to furrow your eyebrows. "jeong yunho, nice to meet you."

"jeong yunho?" you repeat, name familiar in your ears. "the spiderman photographer?"

"guilty." he replies, a smile dancing on his lips.

mingi watches from aside as the tension thickens between the two of you. not many words are spoken, but each one feels like drawing a weapon and wielding it. a duel of words.

"say, why exactly do you dedicate all your time to him?"

"i thought you were a fan of my work. how do you not know?" you bite back, a sour smile decorating your equally sour face.

"oh, i know. i just wanted to hear it from you. after all, i am a fan of your work." yunho folds his arms across his chest, then leans against the table with his back. "but i am also a fan of spiderman. after all, he pays for my bills and tuition."

"i am not repeating what i wrote. countless times. you are free to visit my blog or read the newspaper. i have to go."

you turn around, angrily stomping towards the door. mingi sighs, relief washing over his body too quickly.

"i hope i cured your writer's block. i'll be waiting for your article, miss journalist."

you don't have to look at him to know that he is smirking. and you don't have to look at yourself in the mirror to know that your fangs are fully visible again.

it was the second time since the bite that you had the urge to kill someone. and it was the last time you looked normal. now, as you looked at your reflection in the mirror, you didn't know whether to be worried or excited. your fangs and vision were fully controlled, but the scales on your neck and jawline and viper eyes not. you don't seem to have any kind of power over them, and it limits you.

or frees you.

you are yet to decide. do you stay inside and learn to hide it, or do you unlock your full potential.

your eyes land on the opened article on your laptop screen once again.

viper - new threat or an escaped lunatic?

it's been a little over a week since the park attack. the family who witnessed it referred to the woman as the viper, describing how her eyes shined and fangs were smeared with blood when she turned around to look at them. they also described her way of moving and speed as something they'd never seen before, even though they all had encounters with heroes other than spiderman.

speaking of spiderman, will he wait for another attack to happen before he reacts? we all know of the uproar my friend and colleague received after calling him out. she has disappeared, called in sick, and never returned. is it possible that he has intervened? after all, she was onto something.

tick-tock, spiderman. lots of questions, accusations, and whatnot awaits you, yet you hide somewhere in your lair, letting all of this happen. letting the people you once helped to turn against you. it's time you stepped out and stood up for yourself.

if the viper is indeed a new threat, you have an opportunity to prove that you are not what she says you are.

wooyoung has unknowingly taken your side with this article. and it is all the encouraging you need.

it doesn't take you longer than a day to sew a hooded outfit for yourself, in order to blend in with the darkness and help you move easily. and it takes you less than a week to get spiderman's attention in a way that could've been avoided. you have raided almost every jewelry shop, broken cafe windows, destroyed parks. simply, you made everything you laid your eyes upon wilt.

at this point, you loved the thrill. cries for help were music to your ears, tearful faces pretty to look at, and your name on many articles and news stroking your ego. you could only imagine the look on spiderman's face as he watches people begging him for help. but you are yet to reach the main goal of this show.

you couldn't wait to show yourself to him. to finally make him see for himself what power you possess. to not only see it, but to feel it, and to beg you to stop.

and it happens on a late night as you sit on the edge of your building, legs hanging above the still busy streets. the dark hood covers the scales on your neck and jaw, but leaves your bright yellow eyes exposed. you scan the city, looking for a particular swinging figure. and you spot him, coming this way. he doesn't seem to notice you, taking his sweet time shooting webs and swinging from the buildings. until his web catches your leg instead of the brick wall, and you swiftly break it.

his sixth sense works in his favour, because he is quick to shoot again, this time next to you. you let him be, watching as his rhythm gets disrupted and he hangs from a single web before regaining control. while he takes his sweet time to adjust, his gaze seems to lock with yours, and you see the way the big white shapes widen in shock, representing his eyes. you only smile, then turn around, as if walking away. he skillfully lands in front of you, in his usual spider stance.

"who are you?" he doesn't hesitate to ask, taking slow steps towards you.

"come and find out." you reply, stepping back. little by little, you reach the edge of the building, your heels hovering above the streets. "if you dare."

with that, you let your body fall. the cool air and gravity envelop it, sending shivers down your spine. and surely, in no time, the masked man is in your vision. he catches up to you, shooting a web and swiping your body in the air with a single hand. your hands hold onto his shoulders, gripping the red and blue fabric as anger boils inside of you. finally.

"gotcha." you hiss into his ear.

"what?" he asks, not sure if he heard right. but once your teeth sink through his suit and into his neck, realization hits him.

he almost drops you, pain ripping through his body as he struggles to reach any kind of surface around him. you don't release any liquid inside yet, rather choosing to keep him on the edge. but the pain of the bite is enough to break him, and he loses control of his webs and becomes dizzy. just in time, you jump on a nearby fire escape, leaving his limp body hanging from a single web and hitting the brick wall. even for spiderman, that must've hurt. and you are not sorry for it.

he'll take this as a warning.

you have him where you wanted him since day one: unconscious, powerless, and vulnerable. all it would take is a single bite again, a proper one this time. and you'd be happy and content. but not before breaking him, little by little.

"i'll stomp on you, you little insect. i'll feed on your pain and misery." you seethe as you watch people open their windows and try to help him, pulling on his limbs and almost tearing him apart, trying to be the one to save the hero. with a nearby fire extinguisher, you break the single web by throwing it his way, making his body fall to the ground. you turn to leave, but not before spitting on the floor where he lays and people are gathered around him.

***

you lay awake at night, thinking of your next step. he doesn't know who you are, and you plan to make it clear. so much that when he sees you in your human form, he'll stay away from you. you want his fear, his tears, his grief. you'll feed on it like a starved vulture, not stopping until he wails under your touch.

sitting on top of the building has become your new favourite spot. you could go higher for a better vision, true. but this one has the cafe. this one feels like seonghwa and the memory of him. you can almost smell the soft vanilla that lingered on his skin, and the coconut that made his black hair soft and shiny.

a lily lays in your palm, its petals pearly white with a few red stripes. it reminds you of his face, before he took the last breath. pretty pale face, with blood streaming on the side of his head and coating his cheeks and neck, white sweater soaking it up.

you don't know how many times you've replayed that memory in your head. but you know you'll do it many times again. it is your biggest motivation.

"it's a bit cold tonight for sitting here, don't you think?"

if his plan was to catch you off guard and scare you, he failed miserably. "it is perfect."

he hums behind you. "you could've killed me. you didn't. why?"

you pull at a petal, ripping it away from the bud. "it would've been too easy."

"who are you?" he is persistent.

"careful." you warn, pulling at another petal and watching it fall on the street below. "you know how it ended last time you asked that question, spidey boy."

"what do you want from me?"

you sigh, feeling bored of the conversation already. you rip out another petal, and another, until there is only one left. "what makes you think i want something from you?"

"you've been causing trouble left and right. robbing places, but returning everything after a few days. as if you wanted to get my attention. or are you simply that sick in your head and you love to play god with people?"

"i don't want anything from you. i want you."

he is taken aback, lips struggling to form a sentence.

you feel him step closer, but you don't budge yet, back still facing him. "tell me one thing, spiderman."

"what?"

"do you feel sorry for the damage you're doing to this city?"

"wh-" his word comes out broken, and his breath hitches as you throw you head back, yellow eyes looking right into his. a wicked smile dances on your lips, your hood falling from your head and finally revealing your face to him. "you."

"peekaboo." you rip the last petal, and in a swift motion, stand up and latch yourself onto him.

he falls to the ground with a grunt, arms planted on your waist in order to keep you away from him. your nails dig into his wrists, and his fingers dig into your flesh. his grip is as strong as yours, causing you to wince and pull away.

"i asked you a damn question. you know who i am, you're familiar with my work. tell me, do you feel- oof!" he tackles you to the ground, this time him being on top.

"you think i care about pretty cars and fancy shops when i need to defeat an alien army?" his long fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing its sides and ridding you of oxygen. "you think i have time and energy to stop and think before attacking or dodging?"

your nails reach for his neck, finding the hem of his mask and trying to pull it off his head. once he realizes what you're trying to do, he takes both of your hands in his single one and pins them against the cold concrete above your head.

"how about this: next time, you come up with a solution. i'll gladly let you handle it, and i'll stand aside and take notes. is that good enough for you, doll?"

"let go of me." you foolishly demand.

"hmm... no." his grip on your neck intensifies, until your vision starts to darken. "good night, my little journalist."

you had hoped it was just a dream. how could you let your guard down? instead, you are awoken by cold water splashing your face. you find yourself in a foreign room and a cozy bed.

"oops. did i wake you?"

your head turns to the figure that sits on the bed. "you."

"me. and your bestie." the photographer points at the scientist who stands at the door.

"where am i? why am i here?" you take in your surroundings, forgetting that yunho has now seen your true nature.

the bedroom you're in is a simple one; with a bookshelf, a gaming table, and a comfortable bed. you haven't slept in such a soft bed in a while. once you finish examining the room, your eyes lock with the photographer's, and you finally realize. you're in his room.

"it's okay." mingi assures, stepping in before your fangs dip into his neck. which is covered by a turtleneck. "you can trust him. i do."

"trust someone who just poured water in my face?" you grumble, wiping the liquid with your sleeve. you then notice you are not wearing your clothes. instead, you wear a blue and red college jacket you've seen once already. the colours that make you sick to your stomach. "why am i wearing his clothes?"

"i'm right here, journalist. you can talk to me, i don't bite."

the way he calls you journalist is familiar to you. but mingi calls you that too, so you drop it. "why am i wearing your clothes?"

"well, in case aunt may barges in the room, it's easier to explain the scales than the whole inej ghafa aesthetic you had going on."

"in what world is that easier?"

"guys," mingi sighs, "i really have to go. promise me that you won't kill each other."

"where are you going?" you ask, disbelief evident in your voice. he can't possibly leave you alone with the photographer.

"believe it or not, i have a family and a job." the blonde man says, putting on his leather jacket. it is odd to see him wearing anything other than a white lab coat.

"and i don't?" yunho raises an eyebrow at his friend.

"you," mingi walks over just to flick the photographer's forehead, "have a day off. i'll be back tonight."

"but-!" he doesn't let you finish, waving and slamming the door of yunho's room on the way out. "asshole."

silence envelops the room, and you didn't know how much you needed it until now. the vengeful voices in your head have taken a break, letting you enjoy peace for the first time in a while. you lay in a stranger's bed, wearing his clothes, and listen to him breathe.

"you have questions." he wakes you from your meditation.

"i do."

"go on." he turns his body towards you, still sitting on the edge of his bed. "i'll answer truthfully. i promise."

you pull your legs close to your chest, hugging your knees and resting your chin on top of them. "how did i get here?"

"mingi found you unconscious in his lab when he returned from the toilet. then, he brought you to my place. you know he has a big and loud family. he assumed you'd like the peace and quiet here."

he isn't wrong. you do like the peace here. and you also like the coziness of the jacket and the soft blankets, no matter who they belong to or the colours. "you know what i am?"

"you're not a what, journalist. you're a who. and i know who you are. you are y/n, my favourite journalist from nexus daily, and viper, my new favourite villain."

"so i'm a villain?" you scoff.

"well, yes. anyone that harms civilians is considered a villain." he tilts his head slightly, trying to maintain eye contact with you as your eyes stay locked on the silver rings on his fingers. "go on. ask."

"why haven't you handed me over to your spidey friend?"

yunho hums. "i guess i could. but it is not my fight. it is none of my business. he can come find you yourself."

"you say mingi found me in his lab. i had an encounter with spiderman last night. he choked me until i passed out, so he could've handed me over to whatever forces. or destroy me himself. i doubt i found my own way there." you're puzzled, memories of last night flooding your brain.

"maybe he wanted to give you a chance to rethink your decisions. a chance to change."

"nothing will change my decisions and goal." you glare at him. he nods, disappointment evident on his face. "have you snapped any pictures of me? sold them? how much am i going for?"

"no, i haven't. do you take me for that kind of person? to take pictures of you while you are unconscious and vulnerable?" he is now even more disappointed, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks at you with intense eyes. "you think mingi would drop you off here and leave me alone with you if i was like that?"

"you can't be mad at me for asking."

"i'm not mad, i just..." he sighs. "i'm not mad."

you're silent for a while, as is he. your gaze is locked on his slender fingers that play with the rings, similarly to how you play with the hem of your top when you're thinking or nervous. when a light breeze brushes your cheeks, you realize that his window is tilted open. you wrap yourself in his jacket, and he notices. without a word, he stands up to close it, letting you take in his whole figure. he is taller than mingi, and his black turtleneck shows off his slender figure. wonder why he hides it under oversized hoodies and jackets.

"your turn." you say as he sits back on the bed, averting your eyes from his body before he catches you staring and teases you.

"why do you hate him?"

"you know-"

he interrupts, "no, i don't. i only know there's more to it than your articles tell. there's more to it than a demolished city."

instead of answering, you opt for avoiding his gaze. you stare at the spiderman photographs on the wall above his desk, resentment growing with each picture you notice. "it's none of your business."

"true, it isn't. but if you want me on your side, you'll have to tell me. what is it that he did that has you using your powers against the city?" he sits closer to you, and for a moment, you think he wants to take your hands in his. but they only move for an inch, before resting back on his lap. "you're not a bad person. at least you weren't, that's what mingi tells me. he still believes that you are not a villain. and i wish to believe it too."

"he made me a villain." you finally lock eyes with him.

"spiderman did?" yunho tilts his head again, confused. it reminds you of a curious puppy.

"yes. he took everything from me, that reckless bastard. and i intend to take everything from him, before i take him. and i'll keep protecting the city from the foolish avengers, i'll take down each one of them if i can't keep them away, and i won't stop until i am done. then, i'll surrender. i'll rest."

at the mention of avengers, yunho tenses. "tell me."

"they don't care about anything when they fight. they ruin whatever they touch. they ruined my life, he ruined my life! he took my lover away from me." tears prick your eyes, announcing their glorious arrival. you grit your teeth, brain replaying the horrid memories of the day. "we were at a cafe, celebrating the anniversary of the day we met. foolish, i know. but it was special to us. everything was normal, until the news announced that we stay inside wherever we are and do not exit. we could see a giant swinging a bat or something left and right, and spiderman just throwing anything and everything at him."

tears have soaked your cheeks already, just like then while you both crouched under the table that day. you shook from fear, and he held you, kissing the top of your head and assuring you that everything would be okay while stroking your hair.

"when they were in front of the cafe, that idiot of a hero swung a car at the villain, and fucking missed, sending it through the window and-" you hiccup, burying your face into the sleeves of the soft jacket, "and-"

"it's alright." yunho hushes you as he stands up and sits next to you, resting his back against the headboard. he carefully pulls you into a hug, caressing your hair as you cry into his chest. when you don't push him away, he rests his head on top of yours. "you don't have to-"

"and it landed on him. on seonghwa. everyone ran away, they left me alone with him. half of his body was stuck underneath, and i couldn't pull him out. he didn't feel his lower body, he just begged me to leave him there and save myself. but i couldn't. i went out on the street, didn't care about the fight going on, and called for help. even foolishly thought spiderman would hear me and just lift the damn car. but he didn't. he kept throwing vehicles and whatnot around, above my head, into the buildings, and so on. he saved the city, but he killed the love of my life. my reason to live."

if you weren't violently sobbing and shaking, you would've heard his heart beat faster where your head rested against his chest.

"i am so sorry, doll."

and if you weren't swallowed by the veil of an opened wound, you would've heard how familiar that nickname sounds.

the photographer assured you that you could stay as much as you wanted. and you appreciated it. you enjoyed the coziness of his room, the cooking of his aunt, and the company of jeong yunho himself. he was kind and funny, and didn't push you like mingi did. you felt like your old self with him. until you'd catch your own reflection in the mirror, and the shiny scales brought you back where you were.

you didn't forget about your goal. but yunho's company made your heart calm and brain clear. he kept you occupied while he was there, and charged his aunt with it when he wasn't. yunho also didn't push you to forgive spiderman, or anything similar. he never spoke of it again, wouldn't even mention him when he came back from work.

"i brought treats!" he came earlier one day, just when you were changing into your clothes. he stopped with a box of muffins in his hand, eyes looking at his discarded jacket and brows furrowed. "where are you going?"

"i'm leaving, yunho."

"what? why?" he pouts subconsciously.

"i overstayed my welcome. and i am delaying my goal. the sooner i do it, the sooner i get to rest."

while he attempts to formulate an argument, you pick up the jacket from the bed and approach him. the brown eyed man observes with curiosity as you place the jacket into his free hand, then rise on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"thank you. i felt like myself the past few weeks. like the old me. and thank you for listening and not judging. it means a lot to me."

he blushes furiously, the tips of his ears turning hot and red as you step back and smile at him. "i- i- don't go."

"i must."

"isn't there another way?" he shoves the jacket back in your hands, as if that'll make you stay. "the avengers will crush you."

"this is the only way. he needs to learn. no amount of talking will save him. i gave him many opportunities."

"please don't go. i- i grew fond of you. i don't want anything to happen to you." he admits. he puts the treats aside, then grabs your shoulders. "i can talk to him for you."

you scoff. "you're cute. no."

dropping the jacket on the floor, you turn your back on him, and make your way to his window. you hear him huff out of frustration.

"even if i stayed, yunho, my heart still belongs to seonghwa."

"journalist?" he calls when you step out of the window.

"yes?"

"go easy on him. he may not be as strong as you were."

"no promises."

and when you jump out, he whispers to himself: "i know i am not as strong as you were."

***

finding the hero was a challenge once again. you didn't practice any fighting. you didn't have to. your venom was enough. it had to be. what was he compared to your bite? you have also shortened your goal. you won't go down on his level. your plan was to kill someone he cared about, but killing him would do enough harm to his family already. if they knew what he was.

"finally," you breathe out, seeing the blue and red figure swinging through the streets.

but before he can properly land on the rooftop, another figure jumps on top of him, pushing him to the ground and delivering a punch. you step back, watching as the creature relentlessly hits his masked face, all while he struggles to fight back.

"oh, no you won't." you rush to them, jumping on the stranger's back, pulling him away from the man on the floor. "he is mine to kill!"

"who the fuck-" the figure throws you on the floor, pinning your hands to the ground and yanking your hood off. "you."

"you- you bastard. how are you alive?" you stare at the eyes that you first saw that night. the eyes that were once lifeless. because you were the one who drained the life out of him.

he smiles disgustingly, then looks over at the hero. "he saved me."

you were wrong. it wasn't your essence or your flesh, it was both he craved. and you won't give it to him. not then, not today.

"he saved you only because he didn't know what a sick and twisted bastard you are!" you push him off you with your feet on his chest, sending him flying to the other end of the rooftop.

the hero that was once on the floor runs over to you, helping you stand. "are you hurt?"

"get your fucking hands off me." you push him away, but he doesn't budge. you try again, punching his chest, kicking and screaming. he simply takes both of your hands in his, and cups your jaw so you can calm down and look at him.

"help me get rid of him, then we can solve this. torture me, kill me, do what you want. but help me kill this whoreson."

"why? who is he?"

"he is a shapeshifter." he seems to hesitate a bit before continuing," and a rapist."

a faint grunt is heard, and you both look his way. he stands there panting, no longer in his human form. he is hairy, and has taken an almost werewolf-like appearance. then, he looks at you with the most evil smile you've ever seen. and you know you have to move. but your legs stay on the ground, frozen and disobedient. his figure speeds up, sharp teeth gleaming under the faint city lights and red eyes hungrily taking you in. just before he can jump on you with his jaw wide open and his pointy tongue peeking out, the hero grabs you by your waist once again, shielding you with his body.

the creature latches onto spiderman's back, digging its claws into his back, causing him to yelp. even though that's where you wanted him, it makes your heart twitch with pain. he doesn't let go of you, still hugging you close to his chest and shielding you from the blood thirsty claws.

it is not until they break through his back and chest, and almost pierce through you, that the hero pushes you away from him. he falls to the floor once again, fingers digging into the concrete and pained moans and groans leaving his mouth.

"go! leave!" he yells at you.

"no!" you yell back. "i am not leaving without at least one body tonight!"

the creature retracts one of his hands, only to point it at you and make a gust of wind pull you close to him. his open hand catches your body by your neck, raising it from the floor and squeezing it. you gasp for air, nails desperately clawing at the hairy hand, but to no avail.

"silly little viper." he growls. "it will be me who will leave with not one, but two bodies tonight. you and your little friend."

the hero uses the moment of distraction to hit the werewolf, making him release you. in a split second, spiderman skillfully avoids the kicks and punches, as well as the bite attempts. one bite must've taught him enough.

"please, leave!" the hero begs.

"no!" you refuse, joining him in the fight.

your speed allows you to dodge the attacks, as well as landing them. you are not as strong, but you have found his weak points. his sides, crotch, and neck. then, he pushes you away with a gust of wind once again, and focuses on the masked man. when you stand back up, you are tired. sick and tired of being tossed around so easily. bruised, hurt, and angry.

you look at the two, ready to give it your all this time. then, you stop. blinking a few times, you wonder if you're seeing right. there's two red and blue heroes in front of you, both in an equally bad condition. suit ripped, blood seeping through the fabric, and heavy breathing.

"what the fuck?" you breathe out.

"please, you have to go. we'll solve our issue another day, i promise." one of them shouts, stepping over.

"no! i told you we'd solve it once we get rid of him! don't leave, we are so close!" the other joins.

they both sounds identical, look identical. and you are torn. if you leave, the real one might get killed, which would fulfill your goal. but the fake one stays, still terrorizing the women and girls in the city. if you stay, you'll have to choose which one to save. and how can you possibly know which one is the real one? their masks are ripped in a few places, identical as well, but it doesn't help. even if they took off their masks completely, you couldn't tell. you have never seen spiderman without his mask on.

"i don't-" you stutter, looking between the two. "i don't know what to do."

"i am the real one, journalist."

"no, i am! you work for nexus daily and-"

"your boss is ruby allen!"

"we met on this rooftop twice already!"

"and you threw yourself off it the first time!"

"you had lilies in your hand the second time!"

the other one quiets down. and it confuses you. if he were the real one, wouldn't he keep talking? you raise an eyebrow, looking him up and down. "aren't you going to keep proving you are the real one?"

"i don't have to." he whispers, then steps closer.

you step back, confused as ever. "and why not?"

"because," he sighs, then, with his bloodied hand, takes the ripped mask off. "the lilies were for seonghwa."

"yu-" you choke on the word. "yunho-"

"i am so sorry, doll. i am so sorry it had to be this way."

"that's not- you can't-" at a loss for words, you put a hand over your mouth.

your biggest comfort for the past few weeks was your biggest enemy. the person you swore to kill. the person who killed your lover.

"don't do this to me." you cry.

"i'm sorry, journalist."

"the hell with you two!" the shifter turns back into the werewolf, running full speed at you.

"save yourself. please. i'll find you afterwards. i promise." he smiles at you assuringly, eyes glossy with tears, as much as yours.

"i will kill you, jeong yunho. maybe not today. but one day i will."

"i know, doll. and i won't fight back. i'll make it the easiest kill for you."

taking one last look at his beat up face, you hiccup and hide a sob, then run. run until you can no longer, collapsing in a narrow dark street, face buried in your bloodied hands. you finally free the sobs that have accumulated in your throat, tormenting you, and heart aching as the brain processes the newfound information.

how are you to kill jeong yunho?

***

among all the shapeshifter headlines, one of spiderman catches your attention.

spiderman missing!

he has been missing for weeks now, and no amount of hanging at the rooftop, by his window or at the lab could bring him back. you hated spiderman, but you liked yunho. and each thought of yunho was betrayal to seonghwa. your heart wished to move on, accepting defeat, yet your brain was stubborn. you wanted to carry out your plan. you wanted to destroy spiderman. but how can you, when he has the kindest eyes and the sweetest smile you've ever seen since seonghwa's passing?

the cool air does nothing to you as you walk on the edge of the building, hoping to see the familiar red and blue swinging among the skyscrapers. he must be holed up somewhere, recovering all by himself. when you left him, he was already in a bad condition. he heals faster, you know it. but how fast can one heal when someone has had their hands pierced through their body?

with a sigh, you climb back into your room, and suddenly, a hand finds its way over your mouth. another one holds your waist in place, while the person lowers their head on your shoulder, lips brushing against your ear shell.

"it's me, journalist." his breath is hot against your cheek. "i'll let go now. don't scream, doll."

once he does, you don't hesitate to jump to the other side of the room, grabbing the nearest object to shield yourself. the floor lamp is yet to prove effective, but you hold it pointed at him just in case. "how do i know it's you?"

"he doesn't know you hate my guts. relax. it's really me."

your eyes finally take in his form. he is still in his ripped suit, holding his side, blood seeping through the fabric and leg limp. his face is swollen and full of cuts, and his breaths shallow.

"what are you doing here?"

"i didn't know where else to go." he admits.

"so you came to the death's door?"

"window, technically."

you scoff in disbelief. "you're a fool, jeong yunho."

"my fate is inevitable. it is only a matter of time when i meet my end, but before that, i need you."

ignoring the fuzzy feeling in your stomach, you set the lamp down, not breaking eye contact with him. you need to have him in sight at all times. "where are your little avengers?"

"someone told me you didn't like them. besides, i want you to get your revenge. i promise i didn't know what he did to you, otherwise i'd never-"

"you seem so relaxed about the fact that i'll kill you." you interrupt him. "why is that? what are you planning?"

he limps over to your bed, dropping on it on his side and letting out a hiss in pain. "i had time to think. seonghwa's death is the only death i know of. how many more are there? all because of my reckless fighting."

you wish to say that he doesn't deserve to utter seonghwa's name. but his face scrunched in pain and bruises, and blood covering his body are enough for you to swallow your words. he really had nowhere to go?

"after-" he coughs, then yelps, holding his side, "after we kill the shapeshifter... you can come find me in mingi's lab. i thought i'd make it look like a suicide, so you don't have anyone on your back and you can live freely."

