#UNEXPECTEDLY BUT CONSENSUALLY

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I. Have never in my life heard the phrase "naked jaybird"

What does that mean. Is she jumping out of the closet and T-posing for dominance? Is it like the American game Mr president? But instead of fingers on noses and a tackle, whoever T-poses last is the sub for the night?

Preacher trying to discourage students from having premarital sex

[homunculus-argument]

Reading fantasy again, I've started thinking about how odd it is how in books like that, the non-human races invariably scoff at human frailty and vulnerability, even those that they'll call friends. Like that's mean?? Why would you be a dick to your friend who you know is not capable of as much as you are, and it's not their fault they were born like that. That's mean.

Like consider the opposite: Characters of non-human races treating their human companions like frail little old dogs. Worrying about small wounds being fatal - humans die of small injuries all the time - or being surprised that humans can actually eat salt, even if they can't stomach other spicy rocks. Being amazed that a human friend they haven't seen in 10 years still looks so young, they've hardly aged at all! And when the human tries to explain that they weren't going to just unexpectedly shrivel into a raisin in 10 years, the longer-lifespan friend dismisses this like no, he's seen it happen, you don't see a human for 10 or 20 years and they've shriveled in a blink.

Elves arguing with each other like "you can't take her out there, she will die!" and when the human gets there to ask what they're talking about, they explain to her that the journey will take them through a passage where it's going to be sunny out there. Humans burn in the sun. And she will have to clarify that no, actually, she'll be fine. They fight her about it, until she manages to convince them that it's not like vampires - humans only burn a little bit in the sun, not all the way through. She'll be fine if she just wears a hat.

Meanwhile dwarves are reluctant to allow humans in their mines and cities, not just out of being secretive, but because they know that you cannot bring humans underground, they will go insane if they go too long without seeing the sun. Nobody is entirely sure how long that is, but the general consensus is three days. One time a human tries to explain their dwarf companion that this is not true, there are humans that endure much longer darkness than that. As a matter of fact, in the furthest habited corners of the lands of the Northmen, the winter sun barely rises at all. Humans can survive three weeks of darkness, and not just once, but every single year.

"Then how do they sane?" Asks the dwarf, and just as he does, the conversation gets interrupted by the northland human, who had been eavesdropping, and turns to look at them with an unnerving glint in her colourless grey eyes, grinning while saying

"That's the neat part, we don't."

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face. 

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting. 

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece. 

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you. 

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper. 

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you. 

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence. 

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm. 

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person. 

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough. 

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile. 

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. 

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw. 

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin. 

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again. 

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” 

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.

PART TWO

[leejenowrld]

in your eyes — part 1

word count — 34.5k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst

pairing — lee jeno x reader

part 1 — part 2

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

chapter contents — explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, spanking, biting, breath play consensual choking, consensual slapping, orgasm denial/control, praise kink, dirty talk, oral sex (giving and receiving), fingering, very hard dom!jeno, sub!reader, consistent unprotected sex (be safe!), use of ‘baby’ and ‘good girl’, grinding, reader rides jeno, exhibitionism, intense emotional dynamics, strong language, and explicit content, explicit language, swearing, mention of drugs, smoking, alcohol, a lot of college party scenes, oc is uninterested in jeno at first but he changes that (and quickly!), mentions of fuckboy!jeno, initially fucks her roommate, but falls in love with yn’s stuff that’s around the apartment, himym!scene inspo, if you know you know, oc is a hot bassist in a band, jeno sees her play, gets hard and turned on seeing her play the strings with her fingers, imagines touching her, jeno and oc unexpectedly have the exact same matching tattoo, so many girl moments, kpop ‘00 liners, nct ‘00 line, sunwoo, eric, yeji and oc are in a band, inappropriate, mature humor, jeno is very forward, very confident, very daring, very self assured and dominant, arin causes a lot of trouble, jeno makes reader very shy and flustered, intimidating jeno, sweetheart jeno, emotional moments, appearance from nct foreign swagger line, jeno takes reader home, boyfriend jeno (kinda), watch as jeno and oc fall in love, jeno always touching reader under her skirt lmao, smut text portion, so much angst and pain, heartbreak

authors note — happy birthday lee jeno <3 i love you. please interact and leave an ask or message mwah. also there will be a part 2 to this, the last part, which will be out asap. it was all initially going to be one fic but it was too long and tumblr didn't allow it so i had to split it up. also thank you my bae @jenolala for helping me with ideas and being my personal reader i love you.

in your eyes masterlist

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Lee Jeno was the bane of your existence.