"stop that. go to sleep, we'll talk in the morning."

were it not for his current state, you wouldn't let him stay inside this long, let alone sleep over. but you still have a heart, and you still remember that beneath the ripped mask is jeong yunho. the man that made you feel human again. the man that made you not visit seonghwa's grave in a while, because his name shined in your face as if yelling cheater. but seonghwa would never do that, even if you had found someone else by now. don't stop living because of me, he said with his last breath.

but how can you live with all the damage you've done by now, under the excuse that it is for him?

upon exiting the room, you miss the way yunho's warm brown eyes follow your figure, lips curved in a light smile. if he was going to die, he was glad that you would be the one doing it. at least one person will be at peace.

***

"i don't want it to look like a suicide." you say as you sit on the edge of the building, legs hanging above the city street.

"what?" the masked man asks. "why?"

"i want them to know i did it."

conveniently, the hood covers your eyes, which are burning as tears announce their arrival. with each hour that passes, you pray that the shapeshifter doesn't appear. if he does, you pray that he kills you, so that you don't kill yunho. and if he doesn't, you pray that he kills yunho instead of you doing it. not because you don't want the city to hate you, or the avengers after you, but because you don't have the heart to do it. not after those weeks with him, and not after last night.

not after you had climbed into the bed sleepily, forgetting that you have company in it and forgetting that it was the reason you were sleeping on the couch in the first place. cold, shivering and a mumbling mess, you had found your way into his arms, nuzzling your head into his bare chest and soaking up his warmth. he smelled like blood and sweat, but felt like the fluffiest cloud on the sky. the cloud just before the sun sets; the orange and pink one, the prettiest one. the last one.

you woke up before him, cursing yourself for getting in there. to make things worse, you got up fast, accidentally elbowing him on his side and causing him to grunt in his sleep. wherever he was hiding and whatever he did must've tired him, because he doesn't wake up. it gives you a chance to properly look at him. and when you finish examining his flushed face, his bruised cheekbones, his cut lips and jaw, and his fluttering lashes, it gives you a chance to change your mind.

you sit on your window, sewing his suit. the blue and the red suddenly pretty shades, and no longer waking anger inside of you. and you hated yourself for it. you hated yourself so much for it that you considered jumping off the building you're sitting on right now. but you know he'd catch you, and you'd have to explain.

"if you do that, the whole world will hate you." yunho whispers.

"they can't hate me if i'm dead."

"no-"

"we have company." you interrupt, not wanting to hear anymore.

the shapeshifter is back in its spot again, glimmering eyes piercing through you like the sharpest knives. yunho gulps next to you. "there's something different about it."

you hum, examining the creature. it is in its werewolf appearance, teeth on full display and dripping with blood and saliva. "the insect and the reptile. the party can now begin."

"yeah. it seems to be..." you examine it as it leaps at you, "glowing."

just before he latches onto you, yunho pulls your body into his, then wastes no time in throwing you on the creature's back. fangs yearning to pierce his skin, and fingers pulling at his hairy head, you hold onto him for dear life. one wrong move and you're dead.

while yunho distracts him, you still struggle to bite him. not because he's moving too fast, but because his skin seems too thick for a bite. and then, fear swallows you whole. maybe you bit off more than you can chew.

the shifter senses the change in your demeanor, as does yunho. it's almost as if you can see his eyes widen under the mask right before you feel unbearable pain on your neck. its singular hand wraps entirely around it, and you swear you hear your bones crushing under his grip.

no amount of yunho's distracting works on the being. its eyes stare deep into your soul, and it's the last thing you see before your vision blurs and finally darkens.

seonghwa, here i come.

***

you always thought that seonghwa would be waiting by the gates for you.

not only is there no seonghwa, there is no gate either. just endless light. no corners, no ceiling. just a vast floor and space. you thought dying would be... well, you didn't think about that part much. you only thought of reuniting with your lover. and if you did think about it, you didn't imagine it so dull.

where was the pain? the suffering? the regret? the desire to be alive again?

"darling?"

ah. there it is.

the guilt.

eating you up alive as you turn around, eyes locking with familiar ones that you've missed with your entire being. up until recently, you cried yourself to sleep, wailed and tortured yourself, wishing to gaze upon those brown eyes one more time. yet why can't you look at him right now?

"what are you doing here?" the sound of footsteps bounces off the non existent - or invisible - walls, and make you bite the inside of your cheek.

your gaze is fixed on his white attire; a loose white linen shirt and white pants, along with a simple white bracelet with a familiar flower as a charm. 

"my love," he calls, voice so soft it has you melting on the floor. literally. he crouches in front of you, holding you by your shoulders while your legs feel like jelly. "oh, darling."

your face rests in his warm palm which holds your head up for him to see. finally, you look at him again. he still smells of vanilla. "seonghwa."

"what did the world do to you, my sweet?" 

you smile into his touch. "it doesn't matter now, does it? i'm here."

you expect him to smile back. yet he doesn't. he examines your bruises and cuts, gently feeling them under his thumb as he holds your jaw in his hand. "what troubles you?"

he summons the guilt once again. he knows. he has to know. why does he make you say it out loud?

"i think i fell in love with your murderer."

that's when he smiles. not mischievously, not condescendingly, and not in any way that would make you feel worse. the smile is soft and genuine, just like his whole being. do you even deserve park seonghwa, even after death?

"say something." voice a mere whisper, you beg. "please, hwa."

thoughts race, and hands shake. you can't seem to hold eye contact longer than two seconds. yet seonghwa simply presses his plush lips against your forehead, erasing every thought you had for a split second. he gives you peace.

"it's not as if it matters anymore. i'm dead anyway."

"that's where you are wrong, darling." he helps you stand.

"what?"

"you're not dead. you are unconscious."

"then why-" you step back, making seonghwa's hands fall from your body. suddenly, you feel cold and empty. you wish you could jump into his arms and bury your face into the crook of his neck, just to smell and feel him properly one more time. "why are you here?"

"i came to tell you that you need to let go."

"never." you gasp in disbelief. "i could never let you go."

"i'll always be in your memories. but, sweetheart, you need to move on. you need to let me rest as well."

you never thought of it that way. by holding grudge and seeking revenge, you didn't let his poor soul find peace. "this isn't just about you or me. it's about countless others who died the same way."

"the sooner you realise that i died so that thousand others could survive, the sooner you'll be at peace."

"but why you, seonghwa?" your voice cracks. and it shatters seonghwa's heart, you can see it. it makes you feel even worse, causing him pain when he should be resting in peace. "why did it have to be you?"

"because if it wasn't me, then it would've been you. and all deities know that i wouldn't be able to survive losing you."

"hwa-" you cry out.

"you have to come back, journalist."

"don't call me that." you step back, furrowing your eyebrows.

seonghwa's expression shifts. he doesn't look at you with a loving gaze anymore. as if he wants to anger you, scare you away back into life. "journalist."

"stop."

his facial features start melting, taking a different shape. eyes, nose, lips, hair. no longer your seonghwa. "don't die on me, doll."

"stop it! stop! don't call me that!"

"god, please, wake up." his voice is the last one to change. "come back so you can kill me, dammit."

you didn't know you were holding back a scream. a painful shriek, rather. one that has you almost stop breathing, but it wakes you up from the deep slumber.

"seonghwa." you pant.

"i got you." the voice says, and you feel arms wrapping around your shaking figure.

back at the rooftop. seonghwa gone. yunho alive. chest painful from sobbing. scratch marks all over your face. your own hair between your fingers. bloody insides of your cheeks. how long were you hurting yourself subconsciously?

"why would you wake me up? i was finally with him." you feel betrayed.

"you had unfinished business." yunho replies, still holding you in a hug which prevents you from further hurting yourself. "you have a hero to kill."

the sooner you realise that i died so that thousand others could survive, the sooner you'll be at peace.

why did he have to be so good, even after his death? why did he make everything so much harder?

in the corner of your eye, you see the creature. he is back in his human form, all beat up and very much dead. yunho himself doesn't look great, either. his mask is barely holding together, and there is claw marks all over his body. you were supposed to help, and you let him down.

"i'm ready whenever you are." the dark eyed man interrupts your thoughts. "i won't tell you to make it quick or painless. i'm sure it wasn't like that for you. you don't have to go easy on me."

your eyes watch as he rips his mask apart, then fidgets with the fabric as he awaits your decision of his fate.

"you are really ready to die for a stranger?"

he scoffs to himself. "not only for you or seonghwa. for everyone else i've damaged and haven't taken accountability for."

he died, yet thousands survived.

the sooner i make my peace with it, the sooner seonghwa will rest in peace himself.

"any last words for me?" he offers, tilting his head to look at you. puppy-like. just his style.

"actually, yes." will the self hatred and guilt go away by themselves? "there's a fried chicken place that works until late."

"huh?"

"i'm not waiting for you or carrying you." will seonghwa regret what he said to you?

"oh." yunho is confused more than surprised. he isn't sure whether this is one of your games or you are genuine. until you turn around as you reach the edge of the building and smile at him.

"hurry. i'm quite hungry."

yunho can't help but roll his eyes and smile as he watches your figure fall from the building. he will catch you. he always does.

he even forgot he wasn't wearing the mask anymore.

maybe you spared him so that you can plan his demise without anyone interfering. maybe you had a change of heart. or maybe, he was dead already, and was given the punishment of falling in love with you but never being able to have you.

whatever it was, he wouldn't give up the current moment for anything in this world; the two of you sitting on his window, eating crispy chicken, ignoring the fact that you tried to kill each other not that long ago, and the sneaky glances.

if this was his fate until the end of times, he won't complain. he will embrace it with arms wide open. he'll fall from the building again. he'll willingly let you bite again. he'll take claws through his body again. all of it, if it meant it guaranteed your happiness.

[thewitchblue]

"Did you join the fucking military?"

Jason asked Tim, who blinked blankly at Jason until he noticed what he was holding. Jason was holding your military tags, which Tim's selfishly kept to himself when you "lost" them. Technically, he stole the tags from you, but you can always get a new set. You'll be matching! He did feel a little bad that you got in trouble with leadership when you asked for new ones, but he's sure you'd be fine without the old pair.

"No."

Tim didn't elaborate further. The tags have practically lived on him since he stole them. He only ever takes them off for showers, which is how Jason found them. Jason scoffed,

"Good. You'd be a shit soldier. Why do you have military dog tags?"

Tim tried to take them back, but Jason held them above his head. Your dog tags are air jailed until he gets answers. Jason needed to know.

"Answer or I'll find a place to smelt them down."

Tim knew he was serious by the gleam in Jason's eyes, so he said,

"My girlfriend is in a special forces unit for the marines. She refuses to tell me which unit she's in, but I've narrowed it down."

Jason was too stunned to notice that he dropped your dog tags. Tim snatched them off the floor and put them safely around his neck again and tucked under his shirt where they belonged. He likes to say that you're closer to his heart with your tags under his shirt with the bonus of protecting him from any potential bullets. Even when you are gone, you promise that you will always come back. He's used to your deployment and the limbo you have him in.

"When do I get to meet her?"

Dick said from the doorway. He was passing by and overheard. His little Timmy has a girlfriend? When did that happen?

Tim touches the tags while thinking of what to reveal and what to keep private. He's never been good at respecting privacy, but he has been learning for you. He knows to keep anything you say to him a secret, but what about other things relating to you?

"Whenever she wants. I'm not her keeper."

Tim answered vaguely. He's flying to see you soon, and he doesn't want to be followed. You've been together for three years, but you met kind of awkwardly. You tackled him to the ground and wrestled with him after mistaking him for one of your friends.

Your willpower eventually overcame his reflexes, and he stopped struggling. You had laughed when you pinned him down and ruffled his hair in victory. It was embarrassing to him how quickly he submitted to you. He watched your eyes widen when you noticed he's not your friend. You took in the scene too slowly. You, straddling who you had assumed was your friend with your hands pinning his wrists to both sides of his head, and Tim blushing underneath you. Tim didn't know how to react either, so you both stared at each other before you started awkwardly apologising.

Tim was a mess, but he was an adorable mess. His hair was ruffled, and his clothes were wrinkled, but there were no bruises nor any scrapes. You were always careful to leave no injuries. He was breathless, just staring at you with wide eyes and a shyness that almost made you smile. He was so cute that you wanted to squish him.

You quickly got off of him once you realised how long you've been staring at him. You pulled him up from the ground when he didn't make a move to stand by himself and actually almost fell right back to the ground because his legs refused to work for him. He was understandly stunned.

This is awkward. How do you explain the tradition of you fighting your friend on sight? Your friend does the exact same thing with you. It was excellent training for your deployment to fight each other on sight without any prep. Enemy soldiers aren't going to reveal themselves before attacking, so surprise attacks help keep your reflexes sharp.

"Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

He couldn't get the image of you pinning him down out of his head. Nobody has ever pinned him down so intimately. You were gentle. Your hold would have been easy to break out of if he didn't stop struggling. It was like you only played until one of you got pinned, and then the fight was over.

Tim was still trying to remember how to function. What does he do? What does he say? He's all shaken up. He had to look away from you. He managed to say,

"It's fine."

He tried to sound like it was no big deal, but it sounded strained. He was pretending like the wrestling really took it out of him by fake panting, but you both knew better. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, but pat his back and attempted to leave.

Attempted, being the key word. Tim caught your wrist loosely and nervously said,

"I, uh... would you... Can we... Let's... I'm sorry."

He didn't have the words with you looking at him like that. He was nervous. You smiled softly at him, and he forgot how to speak entirely. He could only stare until you took the initiative and asked him to go on a date before you leave for boot camp. He nodded, and that was that. You gave him your number and continued your run like nothing happened.

The date went amazing. It was a bit unconventional as you took him to a paint gun fight after showing him the gun and explaining the rules. You grinned every time he landed a hit and even wiped away the paint that splattered onto him with a fond expression. You opened up about the fear you have about joining the military, but your desire to help. You want to make a difference, however small or large that may be.

You kissed the bruising wounds softly and banaged the bleeding ones before he could even reach for the first aid kit you brought. You helped him up with a wild grin, and he kissed you until the adrenaline ran out. The guns were empty, and you both were messes, but your hearts were full, and Tim can safely say he hates paintballing. You took him to see a movie like a normal person next date.

Jason and Dick watched their brother soften further and further as he went down memory lane. Dick was ecstatic and already plotting to meet you, but Jason was confused why anybody would date Tim. Yeah, he's had his fair share of partners, but he's surprised every time he gets a date, let alone a girlfriend.

You were his mystery girl, and their family loves a good mystery.

[princessbrunette]

Rewatching season one and thinking about the scene where Wheezie walks in and Rafe quickly flips over his innapropriate magazine out of respect. Imagine him doing the same for deer!reader but because he doesn’t want to taint her innocence

waaaait why are you kind of a genius 🙂‍↕️ i see this as neighbour!rafe with deer!reader and it’s not because he doesn’t wanna taint her innocence, it’s kind of just a knee jerk reaction because he doesn’t want the hot neighbour to see his porn magazines 😒

you come skipping over, rafe barely noticing until you’re virtually right infront of him due to the marijuana clouding his brain. his hand shoots out, flipping the magazines before running a bashful hand through his floppy hair.

“wha’s that?” you hum before you even get to greet him.

“dont worry, alright - why’re you over here anyway?” he drawls, inwardly wondering why his first reaction was to be rude to you. perhaps he’s simply irritated that he got caught.

“was looking for my parents because they’re not home. thought they might be here.” you shrug one shoulder, and he nods slowly, taking a huff from his bong. you stare over the porch, looking into the distance to see if you could see them, or anyone for that matter — as you weren’t so keen on being caught with rafe whilst he’s smoking weed. it didn’t really go with your image.

“y’want some? or….” he coughs, and you turn to blink at him.

“oh, um…” you swallow, overthinking the whole thing. you knew you’d sound deathly uncool. “i don’t smoke.”

rafe wets his lips, nodding exaggeratedly as if to silently say ‘of course.’ before putting it aside. “yeah, uh… good. shits bad for you. you— you know drugs in general just fuck everything up. they ruin lives, man they — they just take everything…i mean, shit.” he rants, growing increasingly more irritated with seemingly no one by the second. at the end of his mini rage, he slams his fist into the soft arm of the porch seat he reclines on, making you widen your eyes slightly.

“yes… that’s what they told us during the anti drug assemblies at school.” you converse, awkwardly wiping your hands down the sides of your plaid dress. you knew rafe enough now to not be so deathly shy, but that didn’t rid you of your social anxiety.

“hah…yeah. shit, i forget we went to the same school. i probably walked right by you, huh.” he calms almost immediately, in the stereotypical unpredictable rafe cameron way. he did walk right past you. many times. you nod, saying nothing at all as to not give yourself away before craning to look behind you at your exit.

“okay. well… if my parents aren’t here i should head home. they’ll probably be there soon anyway.” you glance at your shoes as rafe stands, nodding casually.

“yeah…yeah.”

you go to walk down the porch steps, but stop— feeling a wave of bravery, and turn to look at him over your shoulder, adjusting the tote bag that hangs from it. “oh… and you shouldn’t read those pornographic magazines. they’re objectifying and damaging to women.” you try to hold your chin high, but feel your face get hot. he leans against the porch balcony, seemingly unbothered as you continue walking away.

“yeah well the women in these magazines are gettin’ paid a shit tonne of money so i wouldn’t worry ‘bout them alright?” he calls out carelessly as you disappear away further, before turning his back and sighing, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “shhhit.” he whispers, to no one but himself.

[cherry-zip]

─ • CSC .ᐟ Stolen Sweater

› content ┆ idol scoups x fem reader, established relationship, fluff ✎ word-count .ᐟ 1.4k. ⌁ summary ┆ Seungcheol comes home to you wearing his sweater ❀ a/n┆i feel like that would be something I would do if i were to be in a relationship, plus Seungcheol is big so it would be the perfect size to drown in his sweaters

It was a lazy afternoon, the kind where the sky outside was overcast, and the chill in the air made staying indoors the perfect plan. Seungcheol hadn’t been home for long, having just finished showering, but he was already beginning to relax into the peaceful quiet of the late afternoon. After a grueling practice session with the members, the ache in his muscles was a welcome reminder of how hard they’d been working. Yet, as much as he loved his group and his role as their leader, coming home to you was what really made him feel at ease.

Seungcheol was never one to admit just how much he loved the little things about his relationship. As a leader, he had always been the strong, reliable one—the protector. But when it came to you, there was something different about the way you made him feel. You had a way of softening him, of making him smile even on the hardest days. Today, though, you managed to catch him completely off guard.

As he walked across the hallway toward the living room, still rubbing his damp hair with a towel, he caught sight of you, and it made him stop in his tracks.

There you were, curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, completely absorbed in a book, a cup of warm tea on the coffee table. But it wasn’t the peaceful scene that stopped him in his tracks—it was what you were wearing.

His sweater.

His heart skipped a beat. It was his favorite sweater—black, slightly worn, with a faded Chrome Hearts logo of the brand he loved so much. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d worn it himself, nor did he realize you’d taken it. Yet, there you were, wrapped up in it, looking impossibly cozy in the too-big sleeves, your fingers just barely peeking out cutely.

For a moment, Seungcheol didn’t say anything but just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his towel long forgotten in his hand. His eyes roamed over you: from the way the sweater practically swallowed your small frame to how your fingers barely peeked out of the sleeves as you held your book. The neckline hung loosely, revealing just a bit of your collarbone, and something about that made his heart race.

It wasn’t just that you looked good—you did, of course—but it was more than that. There was something intimate, something almost possessive about seeing you in his clothes like you’d claimed a piece of him, even if you didn’t realize it.

He hadn’t noticed how long he’d been staring until you looked up from your book after sensing his presence, your eyes meeting his. A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as if you’d caught onto his reaction.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice warm and familiar. “You’re home.”

Seungcheol cleared his throat, trying to shake off the daze you’d put him in. “Yeah, just got back.” He walked further into the room, tossing the towel onto the armchair, but his eyes kept looking at you. “You… you’re wearing my sweater.”

You glanced down as if only just realizing it, then back up at him with a playful smile. “Oh, this? It was cold, and it was the first thing I saw in your closet. It’s really... comfortable.”

Seungcheol blinked, still processing the sight in front of him. The way you said it, so casually, like it was no big deal, made him chuckle. But it *was* a big deal, at least to him.

There was something about you wearing his clothes that did something to him, something he couldn’t quite put into words. He didn’t mind, of course. If anything, he found it endearing. It felt intimate like you were wrapped up in a piece of him. He felt his chest warm with a strange mix of pride and affection.

“Does it feel okay?” he asked, sitting down beside you, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch the hem of the sweater’s sleeve. His fingers brushed against the soft fabric, and for some reason, the action made him feel strangely protective.

You nodded, shifting a little closer to him. “It’s perfect. Honestly, I think I’m going to keep it,” you teased, glancing up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, really? You’re just going to steal my favorite sweater like that?”

“Stealing is a strong word,” you replied, tilting your head slightly. “Borrowing indefinitely sounds nicer.”

He laughed, a deep, rich yet cute sound that filled the room. “Alright, alright. I guess I can let you borrow it… indefinitely.” His voice softened, and the teasing tone faded as he continued to look at you, still feeling that tug in his chest at the sight of you in his clothes.

“You look better in it than I do,” he finally said, his voice soft.

You laughed lightly, your cheeks flushing just a little at his compliment. “I don’t know about that. It’s pretty big on me.”

“Yeah, but that’s the point,” he teased. “It’s supposed to be big.”

You set your book aside, sliding closer to him. “Well, it’s perfect for this kind of weather.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, and Seungcheol instinctively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you even closer. You fit perfectly under his arm, snug and warm, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the sweater. It was the little things like this that made him realize how much he loved you—how much you meant to him.

“I’ll get you your own,” he murmured into your hair, though he didn’t really mean it. He liked seeing you in his clothes, liked how it felt like you were carrying a piece of him.

“Why would I need my own when I can just steal yours forever?” you replied, your voice playful but laced with affection.

He chuckled, resting his chin on top of your head. “Fair point.”

They stayed like that for a while, the sound of rain beginning to tap softly against the window, a gentle rhythm that matched the calm between them. Seungcheol absentmindedly ran his fingers up and down your arm, tracing the soft material of the sweater, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in the moment.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice low and thoughtful, “I’ve never really been the type to care about stuff like this. But seeing you in my sweater…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “It makes me happy. I don’t know why.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, your expression softening. “You don’t have to explain it. I get it.”

He smiled down at you, grateful that you always seemed to understand him, even when he struggled to find the words. Seungcheol wasn’t the best at expressing his feelings, especially when it came to sentimental things like this, but you always made it easier for him.

“You can wear it whenever you want,” he murmured, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “It looks better on you anyway.”

You laughed softly, leaning back into his chest. “You say that now, but you’ll miss it when you can’t find it in your closet.”

Seungcheol chuckled, “Maybe, but if it means you’re always wearing a piece of me, I think I can live with that.”

You didn’t say anything for a while, just settled more comfortably into his embrace, and Seungcheol closed his eyes, letting the warmth of your body and the soft patter of the rain lull him into a peaceful state. He didn’t need anything more than this—just the quiet intimacy of sharing a piece of himself with you.

After a long moment, you spoke up again, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know, I think I love this sweater now too.”

Seungcheol smiled against your hair, holding you just a little tighter. “Good. Because it’s yours now.”

They sat there in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the sweater and each other keeping the chill of the afternoon at bay. Seungcheol didn’t need grand gestures or big declarations of love; moments like these were enough. His sweater, his girl, and the quiet peace they shared—it was all he needed. It was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

› anonymous review form

here comes my first even Seungcheol fanfic! Posting this after the One Ok Rock concert in Paris

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! don't forget tp like, reblog, comment ^^

‧₊ ᵎᵎ “CHERRY.zip"🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

[heejamas]

nicest guy: 28. the super bowl episode

word count: 10k words (sorryyyy....) + 10 screenshots

warnings: MDNI!!!!!! explicit sexual content. petnames, spanking, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) all the fucking lot. spoiler alert im so sorry...... thank you......

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Jake pulled up in front of your place at exactly 5:30, just like he said he would. You slid into the passenger seat, buckling yourself in as he shot you a smirk. “You’re looking way too cute for a football night,” he teased, eyes flickering over your outfit.

“Should I have worn a jersey?” you joked.

“I mean, if it were a Chiefs jersey, I’d be down bad.”

“Don’t start,” You warned, trying to suppress a smile.

“Start what? Being charming?” He pulled away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the radio. “Can’t help it.”

You rolled her eyes, looking out the window. “I feel like this is just another one of your many talents. Football, flirting, and what else?”

Jake glanced at you, grinning. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

By the time you pulled up to Heeseung’s place, the party was already in full swing. The scent of pizza, wings, and beer lingered in the air, blending with the distant roar of pre-game analysis from the TV. The house was packed with excited chatter, the occasional burst of laughter echoing through the rooms.

Jake led the way inside, his palm pressing lightly against the small of your back—an unnecessary but deliberate touch that didn’t go unnoticed. Your eyes scanned the crowded living room until they landed on Sunghoon, lounging on the couch next to Jungwon and Jay, a beer lazily dangling from his fingers.

He saw you and Jake enter together. His gaze flickered between the two of you, pausing ever so slightly on where Jake’s hand rested against your back. Then, as if amused by the whole scene, he smirked and leaned back into the couch, exuding that effortless, unreadable coolness that always made your stomach twist.

Jake shook off the feeling and turned his attention to the rest of the room. “Hey, losers,” Jake greeted, grinning as you walked further in.

Beomgyu, perched on the arm of the couch, dramatically clutched his chest. “Finally, some respect in this household.”

Heeseung, from his spot in the kitchen, lifted his drink. “About time you got here. You’re lucky, kickoff’s in fifteen.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss it,” you replied, moving to greet everyone properly.

Then, just as you were pulling away from Jay’s quick side hug, Sunghoon was there. And unlike the others, he didn’t go for a casual half-hug—no, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. Too close. Long enough for you to feel the firm press of his chest against yours, the warmth radiating off him, the way his fingers pressed lightly against your waist.

Your breath caught, just for a second. And then, finally, he let go, his lips twitching upward as he murmured, “You good?”

Before you could even formulate a response, Jungwon’s voice cut in, dry and unimpressed. “Yeah, okay. Let me say hi to my sister,” your twin gave you a pointed look, barely concealing his exasperation.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, stepping back. “Right.”

Jake, who had been watching the whole thing with narrowed eyes, didn’t waste a second. The moment you were within reach again, he pulled you slightly closer to his side, fingers brushing against yours as if reminding you who invited you in the first place. Sunghoon, of course, noticed. He didn’t say anything, but the amused glint in his eyes was enough to make Jake’s jaw tighten.

“Beer?” Sunghoon offered, reaching for the cooler beside the couch. He pulled out two bottles, holding one toward you first.

Before you could take it, Jake spoke. “I’m good.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Jake just shrugged, undeterred. “I’m practically part of the furniture here. I know where the drinks are.”

Just as the pre-game commentary wrapped up, everyone settled into their spots. Jake pulled you onto the couch next to him, his hand resting lightly on your knee—another not-so-subtle reminder of his presence.

As kickoff loomed, the tension between the two boys at your sides remained. It wasn’t outright hostile, but it was there, simmering beneath the surface. And you? You were more than happy to sit in the middle of it all, enjoying every second of their silent battle for your attention.

Heeseung leans forward, gesturing animatedly with his beer as the pre-game analysis plays on the screen. “Look, I don’t wanna hear anything from you guys,” he starts, his voice carrying over the chatter in the room. “Saquon had the best season of his career. You can’t argue that. And the Eagles? They deserve this.”

You take a sip of your drink, barely listening until you hear Sunghoon scoff from the couch.

“Yeah, Saquon had the best season of his career,” Sunghoon drawls, shifting to rest his elbow on his knee, “for a team that isn’t the Giants.” His tone is just short of bitter, but the unimpressed look on his face seals it. “They don’t deserve shit.”

“Maybe,” Jake finally speaks up, his voice low, but carrying the weight of a rivalry that’s been simmering for years. “But if you ask me, they’ve still got nothing on the Chiefs.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his focus entirely on Sunghoon now.

Sunghoon turns his head slowly, his gaze cold but measured. “Really? You think they can actually win it this year?” His lips curl into a slight smirk, the kind that’s just enough to test Jake's patience.

Jake doesn’t flinch, though. Instead, he grins, a sharp, knowing smile. “Better than the Eagles. Chiefs have the heart, man. You’ll see.”

The tension hangs between them, but it’s a different kind of tension now. Less hatred and more something familiar. Old rivalry with new ground to stand on. For a brief moment, you feel like they might just find their way back to being those old friends, the ones who used to laugh and trash-talk without the weight of everything that’s happened between them.

But then Sunghoon throws an arm over the back of the couch—right behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder, and whatever moment they just had evaporates instantly. Because Jake immediately notices. And he’s not about to let that slide.

Casually—almost too casually—he shifts, resting his palm on your knee. His thumb brushes the exposed skin there, barely enough to be anything, but enough to be something. You glance between them, feeling the shift in the air.

Sunghoon, unbothered as ever, just takes another sip of his beer, gaze fixed on the screen like he doesn’t feel Jake’s stare burning holes into him. Jake, on the other hand, keeps his focus straight ahead, jaw tight. And you? You just sit there, stuck between them, sipping your drink like you don’t feel their silent battle for dominance happening on your body.

The moment the Eagles score another touchdown, Heeseung shoots up from his seat like a rocket, nearly knocking over the bowl of chips on the table.

“LET’S GOOOOOOO!” he yells, arms stretched wide, face pure smugness. “JALEN HURTS IS HIM! MAHOMES WHO? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT MAN IN MY LIFE!”

Beomgyu, slouched dramatically in his seat like he just received life-altering news, glares at Heeseung with unfiltered rage. “Bro, shut the fuck up. You’re acting like you even know ball.”

“I do know ball,” Heeseung shoots back, hands on his hips now, chest puffed like he personally threw the touchdown. “And you know what else I know? Jalen Hurts is CLEARLY better than Mahomes. Better QB, better team, better haircut—”

Beomgyu sits up so fast it’s like his soul re-entered his body. “Oh yeah? Well, Mahomes could—” He pauses, eyes darting around as his brain short-circuits. “—Mahomes could beat Jalen in a sword fight.”

Silence.

Even Heeseung looks momentarily thrown off. “A…sword fight?”

“Yeah,” Beomgyu says, doubling down like the absolute menace he is. “Mahomes has that wrist power, bro. Think about it. You ever see that man throw across his body? Now imagine him with a sword.”

The room collectively loses it. Jay actually wheezes. Sunghoon nearly chokes on his drink. Even Jungwon, who’s been silent for most of the game, shakes his head in pure disappointment.

Jake, however, is not laughing. At all. He’s sitting there, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight you’d think his teeth might shatter. “This is actually disgusting,” he mutters. “Zero points. Zero. We’re getting cooked.”

Sunghoon, for once, nods in agreement. “Embarrassing.”

Jake glances at him. Sunghoon glances back. And in that moment, their mutual disdain turns into something far more powerful—mutual suffering.

“This defense is non-existent,” Jake continues, shaking his head. “Like, where the fuck is Chris Jones?”

“Right?” Sunghoon huffs. “And why are they not running the damn ball?”

“Dude, I was thinking the same thing,” Jake mutters, leaning in slightly. “And Mahomes keeps trying to force deep shots that aren’t even there.”

Sunghoon nods again, mirroring Jake’s energy now. “If they don’t get points before halftime, I swear—”

“They HAVE to,” Jake interrupts, his frustration now indistinguishable from Sunghoon’s.

From where you’re sitting—smack between them—you can feel the tension between their bodies shift. It’s no longer hostile. No longer cold. They’re in sync. Complaining. Critiquing. Agreeing. Like they’re supposed to.

Like they used to.

And even though they’re completely ignoring your existence, you can’t bring yourself to mind. Because this? This is good.

You glance across the room to Jungwon, who’s watching the entire scene unfold, seated next to Jay. He meets your eyes, then tilts his head toward Jake and Sunghoon, eyebrows raised slightly. You shrug. He smiles.

And just like that, it almost feels like everything is falling into place.

For now.

The room buzzes with anticipation as the stadium lights dim. The opening beats of Alright hit like a shockwave, and suddenly, the energy shifts. Jake and Sunghoon, who had been stewing in their shared misery, straighten in their seats, eyes locked on the screen. Then, almost in sync, they spring to their feet.

“OH, SHIT—” Jake yells, immediately jumping to his feet.

Sunghoon is right behind him, eyes wide, a rare grin spreading across his face. “Nah, this is about to be crazy.”

They’re both locked in, eyes glued to the screen, rapping along with Kendrick like the past twenty minutes of suffering never even happened. And just like that, they’re completely absorbed—every frustration about the game momentarily forgotten as Kendrick Lamar commands the stage.

Jake mouths the words effortlessly, nodding to the beat, while Sunghoon raps along with so much confidence you’d think he was personally featured on the track. By the time DNA. starts, the entire room is moving. Even Jay, who usually keeps his reactions in check, is bobbing his head, rapping under his breath.

Then, out of nowhere, Sunghoon turns to Jake, squinting in suspicion. “Wait—weren’t you Team Drake?”

Jake freezes mid-head nod. Slowly, he turns to Sunghoon, face contorted like he just got personally insulted. “Are you dumb?”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “I swear you were a hardcore Drake fan.”

Jake gestures wildly toward the TV, where Kendrick is absolutely going off. “Yeah, I used to bump old Drake. But obviously I’m Team Kendrick. I have taste.”

Before Sunghoon can respond, Taehyun, who had been relatively quiet most of the night, suddenly starts rapping word for word. Like—flawless execution. Perfect cadence. No hesitation. The entire room turns to stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

Even Jay looks impressed. “Damn. You really went off just now.”

Taehyun barely blinks. “It’s Kendrick. You think I’d come unprepared?”

Before anyone can react to that flex, the instrumental shifts. A slow, deep bass creeps in, and SZA’s unmistakable voice floats through the speakers. The moment Luther starts, the atmosphere changes. The wild energy from the rap performances fades into something smoother, something that settles into everyone’s skin. The kind of song that makes you feel something.

Jake doesn’t even hesitate. Without a word, his hands slide around your waist, pulling you back into him.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t resist. Instead, you let yourself sink into his chest, the heat of his body wrapping around you. His grip is firm but easy, his thumbs brushing soft circles over your sides. It’s intimate. Subtle. A moment meant just for the two of you.

From across the room, Sunghoon watches.

His beer lingers halfway to his lips, forgotten, as his gaze settles on the way Jake holds you. The way your head tilts just slightly against Jake’s shoulder, the way Jake’s fingers flex around your waist like he’s making sure you’re real.

It’s the same feeling he had at the party. The same quiet observation. The same pull.

Meanwhile, Jake leans down, lips brushing against your ear. His voice is low, barely above a whisper.

“Meet me in the kitchen when this is over.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. Low. Intentional. The kind of tone that makes your skin prickle with anticipation. Your fingers tighten slightly around his arm in response. Just enough to let him know you heard him.

But before anything else can happen—

“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”

Beomgyu’s scream is so loud it nearly drowns out the music. The entire room whips toward the TV, and what they see does not make sense.

Because there, standing on the sidelines of the Super Bowl halftime show, is—

“NIKI?!” Heeseung practically yells.

The camera pans across the crowd, and sure enough, Niki is right there, just casually vibing with John Cena, Yeonjun, and—

“WAIT—IS THAT TAYLOR SWIFT?!” Soobin screeches.

The reaction is instant chaos.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Beomgyu shouts, grabbing his head like he’s in physical pain.

“WHY IS HE WITH TAYLOR SWIFT?” Heeseung demands.

Jake is just staring at the screen, mouth open. “What the fuck is going on?”

Beomgyu throws his arms in the air, voice cracking. “WHY IS THIS OUR FRIEND? WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?”

No one has an answer. And frankly, no one cares. Because at this point, reality doesn’t even matter. The only thing that does? The fact that Niki is somehow, someway, living a life no one will ever understand.

The chaos from the living room finally settles, leaving behind an electric buzz of excitement and lingering shock over whatever the hell Niki was doing at the Super Bowl. But Jake? Jake has other things on his mind.

Without a word, he stands, stretches like he’s just casually shaking off the loss, and heads toward the kitchen. No one really notices—except for Sunghoon.

Sunghoon, who has barely spoken since that moment behind the couch. Sunghoon, whose sharp gaze follows Jake’s every move as he disappears around the corner. And then, a moment later, follows you, watching in silence as you rise from your seat and slip out of the room.

When you step into the kitchen, the house feels different—quieter, softer. The sounds of the halftime show still echo faintly, but here, it’s just you. You and the weight of anticipation pressing against your ribs.

You push open the pantry door. The moment you step inside, Jake is there. Before you can say a word, before you can even breathe, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, and his mouth crashes against yours.

You barely have time to register it, the sheer urgency of it all sending a shockwave through you. His grip is firm, fingers digging into your hips like he needs to feel you. Like he can’t stand a single inch of space between you.

You gasp against his lips, caught off guard but not unwilling. Not even close. Because as soon as the initial surprise fades, something inside you ignites. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands finding his shoulders, his jaw, anywhere you can touch. His lips move against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak, makes heat coil low in your stomach.

When he presses you back against the pantry shelves, knocking into a box of cereal that almost topples over, you barely even notice. It’s hot. It’s needy. It’s so Jake.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, chest rising and falling fast. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“What the hell was that?” you ask, a little breathless, a little dazed.

Jake exhales a laugh, his hands still gripping your waist, thumbs brushing slow, teasing circles over your skin. “Needed a little consolation for watching the Chiefs get absolutely embarrassed on national television.”

You raise a brow, still catching your breath. “And this was the best idea you came up with?”

He smirks. “Seemed like a solid plan.”

You hum, tilting your head like you’re considering it. “You know,” you murmur, voice dropping just slightly, “there are other ways I could console you.”

Jake stills. His grip on you tightens, just barely, but you feel it. The way his fingers flex against your skin. The way his breath hitches just slightly. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to meet yours. Dark. Heated.

“Oh yeah?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. “Like what?”

You don’t answer. You just kiss him. But this time, it’s different.

You take your time, letting your lips brush his, slow and teasing, just enough to leave him wanting. And it works, because Jake exhales sharply, like he’s losing his patience, like he needs more. So when he kisses you back, it’s almost punishing.

He presses you further against the shelves, his hands sliding up, fingers tracing the shape of your ribs, your waist, like he wants to memorize the way you feel. His lips part against yours, deepening the kiss, and when his tongue brushes against yours, you swear you feel it everywhere. It’s dizzying. It’s addictive.

The air in the pantry is thick. Heavy. Charged with something neither of you want to name.

Jake’s hands are still on you, his breath still warm against your lips, and the weight of his body pressing you against the shelves makes it impossible to think about anything else.

Until the door creaks open. Both of you freeze. A shadow fills the narrow doorway, and then—

“Oh, shit. My bad.”

Sunghoon.

Standing there, blinking at the two of you like he just realized what he walked in on. Jake doesn’t move an inch, body still pressed against yours, but his head snaps toward the door, eyes narrowing immediately. “You have to be kidding me.”

Sunghoon holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I was just looking for some salt.”

Jake lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “For what?”

“A tequila shot.” Sunghoon says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker over you—your swollen lips, the way Jake is still practically caging you in. His expression doesn’t change much, but you see it. The knowing glint in his gaze.

Jake scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

And then—without warning—Sunghoon steps inside. You barely have time to react before the door swings shut behind him.

Now, the pantry is even smaller, the three of you packed together in a space that suddenly feels suffocating. Your pulse spikes.

Because Sunghoon doesn’t just stand by the door. He moves closer. Not enough to touch you, not yet, but enough that you feel him there. His presence, his body heat.

The tension is a living, breathing thing between you all.

You swallow hard, trying to shake off the static running up your spine. “You guys need to stop fighting over me,” you say, breaking the silence. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. “There’s no point.”

Sunghoon huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah? Try telling him that.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who just invited yourself, dude.”

Sunghoon shrugs, but his gaze stays locked onto yours. “Doesn’t change the fact that we both want you.” His voice is lower now, slower. “So, really, what’s there to stop?”

Your breath catches. Because the way he says it—like it’s inevitable, like there’s nothing either of them can do to change it—it does something to you.

Jake, on the other hand, just snorts, the corner of his mouth tugging up slightly. “At least we know you like to watch.”

You tense. Sunghoon doesn’t react at first, but you catch the subtle shift in his expression. The way his lips twitch, just slightly, like he’s considering something.

Then, he tilts his head. “You saying you don’t?”

Jake’s smirk falters—just for a second. But that second is enough. Sunghoon notices. You notice. Jake exhales sharply, jaw clenching for half a beat before he looks away, as if that alone will make the tension disappear.

It doesn’t.

Sunghoon shifts then, closing the distance just a little more. His voice is almost amused when he speaks again, but there’s an edge to it. “Does Jake know what happened last night?”

Your whole body tenses.

Jake stiffens slightly against you. “What are you talking about?”

You don’t say anything. Because you can’t. Because the way Sunghoon is watching you—like he already knows the answer, like he’s relishing in the fact that Jake doesn’t—has your brain short-circuiting.

Sunghoon hums, tilting his head, eyes flickering between you and Jake. “Maybe it would’ve been more fun if you were in the middle,” he muses, voice deceptively casual. “But I don’t mind sharing.”

The words send a sharp jolt of electricity straight through you. You don’t even get a chance to process them before Sunghoon moves again. This time, he’s right there, his chest nearly pressing into your side, while Jake is still solid behind you. Trapped. Between them.

Jake doesn’t move away. Doesn’t react. Just watches.

And then—Sunghoon leans in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You don’t mind either, do you?”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then, as if your body isn’t already seconds away from betraying you, you feel it. Sunghoon’s lips pressing against the curve of your jaw. Slow. Deliberate. Your breath hitches. He doesn’t stop there.

The next kiss lands just beneath your ear, softer this time, barely there. Then, lower—trailing down, down, until his lips brush against the side of your neck. And just like before, Jake doesn’t stop him. He lets it happen.

And the realization nearly makes you dizzy. Because you’re not sure which is worse. The fact that Sunghoon is doing this. Or the fact that Jake is letting him.

Jake exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before his hands tighten around your waist. He pulls you back against him, fitting you flush to his chest, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck.

Then, his lips press against your pulse point—hot, deliberate. You shudder. And he feels it.

You know he does, because his grip on your hips tightens, and his voice drops when he murmurs, “Do you like this?” Another kiss. This time, his teeth graze your skin, making your breath catch. “Or do you just want me?”

The question barely registers, because Sunghoon doesn’t let you answer.

His lips are still on you, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw. His tongue flicks against your skin, teasing, and then his teeth—just barely. You whimper. Jake exhales sharply behind you.

Sunghoon chuckles, low and smug, not pulling away. “C’mon,” he drawls, voice smooth as silk. “It’s a simple question, Y/N.” He presses another kiss to your neck, lingering there for a moment. “Who’s the nicest?”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of Jake’s shirt. You tilt your head slightly, giving Sunghoon more access, and his lips curve against your skin. Jake notices.

“The nicest guy?” you murmur, your voice breathless. “Is there even a right answer?”

Sunghoon huffs out a quiet laugh, shifting even closer, if that’s even possible. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Jake scoffs behind you, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hold on you firms. “This is insane,” he mutters, lips brushing against the back of your ear. “You do realize that, right?”

Sunghoon smirks. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Jake doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move.

Instead, he just huffs, jaw tight. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Sunghoon hums. “You’re not?”

Jake doesn’t answer immediately. His hands move, sliding lower over your hips, his thumbs brushing your waistline. You feel his breath against your skin, heavy and warm. Sunghoon waits. Watching.

And then, quietly—like he doesn’t really want to admit it—Jake mutters, “I didn’t say that.”

Sunghoon grins. And you swear, you can feel the shift in the air.

Sunghoon doesn’t pull away. Not completely. His lips brush the corner of your mouth—just barely, just enough to make you chase him. But the second you lean in, he tilts his head back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Did you ask Jake if you can kiss me?” he murmurs, eyes glinting with amusement.

Your lips part slightly, and then, slowly, you smirk. Jake shifts behind you. “Do you want to?” His voice is lower now, raspier.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Can I?”

Jake exhales sharply through his nose, tongue swiping over his bottom lip before he tilts his head. Then, smoothly, he says, “Only if you want to, princess.”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even get a chance to process the way your pulse spikes, because the second you turn back to Sunghoon, leaning in—

Shouts erupt from the living room. Loud, excited. The unmistakable sound of a game back in full force.

Sunghoon takes a step back, running a hand through his hair, exhaling like he knew this would happen. “Guess that’s our cue.” He gives you a lingering look before glancing at Jake. Then, with an infuriating smirk, he mutters, “We’ll finish this after the game.”

And then he walks out. Leaving just you and Jake. Still standing there. Still reeling.

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then you both laugh.

Soft, breathless. Like you just did something insane.

Jake shakes his head, exhaling through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “And here I was thinking you were the quiet type.”

Your lips curl. “And here I was thinking you were good at reading people.”

Jake grins, stepping closer, just for a second, just enough to catch you off guard. Then, before you can react, he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just something.

And then, just as smoothly, he pulls away, shooting you one last smirk before disappearing out the door.

The game is over. And it’s a disaster. For Jake, at least.

The Eagles won. By a lot. And while Sunghoon is pissed because he hates the Eagles, he’s nowhere near as devastated as Jake, who’s staring blankly at the TV like his entire world just crumbled. Next to him, Beomgyu looks equally wrecked.

Which, of course, means Heeseung is having the time of his life.

“Damn,” Heeseung drawls, stretching lazily as he leans back against the couch. “You know, I tried to warn you guys. Jalen Hurts clears Mahomes. Every time.”

Beomgyu immediately turns his head, eyes wide with betrayal. “You’re really talking right now? He lost to the Chiefs like two years ago!”

Taehyun, sitting beside Heeseung, snickers. “I mean, Heeseung's got a point.”

“Oh, shut up, Taehyun!” Beomgyu whirls on him. “You’re only saying that because you were a Hurts fan before it was cool.”

Soobin, who has been quietly enjoying his drink on the other side of the room, finally breaks and bursts out laughing. “Dude,” he wheezes, watching as Beomgyu and Heeseung continue bickering, “you are so pressed right now.”

Meanwhile, you feel a tug at your wrist. You glance over to find Jungwon pulling you aside.

Your twin gives you a pointed look, nodding toward the door. “I’m staying at Jay and Sunghoon’s place tonight. We’re dropping Woonhak off first.”

You nod. “Alright.”

Jungwon narrows his eyes at you, lowering his voice just enough. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warns. Then, before you can say anything, he grins. “Actually, never mind. Do something stupid. It’s funnier that way.”

You smack his arm.

Before he can retaliate, Jake appears beside you.

“I can take you home,” Jake offers, shoving his hands into his pockets. His voice is casual, but the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye gives away everything. Jake tenses beside you, shoulders going rigid, hands still shoved deep in his pockets. His jaw clenches so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, is the picture of ease—standing there with one hand gripping the back of the couch, the other lazily holding a half-empty beer bottle. He doesn’t even look at Jake. Just shifts his gaze toward you like he’s only mildly interested in the conversation.

“I can come too.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a casual suggestion, like he’s not doing this purely to get under Jake’s skin. And oh, it works.

Jake lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, tilting his head slightly before dragging his tongue over his teeth. He doesn’t even look at Sunghoon. Just keeps his eyes fixed ahead, like he’s counting to ten in his head, like he’s fighting the urge to say something that’ll start a whole new problem.

You glance between them, your stomach twisting—not with discomfort, but with anticipation. Because there it is again. That energy.

Jake finally speaks, voice clipped. “We’re good.”

Sunghoon hums. A soft, low sound that you can barely hear over the background noise of the party. But you hear it. Jake hears it.

The corner of Sunghoon’s mouth twitches, like he’s amused, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And then he shrugs. “Alright.”

But he doesn’t sit back down. He doesn’t grab another drink. He doesn’t join the others, who are still laughing over Beomgyu and Heeseung’s never-ending argument.

No. He follows. You feel his presence behind you as you and Jake walk toward the door. Not saying a word. Just trailing behind. Like he has nowhere else to be.

The walk to the car is silent, but not in the comfortable way. It’s that kind of silence that feels thick with unsaid words, with tension in the air. You feel the weight of Sunghoon trailing behind you, just there, his presence like an electric current that you can’t escape.

Jake, though—Jake is close. Too close. His hand keeps brushing against your back, pulling you slightly closer to him every few steps. His fingers, warm and firm, rest on your waist for a fraction of a second, and you can’t tell if it’s accidental or deliberate. The way he moves with you, like he’s anchoring you to him, makes your head spin just a little.

When you reach Jake’s car, you lean against the door, your back pressing into the cool metal. You glance up at both of them, and in that moment, you can’t help but notice how much taller they are than you. Jake, with his broad shoulders and stance that screams confidence, and Sunghoon, with his calm, almost nonchalant presence. Both of them are standing there, looking down at you, and you’re not sure whether to feel small or intimidated.

It’s quiet again. You shift slightly, unsure of what to say, how to break the awkward silence. But Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate.

“Jake’s really bummed out about the loss,” he says, his voice casual, but his smirk is sharp, almost teasing. “You should comfort him.”

Before you can process what he means by that, Sunghoon leans in and places a quick, light kiss on the corner of your mouth. It’s so unexpected, so sudden, that it makes your breath catch.

And just like that, he straightens up, giving Jake a playful tap on the shoulder. “See you at practice tomorrow, man. Have fun,” Sunghoon adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he gives one last glance at you and Jake. Then, without waiting for any reaction, he turns on his heel and walks away, disappearing into the night as though the entire thing was just some casual exchange.

You stand there, blinking, a little stunned. You’re not sure how to process what just happened, how quickly it all unfolded.

Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t seem fazed at all. He smirks, his gaze flicking from Sunghoon’s retreating form to you, and without missing a beat, he opens the passenger door.

“Shall we?” he asks, his voice low, tinged with that playful confidence that always seems to make your heart race.

You hesitate for a moment, still processing everything—Sunghoon’s kiss, the tension, the way Jake has been acting around you—but then you nod. Because at this point, why not? The night is full of unexpected turns, and you’re not sure where this one will lead, but you can’t deny that you’re curious.

You slip into the passenger seat, the door shutting behind you with a soft thud, and Jake slides into the driver’s seat with a smirk that tells you, without words, that he’s very much looking forward to what comes next.

When you arrive at your house, you take a breath and unlock the door. The cool night air makes you shiver slightly, but there's a warmth inside you, a feeling of anticipation you can't shake off. You turn the handle and open the door, glancing back at Jake, who’s just a few steps behind you.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, trying to sound casual, but the words come out a little softer, a little more inviting than you intended.

Before you even have a chance to step inside, Jake is right behind you. His hands find your waist, pulling you toward him as he presses your back against the door.

Without warning, he kisses you, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that feels like it's been building all night. You’re caught off guard for a second, but the moment he deepens the kiss, you melt into him, your hands running up his chest, your fingers tangling in his shirt.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, his gaze intense. “I couldn’t wait anymore,” he mutters, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Needed you alone.”

Your heart races, and you smirk back, teasing, “Guess it’s about time then.”

Before you can say anything else, Jake’s lips are back on yours, and this time, they trail down your jaw, pressing soft, burning kisses against your neck. You gasp softly at the sensation, arching into him as his hands grip your waist tighter, pulling you even closer.

His voice comes out hushed, almost as if he’s fighting to keep control. “I’ve been dying for this.” His lips move to the soft spot just below your ear, and you feel every inch of him pressed against you.

Without warning, he lifts you in one smooth motion, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. The surprise causes you to gasp, but you cling to him, your hands finding his shoulders for support.

You’re pinned between Jake and the door, his body all heat and strength, and you feel his hands sliding down your back, gripping you tighter. He holds you against him as his lips return to your neck, kissing and sucking along the sensitive skin there. Your breath catches in your throat, a shiver running down your spine.

“Jake,” you breathe out, your voice shaky from the intensity of the moment. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him even closer.

Jake grins, the spark in his eyes never fading, before he presses his lips against yours again, this time even more urgently, as if he can’t get enough. The kiss is deep, intense, and you can feel every part of him. You’re breathless, lost in the moment, your heart pounding as he lifts you a little higher, pressing you against the door with a force that makes everything around you disappear.

When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is low and rough. “Where’s your room?” he asks, breathless.