The University’s study lounge buzzes with the sound of students shuffling in their seats, flipping through textbooks, and tapping away on their laptops. But for you, the noise fades into the background as your thoughts are consumed by one person: Lee Jeno. He's become the bane of your existence, infiltrating your mind at every turn.

You try to focus on your studies, desperately attempting to absorb the intricacies of musical composition and sound design. But you can't do anything, you can’t focus on your assignments, eat, drink or work on your laptop without thinking of him. Every time you open your textbook, his face flashes before your eyes, distracting you from the task at hand. It's infuriating how effortlessly he invades your thoughts against your own will.

Nayoung’s infatuation with Jeno has reached insufferable levels ever since they started hooking up. It's all she ever talks about, as if he's some kind of God among men. But for you, he's just another distraction, a nuisance that refuses to leave you alone. Since they started hooking up, she's been relentless, unable to shut up about their sexual exploits. He couldn’t be that good…

Lee Jeno was the craze around campus, and he had always been. He was apparently good in bed, a phenomenal lover with a big cock, smart, hot, handsome, and knew how to fuck and treat a girl right. He was social and friendly, outgoing, and everyone knew who he was and everyone loved him. But not you though. For you, it’s all just noise. You’re simply not interested in him.

You try to tune out Nayoung’s incessant chatter, but her voice cuts through the air like a knife. "Shut up, shut up!" she exclaims, slapping your hands hastily and pulling you from your thoughts. You pout in frustration, resisting the urge to snap at her.

“I'm not even talking...” you mutter under your breath, huffing in exasperation as you shut your laptop screen down. It's futile to even attempt to get any work done with Jeno constantly looming in your mind, taunting you with his presence.

“He's here... He's here! Fuck, he's walking my way and staring at me,” Nayoung’s flustered words fill the air as she nervously adjusts her hair, throwing quick glances toward the entrance. You can't help but shake your head at her worry. There's no need for her to fret or make last-minute adjustments— Nayoung is effortlessly attractive, her beauty undeniable and her personality sweetly infectious. She has this casual, confident vibe that's undeniably sexy. It's clear why everyone seems to be wrapped around her little finger.

Then there's Lee Jeno, making his entrance as if it's the most natural thing in the world to draw every eye in the room. He walks with a confidence that borders on arrogance, an aura around him that's almost too intense. He seems to claim every space he steps into as his own, and today, the cafeteria turns into his domain.

He makes his way over and takes the seat right beside you, as if that spot had been waiting just for him. As he settles in, you find yourself involuntarily gulping a bit, suddenly all too aware of the intensity of his presence. It's undeniable, the aura he carries; a blend of confidence and an almost tangible allure fills the space, charging the air around you. The whole place falls into a hush, the kind of silence that screams of everyone's rapt attention on him, and inevitably, on you by association.

As you catch sight of Jeno turning his gaze towards Nayoung, your eyes roll almost instinctively. He reaches out, taking her hand with a gentleness that contradicts his commanding presence, his lips brushing against her skin in a soft kiss. Nayoung’s reaction is immediate; she gulps, visibly struggling to maintain composure, taken aback by the tenderness of his touch.

It's a moment that, despite your usual disinterest, makes you understand just a fraction of the allure that Lee Jeno carries with him. He's a presence that's hard to ignore, drawing you into his orbit whether you're willing or not.

“We still on for tonight, baby?” Jeno's voice sends a shiver down your spine, momentarily silencing the room. Nayoung is completely captivated by him, lost in her own world, unable to form a proper response. But when you nudge her foot with yours, she coughs and says,

“Yes, I'll be waiting for you.” Her voice is low and sultry, a hint of anticipation laced in her words. "In my bed, all alone, with no clothes on," she continues, biting her lip seductively as she tilts her head and winks at him. “I'll be yours to play with all night long.”Her gaze smolders with desire as she waits for his reaction, teasing him with the promise of what's to come.

Sitting beside you, Lee Jeno has the kind of presence that's impossible to ignore. From what you've heard, the stories that swirl around campus, he's the quintessential heartbreaker - popular, with an air of cockiness that he wears as comfortably as the clothes on his back. He’s dressed casually today, yet every piece seems carefully chosen to accentuate his athletic build—a testament to his dedication as a football player. His fitted t-shirt clings in all the right places, paired with jeans that manage to be both casual and unmistakably deliberate in their fit. His hair, a perfect shade that catches the light, is styled in a seemingly effortless manner, falling just so to frame his striking features.

Jeno’s face is a canvas of attractive contrasts; sharp jawlines meet soft, inviting lips, and his eyes, deep and expressive, hold a hint of mischief. There’s a natural symmetry to his features that’s compelling, drawing you in despite any reservations. The easy smirk that often plays across his lips suggests a man who knows his allure and isn’t afraid to use it to his advantage.

But it's not just his looks that have earned him his reputation. He's known to be overconfident. His charm is scandalous, wielded with the precision of someone who knows just how impactful they are. He's the epitome of a fuckboy, leaving a trail of whispers and rumors in his wake.

Yet, despite the warnings, the stories of hearts left in his path, there's something undeniably captivating about him. He's social, able to navigate any conversation with ease, drawing people in with a magnetism that's hard to resist. And fucking handsome? Absolutely. There's a reason every glance he throws seems to linger, every smile feels like it's meant just for the receiver. It's this mix of danger and allure that makes him an enigma.

Your thoughts are abruptly interrupted when you catch Jeno and Nayoung exchanging glances so intense, they could only be described as eye fucking. And you're almost certain he's touching her under the table. Casting a discreet glance their way, disbelief washes over you. Their boldness in such a public setting is startling—where's the sense of privacy, the modesty? It's a display that leaves you questioning the very notions of discretion and boundaries in social interactions.

You assumed your silent judgment would go unnoticed, as usual. Being invisible had its perks; it let you navigate these social seas undisturbed, a mode of survival that had become your comfort zone. Yet, just as you side-eye the intimate display between Jeno and Nayoung, Donghyuck catches your gaze. With a wink, he throws a comment your way, "Don't feel left out, I'll fuck you," assuming a familiarity that you've never invited.

Your response is immediate and flat, "Shut up," hoping to quash the conversation then and there with your deadpan delivery.

But then Renjun chimes in, laughter barely concealed in his voice, "Dude, she's not gonna fuck you, that's the girl who's waiting until marriage."

At Renjun's words, a familiar rumor audible for all to hear, you can't help but roll your eyes. It's not the first time your “personal choices” became the focus of campus gossip, yet it never gets easier to hear it discussed so openly.

In that moment, Jeno's gaze locks with yours, a brief encounter that feels like an eternity. His eyes, sharp and probing, offer no hint of his thoughts, leaving you floundering in their depths. The intensity of his stare is unexpectedly captivating, sending a jolt of weakness through you that's both unsettling and embarrassingly thrilling. Despite the rumors and the situation, you're forced to admit—Jeno is undeniably hot.

But just as quickly as the moment arrives, it passes. Jeno breaks the eye contact, returning to his own world with an ease that suggests he's completely unfazed by Renjun's comment. This reaction, or lack thereof, catches you off guard. You had braced yourself for a tease or a quip, something to match Donghyuck and Renjun's playful torment. Yet, Jeno's disinterest and quick dismissal of the conversation leave you in a curious mix of relief and disappointment.

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One day you’re gonna cut Lee Jeno’s cock off.

There’s no way he can make a girl scream that loud.

The frustration builds within you as you sit in your room, once again failing to focus on studying the musical compositions you need to know by tomorrow. And who’s to blame? Lee Jeno, of course. It’s the second time today his fucking with Nayoung has derailed your concentration. Normally, living with her is a joy; she’s your best friend, your better half. But in moments like these, you wish you could live alone, away from the constant distractions of her sex life.

She gets laid a lot, it’s a regular occurrence in your shared apartment. She’s louder than she normally is tonight, her moans and screams echoing through the walls without a hint of restraint. You try to drown out the noise, burying your head in your textbooks, but it's futile. You can't focus, your mind consumed by thoughts of Jeno and his cock.

(Unfortunately)

Eventually, the noise subsides, and you cautiously step out of your room, relieved that Jeno seems to have finally left. But as you round the corner, a low, deep voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you freeze in your tracks. He's still here.

Panic sets in as you realise how you're practically walking around naked in an oversized top and short shorts, no bra to conceal your exposed skin. You curse under your breath, desperate to escape to the safety of your room, but you know he'll see and hear you if you make a move now.