You try to steady your heart, your chest rising and falling quickly. “Second door on the right,” you answer, barely able to form the words.

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward the hallway with you still in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. But as he reaches for the first door, the one you know is Jungwon’s, you quickly stop him, tugging on his shoulder.

“No, not that one!” you say urgently, making him pull back. “That’s Jungwon's.”

Jake stops, raising an eyebrow at you with a smirk. “I didn’t want to remember your brother lives here tonight,” he teases.

You laugh softly, the tension easing slightly. “Yeah, me neither,” you admit, rolling your eyes.

Jake chuckles, heading for the right door this time. He opens the door to your room easily with one hand, holding you in place with the other as he kicks it shut behind him. Without missing a beat, he walks you toward the bed, placing you gently onto it as he leans over you. The weight of him on top of you is both grounding and electric, and your heart pounds even harder.

You glance up at him, your legs still wrapped around his waist, and your chest tightens with anticipation. The silence between you is thick, but it's comfortable, and it's clear what you both want.

Jake's gaze softens for a moment, his voice low as he leans in closer. “You okay?” he asks, his hot breath brushing against your lips.

You nod, barely able to speak. "Yeah… I'm more than okay"

He smirks at you, and Jake’s lips crash against yours again, hungry, urgent. The intensity of his kiss takes your breath away, leaving you dizzy. Your hands instinctively tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. You can feel the heat between you both, a pressure building that makes your heart race even faster. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the muscles under his shirt, the warmth of his skin. He lets out a low groan, pulling away just enough to catch his breath.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters, but there’s a smirk on his lips, before his lips are on yours again, his kiss deeper, more insistent.

His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist, and you shiver under his touch. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. His other hand moves to your neck, gently tilting your head back, giving him better access. He kisses your jaw, then moves down to your neck, sucking lightly, making you gasp in pleasure.

You arch into him, your legs tightening around his waist. He responds with a growl, lifting his head slightly to meet your eyes, his breath coming in short bursts. And then, in a sudden move, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your waist. "Tell me you want this," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, almost teasing.

“I want this,” you whisper back, your voice shaky with desire.

His smirk deepens, and without saying another word, Jake’s lips are on yours again, more demanding this time, as if he’s losing himself in the moment. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you even closer. You can feel the weight of his desire, and it only makes the kiss more intoxicating.

You slip your hand beneath his shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his chest. His breath hitches, and he responds with a growl that sends a shiver down your spine. He pauses, his lips hovering over yours, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re making this hard to keep up with,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

You smile against his lips, teasing him just a little. “Maybe I like making you lose control.”

His eyes flash with something darker, something hungry. Without warning, he pulls away from the kiss, his hands at the hem of his shirt. “You'd like this?” he asks, his voice low, his gaze intense. He’s not asking for permission—he’s already making the decision for you.

You nod, breathless, watching him as he pulls his shirt off, revealing the muscles beneath, the definition of his chest and abs making your heart race. His eyes lock onto yours as you take him in, his gaze searching yours for something. A challenge, maybe. A question.

“You like what you see?” he asks, his voice full of teasing, his grin almost predatory.

You raise an eyebrow, an amused smirk pulling at your lips. “Maybe.”

His grin widens, clearly enjoying the teasing, his gaze burning with a mixture of challenge and desire. “What about Sunghoon?” he asks, his words coated in playful provocation. “You prefer him?”

You tilt your head, your smirk never fading. “I don’t know... I haven’t seen him like this,” you tease, your eyes flicking between his, enjoying the power shift.

Jake’s smirk falters just for a second, before he leans in close again, his lips brushing against your ear. “Well, I guess he’ll just have to get a taste of me then.”

His words send a wave of heat through you, but before you can say anything else, he moves to lift your shirt, his hands warm against your skin. “May I?” he asks, his voice lower now, a soft but commanding question. You hesitate for a moment, looking into his eyes. Then you nod, your heart beating faster as he pulls your shirt off. The moment feels like everything is falling into place, the tension building to its peak.

His eyes fall to the red lacy bra you're wearing, and a small chuckle escapes his lips. “Did you plan this?” he asks, his voice a mix of amusement and desire.

You smirk, your heart racing. “Maybe.”

And as he stares at you, the silence between you both is charged with anticipation. Jake leans in again, kissing you with the same intensity, as if the world outside doesn’t even exist. Every touch, every movement feels like it’s driving you both further into this shared moment.

But even then, his hands are gentle, patient, as if he’s savoring every second of this tension, of what’s building between you both. And in that moment, it feels like the entire universe has slowed down—just you, him, and the magnetic pull between you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that makes warmth pool in your stomach.

You bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as his gaze dips lower. Jake’s eyes darken at the sight of your body. He reaches out, slipping his fingers beneath the hem of your skirt, brushing against your thigh. It’s barely a touch, but it sets your skin on fire.

“You’re so soft,” he whispers, his breath warm against your shoulder as he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your jaw. He trails lower, lips ghosting over your collarbone, then lower still. His hands work the fabric of your skirt higher until it pools around your hips, exposing even more of your skin to him.

His lips find the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Each kiss is featherlight, but the heat of them leaves a mark you can’t see but feel everywhere. His hands steady your hips as he presses closer, mouthing at your skin, murmuring praise between each kiss.

“So beautiful.” A kiss. “So perfect.” Another. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You can’t think straight, not when he’s looking at you like that, not when his lips are so warm and his hands are so gentle yet firm. Every touch, every word, every heated glance makes the air between you buzz with something electric.

He lifts his head slightly, meeting your gaze, searching for something—permission, reassurance, the silent confirmation that you want this as much as he does. And you do. More than anything.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, fingers still teasing at the edge of your skirt, eyes locked onto yours like they hold the universe. His fingers gently toying with the hem of your skirt. He looked at you, waiting for your response, unable to keep the teasing smile off his face.

“I want you, Jake…” you say in a ragged voice, and the moment the words leave your lips, you see the shift in him. His eyes darken, his breath catches, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. Desire surges through him, his fingers tightening against your skin as he drinks in the sight of you.

His lips ghost over your sensitive skin, his breath warm and teasing. “Is that so?” he hums, voice laced with amusement and hunger. “Then I’ll gladly give you what you want.” His hands make quick work of your skirt, sliding it down your hips and tossing it aside. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, each one slower, more deliberate, more intoxicating.

His kisses trail higher, slow and agonizing, leaving a path of heat in their wake. His hands grip your thighs, steadying you, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He’s in no rush, savoring every reaction, every little gasp that slips from your lips.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your red lace underwear. A slow smirk tugs at his lips as his fingers trace along the delicate fabric. “Matching,” he muses, his voice thick with appreciation. He leans in, lips brushing just above the lace, his breath hot against your skin. “You look absolutely delicious.”

“Do you like it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s grip on the fabric tightens slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of you. The deep crimson lace against your skin, his favorite color—it’s almost too much. A soft groan escapes him as his fingers skim the delicate fabric, feeling its softness against his fingertips.

“Oh, I love it,” he breathes, his voice thick with arousal. His fingers toy with the edge of your underwear, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The anticipation in your gaze makes his pulse quicken. But before he moves any further, he pauses, his expression softening slightly as he searches your face. “May I?” His voice is lower now, almost reverent.

Your nod is all he needs. Jake’s heart pounds, his excitement thrumming in his veins as he watches you give him permission. Holding your gaze, he slowly peels the fabric down, his hands trembling slightly as he slides the lace from your body.

His eyes roam over you, drinking in every inch, every curve, every perfect imperfection. Wonder flickers across his face, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. As if he can’t believe you’re his, even if just for tonight.

His lips return to your skin, trailing a path of slow, lingering kisses along your inner thighs. Each touch is deliberate, teasing, meant to drive you wild. He takes his time, savoring the way your body reacts to him, how you shift under his touch, how your breath catches in your throat.

His lips hover just above your core, his breath warm against your skin. He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Do you want me to taste you, princess?” His voice is low, commanding, dripping with need.

“Jake… Fuck, yes,” you gasp, nearly trembling with anticipation.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he murmurs. His grip tightens on your thighs as he settles between them, his breath ghosting over your skin.

And then, with excruciating patience, he finally gives you what you’ve been aching for. Jake's warm breath ghosts over your aching core, sending a shudder through your body. Your legs tremble as you shift, fingers gripping the sheets with desperate intensity.

His tongue glides along your slick folds, tracing every inch before dipping lower. A sharp gasp escapes you as he circles your most sensitive spot, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pushing the tip of his tongue inside. The sensation sends a spark of heat straight to your core, leaving you breathless.

Slowly, he drags his tongue back up, parting you with ease before latching onto your clit. He flicks it, slow and deliberate, just to hear the way your breath stutters. He knows exactly how to unravel you.

His tongue dips into your entrance, pushing inside before pulling back, leaving a glistening trail of saliva mixed with your arousal. You're already a mess beneath him, and he hasn't even started yet. Jake devours you, his hot tongue exploring every inch of your dripping cunt, savoring you like he can’t get enough. He sucks hard, his lips sealing around you as he tilts his head from side to side, his face buried between your thighs, never giving you a moment to breathe.

"Jake..." Your voice is barely a whisper, but he hears it—feels it in the way your body responds to him.

His tongue pushes inside you, again and again, relentless and desperate, sending sharp jolts of pleasure up your spine.

"I want you dripping for me," he rasps against your heat before diving back in, feasting on you with reckless hunger.

You're so wet that you can feel it dripping down the insides of your thighs, warm and slick against your skin. Jake pulls away from your entrance, shifting his focus back to your aching, desperate clit. He captures it between his lips and sucks hard, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop. The sound alone sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. He repeats the motion, but this time, before sucking again, he drags his tongue over the sensitive tip, teasing it with slow, deliberate strokes while keeping it trapped between his lips.

He buries his face deeper between your thighs, pulling you against his mouth like he never wants to let go. All you can do is moan—loud, needy—while he devours you, moving his head up and down, side to side, his tongue relentless, his mouth unforgiving.

You come undone against his tongue, body trembling, your pleasure spilling into his mouth. And he doesn’t stop. His movements slow, his tongue gliding over every inch of you, licking up every drop of your release as if he’s savoring it.

"You're addictive, you know that?" His voice is low, rough with hunger, as he presses soft kisses to the insides of your thighs, nipping at your skin before leaving one last, lingering suck against your swollen cunt. Then, he drags himself up your body, eyes dark and lips parted, still wet with you.

"You're so fucking sweet," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. You shudder as his fingers trail down your hip, finding your slick heat with ease. "And so wet..."

He brushes the tips of his fingers over your entrance, barely touching you, yet it’s enough to make you whimper. A smirk tugs at his lips as he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down before pulling away with just enough force to leave you breathless.

"Jake, please..." He leans down, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your jawline, his voice a low, satisfied purr beneath your ear.

"Please what, princess?" he murmurs, making you whimper in anticipation. When you don’t answer right away, he lets out a quiet chuckle against your neck. "What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

Then, he rolls his hips against your soaked folds, the hard outline of his cock pressing right where you need him most. A breathy moan escapes you, your fingers gripping onto his waist.

"Take this off," you demand, tugging at the waistband of his pants. His lips curl into a cocky smirk as he slowly pulls away, rising to his knees in front of you. Without breaking eye contact, he unbuttons his pants at an agonizing pace, his gaze heavy, teasing. And when he finally pushes them down, your eyes drop to the thick outline straining against his boxers, your body instinctively moving closer.

But before you can reach for him, his fingers wrap around your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "And what do you think you're about to do, huh?" His voice is deep, dripping with amusement. You bite your lip, looking up at him, unable to find the words.

Jake tilts his head, watching you closely. "You’re gonna have to tell me, princess. Do you want to suck my dick?" His tone is dark, commanding, and when you nod, his smirk only deepens.

"Yeah, that’s not happening. Not tonight." His grip tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. "Because I need to be inside you right now."

A moan slips from your lips, the sheer authority in his voice sending a rush of heat straight through you.

Jake leans in, closing the distance, capturing your mouth in a feverish, desperate kiss as he gently but firmly pushes you back onto the bed. His hands waste no time sliding down his body, and with agonizing slowness, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, peeling them off inch by inch.

You’re left breathless as he kneels between your legs, his sculpted body bathed in the dim light, every muscle defined, every inch of him unbearably perfect. He catches the way your lips part, the way your eyes drink him in, and he lets out a low, knowing chuckle.

A wicked smirk tugs at his lips as he wraps a hand around his rigid length, guiding the swollen tip to your soaked entrance. He drags it slowly along your slick folds, teasing you, spreading your wetness over himself with deliberate precision.

"This what you want?" he murmurs, pressing just the tip inside, barely stretching you open before pulling back. A whimper escapes you, frustration mixing with pleasure. "Tell me, princess," he coaxes, teasing you again—just the tip, just enough to drive you insane.

"Fuck, yes!" you curse when he presses his cock against your throbbing clit, gliding it between your dripping folds before stopping at your entrance once more.

Jake exhales sharply, shaking his head to get rid of the strands of hair falling into his eyes. And then, finally, he pushes in, slowly sinking his entire length inside you. Inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you completely, letting you feel every bit of him.

His movements are unhurried, savoring the way your body molds to him, the way you take him so perfectly. His abs tighten with every slow thrust, his muscles flexing under the dim light as he sets a steady, intoxicating rhythm that has you both moaning softly.

He doesn’t speed up, doesn’t change his pace. Instead, he leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, languid kiss. Your body melts against his, every inch of you consumed by the way he moves inside you—deep, deliberate, relentless.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you moaning for me," he rasps, his voice thick with arousal. The moment his words sink in, your walls clench around him, and he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. "Fuck, don’t squeeze me like that," he growls.

Your hands find his face, pulling him into another messy, desperate kiss, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, licking up the thin layer of sweat that coats your skin before biting down on your shoulder—just enough to make you whimper.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Let me ride you," you plead, your voice unsteady, barely above a whisper.

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He pulls out of you with a low grunt, sitting back against the bed, legs spread, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Your eyes trail over him—the way his thick cock pulses against his abs, the sheen of sweat on his tanned skin. Your core clenches at the sight, and without another thought, you crawl toward him.

"Anything you want," he murmurs, tapping his thigh twice. "Come here." You obey, straddling his lap, gripping the base of his cock before aligning it with your entrance. "Sit on it nice and slow for me, baby," he urges, voice dark and filled with desire.

You sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch, swallowing his deep, guttural moan as his hands grip your ass, guiding you through every movement.

You ride his cock, rolling your hips until you find the perfect rhythm, bouncing on his thick length that stretches you so deliciously. Jake meets your movements, thrusting up in sync with you, making everything even more intense.

"Fuck, you're so hot," he growls, landing a sharp slap on your ass. A needy moan escapes your lips, and he chuckles darkly, delivering another one. "You like this, huh?" Another slap. "You like getting spanked… you like it when Sunghoon watches. You're not as innocent as I thought."

His words make you clench around him, and he groans under you, biting the corner of his lips as you quicken your pace. His head falls back, his jaw tightening as he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. Slowing your movements, you grind against him, teasing him.

"Fuck—" he curses, frustration lacing his voice.

His hands grip your waist as he notices the way your thighs begin to tremble from exhaustion. He takes control, thrusting up into you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you gasping and gripping his shoulders.

"A-ah… just like that!" you cry out, your body trembling from the force of his thrusts. He pounds into you, hitting all the right spots over and over again.

"You're so fucking tight," he groans. Your eyes rake over his body—his toned arms and sculpted abs, flexing with every movement. His dark, slightly damp hair clings to his forehead, and his parted lips spill out the most sinful moans. His eyes, darker than ever, squeeze shut as he tilts his head back, consumed by pleasure. Jake is pure perfection.

Your walls flutter around him, signaling the orgasm building deep inside you. Sensing it, Jake tightens his grip on your waist, holding you still as he thrusts up harder, deeper. "Ah—Jake! This feels so good…!"

"I know, princess. I know…" Your moans mix with his, and as the pressure within you finally explodes, you let out a sharp cry. "Cum for me, baby," he groans, voice rough and desperate. "You're squeezing me so tight, fuck—"

With his words, you unravel completely, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your body trembles uncontrollably, the overwhelming pleasure sending sparks through your veins. Your pussy clenches around him, milking his cock as he continues to guide your movements, his hands gripping your ass firmly.

"Baby…" you whimper.

Jake groans, his muscles tensing beneath you. His cock throbs inside you before warmth floods your core as he spills deep inside. His mouth parts in a silent moan, his eyes squeezing shut, his entire body shuddering as he rides out his release.

Breathing heavily, he lets his head fall forward, forehead pressing against yours.

"Angel," he whispers, still catching his breath. Your bodies remain connected, neither of you willing to move just yet. You take the opportunity to kiss him—slow, lingering—your fingers trailing along his sharp jawline, nails scratching his skin softly.

Completely spent, you collapse onto his chest. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, letting you rest your head over his heart. His fingers brush gently over your cheek, his touch soothing. "How can you be this perfect?" he murmurs.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, still recovering. “You’re driving me insane, Jake…” you manage between deep breaths. He chuckles, scrunching his nose.

"You’re the one driving me insane, love." His fingers move to your hair, stroking it softly. Your body relaxes against him, sinking into his warmth. "Feeling better now?" he asks.

You smile, tilting your head up to look at him. "If every time we watch an NFL game together ends like this, I might start watching more often."

He grins, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I wouldn't mind that at all," he muses, eyes locked onto yours, deep and captivating. "But next time, you better bring luck to the Chiefs."

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author's note: SO...... THAT HAPPENED..... LMAOOOOO ok so this was the very first smut scene i've ever written so.... hope u guys like it and ALSO im sorry i took this long to post it, it's because i've been really busy these past few days and i was struggling very hard writing it so. anyway!!!! here it is. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY EVERYONE

taglist: @jayparked @jungwonsstrawberriesnchocolate @kixri @soobnuuy @dreamiestay @somuchdard @nyyoryyu @atinyrosedoor @enhaverse713586 @miszes @wildtigerlili @hoonkishoe @wilonevys @m1dn1ghtv1olet @who-tf-soddhi @ilovewonyo @nickiminajleftasscheek @ikeulove @payformycoffeeandleave @jvngw0nlvr @qtke @nikirangs @rairaiblog @tinyteezer @catecita @aespaqq @cyberstephzz @jakesimfromstatefarm @maniluvzyou @stormy1408 @missychief1404 @heevrs @shuichi-sama @enhastars @immelissaaa @pjselee @hexnoia @strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @love-4-keum @doublebunv @minfolio @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @doveblackboat @psychotic-girl-666 @kukkurookkoo @allie-mcginn @jkslvsnella @wintereals @why4anne @jakesfurry 

[snaileer]

Wrong Number? Wrong Answer.

It was the usual deal that the Justice League Dark dealt with… way too often honestly.

Initially, it had been just Wonder Woman, investigating a cult that had attempted to abduct her earlier in the month.

Diana had defeated them. Easily. Of course. But upon questioning them, their reasoning had concerned her.

They had attacked her for a ritual to open the ‘Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep’, a ritual which required ‘a blade blackened by the ichor of time.’

Once again, she was being targeted for her parentage. Did it ever end?

Of course, she questioned them further, what other ingredients did they need, what artifacts they would be hurting others to create.

A ring carved from the bone of an unfreed slave.

A crown made of lava untouched by human hands.

And sand directly from the pouch of Dream of the Endless themself.

It was an eclectic collection of items.

And yet, they had told her that only the blade remained to be created.

Again, it was concerning.

So Diana left the fools to be taken care of by men’s authorities, and focused on tracking down just what they were doing and if necessary, how to stop it.

After depleting her academic resources, and her connections within with nothing to show, Diana finally called in her friend through the league, Zatanna.

Zatanna had been frazzled by it, showing up in her living room before they’d even finished the call.

Together they tracked down the cult to Gotham… which was also a problem.

It was the reason why Diana was running through the caves beneath the crime ridden city with one of her closest friends in men’s world and a magician by her side.

All too quickly, they were surrounded by fanatics, each carrying sharp blades solely focused on her.

Working in sync with Batman and Zatanna throwing spells above them, Diana believed it would be a well-won battle.

Until a golden light flashed across the cave, blinding her for a precious second as she felt a sharp sting cut across her arm.

When her vision cleared, her arm was dripping blood and John Constantine stood in front of her.

“Sorry about that, love,” Constantine smirks, “No harm done?”

Diana’s teeth grind together as she turns away from him, fighting her way through more followers. The one who had injured her is nowhere to be seen, and the blade with them.

Even once the rest of the swarm is beaten, their numbers no longer being replenished, Diana does not feel content. The sense of danger lingers.

“Constantine.” Batman growls, “What are you doing in Gotham?”

The Brit rolls his eyes as he lights a new cigarette, “You know I don’t actually have to tell you every time I enter the city right? But besides, that’s news to me, portals are a tricky business, I’m tracking my own problem.”

Batman glares at him.

“Someone stole from me mate. And whatever they stole it for can’t be good, so I’m here ta get it back. Thought you’d be proud of something like that, Batsy, insteada leavin’ it for someone else?”

Batman’s eyes darken, “We’re tracking a group trying to open the Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep, is your artifact related to that?”

“Fucking shit it is yeah! Bollocks I didn’t think they’d be using the dream sand for something like that, what sort of mannies are these?!” Constantine exclaims, hastily grinding his cigarette beneath his shoe.

“Hn.”

Suddenly, there’s a rattling boom, the ground and walls shaking around them as dust rains down and they are all forced into stabilizing stances.

They barely share a glance before all three are running down the hall to the source, Constantine left scrambling to keep up.

The scene they come to is equal parts confusing as it is problematic.

The cultists are each in states of disrepair, crusting on the edges or yelling at their leader. The leader is the first to notice their arrival.

“You! You say you are a child of Zeus and yet your blood does not work! You lie of your ancestry!”

Diana steps forward, “I do not! I am the daughter of Queen Hippolyta and Zeus, grandchild of Kronos! The fault of your magic does not lie with me!”

The leaders face twists, mouth open to shout, but a flash of gold slams into him.

“Z, the book!” Constantine yells, arms outstretched as he flings more spells at the surrounding people, glowing ropes binding each.

“On it! Etativel em dna eht koob!” Zatanna shouts, lifting into the air as a book the leader had been holding flies into her hands.

Immediately she begins turning pages with desperation, “Wohs em eht stsitluc lleps!”

The book flips to a distinct page, and Zatanna’s face drains of color.

“Batman, we need to be careful, this spell looks legitimate, we might still have a risk on our hands.”

Batman hummed, looking at the chalk lines of the summoning circle drawn out before them, drawing Diana to do the same. Looking closely at the artifacts placed at each cardinal direction, including a short dagger with her blood nearly completely dry on the flat of the blade.

Batman moves towards the gathered and bound cultists as both magicians whisper over the spell.

Diana continues to look out on the evidence of the ritual, confusion warring in her.

She lays a hand on the lasso at her side. She knew she had not been lying about her heritage, so then why….

‘A blade blackened by the ichor of time.’

She looks at the bloodied dagger once more. It didn’t make sense, even if they had managed to harm a godly descendent, pure ichor would be gold; and even her blood was simply a humanly deep crimson red, not black; not until it-

Diana lunges towards the knife, fingertips brushing its hilt just as her blood dries a flaky black.

Her body slams into the cave walls in the next second, percussive force rippling through the air.

She crumples to the ground, struggling to lift her head.

White boots pass in front of her eyes.

She watches as they move towards her colleague, her friend, only to be surprised as they stop in front of the cultists instead.

As the air returns to her body, Diana lifts herself up, shaking arms supporting her as the weight of the atmosphere presses down.

She looks at the being, the sight almost making her collapse once more.

Mist curls around its form like a mountain peak, iridescent light glowing near its head, pitch black night covering its body, the pinprick of stars so small you can’t see them straight on, claws like a falcon’s beak: unhidden and meant to tear apart. And more importantly, wrapped around the leaders neck.

““̵̨̮̣̀͊̓Y̷͖̊̒o̸̤͈͍͌̈́͘u̶̗̭̲̍ ̵̬̤̞̀̑ā̴̟r̸̹̝̉e̴̞̦̮͑̍ ̴̣̩̖͑̓͛a̷̮̞͍͊͆͝ ̶͍̀̈́́f̷̖̄ò̸͈̓͝ǫ̷̅̀̔l̶̹̥̹̋͌͠.̴̤̲̈́͋̀”̶̛̫̺̈́”

The voice rattles her heart within her chest. She watches as Batman continues to try and stand.

The cultist struggles against the hand, mumbling screams behind Constantine’s bind. The creature tears it off with one claw.

“We summ-moned-… the king! Pa-pariah-!“

The creatures hand barely twitches, but the cultist breaks off in a scream. She is surprised to note the other cultists react exactly alike. As if linked.

“̵̻͝Ý̷͚o̶͈͝u̷̦̐ ̶̆͜d̶͈̄ǐ̸̢d̵̲̓ ̴͖̽n̴̘̅ȯ̸͍t̵̛̯ ̴̫̐ŝ̵̗u̴̹̇m̶̨͠m̴̡̽o̴̱̐n̵̘͝ ̴̪̈h̴̨̀i̶͝ͅm̸̰͗.̴͍͆”̸͔̔ The creature growls, “À̴̳n̸̛̜d̶͒ͅ ̴̤̃y̸̬͝ǫ̸̒u̵̫͗ ̶̘͛a̴̫̐r̷̠̈e̶͂ͅ ̶͔̋ḽ̶̔ủ̷͜c̷̥̍k̴̲͊ÿ̸̯́ ̶͓́f̷͇͝o̷͎͒ŕ̴͇ ̶͔͝t̶̞̀h̸̲̉ȧ̸̮t̷̩͝.̷͔̍ ̵͙͐I̸͎͌f̶͖͛ ̶̜̇y̵̜͗o̴̩̍ṵ̶͆ ̵̫̈́h̴͛ͅā̴̼d̸̤͆…̵͍̈́i̵͍̐t̸̡̉ ̴̭͂w̷̥̔o̷̟̅u̴̪͂l̸̞̏d̵͚̀ ̵͓̃b̴̢̽e̵̗͠ ̸͕̉m̸̠͆u̶̖͘c̷̯͘h̴̤̎ ̸̥́w̷͚͝o̸͐ͅr̶̦͐s̵̨̿e̸͕͆ ̸̙̑f̴̧̂o̶̱̓ȓ̷̟ ̴̠͗ÿ̸̥́ö̵͜ŭ̶̟.̵͎̉”̶͍̀

The man whimpers under the claws.

"I̴n̷s̵t̴e̷a̵d̸,̶ ̵y̸o̷u̵ ̴g̵o̷t̶ ̷m̸e̸,̴I̴ ̶g̵u̸a̷r̶d̴ ̶h̶i̷s̵ ̶p̸r̸i̵s̵o̵n̶ ̶b̶e̷c̴a̷u̴s̶e̸ ̵I w̴a̸s̴ ̵t̴h̸e̷ ̸o̴n̸e̴ ̷t̸o̶ ̶p̵u̴t̵ ̴h̸i̴m̶ ̵t̴h̷e̸r̶e̴ ̵o̶n̵c̸e̵ ̶m̶o̸r̸e̸.̵”̴ The creature leans into the cultist, arching ever higher, angles sharpening, body distorting, "“̸̝͋a̵̱͋n̶͓͛d̵̘́ ̵̡̍f̷̱͊o̵͚̓r̷̪̎ ̴̭̑a̷̬̓s̷͙̅ ̷͍͌ĺ̵̫o̸̻͆ņ̵̀g̶̚ͅ ̷̬͌a̶̮̿s̵̩͊ ̸̫̌t̸̲̕h̸̢̉e̷̖͗ ̴̰̋c̸̹̀ȍ̸͎s̷̡̃m̵̥̍o̷̜͋s̷̗͐ ̴̜͆e̷̛̙x̸͓̑i̶͉̿s̸̹̀t̵̛̺,̴̡͠Í̷̢ ̷̣̽w̵̠͋i̶̺͒l̴̠͐l̸̮̃ ̴͍͌k̴̰̑e̸̠͐e̷̟͋p̵̲̏ ̸̙̂h̷̘͋ị̸́m̸͕̚ ̶̳̋t̶̡̒h̷̩͆e̷̪͝r̷̒͜e̵̡̔.̵̭͗”̵̮̔

There’s a dull flash as light flashes beneath the cultists skin, beneath all of the cultist’s skin, before they drop to the ground unconscious.

All too quickly, air returns to the room, pressure lifting like a deep breath into the room.

The creature turns, eyes meeting Diana’s for just a second as he turns towards the chalked lines of the circle. Diana lifts herself to her feet, drawing closer to Batman as they both watch him, hesitant.

On the other side of the room, Constantine and Zatanna also struggle to their feet, eyes filled with fear and caution as they take in the scene.

As the creature moves, mist still rolling off him in waves, his features fall away with it, gradually smoothing to a more human visage. It looks… young. Boyish.

Those same white boots crush down on the formed crown, the cooled lava rock crumbling under one step. Next is the ring, held carefully in two hands the creature whispers over it, breathy wind carrying it away as it turns to dust. He holds the blade with one hand, flakes disintegrating off as he lifts it.

Diana’s arm tingles.

Then the creature is standing in front of the last point, holding the small brown pouch of sand with consideration.

Silence reigns in the room.

Constantine, of course, is the one to break it.

“I believe that’s mine, mate,” he cuts in, stance still laden with suspicion.

“Oh?” The creature smiles, almost mockingly as he turns to Constantine, “Is it? If I wasn’t mistaken, this ritual calls for Dream’s sand. Are you Dream of the Endless, little magician?”

Constantine visibly swallows, “I’m not.”

The creature huffs a laugh, fangs glinting in his smirk. He moves swiftly, pivoting on one foot to toss the pouch at Constantine, “Catch.”

Constantine lurches forward to try and catch it, only to find it vanish in the air before it reaches his fingers.

The creature cackles, floating backwards, “What did you do to get your hands on such an amount of Dream’s sand, magician? I’m curious.”

“It was a family present,” Constantine grinds out as he turns back to the gently levitating humanoid form, “You can drop the kid facade by the way, you’re not tricking anyone here looking like that.”

The creature shrugs, “And if I’m comfortable like this?”

Diana steps in to stop Constantine from snapping back, “Who are you, spirit, to be summoned by such a ritual?”

The creature watches her for a beat, “I am Phantom of the Dead City, Protector of infinite realms. They did not bring me here, but I knew who they wished to summon and came because of it.”

Batman steps forward, voice interrogating, “The Sarcophagus of Eternal Sleep-“

“Remains sealed. The Tyrant King remains trapped and at rest, do not worry.”

Somehow Diana does not think that soothes Batman, even as a great a warrior as he is.

“Hn.”

“Now, about that spell book,” Phantom turns to Zatanna, waving a hand and the book flies to him. He hovers a hand over it, and Diana watches in fascination as the chalk on the floor begins to burn away, the drawing in the book following.

Phantom looks at her once more, eyes too wise and strong for the age of his face, and then from one moment to the next, he is gone.

The book drops to the floor with a slam, cover open to aged blank pages as the last of the sigil burns away.

Hesitantly, Constantine goes to it, the rest of them following. When Constantine lifts the book with careful hands, they watch another image fade into view on the paper.

A cool colored image of Phantom rising over a city skyline outlined in green against a deep violet sky. Even on paper, his visage shifts constantly between the boyish figure and the ethereal danger of the form he’d appeared in.

Beneath the city lays a large coffin covered in chains.

The lock glows a pulsing toxic green before fading to a steely gunmetal grey and going still.

“Well that was the best encounter I’ve had with a dangerous dimensional figure and I still lost the dream sand.”

Zatanna’s slap echoes in the cave.

[zerocoded]

summary: when caleb appears at your front door on a random thursday night after faking his death for weeks, you can't help but want to kick him straight in the knees. luckyly for you, you do just that.

authors note: this beautiful drawing that i'm using in the banner is from this lovely artist, credits to them! go check their x account ♡ ANYWAYS, the caleb post i've been daydreaming about the last two days is finally here. CALEB GIRLIES I GOT YOU. let's hold each other's hands until the 22nd comes. i hope i succeed in portraying a real mc bc i'm tired of seeing us being just happy when seeing caleb for the first time when BRO DECEIVED US and played with our emotions like that. without further bs, live laugh love caleb.

warnings: SLIGHT yandere!caleb • gaslighting and manipulation • sfw content • bad writing lol, be warned! • depressive thoughts • reader is on her grieving period • work exhaustion • mental illness mentioned • minor injury • manhandling and pining • height & size difference • caleb literally invades our home • fighting bc reader is a badass and tolerates no bitches • mc bites caleb's hands lol • others LI mentioned • one kissy scene hehe • caleb screams at mc once (boo) • ANGST Y'ALL!

word count: 6.1k

you're here┃caleb uses you as hostage at the farspace fleet┃you punch caleb in the face┃caleb teaches you his love language

your apartment was silent, except for the faint hum of the city outside. tossing your jacket onto the back of the couch, you leaned against the wall, exhaling shakily. the weight of the day pressed down on you like a vice, your fingers brushing the edge of the message from linkon city hall still lying unopened on the counter.

confirmation of deceased: caleb. adoptive grandmother, dr. josephine. cause of death: explosion – classified incident.

you hadn’t needed to open it. the words were already carved into your memory, and the weight of them had crushed you all day. it didn’t matter that the explosion was months ago—seeing their names on an official report felt like losing them all over again.

you pushed away from the counter, willing your mind to focus on anything else. the hunter uniform hugged your frame perfectly, as it always had, and your reflection in the glass windows of your living room showed how tired you looked.

did anyone notice how wrecked you felt? you wondered if tara had gossiped to the other hunters about your predicament, and if she had left you alone because she somehow understood the weight of what had happened to you.

the message was awful. being asked to confirm the deaths of your loved ones had thrown you into a depressive spiral you hadn’t felt in days after returning from the N109 zone. your troublesome heart sometimes made you feel like you shouldn’t have even been born. when you trauma-dumped this on rafayel a few days ago, he had almost hit you with his paint brush, the words coming out of your mouth too much for him to process. the painter was pissed that you could think of yourself like that.

but that was how you felt—unworthy of being alive, because the person who raised you had been brutally killed.

why not me? you wondered.

linkon city was adorned with shiny skyscrapers, and your privileged view of the city made you feel even smaller, your grievance nothing more than a joke to the world outside of your apartment. knowing you’d have to show up to work again tomorrow added to the weight pressing down on your shoulders from choosing to be a deepspace hunter.

these last few weeks, you had questioned why you chose this job in the first place. since coming back from onychinus and befriending sylus of all people, you’d been thinking about your life decisions more frequently. sylus made you question every little thing you had once thought was a virtue, which now seemed like selfishness in disguise.

the man was good at disturbing your thoughts and making you feel things that put you on the spot.

you became a deepspace hunter because you were selfish. you wanted to make a difference, like the people you grew up with had made.

you wanted to be smart like zayne and attentive like josephine. you wanted to be helpful like caleb and as notorious as your other anhaunsen classmates. you wanted to do anything to escape the feeling you’d had since birth—uselessness.

as you sank deep into the living room cushions and exhaled heavily into the lonely air of your apartment, your phone buzzed with a text from zayne.

fate was joking with you today.

are you okay?, it read.

his worry made your heart flutter a little before sadness took over your entire form again.

you didn’t have the heart to respond. lying required more strength than you had in that moment, so you tossed your phone onto the center table and ignored him.

i’m sorry, zayne, i wish i was stronger for you.

your stomach rumbled, and your ribs ached. earlier in the evening, you had let a wanderer get too close before killing it, distracted as you were. the mistake had left you with a swollen rib and a deep sense of shame. you’d promised to take care of it when you got home, but right now, all you could do was discard a few of your sharp weapons onto the floor before dozing off on the couch.

you’d probably hate yourself in the morning for sleeping with these tight boots on.

for you, the hardest part wasn’t the silence left behind. it wasn’t the way the world seemed to keep spinning while yours had shattered. the hardest part was feeling like you needed to smile, to nod politely when people said, “stay strong,” as if strength could stitch together the pieces of your broken heart.

the hardest part was the way people looked at you, expecting you to move forward, to let the memories be enough. but how could you, when the smell of smoke still haunted your nightmares, when you could still hear caleb’s laughter drowned by the deafening roar of the explosion? how could you heal when your soul was still bleeding, the wounds too fresh, the pain still pouring out with every breath you tried to take?

you loved him so much it hurt. you wish you’d told him more times. why didn’t you told him more times?

how could you move forward when you still couldn’t clench your fists as strong as you were accustomed to because you were thrown into the air and broke both of them at the incident?

you wondered if it would ever be enough, and if someday you’d find out who was responsible for all of this pain.

the kitchen candles were the only light in the room when you heard the doorbell ring. sharp and sudden, it cut through the haze and fought off your sleepiness in a second, your hunter’s bells ringing warningly.

your heart jumped, and your hand instinctively went to your side where your pistol usually rested, only to find it absent. you’d left it in your locker at the deepspace headquarters, thinking you wouldn’t need it tonight.

the bell rang again, more insistent this time.

“probably xavier,” you muttered, trying to shake off the lingering unease. your neighbor and cute colleague had been away on a special mission as a hunter. his absence had started to feel noticeable in the quiet moments.

you liked spending time with xavier because he seemed to understand you on another level. he never seemed to expect anything from you, which made grieving next to him a little less daunting. you missed his midnight visits and occasional talks about claw machines and stupid wanderers, and you wished he would respond to your texts asking when he was coming back.

you felt like it would be nice to hear his voice right now.

without thinking much, you unlocked the door, combat boots still on and dark circles framing your usually bright eyes.

“took you long enough—”

the words died on your lips.

it wasn’t xavier.

standing in your doorway, dressed in a pristine daa military uniform, was a man—ridiculously intimidating and strange. he looked at you with judgment and arrogance, making you step back a little and guard more of yourself.

thank god you still had your uniform on and wasn’t wearing some flimsy nightgown. the man seemed to be eating you alive in his head.

before you had the chance to question the stranger’s presence at your door on this random thursday night, he tossed you aside and pressed you against the corridor wall of your kitchen, your breath instantly hitched and your ribs ached from the impact.

your hunter’s awareness triggered instantly, instincts flaring and mind still trying to process what the hell was going on. your hands struggled against his grip, desperately searching for an evol to resonate with. if your mind had already been spiraling out of control before, now you felt like you could fight a thousand wanderers at once and focus on surviving with mere instinct.

you couldn’t scream. his right hand clamped over your mouth, his left gripping both your wrists in front of your chest and preventing you from punching him like you planned to. somehow, this was a professional individual who knew your fighting mannerisms and wrestling tendencies by heart.

with great effort, you managed to bite his hand that was closest to your mouth and heard his pained grunt right after. you swore you heard him cussing before his head raised and his eyes finally met yours.

your heart stopped. the world narrowed to the faint outline of his silhouette as you finally were able to look at his face. his hair was concealed beneath a presumptuous cap, the daa symbol shining bright at its center. black, red, and gold adorned the uniform of the unknown man who handled your body as if it were weightless, plastic.

you thrashed and twisted in his grip until he was forced to pin both your hands above your head, hissing when you managed to land a kick on his right knee. the door clicked shut beside you as he silenced your attempted scream with his hand again.

amethystine eyes stared back at you, thick brows furrowed as your gazes locked. chills ran down your spine. your hunter uniform pressed uncomfortably against the wall, your combat boots barely touching the floor. yet, despite your effort, he towered over you.

you wanted to cry.

the hidden freckles were the first clue your mind was playing tricks on you, the shape of his mouth the second, and his skin tone the third. countless times since the explosion, you’d dreamed of caleb’s touch—more nights than you could count. but as the weight of the day bore down on you, your fighting spirit waned, the initial rush of adrenaline fading as you stared into his eyes.

everything felt cruelly unfair.

his gaze was uncharacteristically hard as he watched you, his bruising grip on your mouth and wrists warming for a moment before you snapped out of your daze.

a smirk made way to his lips and his stupidly manly perfume set itself on your senses. another attempt at kicking him made him press himself further into you, ribs screaming from the pressure. if he noticed your pained expression, he didn’t mention it at all.

“caleb,” you whispered, the name barely audible. your voice cracked, your body frozen in place, your mind unable to reconcile the impossible reality before you.

he didn’t seem to hear you, but his hand left your mouth, his gaze sweeping over your body and his face so close to yours you could count his naturally defined lashes.

the tension between you two shifted as he eyed you closer, curious eyes landing on your pretty figure. he could swear for a moment you wouldn’t recognize him and that thought perturbed his mind for the next few seconds he allowed himself to bask in your beauty.

caleb was familiar with the sight of you in the hunter’s association uniform, but never had he seen you looking this wrecked.

in the weeks leading up to the explosion, he’d promised himself he’d never let you get hurt by ever ever again. now, seeing you like this, he wondered if things looked different from your perspective.

would you hate him?

would you hate him for the decisions he made? for the people he deceived and the families he destroyed? for the secrets he exposed so he could be at advantage and fight for you from a more privileged position?

would you hate him for wanting you all to himself and sharing the same fate as him as a human experiment? for wanting to take you to the ever base and expose you to everyone right before killing them? for being the demise of your life but still wanting to keep you as close as possible?

would you still love him after he told you all of the wrongings he did to make things right for you and him?, he wondered.

the look in your eyes told him no, and because of that, his grip on your pinned hands loosened, the silence between you two remaining charged with tension. he saw the exact moment reality crashed down on you. your gaze faltered, and for a moment, you looked like you were going to cry.

he would hate to see you cry because of him, even though deep down he knew how lovely you looked while pouring your eyes out. he have seen it a thousand times before. caleb wanted to make you cry in other circumstances, not right now.

his lips pressed into a forced smile, and your breath hitched as his eyes shone faintly in the dim light of the kitchen candles. though the light wasn’t very effective, the touch of his gloved hand was enough to confirm the truth: this wasn’t a fucking stranger.

caleb felt when you stopped fighting and caved into his touch, scared to death. he let go of your mouth and stared right at your lips.

“no,” you muttered, shaking your head as if to clear a hallucination. your hands remained bound, your feet still searching for the floor. “this can’t be true.”

he tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “it’s me.” his voice was calm, too familiar, too real. too cruel.

your body trembled with his tone, his breath fanning on your cheeks while your eyes scanned his. it felt wrong to say anything at the moment, fear still there in your eyes.

your body snapped into action, reality slamming into you like a tidal wave. you raised your knee, aiming to knock him off balance, desperate to banish the ghost standing in your kitchen.

but the colonel moved faster.

his hand shot out, catching your leg with unnerving precision. before you could react, he hoisted you over his shoulder effortlessly.

you stumbled, panic surging through your veins. your instincts screamed at you to fight, to move, to do something.

“let me go” you demanded, your voice trembling with equal parts fear and fury, punching his back in a futile attempt to stop him. “who are you? who sent you?”

“i came to see you,” he said simply, his voice steady and unnervingly calm. his eyes darted around the apartment, scanning every corner like a predator assessing its prey. “you didn’t think i’d stay away forever, did you?”

why did he sound so smug and heartless? it pissed you off.

realization set heavy on your shoulders—did he... did he fake his own death?

“you’re a fucking asshole.” you didn’t care that this man was more than six feet tall or that he wore a military uniform of all things, you kicked and screamed as much as you could after he threw you onto the couch—the very place you’d landed earlier that evening.

the moment he released you, you inched toward the center table where your spare weapon was stashed.

caleb’s smile faltered, replaced by something darker. his voice dropped, softer but laced with unsettling intensity. “i hope you cooperate from now on, pipsqueak.”

the words sent a chill down your spine.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” you spat, pistol in hand, ready to aim.

his gaze flicked to your movement, and before you could react, he was there. his hand closed around your wrist, pinning it to the couch with a force that made you gasp.

“you’re not going to hurt me, pipsqueak,” he murmured, his tone almost teasing, though the intensity in his purple eyes told a different story. “i’d never hurt you. you know that.”

you struggled against his grip, your heart pounding as fear twisted into anger. “let me go, caleb.”

“not until you listen,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. he leaned closer, his breath brushing against your ear. “will you stop fighting and thrashing around? i need to see if you are ready”

“ready for what?” you spat, your voice trembling with rage.

“for us,” he said simply, his tone calm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

your breath hitched as his words sank in, the weight of them pressing down on you like a storm. “what the hell is ‘us’? you died. i watched you fucking die, asshole.”

he leaned closer, his forehead almost brushing yours, his voice a low whisper. “and i came back—for you.”

the weight of his presence, his words, was suffocating. for a moment, you froze, your mind racing for a way out.

it sounded so intimate, so romantically unsettling having him above you and saying things that made your heart clench. you hoped the hurt in your eyes was visible to the man. you hoped he still had sympathy and felt guilt somewhere underneath that uniform.

caleb stepped back, releasing your wrist but still blocking your path, his expression softening slightly as he examined you. “i need you to be quiet until i can tell you everything.”

“who do you think you are? you filthy liar”. 

caleb’s gaze flickered as your words hung between you, unspoken accusations slicing through the air like shards of glass. he shifted his weight, his broad frame now more a shadow than a presence in the dim room. for a moment, it seemed like he might say something—anything—but instead, he exhaled, a quiet sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

"you look as pretty as always, princess", his whisper reached your ears and you felt a wave of anger wash over you.

"i don't know what you did to caleb, but right now is not the time for games". you spat the words with disgust.

"you think you know anything?" he asked, voice low but steady. his eyes, catching the faint glow of the candlelight, held yours. he looked scary above you. 

"you think that you are right?," you bit back, the ache in your ribs forgotten under the pressure of the moment. "faking a death isn’t something i take lightly in my books”.

his jaw tightened, the faintest tremor in his hand betraying him as he sighed. the silence stretched again, taut and heavy, before he finally spoke. “trust me to take care of you as i always did, pipsqueak, i just need more cooperation from you this time. i needed to do that so I could've gotten rid of josephine”.

the vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, stealing whatever biting retort was forming on your tongue. you searched his face, the faint scars etched into his skin, the weariness in his eyes. "what the fuck did you just say?" you said softly, your voice trembling with the effort to keep it steady. 

caleb’s expression shifted as he saw the tense tone of your voice, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. regret? anger? it was gone too fast to tell. "i said what i said," he replied, his tone measured, almost calm—too calm. "josephine was a threat. she had to go, and i handled it and you should put this in your mind and move on."

"you handled it?" the words came out as a growl. the disbelief, the rage, the grief—it all boiled over. "you’re talking about the woman who raised me, caleb. who raised you. and you expect me to just—what—trust that you had your reasons? that it’s fine because you handled it?"

you got up from the sofa and watched him tower over you once again, not being afraid to fight him out of your house this time. you took a step further and watched the surprise on his face mix with a hint of mischief.

"you must have lost your mind, who the fuck sent you here? answer me." you asked, your voice sharper now, frustration spilling over.

he stepped closer, the shadow he cast stretching long across the dim room. his voice dropped, soft but firm, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. "the sooner you accept the truth, the easier all of this will turn out for you. josephine was a loose thread that could put you at harm and, trust me, i won’t let anything or anyone put you at risk."

"shut up," you snapped, your hands shaking as they clenched into fists. "don’t you dare put this on her. don’t you dare tell me you did this for me." you pushed him with force until he stumbled back a little, eyes on you the entire time. still, he didn’t react. so you pushed yourself past him, pacing to the other side of the room as if distance could lessen the fury building inside you. "you’re out of your fucking mind if you think i’m going anywhere with you. you—i… i mourned you, caleb".

caleb turned, his movements slow and deliberate, his gaze locking onto yours. "you don’t have a choice," he said simply. "if you want a chance of surviving, you’ll accompany me to the farspace fleet so you can prove to me that you are not a threat, this isn’t a quest, Y/N.”

"stop acting like you’re my savior," you shouted, spinning to face him. "you lied to me, faked your death, and now you show up here, in my home, telling me what to do? you’ve lost the right to give me orders, caleb. i don’t have to prove you shit"

his eyes narrowed, and for a moment, something like frustration flashed across his face. "you’re impossible," he muttered, more to himself than to you. “don’t make me take you by force, princess, this is already hard enough for me”.

his presence felt heavier now, more intimidating and more overwhelming. “hear me out on this one, pipsqueak, i can see why you’re upset but here it’s not the right place to talk about this. i promise i’ll explain it later”.

caleb’s gaze didn’t waver, feelings too strong for him to back down.

“you think i trust you wholeheartedly as well? don’t you think i know about what you’re capable to do, what weapon they made you become?”, he questioned, raising more questions about your past to the surface.

you hesitated, your chest heaving as you glared at him, every instinct screaming at you to fight, to run, to do anything but listen.

“you think i don’t know what you’re capable of? you’ve got every right to hate me, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re in danger and i’m the only one who can keep you alive.”

he stepped closer, his boots echoing softly against the tiled kitchen floor, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows that seemed to stretch and twist with your unease. the space between you vanished with every deliberate step he took, and before you realized it, the cool edge of the counter pressed against your back.

“i came here to get you so i can protect you,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender, though his eyes burned with something far less kind. “won’t you trust me, pipsqueak?”

you swallowed hard, your ribs aching as the tension tightened around you like a vice. the pain flared again on your right side, but you forced it down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your weakness. caleb’s arms came up, caging you between them, his palms braced on the counter on either side of you. his breath was warm against your skin, the faint scent of mossy perfume and something metallic clinging to him.

his amethystine eyes locked onto yours, drawing you in and daring you to look away. “josephine wasn’t innocent,” he murmured, the words deliberate, each one cutting deeper than the last. “she was the only way left they could get to you easily. so i had to get rid of her.”

the shock and fury bubbling in your chest clawed their way to the surface, but before you could lash out, he moved. slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands, his movements calm but weighted with unspoken meaning. his right hand hovered between your bodies as he tugged off his glove, revealing cold, gleaming metal where flesh once was.

your breath hitched, your eyes widening despite yourself. the intricate machinery of his prosthetic glinted dully in the dim light, a jarring contrast to the warmth of his other hand still braced beside you.

“i didn’t get out of there without paying a price,” he continued, his tone dipping lower, the faintest hint of bitterness creeping into his words. “if that makes you feel better.”

the sight of the metal, the weight of his confession, sent your mind reeling. you wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the fury that kept you standing, but the cracks in his armor—the familiar of his voice, the faint tremor in his hand—made it harder to breathe.

“turns out i gave them everything they wanted to have even more control over my body,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying your reaction like a predator watching prey. “you’re not the only ever victim in this room, princess, don't you see?”

his words hit like a punch to the gut, the nickname twisting something deep inside you. your eyes burned, the sting of unshed tears making your vision blur. compassion clawed its way forward, fighting against the iron grip of your fury.

he leaned closer, his voice softening, wrapping around you like a velvet noose. “don’t you see now? i’m your only way out. only i can make you safe, princess.” his head tilted slightly, his gaze piercing through the layers of anger and fear you’d built around yourself. “why don’t you see it?”

the way he said it—like it was inevitable, like you were foolish for resisting—sent a fresh wave of defiance coursing through you. your fingers twitched at your sides, curling into fists. the tears threatening to spill were not ones of submission but of frustration, of fury that he could twist your pain and vulnerability into leverage.

your hands trembled as you shoved against his chest, trying to create even an inch of space between you. “you’re the danger here, caleb.”

his expression hardened, though the faintest flicker of something else—hurt? regret?—crossed his features. he caught your wrists before you could push him further, his grip firm but not painful, his proximity suffocating.

“i won’t let you go this time,” he said, his voice quieter now, the sharp edge replaced with something closer to desperation. his eyes seemed to ignore every red signal your body emitted. “what are you afraid of, pipsqueak? c'mon, it’s me, caleb”.

the charged silence that followed was unbearable, the tension between you a living, breathing thing. the weight of his words, the intensity in his gaze—it all felt too much, too close, and yet not close enough.

“answer me.”, he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. “you need me, Y/N.”

you wanted to scream, to shove him back, to wipe that look of control and simmering frustration off his face, but the words stuck in your throat. it wasn’t fear keeping you quiet—it was the truth you didn’t want to admit. the truth you couldn’t admit.

“you don’t get to do this,” you managed, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “you don’t get to leave me, fake your death, and then come back like nothing happened. like i’m supposed to just—just fall in line and listen to you.”

his lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. instead, he exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as his grip on your wrists loosened ever so slightly. “i didn’t come back for you to listen,” he said, his tone soft but laced with an edge of frustration. “i came back to make sure you survive. with me.”

“you are crazy” you spat, shaking your head as you finally yanked your hands free from his grasp. “i don't know why you changed so much. you call this survival? being hunted, manipulated, dragged into whatever mess you’ve made? that’s not survival, caleb. that’s hell.”

“didn’t you want answers?!” he snaps, his voice cutting through the charged silence like a whip. his tone is sharp, frustration crackling in the air between you. for a moment, you flinched at his tone. “answers about your past, about granny, about the aether core that lives inside of you?”. he motions for your chest and you lean away from him.

caleb throws his daa hat on the floor and runs his gloved hand over his hair, desperation clinging into his actions. a move you were so used to seeing him doing as a teenager now seemed to paint his figure as someone totally different.

“guess what,” he continues, stepping closer, his boots scraping against the floor as the small space between you shrinks to nothing. “i’m the only one who can give you that.”

your back hits the counter again, the cold surface biting through your shirt as his presence looms over you. his hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of you, boxing you in, and his voice drops lower, quieter, but no less intense. “i know you’ve been looking for the truth. don’t pretend you haven’t. every decision you’ve made, every risk you’ve taken, it’s all been for answers.”

the weight of his words pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating, as if the walls of the apartment were closing in. his voice, low and deliberate, carried the kind of certainty that felt like a blade against your resolve. you hated that he knew so much, hated the way his presence seemed to draw out every buried question, every lingering doubt you’d tried so hard to silence.

the truth of it stung more than you wanted to admit. because it was true—wasn’t it? every decision, every desperate move you’d made since josephine’s death had been about finding the missing pieces. about understanding why your life felt like a jigsaw puzzle with crucial parts deliberately torn away.

you grew up with people like zayne and caleb so you’d become the best version of yourself. still, you felt unworthy of everything you have ever achieved.

you were... at a loss of words.

your ribs screamed in pain against the counter, the cold seeping through your shirt and grounding you in the moment. you wanted to push him away, to snap back with something that would shatter the arrogance in his voice. but instead, you found yourself staring at him—really staring—seeing the desperation etched into every line of his face. it wasn’t just his words that rattled you; it was the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of something far greater than just your shared past.

you noticed the tremor in his hand, the way it lingered too long on the counter’s edge, as if he were holding himself back from reaching for you. the way his eyes, though sharp and unrelenting, flickered with something almost... pleading.

caleb seemed to be holding himself back—as he always did. this time, though, you were not sure if you wanted him to break and consume you or to let you go and forget the two of you. this was the first time in your life where you felt close enough to the truth, close enough to calm the storm of questions in your mind. still, your grip on your ego seemed to be as tight as ever.

everything felt unfair because you were oh so tired. since onychinus, sylus and the aether core, your mind has been settled into finding answers of questions that were never asked in the first place. you were running in circles and you dreamed every night about how you missed caleb. how you knew he would guide you into the right path if he was alive at the moment.

now that he was here, something felt uncharacteristically right for the first time in weeks.

you need me, he said.

it was a bold statement, a manipulative one, but the worst part was the whisper of doubt it planted in your mind. what if he’s right? what if caleb, with all his possessive behavior, really did have the answers you’d been chasing? could you afford to ignore him—risk losing whatever truth he claimed to hold—just because you didn’t trust him right now? just because his posture changed and his eyes seemed a little darker?

had you the privilege of saying no to him?

you have always been so weak for him, haven't you?

your gaze dropped to his gloved hand, still gripping the counter, then to the hat he’d thrown carelessly onto the floor. there was something raw about the gesture, something that pulled at a part of you you’d long thought buried. it was the same caleb you remembered, the one who’d run his hands through his hair in frustration when things didn’t go his way, but now there was a hardness to him, an edge that made him almost unrecognizable.

he leaned in slightly, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. caleb’s hands cradled your face with an unsettling gentleness, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to memorize every inch of your skin. his breath, warm and steady, fanned over your face, and the proximity made your pulse race despite every instinct screaming at you to pull away.

“do as i say, princess,” he murmured, his voice a mix of honeyed persuasion and steel. “you know deep down that i’m right.”

you hated how easily he saw through you, how his words made your chest tighten with the weight of unspoken truths. but there was a flicker of something else now—a sliver of curiosity, of reluctant consideration.

you stayed in silence.

“you’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, softer, as if the words were meant for no one but you. “what are you afraid of, princess? me?”.

his breath fanned over your cheek, the tension between you felt alive, electric, as if the air itself buzzed with anticipation. caleb’s hands cradled your face with a deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing your jawline like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch. his thumbs traced lazy circles just below your cheekbones, sending faint shivers rippling down your spine.

caleb was very meticulous about the way he touched you. his words—carved in desperation just for you. he brushed away the tears you were shedding, breath in synch with yours as if he wanted for you to share your burden with him.

his thumb brushed against your skin, warm and steady, the faintest hint of mint and wood lingering in the space between you. the closeness made your pulse quicken, the steady rhythm in your chest now erratic and impossible to ignore. his forehead almost touched yours, his lips dangerously close but not quite there, as if he were savoring the moment, drawing it out until the anticipation was unbearable.

you gripped his forearms, confused at the needy feeling clawing its way out of your chest, the longing for closeness and safety that your brain always seemed to tie with the body in front of you. the tenderness he reserved only for you made your heart flutter despite the cruel truths and harsh words that had passed between you.

“what are you afraid of, princess?” he murmured again, his voice impossibly soft, like a velvet thread weaving its way into your thoughts. “it’s just me.”

the way he said it—low and intimate, like he was speaking to the deepest parts of you—made your knees weak.

his metal hand slid down from your face, the cool pads of his fingers brushing over the curve of your neck and coming to rest lightly on your shoulder. the weight was grounding, steadying, but it also sent sparks racing across your skin. the meaning behind his touch was at odds with the coldness of his prosthetic; it felt like both a tether and a promise.

you wondered if he was using his evol against you, manipulating your emotions, or if it was just your stupid, traitorous heart making you feel like you were floating.

your breaths came shallow and uneven as the tension between you thickened, palpable and inescapable. his gaze flickered to your lips, the intensity in his eyes making your stomach twist with anticipation. you hated how much you noticed the way he leaned closer, the way his presence filled every inch of the space around you, until there was nothing left but him.

“you don’t have to be scared of me,” he said softly, his lips brushing the words into the air between you. “i’d never hurt you.”

the warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could think of a reason to stop him, he closed the distance.

his lips pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. but you didn’t. the kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to decide, waiting to see if you would break the moment or lean into it. and for a heartbeat, you froze, the shock of it rooting you in place.

but the tenderness of his kiss, the way his hand tightened slightly on your shoulder as if to steady himself, drew you in. your fingers curled into his forearms, no longer in protest but in something closer to surrender, the heat of his closeness chasing away the cold air of the room. you felt something stir deep inside you when you felt the dips of his muscles underneath his uniform.

when did he became so big?

the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a mix of urgency and restraint, as though he were holding back a tidal wave of emotion. you felt the shift in him—the desperation, the longing he’d tried to bury under layers of control. it poured out now, raw and unguarded, and it pulled something equally raw from within you.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven. his hands stayed where they were, steadying you as much as himself, and for a moment, the silence between you felt heavier than any words could.

“just me,” he whispered again, his voice breaking slightly, as if he needed you to believe it as much as he did.

I JUST POSTED PART TWO OF THIS, go check it out!

author’s note: want to cry more while reading? listen to remember me by d4vd and tell me that this song doesn't describe mc and caleb perfectly. SORRY FOR THE POOR ENDING, i'll make a part two of this post soon, follow me to get updated when i post or just check my masterpost from time to time :) send me a request • my masterpost

[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 … :((

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

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

[starconchs]

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅 & 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

pairing: neuvillette x gn!reader summary: the melusines are on a mission, you just don't know what their end goal is. (hint: it's to get you and neuvillette together). furina may or may not be involved. genre: fluff notes: pls ignore the fact that melusines live in the water when it gets to the rain. i just thought it'd be a cute scene and i forgot that they would be fine in the water. we can pretend they just don't want to get their uniform wet. i'm also not sure if the cafe serves tea bc i know they sell coffee beans oops. wc: ~3.6k

A huff escapes you as you approach the doors to the Palais Mermonia, late for work and stumbling slightly as you reached for the handle.

"Please wait! Can you open the door for me?"

You pause when you hear Liath calling after you, and you turn to see the Melusine hurrying towards you. She's carrying two boxes in her hands, making it impossible for you to see her face until she comes to a stop next to you.

"Liath!" you gasp, holding open the door with your foot as you reach for one of the boxes. "Let me help you with that."

"Thank you! They are pretty heavy," she chimes, proceeding to stack the other box on top of the one you're currently holding. You're taken aback by her actions, giving her a confused look as she looks up at you and smiles. "I hope you don't mind dropping those off to Monsieur Neuvillette. I have some other duties to fulfill!"

Your eyes soften at her words, and you nod in agreement before shifting the boxes, making sure you have a good grip on them. The lid on the top box is askew, giving you a glimpse of some court documents sitting inside. You quickly fix the lid, glancing over at Liath to see her standing by the door, hands behind her back as she hums to herself. Your brows furrow when you notice that she doesn't make a move to leave, and you can't help but feel confused about her abnormal behavior.

"You should go before it gets too late in the afternoon to complete your other duties," you say softly, earning a confused look from Liath.

"What other duties?" she asks, a hand coming up to her cheek as she gets lost in thought. She gasps softly before meeting your gaze, her hand dropping to her side as she took a step back. "Oh! Yes, you're right. Thank you for bringing those to Monsieur Neuvillette. Bye!"

You watch Liath skip away, following her usual path around the Palais Mermonia. There's still a confused look on your face, and you merely shake your head before nudging the door open even further with your foot. You're still thinking about Liath's weird behavior when Sedene greets you.

"Good morning, Sedene," you greet in return, giving the Melusine a soft smile. "Is Neuvillette back yet?"

"Yes! He's been waiting for you!"

A stressed look appears on your face, and Sedene's eyes widen slightly as you glance towards Neuvillette's office.

"He has?" you ask, earning a nod from the Melusine in return. "Oh. I guess he really wants these court records huh? I hope he isn't too upset that I'm late."

"No, no," Sedene says, shaking her head back in forth to emphasize her words. She gives you a soft smile. "He's waiting for you, not the court records."

"Me?"

Sedene nods, and you can only hum in response before giving her a small nod and walking away. You pause as you reach the doors to Neuvillette's office, shifting the boxes so that they rest on your hip before raising a hand to knock.

"Come in."

"Good morning, Monsieur Neuvillette," you say as you slip into his office and shut the door behind you. Your head is slightly bowed down, the respectful gesture preventing you from seeing the way Neuvillette frowns at your words.

"Good morning," he says, setting his plume down before looking up at you. "I've told you multiple times already, there's no need to be so formal. 'Neuvillette' is perfectly fine."

"Pardon me, sir—" you pause when you notice the look on his face. "Pardon me, Neuvillette. I suppose I'm just not used to addressing my higher up that casually just yet."

"Higher up," Neuvillette scoffs, dipping the plume into a pot of ink before writing something down. "That's incorrect. We are equals, are we not?"

"The job description quite literally said 'assistant to the Iudex'," you tease, causing Neuvillette to pause. There's a small smile on your face when he looks at you, and he finds himself clearing his throat before responding.

"We both know you're more than a simple assistant, don't we? I got lucky considering you're ridiculously overqualified."

You deliberately refuse to respond, your heart beating just a little bit faster as you fully process Neuvillette's words. Instead, you glance at the boxes still in your hand, approaching his desk and clearing your throat to get his attention before you speak.

"Here are the court records you asked for. Should I just leave them on your desk?"

Neuvillette nods before giving you a confused look, his eyebrows furrowing as he shifts his gaze down to the boxes in your hands.

"Did something happen to Liath?" Neuvillette asks. Your heart warms at the concern on his face.

"No," you reply, shaking your head softly as you set the boxes down on his desk. "She mentioned she had some other duties to take care of."

"Ah, I was not aware she had any other duties," Neuvillette says, looking down at his desk. You pause at his words. "Perhaps I should have a talk with her and see if there's something bothering her?"

"I'm almost certain she's fine," you respond, unable to stop a smile from appearing on your face. Neuvillette is still lost in thought, wondering how to approach the Melusine. "Perhaps just make sure she's getting enough rest?"

Neuvillette looks up at you, nodding once before picking up his plume once again. "You're right. I'm certain she would've come to me directly if there was a problem. I'll make sure to speak with her later."

You nod at his words, bowing slightly before making your way back to his office doors. "If you'll excuse me, I must be on my way."

"You're not working in here today?" Neuvillette asks, sitting up even straighter as he watches you.

"I apologize Neuvillette," you say, smiling sheepishly before tugging the door open. "I'm afraid that Lady Furina requested my help for the day. I'll be back later to make sure everything is ready to go for tomorrow!"

Neuvillette nods, and he feels the paper on his desk rip slightly as he digs his plume into it. He slides the paper aside, grabbing a new one before speaking once more.

"I see. Tell her I said hello. Remember that tomorrow we meet directly at the Opera Epiclese, not here."

"Yes, I understand. Have a good day, sir," you say, giving him a wide grin before scurrying out of his office. You're gone before he can scold you for addressing him formally, the tapping of your shoes fading quickly as you rush off.

He wonders if there's a reason that Furina has suddenly decided to steal you from him. He decides not to think about it too much.

The tapping of your shoes is drowned out by the rain as you approach the Opera Epiclese.

You silently pat yourself on the back for remembering your umbrella, and you quickly sidestep a puddle before you hurry towards the Fountain of Lucine, stopping when you Veleda huddled next one of the trees nearby.

"Veleda!" you yell, gaining the attention of the Melusine. You wave her over, concern all over your face as you angle your umbrella to shield the both of you from the rain. "What happened? Did you forget your umbrella?"

The Melusine nods before shaking her head, trying to get rid of the excess water in her hair.

"Do you want to come inside with me?" you ask softly, holding out your hand. Veleda shakes her head again.

"No, I have to stay out here and finish my rounds!"

You bend down slightly, placing the handle of your umbrella in her hand before straightening up.

"Take mine. I won't really need it inside," you say, earning a smile from Veleda.

"Thank you! I really appreciate it."

You smile back at Veleda, reaching down to brush a strand of wet hair from her face before walking off. You hurry past the fountain, holding your bag tightly against you in hopes of keeping it dry. Aeife opens the door for you with a smile, and you quickly thank her before rushing inside, being met with smiles from Trow and Blathine.

"Oh no! Did you leave your umbrella at home?" Trow asks, tilting her head as she observes you. There's a trail of water behind you, and you cringe when you realize that you must look like a mess.

"No," you reply, shedding your coat and holding it away from you as it drips. "I lent it to Veleda. She was standing outside in the rain and she didn't want to come inside."

Blathine nods at your words, and it's only then that you notice the two umbrellas in her hands. "We had to finish our rounds but we got caught in the rain. That's why I came in to get umbrellas for both of us!"

"Oh, I didn't know that," you say slowly, watching as Blathine skips to the door. She's gone before you can even ask for the extra umbrella, and you can only hope that it's not raining by the time the trial is over.

"I can take that from you," Trow says softly. "You can head on in. Monsieur Neuvillette is waiting for you. Lady Furina will not be joining today."

You nod and hurry into the main room, grabbing your paper, plume, and a small pot of ink from your bag. Neuvillette watches you as you slide into your usual seat, eyebrows furrowing at your lack of coat and umbrella. It's common knowledge that it tends to rain during trials, and he wonders if you've had a bad morning.

The trial passes by quickly, and your page is filled with notes by the time it's over. Neuvillette looks down towards you and nods, silently letting you know that you should wait for him. You give him a small nod in return, quickly packing up your stuff and heading to the exit.

Neuvillette is already waiting for you by the time you reach the front desk, listening to Trow as she speaks softly to him. You approach them with a smile, digging out your notes once again and passing them to Neuvillette.

"Pardon me for interrupting, Trow," you say, smiling at the Melusine and receiving a fond look in return. "Here are the notes from today's trial, Neuvillette."

"Thank you," he says, taking them from you and putting them away. "I always enjoy reading your notes at the end of a long day."

"Now that that the trial is over, you should go get some food," Trow suggest, waving the two of you towards the door. She pauses briefly, returning to the desk to grab your coat. "Here's your coat. I'm sorry, it's still a little damp."

"That's okay, Trow. A little rain won't bother me," you say, smiling gratefully as you slip it on.

"Did you not bring an umbrella today?" Neuvillette asks, watching as you tighten the tie of your coat around your waist.

"I lent it to Veleda," you say, repeating your words from earlier. You smile sheepishly as he fixes you with an unreadable look, pulling your bag up higher on your shoulder as Trow nods along. "I didn't want her to get sick. Oh! But I noticed Blathine taking an umbrella out to her. Trow, did they bring my umbrella back in here by chance?"

"No, they haven't been inside since," Trow says, shaking her head.

"We can share," Neuvillette states. His tone leaves no room for arguments and you simply nod, keeping you mouth shut to stop yourself from objecting.

"That's a great idea!" Trow exclaims, clapping her hands at his words. Neuvillette smiles softly at her before offering you his arm. "I'm not too hungry, but I'd like to join you for tea, if that's okay?"

You nod silently, linking your arm with his and gently resting your hand on his upper arm. The two of you say your goodbyes to Trow, receiving an enthusiastic wave in return before you walk out the door. Neuvillette holds his umbrella out, swiftly opening it and making sure it covers the two of you before descending the steps of the Opera Epiclese.

The rain hits the umbrella with soft thuds, and you shake your other arm to try and get rid of the stray droplets that dot your sleeve. Neuvillette notices the action, and he simply brings his arm closer to his side, pulling you in and making sure you're completely shielded.

"M-Maybe we can pick something up and eat back at the Palais Mermonia," you suggest, hoping that he didn't notice your stutter. He smiles down at you, and your mouth goes dry as you try to ignore the way your heart races at the sight. You glance down at your shoes, frowning slightly when you step over a large puddle. "It doesn't look like the rain is going to stop anytime soon."

The walk to the aquabus station is relatively quick, and the two of you stand huddled close together as you wait for it to arrive. You're greeted by a happy Elphane, who seems excited to see Neuvillette waiting for the aquabus. She greets him with a grin before waving shyly at you, a small umbrella clutched in her hand in an attempt to keep her uniform dry.

The aquabus ride is filled with casual conversation, and Neuvillette takes the time to ask Elphane if there's anything bothering her or any of the other Melusines. He receives nothing but smiles and reassurances in return, and you can feel him relax at her words. The two of you wave goodbye to Elphane as you disembark, making your way towards the Café Lucerne in search of food and a hot drink.

"I can order for the both of us," you say once you're close enough. The two of you stop underneath one of the cafe's umbrellas and you finally step away from Neuvillette. "Is there a certain type of tea you'd like?"

"You can choose for me," Neuvillette replies smoothly, pressing the umbrella handle into one of your hands and a small pouch full of mora into the other. "I trust your judgement. Besides, Menthe has spoken about how good you are at choosing teas she likes. I'm sure you can do the same for me."

You feel your cheeks warm at his words, and you silently look around for the Melusine he mentioned, knowing better than to argue about the mora. "Menthe isn't around today, is she? I hope she finally got around to taking a rest."

"I hope so as well," Neuvillette agrees. There's a moment of silence before you spin on the heel of your foot, leaving him behind as you go up to the counter to order. You order your favorite tea, conch madeleines, and two servings of ile flottante, swiftly handing over the right amount of mora before returning to Neuvillette's side. He wastes no time before taking the bag of food from you, using his free hand to gently take back his umbrella before offering you his arm once more. You shyly slip your hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him guide you towards the Palais Mermonia.

"I ended up ordering my favorite kind of tea," you say eventually, breaking the silence. "It's a white tea with notes of peach and ginger."

"That sounds lovely," Neuvillette responds. "It's seems very fitting. A lovely tea for an equally lovely person."

You can't stop the grin that breaks onto your face at his words, and you glance at him bashfully only to find him already looking at you. There's a tiny small on his face as you meet his gaze, his eyes soft as he observes your reaction.

The rain falling around you comes to a stop.

"Oh look! The rain has finally stopped," you remark, looking around you as you approach the Palais Mermona. Neuvillette hums in acknowledgement as he shuts his umbrella, making no move to separate himself from you. "That's good."

"Do you not like the rain?" Neuvillette asks, turning his head to look at you. You shake your head.

"No, that's not it," you say, lost in thought as you speak. "It just reminds me of something that Lyney's brother told me once."

At Neuvillette's questioning gaze, you continue.

"He said that when it rains, it's because the hydro dragon is crying," you explain, laughing lightly to yourself. "Maybe it's only a children's story, but I don't like the thought of the hydro dragon crying. I think he deserves to be happy."

You turn to see Neuvillette staring at you with an unreadable look, his eyes shining as he hums.

"I think I agree."

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."

The two of you look up, arms still linked together, to see Furina standing near the front desk. Her hands are on her hips, nose turned up as she taps her foot. You suppress a smile at the sight, instead deciding to greet the Archon.

"Lady Furina," you say, bowing to her before straightening up. "How may I be of assistance?"

"I need you to help me finish what we were doing yesterday," she states, hesitating slightly before sniffling. "Please."

"Yes, of cou—"

"Actually we were just about to have lunch together," Neuvillette says, sending you an apologetic look for his interruption. Furina scoffs, half-heartedly glaring at Neuvillette before crossing her arms.

"Fine!" she concedes, turning her back to the two of you before sending you a glance. "I guess you can come find me when you're done."

She starts to walk away, only to stop when Sedene speaks.

"Lady Furina?"

Furina turns, nodding at the Melusine in acknowledgement.

"If it's not a problem, perhaps I can help you," Sedene continues, smiling softly up at the Archon. "That way we don't cut their lunch date short."

There's silence as Furina sends a sly glance your way, her eyes taking note of the way the two of you are still arm-in-arm. She nods in agreement, walking off complaint.

"You're right. Come find me in a few minutes, Sedene."

The three of you watch Furina stalk away, and you're only snapped out of your daze when Sedene tugs at your coat.

"I can take that for you," she says, and you finally let go of Neuvillette to slide your arms out of the coat. Before you can thank her, she's ushering the two of you towards Neuvillette's office, wishing you a happy meal and shutting the door swiftly as she leaves.

A chuckles leaves your lips as you approach Neuvillette's desk, sliding into the seat across from him as he clears off the table. He unpacks the food carefully, making sure to spread them out before walking over to grab a tea set.

"Forgive me if I'm being too bold," you start, reaching over for the tea you had bought and placing it into the tea pot. You carefully fill up the two teacups, relaxing in your seat after you swipe a conch madeleine off another plate. "But it seems like the Melusines have been acting a bit suspicious lately. I think they might be trying to set us up."

You wait for Neuvillette to wave your words off, but instead you're met with a sharp inhale, a slight hint of pink tinting the tips of his ears. He straightens up in his seat, rearranging the plates on the table as he tries to gather his thoughts.

"Ah, yes," he finally says, clearing his throat before glancing at you. He averts his gaze immediately, choosing to bring his teacup up to his lips instead. He takes a sip before setting it back down, taking his time before finally looking up to meet your eyes. "Forgive me, I believe it's all my fault. You see, I may have let it slip to Sedene that you looked beautiful on a few occasions."

"Oh," you breathe, your eyes widening at Neuvillette's confession. You're frozen in your seat, trying to think of what to say when his eyes widen slightly.

"As I said, please forgive me," he says hurriedly. "I'll ensure this behavior stops immediately and I can discuss your transfer from my office to Lady Furina's if you'd like."

"No!" you say, wincing when you realize your words are louder than you meant them to be. You pause, looking down and clamping your mouth shut. You compose yourself before continuing. "I mean, um, you're quite handsome yourself, you know?"

You look up to meet Neuvillette's gaze, your breath hitching when you see the soft smile on his face. There's an equally soft look in his eyes as he observes you, and he nods to himself before taking another sip of tea.

"In light of this revelation, I would like to ask you if you'd do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner sometime this week," Neuvillette proposes, the smile on his face growing as you nod.

"I'd love to."

The two of you turn when you hear a soft slam, the receding footsteps letting you know that Sedene had returned to eavesdrop. You giggle at the situation, turning back to see Neuvillette staring at the door with a fond look in his eye.

"Something tells me she's going to go tell everyone what just happened," you say, earning a soft chuckle from Neuvillette.

"I get the feeling they've been plotting this for quite some time," Neuvillette admits. "There's been too many coincidences to count."

You hum in agreement, thinking about all the weird behavior the Melusines had been exhibiting lately. Without them, none of this would have happened, and you let out a soft laugh as you realize just how obvious they had been. Your giggle draws Neuvillette's attention back to you, and the two of you share another soft smile as you begin to dig into your food.

"I guess we'll have to thank them then."

rbs are appreciated <3 ty for reading!!

[twstedfreak]

The Disappearance of Y/N L/N | PRELUDE - 00

Pairings: Various! JJK x Reader (Sukuna, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Naoya, Toji)

Synopsis: Y/N L/N has vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a trail of confusion and unanswered questions. Sukuna, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Naoya, and Toji are all pulled into the investigation, each one a suspect. They all believe Y/N is still out there, but none of them know what really happened. Their fragmented memories and conflicting stories of their last encounters with Y/N only deepen the mystery. As Detective Higuruma digs deeper into their pasts, he uncovers dark secrets and hidden motives, but the truth remains just out of reach.

Genre: Dark Romance(?), Mystery, Thriller, Psychological

Warnings: Mature Themes, Mentions of Death, Violence, Abandonment, Graphic Descriptions (crime scene), Trauma, Psychological Distress, Unreliable Narrator

A/N: Hey, it's been a while, but I’m back! Here’s the start of The Disappearance of Y/N L/N. If you like stories where a character lingers in the background and haunts the narrative (you know, that character), then you’re in the right place. This one's got a little mystery, a little kick, a little suspense, and a whole lot of unanswered questions. Hope you enjoy the ride! and as always, thanks for reading! I really appreciate the follow, reblogs, and likes so w/o further adeu,, let's all begin :3

teaser | masterlist | drabbles | headcanon | playlist

—Some people vanish quietly. She didn’t.

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. The city pulsed under a curtain of gray, neon signs bleeding color through the wet streets. Inside the station, Detective Hiromi Higuruma stood before a case file that hadn’t been touched in weeks—until now.

Y/N L/N.

Age: 25.

Status: Missing.

Presumed deceased.

No body. No note. No witnesses. Just absence.

The kind that wraps itself around you like smoke—clinging, stinging, impossible to ignore.

He flipped open the folder, slow and careful. Her photo was clipped to the front page, eyes too alive for a still image, lips curled slightly like she was about to laugh—or lie. It unsettled him. Most victims’ photos looked hollow, frozen in the past. Hers seemed to look back.

She had disappeared six months ago. No signs of struggle. No sign she ever planned to leave. Just a single call to emergency dispatch—never traced—then silence.

There was no family listed. No one had come forward when she vanished. No concerned boyfriend, no best friend sobbing into the receiver. Only one person had even noticed she was gone.

An elderly woman from the neighboring apartment.

Hiromi’s jaw clenched as he read over her initial statement again, scribbled in loose, looping handwriting with parts underlined and circled.

"She waters her plants every morning. Always the same time. I could hear her singing to them sometimes. But then… she just stopped." "The cat started meowing more. Crying at the door. I saw it getting thinner. Day by day. I knew something was wrong when the leaves by her doorway started to brown. She never let them wither." "I called the tenant. Told him something was wrong. We went in." "Her apartment—it looked like someone had been living there and then just left. Just… left. Plates were still on the table. Food rotting. Worms in it. The sink had dirty water. Like she got up in the middle of lunch and never came back. The cat was still inside. Barely alive." "Please find her. That sweet girl. Where could she have gone to..."

Hiromi imagined the scene. The stench. The silence. The way abandonment settles into a room like mildew. Her cat, bones beneath its fur, curling into itself, waiting.

And the apartment, it told a story, even if no one else would. No signs of forced entry. No indication of a struggle. Nothing stolen. No signs of packing. It was as if she’d simply evaporated into the walls.

That’s what got to him.

He’d seen crime scenes drenched in violence. But this? This was worse. This was absence. An unnatural quiet. Like she had been erased.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. The city outside blurred through the glass—neon signs bleeding red and electric blue onto slick pavement. Tokyo was wide awake, uncaring. But inside this file, inside this room, was something unfinished. Something rotting.

The more he read, the less he understood.

Until he found the envelope.

Tucked at the back of the file was a thin, unmarked envelope. It hadn’t come with the report. There was no label, no sender. Just one handwritten note on the outside.

“Reopen. Start with them.”

Tucked inside the folder were names. Six of them.

He read them once. Then again.

Ryomen Sukuna

Satoru Gojo

Suguru Geto

Kento Nanami

Toji Fushiguro

Naoya Zen’in

No prior connection between them, not on paper. No overlapping records. No reason to suspect them, yet here they were, listed under Persons of Interest. Not suspects. Not witnesses. Just men with suspicions.

Y/N.

What stood out wasn’t their reputations— all though some were notorious in their own right, it was how different they were. Different lives, different worlds. And yet, somehow, all tangled up in hers.

The deeper Hiromi read, the stranger it got. No official record of romantic ties. No clear motive. But there were letters. Notes. Photos. Snapshots of a woman who meant something different to each of them. A chameleon. A muse. A mistake. A memory.

It was like piecing together a puzzle where every piece belonged to a different picture.

Still… No one had reported her missing.

Not one of them.

That bothered him the most.

He sat back in his chair, the storm outside echoing his thoughts. Any time now, he’d begin the interviews. But for now, all he had were names and questions and the heavy knowledge that someone wasn’t telling true.

Was Y/N dead?

Perhaps, she is alive.. somewhere

Was she hiding?

And if she was hiding... from who?

But what terrified Hiromi wasn’t what they would say. It was what they wouldn’t.

Two months have passed.

A girl with no trace. An apartment like a tomb. A cat barely breathing, clinging to hope in the only way it knew how.

And now, six men. Each one who might have a story.

But only one of them, Hiromi was certain, would know the truth.

And the truth? It would not come easy.

This wasn’t just a missing person case.

He was intrigued.

Maybe, this was something else.

Maybe something cold.

Maybe something violent.

Maybe something personal.

. . . . Who knows?

“Someone needs to be looking for this girl.”

The next morning came with no sun. Just a dull, smothered sky pressing down on the city like a weight. Hiromi walked into the precinct with the file under his arm and the envelope of names secured inside. The halls were half-awake, the scent of burnt coffee and cold sweat lingering like ghosts from the night shift.

He didn’t wait to be called in. He headed straight for the chief's office.

Detective Masuda barely looked up from his desk when Hiromi entered. He was an old dog, worn thin by decades of rot in the system, and even thinner on patience. His tie was crooked. His shirt wrinkled. But his eyes, sharp as broken glass lifted the moment he saw the folder in Hiromi's hand.

"You're early," Masuda muttered, leaning back.

"I'm taking the L/N case," Hiromi said, setting the folder on the desk with a dull thud. "Nearly two months missing. No family, no formal report, but a witness. We’ve got signs of abandonment, starvation, possible neglect, and names. Some big ones."

Masuda raised an eyebrow. "You're wasting your time on a cold ghost story?"

Hiromi’s tone didn’t waver. "It's not cold. It’s buried. There's a difference."

Then, Hiromi reached into the file—past the grainy photographs, past the neighbor’s written testimony, past the preliminary notes from the patrol officer who first stepped into that hollowed-out apartment.

He pulled out a plain, creased envelope.

Unmarked. No return address. No police seal. Just a thin fold of paper that felt heavier than the rest of the file.

He slid it across Masuda’s desk with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

"Look at this," Hiromi said, his voice low, unreadable. “Someone wanted this case reopened.”

Masuda raised an eyebrow, then opened it.

Inside were six names, printed on a small sheet of paper like they’d been clipped from some confidential database. Clean type. No context. No explanation. But they hit like a punch.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Satoru Gojo.

Suguru Geto.

Kento Nanami.

Toji Fushiguro.

Naoya Zen’in.

Masuda’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you proposing?”

Hiromi straightened. “I’m requesting search warrants. For her apartment. For their personal records. Surveillance near her building from the last 90 days. We reopen this case—formally.”

There was a pause. The silence between two men who had seen enough in their lives to recognize when something felt off.

“You’re going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Masuda warned. “These men. Some of them have influence. Money. Ties to people who don’t like being watched.”

“I don’t care,” Hiromi said. “There’s a girl no one’s looking for. And the longer she stays missing, the colder she gets.”

Masuda looked at Hiromi and frowned as he reached for the file. 

He frowned.

“I know some of these names,” he muttered. “Whispers. Trouble. One of them’s a consultant for a private security firm, isn’t he? Another was tied to that Shibuya case, but never charged.”

Hiromi nodded slowly. “They all move in different circles. None of them clean. None of them ever in the same room at the same time. But somehow , it seems like they’re all connected to her.”

“And you’re saying this girl… Y/N…?”

“She’s the thread,” Hiromi replied. “I think she somehow ran through each of their lives like clockwork. One by one. I don’t know what she meant to them, or what they meant to her. But she’s gone. And they’re all still here.”

He leaned forward now, tone darker. “But not one of them filed a report. Not one of them called to check in. Not one of them even pretended to be concerned.”

Masuda exhaled slowly, tension creasing his brow. He looked down at the names again, like they might rearrange themselves into something less dangerous. But they didn’t.

Hiromi’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

Hiromi didn’t stop with just the names.

He reached into the envelope again, this time pulling out a series of photographs—old, slightly worn, printed on glossy paper like someone had developed them by hand. Not police-issue. Not digital. Personal.

He laid them out on Masuda’s desk, one by one, like cards in a tarot reading.

The room seemed to quiet with each photo placed down. You could nearly hear a pin drop.

First Photo:

It wasn’t a posed photo. It looked like it wasn’t meant to be taken at all.

The grain of the image suggested it came from an old CCTV still or maybe a camera phone shot from behind tinted glass. Y/N was sitting on the floor of what looked like a stairwell—somewhere dim and industrial, like the back exit of a club. Her knees were tucked to her chest, cheek resting on them, hair messy, mascara smeared like she’d been crying.

Sukuna Ryomen was standing a few feet away, partially turned, as if caught mid-motion. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, but he wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at whoever took the picture.

His stare was dead-on. Unblinking.

Unmistakably a threat.

The only thing more chilling than the fury in his eyes was the stillness in hers. Not scared. Not begging. Just… resigned.

It wasn’t a couple caught in a sweet moment.

It looked like the last quiet moment before something terrible happened.

Second Photo:

It wasn’t the typical carefree shot. At first glance, it seemed playful enough—Y/N and Satoru Gojo laughing at something only he could’ve said, her mouth open in a wide grin, eyes squinting from the brightness of the neon lights reflecting off her face. Gojo’s trademark shades were pushed up to the top of his head, his grin wide, almost too wide.

But there was something off.

Y/N was leaning back, hands bracing against a wall as if she was about to pull away—but Gojo’s hand was still on her wrist, fingers curled around it tightly, a little too tightly. The carefree nature of the moment felt staged, the way he kept her just close enough to hold on—and the look in her eyes was no longer one of amusement. There was a flicker of unease, a momentary hesitation before her smile flickered and she tilted her head, like she was waiting for something.

Third Photo:

This wasn’t a photo that seemed like it belonged in a keepsake album. It looked like a stolen moment—an uncomfortable one. Y/N and Suguru Geto were in a photo booth, yes, but there was no fun, no laughter. The graininess of the image made it almost feel like it had been taken from some hidden corner.

In the first frame, Y/N was giving a peace sign, but her smile was strained, too tight. Her eyes weren’t on the camera, they were glancing sideways at Geto, as if she had just said something, but his reaction didn’t match her expression. 

It seems like his hand was resting on her knee in the second frame, and while she looked down at it with an almost imperceptible frown, his fingers were draped too casually. The tension between them was palpable, even in black and white.

In the third frame, she leaned in closer, but instead of the intimacy one might expect, her shoulders were stiff, her body angled away from him. Geto, on the other hand, stared straight into the camera with an unnerving, cold intensity, his eyes unwavering. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even pretending to.

In the final frame, her peace sign had dropped. Her face was half-turned, lips parted as if she was about to say something, but the silence in the booth felt suffocating. Geto’s gaze, though, never wavered—sharp, calculating, as though he was looking right through her.

This wasn’t a photo of affection.

Fourth Photo:

This was not a moment anyone would expect from Kento Nanami. The photo showed him and Y/N in what seemed like an ordinary moment at a cozy, well-lit café—her hands wrapped around a coffee cup, his resting on the table beside her. They were sitting close, but something about the image made it feel wrong.

Y/N’s expression wasn’t one of comfort; it was a mixture of betrayal and shock. Her lips were slightly parted, but she wasn’t speaking. Her eyes were focused on something—no, someone—behind the camera, and the tension was palpable. Nanami’s face was unreadable, but his eyes, usually calm and steady, had a flicker of something unsettling—guilt? Regret? His hand, which was placed casually on the table, was pressed against hers in a manner that, on the surface, seemed simple. But looking closer, you could see the slight tremble in his fingers, like he was holding back something. His eyes never met hers, not in the way they should have. Instead, he was staring down at the table, at the spot where their hands touched.

What was truly shocking, though, was the small, crumpled letter partially visible under the coffee cup, its edges bent from being squeezed too tightly. It was addressed to Y/N. But there was no smile, no warmth in her expression. Instead, there was a quiet, unspoken question hanging between them.

Had he written the letter? Had he given it to her? And why was it so clear from the photo that she was already done, even if she hadn’t said a word?It wasn’t a moment of love or affection. It was a moment frozen between a decision and a realization, the weight of something left unsaid hanging heavily between them.

Fifth Photo:

The photo was nothing like anyone would expect from Toji Fushiguro. He was known for his cold demeanor, but this shot caught him at his most vulnerable—at least, in a way no one would have anticipated. Y/N and Toji were locked in a heated kiss, but it wasn’t romantic—it was almost primal. His hand was tangled in her hair, gripping it with a force that made her head tilt back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. There was no gentle approach here. No slow build. It was pure, raw need.

Y/N, completely caught up in the moment, looked a mess. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair was tangled and falling wildly around her face, and her eyes—when they weren’t squeezed shut—held a dazed and frenzied look, as if she couldn’t even fully comprehend what was happening. In one hand, she carelessly held a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling, forgotten and almost abandoned, as if it didn’t matter in this moment. Her other hand was gripping the back of Toji’s neck, nails digging into his skin, as if she were holding on for dear life.

The intensity between them was palpable, raw—there was no tenderness, no softness in the way their bodies collided. Toji’s chest was pressed against hers, his grip firm, almost possessive, and Y/N was lost in it, her body leaning toward him, caught in the urgency of the kiss. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t graceful. It was reckless.

The background was barely visible, a dark, dimly lit room, adding to the feeling that this was a fleeting, chaotic moment—one that wasn’t supposed to be captured, yet it was. It felt like something that should have been erased, but instead, it was frozen forever. The cigarette, the way her body was slanted against his, the way he held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded—it wasn’t just a kiss. It was fire and danger, a reckless dance that neither could stop once it had begun.

Sixth Photo:

The image was caught mid-motion grainy, distant, probably taken by someone on the street. Y/N was stepping out of a sleek black car, one heel already on the curb, the other still inside. She looked furious. Her lipstick was smudged like she’d bitten her lip too hard. Her hand was raised in a sharp motion mid-gesture. They seem to be in a mid-argument. Naoya Zenin was still in the driver’s seat, leaned over, clearly shouting something back at her through the open door. His jaw was clenched, face twisted in frustration.

You couldn’t hear the words, but the body language said enough. She was done. He wasn’t.

No smiles. No poised elegance. Just raw emotion between two people unraveling in real time.

It was the only photo where she looked like she wanted to leave

—and the only one where someone was trying to stop her.

Masuda stared at the spread of a mess on the table.

Six men.

Six moments.

Six different versions of Y/N.

“She’s a ghost stitched into all of them,” Hiromi said, voice low. “A different girl in every photo. The question is, who was she really? And why did she vanish without a trace?”

Masuda looked back up at him, face unreadable.

Hiromi tapped the photos one more time.

“Someone slipped this into the file, chief. No initials. No trace. Just the names and these photos. That’s not random. That’s someone telling us where to start.”

He let that sit for a moment.

And then, like a hammer to glass, he added, “I think we’re not looking at a disappearance. I think we’re looking at something worse. And someone out there, someone who knew her. Wants us to dig.”

Masuda didn’t answer right away.

But Hiromi could tell by the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the envelope.

The case is open now. Whether the department liked it or not.

Ꮺ ⋮ TAGLIST OPEN ! comment to be added to the official list of this series (in the making) —

@ratedrrrr @barbare2 @artist1936 @tojis-ball-sack @mangiswig @levimaids @poopooindamouf @ukhtlindi @gremlinartstudio @stardustquills @kingshitonly @levifiance @sakanelli-afc @theanaoevre @yu-uwu @personally4runa @indiewritesxoxo @sunahsvt @sakanelli-afc @ivy-vivii @gojoslovelylover @sukunaslilsocks @amberbrevily @eolivy @miniv1x3n @grignardsreagent @noooo-onee @penguinotapioca @ladytamayolover @getomeatrider01 @lucilles-witchery @van9lla

˚ 　 ⤹ 　 ❝ ©twstedfreak | all rights reserve to the owner. . . . do not plagiarize, steal, translate, or modify my work

[studioeisa]

like real people do ☢️ seungcheol x reader.

little is known about the apocalypse of 2017. a century later, archivists are now unveiling the relics they found from those who lived through that time.

★ seungcheol x reader.  ★ word count: 2.1k ★ genre: alternate universe: apocalypse, alternate universe: soulmates (the only way for your scars to disappear is when your soulmate kisses them goodbye), angst, romance. ★ warnings: major character death. depictions of death/violence, injuries/scars. established relationship; suggestive scenes but no real smut. set in a fictional apocalyptic world. doubling down on the angst warning; i cannot say with any certainty that this is a happy ending. ★ footnotes: this is part of my follower milestone event. viv gave me an inch (a request for angsty seungcheol) and, in turn, i am giving her a mile (a whole thing instead of just a ficlet). mahal kita, @heartepub! this will be the last hozier brainrot i offer you— for now. + much thanks to @gyubakeries and @tusswrites for beta reading! love you both to the end of the world. ❤️‍🩹

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ like real people do by hozier. apocalypse by cigarettes after sex. i know the end by phoebe bridgers. fourth of july by sufjan stevens. interlude: i’m not angry anymore by paramore. atlantis by seafret. end of beginning by djo. nobody’s soldier by hozier.

When the fish started dying, you did not think: This is how the world will end.

Why would you? The decimation of marine mammals and seabirds didn’t make the news. The misguided scientific breakthrough that triggered everything was kept under wraps.

It isn’t until much later, until the damage is irreparable and the Rapture is imminent, that you will realize it. 

The world as you know it is ending— but at least you have Seungcheol.

There’s some cruelty in the timing of it all. The two of you had just moved in with each other, coasting on the honeymoon phase of a long-term couple with a new thing to share. The paint on your apartment’s walls had yet to dry when the government declared a state of national emergency.

Dozens of other countries followed suit not long after, all blaming one thing or the other. Food crises. Social unrest. Cultural collapse. 

“This is crazy,” Seungcheol grumbles. 

The television is playing clips of a hurricane tearing through the Philippines. Extreme weather conditions, the reporters are saying. Due to the rise of CO₂ levels. 

You and Seungcheol are sprawled out on the floor, watching it unfold. The furniture store meant to deliver your couch has delayed shipment until further notice. 

Seungcheol has always been the sulky type, though the expression on his face nowadays has been less of his trademark pout and more of a serious frown. You can feel his growing agitation in the stiff way he holds you, in the set of his eyebrows. 

“It’s crazy,” you agree quietly, resting your hand on his knee in a bid to calm him a bit. “But it’ll pass.” 

Your touch seems to give some sort of reprieve. He rolls his shoulders. He unclenches his jaw. 

“It’ll pass,” he echoes, reaching out to intertwine your fingers. 

Neither of you knew just how wrong you could be. 

April 8, 2017 

Weird times. Cheol knows just how anxious I get when I’m cooped up, so he encouraged me to pick up journaling. I’m not sure how much this will help, but it’s worth a try. 

It’s been a month since everything has essentially gone on ‘lockdown’. The news says that all of this started because researchers wanted to regulate harmful algae. Their genetically engineered virus ended up infecting all algae, and now the majority of phytoplankton are just... dead. 

I don’t know what to write about. Terrible oxygen levels? Seafood costing a fortune? This ‘work from home’ system everyone is trying to figure out? 

I guess I should just write about the good stuff. That way, when I look back on these entries, I can remember something good.

Today, Cheol tried to fix a leaking faucet himself instead of calling for a plumber. We flooded the kitchen floor, and ended up wet from head to toe.

I cooked pasta, called mom and dad on Skype, and watched the latest episode of Santa Clarita Diet. 

Once everything opens up again, Cheol and I have to visit my parents. (And ‘get better screwdrivers’, he claims.) 

When Seungcheol first kissed you, you did not think: This man is my soulmate. 

It had been a clumsy, shy thing, traded way back when the two of you were high schoolers still stealing away from your eagle-eyed parents. Seungcheol liked to wax poetics about how it was perfect even though you know that first kiss was more a clash of teeth than anything. 

You don’t discover the truth of everything until a couple of years into dating. Seungcheol had gotten into playing basketball, and, one evening, you absentmindedly pressed your lips to a scar he had at the bend of his elbow. 

The mark smoothed out instantly. 

Seungcheol had giggled at the development before spending the rest of the night kissing every inch of your skin that he could reach— injured or not. You still think it’s one of your best memories as a couple. 

Kisses that healed scars. You hadn’t believed in the stories yourself until it had happened to you, until you realized how fortunate you were that your soulmate wasn’t halfway across the world or something. No, you had your soulmate, and he was more than willing to kiss away all your wounds. 

You had counted yourself as lucky. You still think you are, even now, as Seungcheol strokes your hair and holds you to his chest in the pitch black darkness of your apartment. 

His voice is quiet and small when he speaks up. “I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” you mutter back. 

“I’m sure this isn’t what you imagined,” he says. “For us moving in together and everything.” 

An amused snort escapes you. Of course that would be your boyfriend’s concern. There’s the rotational power outages and the merciless prices of goods due to inflation, but Seungcheol is worried about your expectations not being met. 

You shift in his hold. The days have been getting warmer and warmer, and the evenings are no exception. Seungcheol has taken to sleeping shirtless. You’re a couple of celsius away from doing the same. 

“It’s not your fault that we decided to move in together for the end times,” you say into the skin of his bare chest. 

He gives the small of your back a light thwack. “What have I said about the apocalypse jokes?” he chides lightly. 

You roll your eyes. He shouldn’t see it in the darkness, but he knows you all too well. “And don’t roll your eyes at me!”

His reprimand draws a short laugh from you. Even that feels like a monumental effort, like it's a waste of good air. 

Seungcheol doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the two of you waking up in pools of your own sweat, doesn’t care that there are whole government newscasts on how to preserve oxygen in enclosed spaces. 

He holds you like a lifeline and kisses you until you’re breathless. 

“Cheol,” you whine against his mouth, the protest already at the tip of your tongue. The end is near; sex should be the last thing on your mind. 

But then Seungcheol’s fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, and he sounds so, so sweet when he mumbles, “Yes, soulmate?” 

That’s always gotten to you. 

“Unfair,” you groan as you work on shucking off your own clothes. “You’re so unfair.” 

In between giggles, he kisses every part of you. Again, and again, and again. 

June 15, 2017 

Cheol and I are on the run. 

He keeps telling me not to call it that because it supposedly makes us sound like criminals. I think it’s just funny, and God knows I need something to find humor in. 

As badly as I want to say “we have gone through worse before,” that would be a lie. We’re out of our apartment and trying to make our way to some place where there’s better air quality. In the meantime, we’re living out of his car. It’s so funny to me that I’ve started laughing until I’m crying. 

Anyway, the good stuff: Today’s sunset painted the sky purple. We snagged some still-cold cans of Sprite in an abandoned 7-Eleven. Cheol spotted a family of ducks crossing the road, pointed it out, and said “us, soon!”

Us, soon. It feels dangerous to hope, but that’s all I seem to do nowadays. That and being on the run. (Cheol made me strike out that last part, but whatever.) 

When Seungcheol finally admits to you that he is scared, you did not think: This means that things are much, much worse than I thought. 

Maybe because there were bigger concerns, like the car’s blinking fuel warning light and the scratches littering Seungcheol’s arms. Like the fool that he was, he had gone against your well-meaning advice to not look for help. 

He did not return unscathed. 

Your lips are pursed in a thin line as you rip open a Band-Aid. It’s one of the few that the two of you have left, and Seungcheol seems to remember the fact. He reaches out to stop you. 

“Hey, c’mon,” he urges, obviously trying to aim for levity. “You know there’s other ways we can fix me up, right?”

The frown that tugs at your lips shows that you’re still less-than-pleased at his little stunt. 

“Maybe if you didn’t head out in the first place,” you grumble. “We wouldn’t need any of this.” 

Seungcheol looks like he might push back, but seems to decide against it at the last minute. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and gives you a gentle tug. 

“It won’t happen again.” His tone is edged with remorse, enough to almost convince you. Almost. 

“No more playing hero?” you ask. 

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “No more playing hero,” he concedes before tugging at you again. 

You let him. You move closer into his space until you’re practically in his lap, until you’ve got a better view of the angry red cuts on his skin. 

Tentatively, you press chaste kisses to the injuries. Seungcheol’s hands find purchase at your waist and he tilts his head back, letting you work your magic. He’s quiet as your lips trace over each gash and wound, as you take away all the hurt with the ghost of a kiss. 

After a moment, he mumbles, “Is it bad that I want you right now?” 

“Seungcheol.” 

“Okay, okay.” A beat. “I want you all the time, actually.” 

“Shut up!”

The sound of his laughter fills the car. It’s enough to have you forgetting his murmured confession of fear, the vulnerability that he had tried so quickly to cover up with affection. For a moment, there is nothing else in the world except this, except you, except him. 

September 23, 2017

Is it weird to say that I’m starting to forget what it was like before all of this happened? Cheol is trying to assure me that it’s to be expected, that we’ll all be back to ‘normal’ soon, but I don’t even remember what normal is like anymore. 

I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget. And so here is a small list of things I took for granted: 

The first breeze that tells you winter is coming 

The kindness of people who don’t know you 

The smallest fish in the sea

Date nights with Cheol 

Clean water 

Breakfast

My parents

Cheol says there might be some biodomes ahead. Oxygen-regulated habitats. It sounds like something only the rich can afford. We don’t have a lot left between the two of us, and it’s getting harder to jump from building to building. 

But there’s something waiting for us on the other side— right? There has to be. 

May the best of my todays be the worst of my tomorrows. 

When the gunshot rang out, you did not think: This is it.

Seungcheol never gave you any reason to think that way. He had held your hand as you raided rundown grocery stores. He had positioned himself in front of you when there were stampedes. The world might have been ending, but he was with you.

He was with you even when the strangers you ran into started getting more aggressive. He was with you even when fights would break out over necessities like water and medicine. 

“People are dangerous when they're desperate,” he’d tell you softly— still his rational, kind self even when faced with the worst of mankind.

He was with you. He was kind. He was yours. 

Even when the bullet lodged itself right between his ribs. 

There is not much that you remember after that. 

The people dispersed. The cause of the fight— a can of chicken noodle soup, once your comfort food— lay forgotten on the floor.

The love of your life, staring unblinking at the sky.

When you sink to the ground, you’re moving purely on instinct. Your quivering lips press over his chest, over the red blossoming and staining his shirt. 

You kiss him. Again.

And again. 

And again. 

December 1, 2017

The kisses don’t work on bullet wounds. 

▸ Archivist’s note: The following entries are undated and some portions had been redacted/deemed untranscribable. We are led to believe that the author struggled to cope in the aftermath of their soulmate’s death. For posterity, we have still reprinted their final entries.

You’re so unfair. 

I still want you. 

Things I took for granted: ███████, you, ███████, youyouyou. 

What now? 

My love, it’s only a matter of ███████—

▸ Archivist’s note: Nothing follows.

This concludes our transcribed logs. The full collection can be viewed at the National Museum of Remembrance.

It is our deepest regret that the author is unnamed and that they cannot be properly credited. However, we know of two things with certainty. 

We know of a man named Seungcheol, and we know that he was loved. 

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Jealousy (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you know Sauron is only getting close to Mirdania as part of your plans, but it still bothers you

Warnings: evil reader who is Sauron’s partner in crime (it’s not exactly healthy but you match each other’s freak)

Note: now part of the evil!reader collection (various scenes with the same reader but not written and posted in chronological order)

If she’s not in love yet, she is awfully close to it. You can see it plainly on Mirdania’s face as Sauron—or, as she knows him, Annatar—cradles her hand in his, convincing her yet again to do his bidding with nothing more than a softly spoken word and a gaze that lingers just a moment too long.

“Can I trust you to make sure the others respect his wishes as well?” you hear him say from where you’re standing, only a few feet away. Mirdania agrees almost immediately, looking as though she might pick up a hammer and crush her own fingers with it as well, if her beloved Lord of Gifts only asked.

You are being dramatic, of course. It’s a good thing, having as many smiths of Eregion be vulnerable to Sauron’s deception as possible, but it’s awfully unfair that someone else should get to feel his touch so freely when you, the one with the most right to it, must restrain yourself until you are alone.

By the time they are finished conversing, you are glaring daggers in their direction. If Mirdania notices, you don’t know and you don’t care. It’s his gaze you meet and hold for a brief moment before you turn yours away and leave the courtyard, knowing he would follow.

He had better.

You’ve reached a corridor you know to be empty most of the time, and are striding down it when a hand wraps around your arm and pulls you to the side. You hold back a smirk as your back meets the wall and you stare up into Sauron’s eyes.

“Jealousy does not suit you,” he remarks sharply.

“Feigned innocence does not suit you,” you retort. “Yet you never fail to make it convincing.”

“Mirdania is hardly difficult to convince. And who can fault her?” he says, smugly. He likes to make your blood boil, and you like to let him. It stokes the passion between you. Usually. Now, however, it only serves to further your indignation.

“Who can fault her, indeed?” you say bitterly. “Perhaps she’s not the one worthy of my ire. It was, after all, the Lady Galadriel to whom you oh-so-poetically compared Mirdania not that long ago. Perhaps your time together in Numenor brought you much closer than you led me to believe.”

Your accusation diminishes his playfulness. He puts a finger under your chin, lifting it slightly to better fix you with a warning gaze.

“I do not care for this attitude of yours,” he says disapprovingly. “You were never quite so... irritable, before.”

“Before?” you hiss, removing his hand from your face and holding his wrist between you in a grip tight enough you hope it hurts. “Before you were taken from me without warning, and I was left alone in the world? Living amongst my kind as though nothing had changed, as though I still belonged with them. Playing the obedient little smith as if I was not meant to be so much more. Forgive me if, after all those interminable years awaiting my husband’s return, I do not care to see his fingers in some other elf’s hair!”

Your last words are practically a growl as you release his hand furiously, slamming it into his own chest. He glances at it, then looks at you, having the decency to seem somewhat contrite for a brief moment.

“Had I known it bothered you so...” The slightest smirk tugs at his mouth. “I’d have at least tried to touch her hair out of your sight.”

You shove at his chest, spitting out an adjective in Black Speech with a most indelicate translation in the common tongue. This time, you don’t want him to follow. It’s your full intention to storm away and treat him with nothing but silence until you’re satisfied you have frustrated him as badly as he did you.

You’ve taken a few steps when he catches you by the waist, pulling you with your back flush against his front in the middle of the corridor. You make a sound of surprise, your hands flying to his, but you don’t try to pry them away from you. His mouth is at your ear, hot and alluring.

“There is a purpose to my every word, gesture and touch,” he says, the low rumble of his voice traveling deliciously down your spine. “A purpose of which you are well aware. Our purpose. Do you truly believe a head of pretty hair would so easily sway me, when I spent centuries dreaming to taste you once more?”

His voice has dropped to a whisper, and his lips lower to your neck, pressing gently against your skin to soften you to him. It feels divine, as always, but pride demands you hold back from melting into his just yet.

“What you spent centuries dreaming of,” you counter flatly, “is ruling the world.” Your voice betrays only the tiniest trace of breathlessness as he gives your skin a light, warning bite.

“The two may coexist, and they do. You know that very well.” He turns you around then, holding your chin between his fingers once more. His thumb brushes your lower lip, eyes boring into yours with no trace of the teasing glint from before. “Cease your foolish doubts. Anger makes you impossibly beautiful, my love, but in this moment I’d prefer it if you were angry alongside me, rather than at me. We must stand united, now more than ever.”

That is... infuriatingly true.

Oh, damn him. With his flattery and his touches and his... rational thinking.

“I just...” You let out a sigh with a hint of a groan, your anger giving way to reveal the source of frustration which had driven you to such impulsive actions in the first place. “I’ve grown so tired of this pretense. This ridiculous charade, as if you were as much a stranger to me as you were to the other smiths before you came. Look at us, sneaking around like some rebellious youths exchanging forbidden kisses. They should know who you are. Who we are.” You cup his cheeks and lean in close, voice drenched in unbridled passion. “Husband and wife. King and Queen.”

“And so they shall,” he vows, pulling you against him in a tight embrace as he leans his forehead against yours, “once the work is complete. I shall put a crown on your head, and we shall stand side by side as the world bows at our feet. Before their Lord of Darkness, and my beautiful, terrible Queen. This, I swear.”

Your heart thunders in your chest at the images invoked by his words. Everything you’ve waited and strived for all this time, finally within your grasp. Being supreme ruler of Elves, Dwarves and Men alike. Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can never be torn from the one you love again.

“The day cannot come soon enough,” you breathe out, the last word barely escaping before your love captures your lips and kisses you with endless greed, perfectly matching yours. There is darkness within you, and it was always meant to become intertwined with his. One or both of you may be killed, as he once was, but no power in existence could ever truly part your souls. It’s a certainty you see reflected in his eyes as he pulls away just slightly, just enough for his gaze to set you even more alight with desire before he devours you with his kiss once more.

“Soon, my love,” he whispers against your lips. “Soon.”

Previous fic with same reader -> A true gift

Next fic with same reader -> Reveal

[sadembryhours]

Can you a Josh x reader where the reader helps Josh cope with his sisters’ death?

HUMAN! ♡ josh washington

synopsis : you try your best to help him live ; allow him to grieve and hold his hand as he does. silently, he’s forever thankful.

cw : heavy mental health talk / depections , josh is unwell , reader takes care of him

song inspo ; human by dodie

🪷 if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked. 🪷

Blue and red lights surround you, bouncing off of the freshly fallen snow. Jess is sobbing into Mike's shoulder, Emily holding her hand as they talk to two officers in their uniform. Sam is laying her own head on your shoulder, her hand squeezing yours as you both sit in silence.

Chris stands with Josh, who only stars at the mountain view around him.

You shiver as the wind whips by you, carrying a conversation your way. Two other officers look at Josh warily before looking back at the lodge. It was a crime scene now — closed for everyone until further notice.

"With me," your voice cuts through. Josh's watery, unseeing eyes seem to find you. With a frown, you look back towards the officer. "He can stay with me."

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🪷ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The silence of the drive home follows you as you lead Josh inside. He treks in slowly, boots heavy, laced with snow and distress. Lifelessly, Josh all but falls onto your couch, perching there stiffly.

You frown, "Josh? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

He mumbles, but you can only hear him saying his sisters names. Crouching, you meet his gaze as best as you can. Your fingers lace into his — they're cold ; frigid and frozen as he simply twitches at the touch. "Josh. Are you with me?"

He still doesn't speak, no movement or sound comes from him at all. You hold your dismay in, concealing it and composing yourself instead. You stand, shuffling Josh out of his shoes and jacket until he's left in his sweater. Taking off your own outside clothes, you turn the tv onto something silly and absent-minded. With a stroke to the top of his head, you leave Josh to make something warm to eat.

It'll take time, you think to yourself. The stove comes to life, warming your house up even more as you cook. The living room is silent — Josh sits as still as a statue. You don't even know if he's blinked since coming in — since Sam woke him up from the horrible prank that was played on his sisters. It'll just take some time.

You blow on the food you'd made, setting it on the coffee table in front of you. A cup of Josh's favored drink goes to the left of it as you leave to get on your own plate. The couch dips as you sit beside him — he's still blank, even as you nudge him gently.

"Eat before it gets cold," you say quietly. Gentle — Josh needs gentle, tender words to help him come back ; help him heal. He merely blinks. "Should I feed you, then?"

A twitch of his lips — it's not much, but it's enough to get a grin out of you. Leaning forward, you meet his eyes. "I will! Is that what you want? The royal treatment, your highness Josh?"

His lips spread into a small, delicate smile before creaky, frozen joints start to move. He grabs his silverware with shaking hands, settling the plate on his lap. Josh stares at the steam, "thanks."

"Eat up," you respond. You squeeze his free hand for a minute before letting it go. Josh looks at you through his eyelashes and you smile at him. "There's plenty more if you're still hungry."

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🪷ɞ˚‧｡⋆

No longer catatonic, Josh still only spoke quietly and sparsely. He ate one meal a day, if that, and only because you pestered him to do so. A week had went by with him simply sitting. He turned the tv to a news channel, eyes wide and seeing each and every emergency broadcast.

Simply waiting for any news of his sisters.

"Hey," you lean on the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Josh turns his head only an inch, eyes cemented on the current weather updates. "Want to shower? It'll warm you up."

Josh's hands twitch in his lap as he blinks. You bite your lip, going to stand in front of him. It's as if he's looking through you ; as if he can still the tv you stand in front of. "Josh?"

With no response, you take matters into your own hands once more. A warm washcloth is held in one hand, a bowl of steamy, soapy water in the other. You kneel on the floor in front of Josh, the bowl off to your right. Dipping the washcloth in the water, you wring it out before wiping Josh's face tenderly.

He blinks at the warmth, inhaling the scent of your soap slowly. Life trickles back into his eyes, sea foam brightening surely until he's looking at you. "[Name]."

"Hi," you grin at him. You set the rag down, hands in your lap as Josh stares. "Doing alright?"

"Yeah." Looking at the damp cloth in your hand, Josh blinks. "I don't think I can stand."

You shake your head before he finishes his sentence. You lift yourself to your knees, raking your fingers in his hair. "Don't worry about it. This is enough for now."

Josh's eyes flutter at your touch as you continue to give him a half-hearted bath. His hands unclench, leaving his side to wrap around your elbows. You pause, rag against his neck as you look at him curiously. He breathes out, "thank you."

"I'll get you a change of clothes when I'm done, hm?"

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🪷ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The nightmares seem to start then. The more Josh continued to come back to reality, the meaner his mind became. Trying to get him in a bed was useless — your guest room was absent of a tv and he needed to see the news.

Whimpering wakes you from the small sleep you'd drifted off to. You never had a deep sleep now, always keeping one ear open for Josh. Letting out a sleepy sigh, you stumble into the living room.

He's already awake by the time you find him. Curled up on the floor in front of the couch, knees to his chest as he cries. "Sorry," Josh stutters, "sorry, I'm so sorry."

You don't know if he's talking to you or someone — something else.

Slowly, so you don't spook him, you take a seat to Josh's left. Your eyes droop as you lean your chin on the table, hand inching to his. You entertwine your fingers with his, taking them from where Josh was pulling and tugging at his hair.

Josh jumps, eyes wide and startled as he searches for you in the darkness. You smile his way softly, "let's sleep in my room tonight. I'll keep the tv on."

You're already half-asleep when Josh curls around you. Turning, you open you arms to welcome him into your embrace. A heavy, withering sigh escapes his mouth and causes his chest to tremble. Josh burrows his face into your chest, "thank you, [Name]."

"You have to stop thanking me," you slur sleepily. Tender, tickilish nails scrape against his scalp lightly, bringing him closer to you. Josh sighs and relaxes further. "I don't mind taking care of you."

As you drift off, a tentative, burning kiss is left at your clavicle. Josh breathes you in once more before he delves into blissful, happy memories of his sisters.

————

sadembryhours © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the name airbendertendou.

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Brother's Best Friend - Part 10

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: I'm baaaack! Oh how I've missed these two idiots XD Thanks to everyone who sent in ideas for what should happen AFTER THE KISS!

Summary: The trials and tribulations of falling for your brother's best friend.

CW: swearing, shirtless Jake, SHIRTLESS JAKE, fluff, Jake's arms, did I mention shirtless Jake?

WC: ~2800

Part 1 | Masterlist

There are a lot of things you regret in life, but bombing your psych midterm because you were too busy making out with Jake Seresin to study is not one of them. Sure, you might not have remembered the ins and outs of Jungian archetypes, but you sure as hell can recite from memory every single word that had fallen out of Jake’s mouth following the inaugural kiss. You might have been a bit hazy on the details surrounding the birth of behaviorism, but you could certainly attest to the effectiveness of positive reinforcement in the form of Jake’s lips rewarding every correctly answered flash card. Thus, despite leaving the exam room with the sinking feeling that your GPA just took a nosedive, you couldn’t be happier.

Your excitement is short-lived, however, because you walk into the house to the unsettling sounds of grunting. You end up dropping your book bag loudly on the floor in an effort to alert any unsuspecting individuals of your arrival before you happen upon a scene you have no interest in witnessing.

But the groaning doesn’t subside, and you find yourself inching cautiously toward the living room, gripped by a nauseating curiosity. Slowly, you creep through the kitchen and peek around the wall into the living room. But what you see, albeit somewhat strange, is not exactly out of the ordinary. What you see is two grown men doing push-ups on your living room floor.

“Uhh,” you utter, stepping into the room to get a better look at the two of them positioned between the armchair and the coffee table.

Neither one looks up at you. They continue grunting into the carpeted floor against every thrust and then breathing heavily into the silence on their way back down. In unison. Shirtless.

“Okay, I’ll just…” you pause, waiting to see if your presence might be acknowledged before you continue speaking. Several seconds go by without any sort of greeting, as if they haven’t even noticed you enter, so you resume, “I’ll just go wait in the kitchen.”

No response.

“I’ll make myself a sandwich,” you add, your eyes inadvertently landing on the rippling muscles of Jake’s back as his shoulder blades contract.

Before you’re completely entranced by the hypnotic movement of Jake Seresin’s body, you shake your head and head back to the kitchen. But, just as you make your way out, you hear Jake’s strained voice, “We’re counting.”

You glance over your shoulder, but he isn’t looking at you; his mouth is taut and his nostrils are flaring and he winces slightly as he straightens his arms again. You decide not to interrupt them further and retreat into the kitchen to fix yourself some lunch.

You wander back in several minutes later, a jam sandwich in hand, and raise your eyebrows as your brother and your, well, Jake, finally finish with a host of groans and obscenities, and laboriously get to their feet.

You glance between the two of them as they pant and take a bite of your sandwich. Until this very moment, you had no idea how you would navigate your situation with Jake in Bradley’s presence. It wasn’t something that you and Jake had a chance to discuss over the course of the previous evening and you had been hoping to postpone the encounter for at least another day.

However, now that you’re all in the same room, you realize that nothing much has changed; Bradley and Jake are still up to their usual antics, and you are still critically observing them from the sidelines.

“Three sets,” Jake breathes heavily as he rolls his shoulders and meets your gaze. “Of a hundred.”

You stare at him mutely, wondering what kind of reaction he’s expecting you to have whilst your brother stands three feet away. You pull your lips into a tight smile and nod approvingly. “If only you put this much effort into keeping track of your socks,” you respond wryly, noticing the pair that’s tucked into the corner of the armchair; the third that you’ve located in the living room this week.

Jake bows his head and Bradley lets out a snort. “I have hot feet,” Jake mutters to the floor.

You eye the veins along his forearms – more pronounced than usual after his workout – and decide conclusively that his feet are not the exception.

Bradley, who’s just finished guzzling half a bottle of water, hums at you to get your attention. Immediately, you tear your gaze from Jake’s veiny hands and blink up at your brother in alarm, certain that he’s already caught on to you since you can’t seem to stop gawking at his best friend. Bradley grins, his eyes bright with excitement. “So,” he says, “how was your study date?” His smile widens slyly.

You stare at him awkwardly, not daring to look at Jake, even when the latter chokes on his water. Clearly, he has not said a word to Bradley about the events of the previous evening.

Bradley watches you expectantly, ignoring Jake’s coughing fit. “Uh,” you start, your voice sounding unusually fuzzy. “It was, um,” you clear your throat, still not looking at Jake as he finally straightens his back and takes another enormous gulp of water.

Bradley lifts his eyebrows. “That good, huh?” he asks with a chuckle.

You feel your palms start to sweat and it takes a great deal of willpower to keep them steady at your sides rather than rubbing them together and wiping them on your thighs. “Pretty good,” you say weakly, avoiding direct eye contact with your brother.

“Get much studying done?” Bradley asks, picking his shirt up off the couch and pulling it over his head.

You briefly lock eyes with Jake. “Some,” you croak, in response to which Bradley shakes his head knowingly.

“How’d you do on your midterm?” Jake asks, finally setting his water bottle down.

You hold his gaze timidly, not sure how long you can get away with looking right at him. “I probably could have done better,” you confess.

Jake winces slightly. “Shit, really?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“We warned you,” Bradley calls in a singsong voice as he heads out of the living room. “That dude wasn’t looking to study, and you fell for it.”

Jake tilts his head to the side and rubs the back of his neck guiltily. “Maybe he tried,” he says, still grimacing.

Bradley stops short of the entrance to the kitchen and looks back at him. “Yeah, right,” he says. “Is that what you would do?” he asks him.

Jake’s face visibly pales and he stammers out, “M-me? What kind of question is that?” He clears his throat and adds, “Even.”

“You definitely would not have tried,” Bradley says. Then, he looks at you pointedly. “Next time, just study at home. Trust me.”

You nod, trying not to think too hard about how ineffective studying at home has proved, in fact, to be.

“Want a protein shake, bro?” Bradley asks before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Yeah, man,” Jake calls back. “Thanks.”

The two of you stand very still for a moment, not looking at one another. Then, Jake bends down to grab his muscle shirt off the floor.

“Sucks about your test,” he says, his head hanging so low that his chin nearly rests on his clavicle.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, suddenly uneasy now that it’s just the two of you in the room.

Jake draws the shirt over his head and then wearily drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at you guiltily.

You shrug nonchalantly and give him a small smile. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He pulls his shirt down over his torso casually, but it’s probably the single most sexy thing you’ve ever witnessed. He sighs and says, “I feel responsible,” but all you could really pay any attention to is the sliver of stomach that he’s so carelessly left exposed. If anything, it’s entirely irresponsible.

You purse your lips and eye him humorously. “Well, that’s very self-centered of you.”

Jake laughs at your comment and you breathe a sigh of relief as the tension between you slowly dissipates.

“Dude, you coming?” Bradley calls, popping his head back in to check on Jake. “First fifteen minutes are crucial!”

“Be right there,” Jake responds and, grabbing his two stray socks off the armchair, starts for the kitchen.

You wander in after him to put your plate in the sink and Jake all but leaps out of your way when you get too close.

Bradley leans into the counter and speaks again, “So, apparently Jake had a wild night.”

The plate starts to slip out of your hand before you make it all the way to the sink, and you sort of toss it the rest of the way. It clatters against the basin but thankfully remains intact. “Oh yeah?” you ask in a high-pitched voice while Bradley watches you curiously.

“I didn’t say wild,” Jake clarifies, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he tries to find a less awkward way to rest his entire frame against the slightly protruding door of the refrigerator.

Bradley makes a face at him. “I paraphrased.”

You try not to smile as you ask, “What happened?” You glance at Jake mischievously as he digs himself further into the corner. The fact that he’s disclosed any details to Bradley is shocking, to say the least.

“Oh, just that he finally made a move on a chick he’s been obsessing over for weeks,” Bradley says with a proud grin.

While you try to process the words ‘for weeks’, Jake counters moodily, “I was not obsessing, dude. Come on.”

You lift your eyes slowly to meet his gaze and he glances at you reluctantly.

“Please, you never shut up about her!” Bradley cries.

Jake exhales sharply and glares over at Bradley, but he doesn’t deny his assertion.

“Who is she?” you ask hesitantly, ignoring the pointed stare you get from Jake as you direct your question at Bradley.

Bradley shrugs. “I don’t know her.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Jake scoffs in the background while Bradley grimaces. “No, but he won’t tell me, so I’ve stopped asking.”

You withhold a smile and say quietly, “Wonder what she’s like.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “For the love of god –”

But his complaint is interrupted by Bradley when he says, “Apparently, she’s insanely hot –”

“Rooster,” Jake cuts him off sternly, pushing himself off the refrigerator to square his shoulders intimidatingly.

“What?” Bradley chuckles as you bite into your cheek to suppress a grin. “Those were your exact words!”

“Enough,” Jake says, glaring at him threateningly.

“Relax, it’s just my sister,” Bradley says, attempting to diffuse the situation gracefully. “She won’t tell a soul.”

You bat your eyelashes at Jake innocently. “Promise,” you assure him.

Jake narrows his eyes at you subtly. “Tell us more about your date,” he says, cleverly taking the heat off himself.

You lower your gaze and respond with, “It wasn’t a date.”

“But will there be one in the future?” Bradley asks.

You glance back at Jake instinctively before addressing your brother, “Not that I know of.”

Jake chugs the remainder of his shake and walks over to the sink to rinse the glass. He rests his hip on the counter right next to you and asks, “Would you go?”

You look up at him hesitantly, apprehensive about his proximity, even though he still stands a good two feet away. “Where?”

“On a date,” Jake clarifies. “If he asks.”

You gulp nervously, looking back at your equally curious-looking brother. The truth is, you’re afraid of showing all your cards so early in the game. Jake Seresin isn’t a dater, he doesn’t go out with the same girl multiple times. And if he’s only with you because you’re ‘insanely hot’ – his words – he might be spooked by an overzealous response. “I don’t know.” You shrug. “Haven’t thought about it.”

“Bullshit,” Bradley interjects obnoxiously.

“I agree,” Jake adds.

You clamp your jaw tightly, mildly annoyed at Jake for making you the target of conversation yet again. “Are you planning on asking insanely hot girl out?” you enquire aggressively, fixing Jake with an accusing glower.

“How do you know I haven’t already?” Jake asks in a patronizing tone.

You glare at him through squinted eyes. “Wild guess.”

“Of course, he’s gonna ask her out,” Bradley chimes in. “As soon as he stops wigging out about it.”

Jake gives him a peeved look before glancing back at you. “I’m considering it,” he says vaguely.

“Please,” Bradley scoffs and Jake shoots him another ominous glare. “There’s nothing he would want more.”

“That’s not true,” Jake mutters monotonously while you scrutinize the evasive movements of his eyes.

“You literally told me that –”

“Bradley!” Jake shouts. “Shut up!”

Bradley grimaces. “Since when do we keep secrets around here?”

“Since I fucking said so,” Jake retorts.

You glance between the two of them awkwardly and then look down at your feet, stretching out the already uncomfortable silence. You try not to dwell on what your brother has said but Jake wanting nothing more than to take you on a date has you feeling all kinds of giddy. Hesitantly, you say, “I’d probably say yes.” You bite your lip and add, “To study group guy – if he asks.”

Bradley nods, unsurprised. And you don’t dare check on Jake’s reaction. But before you could second guess your confession, Jake says, “He’ll ask.” You steal a glance at him and he catches your gaze. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

You give him a small, half-smile – the half that’s not visible from your brother’s vantage point. But Bradley seems to have lost interest in the topic now that he’s been censored because he starts to shuffle out of the kitchen.

“Hey Bradley!” you call after him. “How was your date?”

Bradley stops and spins to face you. “Finally!” he exclaims.

You smirk at him. “Did she like your shirt?”

Bradley grins. “She loved my shirt.”

“She loved it so much, she kept it,” Jake adds.

Your jaw drops in shock when Bradley yells, “Hey! So, it’s alright to air my dirty laundry?”

“Technically, now she’s got your dirty laundry,” you point out and Jake high fives you.

Bradley shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “Real mature,” he says. “At least I had the balls to ask her out.” With that, he finally exits the kitchen.

You start after him when your feel Jake’s hand brush gently across the small of your back. You turn to face him and he rests it confidently on your hip. You wonder what he’s going to say but, just when you’re about to articulate your curiosity, he leans down and kisses you square on the mouth. His fingers slide into the hair at the nape of your neck as he takes a hold of your face and, as his thumb sweeps languidly back and forth across your cheekbone, you absently speculate on just how big his hand must be to support your head in such a way. You’re so engrossed in this calculation, in fact, that you nearly miss the moment his tongue enters the equation.

Of course, all of this happens so quickly that, before you can really even kiss him in return, he’s already taking a step back and glancing at the doorway to make sure that Bradley isn’t there.

You graze your teeth over your bottom lip, trying to contain your widening smile as you meet his gaze. It’s nice to know that Jake still wants to kiss you today just as badly as he did yesterday. So much so that he’s willing to risk Bradley walking in on you. You let yourself ogle him overtly for a moment, admiring his tanned arms and the little bit of chest that you could see above the low neckline of his muscle shirt. Then, you say, “I want to hear more about this insanely hot girl you won’t shut up about.”

Jake cringes, busying himself with the dishes sitting in the dishrack. “I’m not sure you’d get along. She’s very confrontational.” He puts away a couple of bowls into a cupboard.

You let out a shocked gasp as if you're offended. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” Jake turns back to face you, grinning as he throws a dishtowel over his shoulder. “Super intense. A little scary.”

“I don’t know, she sounds like a catch,” you say, taking a small step toward him. “I mean, according to Bradley, you’ve been obsessing over her for weeks!”

Jake shakes his head with a chuckle and, pulling you in to give you a quick peck on the side of your head, he mutters into your hair, “I’m gonna kill your brother.”

Read Part 11

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