With no other option, you dart behind the sofa, thankful for its strategic placement that shields you from his view. Heart racing, you hold your breath, praying he doesn't notice you hiding just a few feet away.

Unbeknownst to you, Jeno's attention isn't on Nayoung; he wouldn't have recognized your presence even if you made noise. You're pretty sure Nayoung doesn't realize you're here either. Jeno is shirtless, basking in the afterglow of sex, but his focus isn't on Nayoung; he's not even looking at her.

The moment he entered the house for the first time, Jeno became enamored. It felt as though he was right where he was supposed to be. His eyes lit up with surprise and thrill as he noticed certain things and items that caught his attention—things he found cool and eye-catching. Despite never having been in this house before, it felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

His eyes sparkled with a light that you should've seen, a light that no other girl had brought to him before. "How did you get this?" he asks Nayoung in awe, marveling at a rare Lego set.

"I didn't. It's my roommate's," she replies, her features showing amusement and disinterest. You had so many nerdy and niche things lying around, and Nayoung found none of them interesting.

Jeno spots a rare album, one he's never seen anyone have before. "This is really cool. I didn't know you were into—"

"Yeah, that's also my roommate's," Nayoung interrupts.

Jeno shakes his head in amusement, his eyes landing on a book, ‘Normal People' by Sally Rooney. "What about this?”

"A birthday gift from my roommate. I haven't checked it out yet," Nayoung replies.

"Oh, you should. It's really cool," Jeno says, scratching his head. He's about to apologise, realising he's delving too much into your personal space. But then his eyes land on a bass guitar and the apology fails to slip from his tongue. "Do you play bass? I always say that my ideal woman—" Jeno catches himself, sighing as he realises Nayoung silence. "—does not play bass, because this is clearly your roommate's."

"She's in a band," Nayoung says simply.

"Damn, that's cool," Jeno whispers. "What's she like?"

You gulp nervously, wondering why Lee Jeno wants to know about you. You’re not used to the feeling of someone being interested in you, you’re not used to someone wanting to find out more and uncover you. It's incredibly foreign and unfamiliar.

“She's in the matrix, she's a whore," Nayoung says, and you open your mouth in shock. What the fuck? No, you were not!

Jeno chuckles, and you realise Nayoung was just joking. Her next words warm your heart. "She's the best person I've ever met. She's really chill and calm, sweet to everyone, and fair. She has a really good heart. She's different from everyone we see on campus, different in a good way. She's a bit of a nerd; her main worries in life are how to get the next rare Lego set or make sure she has enough time to balance being in her band, acing her major, and doing all that volunteering and extracurricular crap. She's a breath of fresh air."

Nayoung shakes her head with a dry chuckle. "This is unbelievable. You just picked out all the things in here that belong to my roommate. You didn't even spare a glance at the stuff that's mine.”

Yeah, because they're not interesting, Jeno thinks.

Nayoung eyes all of your possessions and shakes her head. She turns to Jeno. "It's really weird stuff, and I'm really shocked you find it interesting. I didn't expect it from you. I've never seen someone as interested in it... other than you and my roommate."

“My roommate is into pretty weird stuff. She does these weird paintings of robots playing sports.”

Jeno scratches his neck and nods. “Yeah, that’s weird…” (He thought it sounded pretty cool).

“She also has this crazy habit of making breakfast food sing show tunes, I mean, it’s not that annoying because she’s an amazing singer, she’s in a band so I’ll give that to her.”

"So does your roommate's band ever play shows or...?" Jeno asks.

"Get out," Nayoung bluntly says, pointing her arm towards the door.

Nayoung sighs; this always happens. Nayoung had a roommate complex. Unbeknownst to you, guys always dug her roommate, you. Only you would never know the full extent or seriousness of this, as you would never return the affection or interest. You were robotic, denying all forms of affection, so nothing ever came from guys wanting to fuck you. Paired with the rumor that you were strictly Christian and waiting until marriage to fuck, yeah, you weren’t going to get laid anytime soon.

She takes a seat on the sofa and nearly jumps when she sees you sleeping there soundly. She didn’t know that you staged this; you knew she’d come to the couch after Jeno left, so you had to pretend you were sleeping. You couldn’t let Nayoung or Jeno know that you had heard and witnessed that entire interaction. She smiles at you and covers you in the blankets fully, readjusting your head and dimming the lights. She wasn’t surprised that you drew attention without trying to or even knowing that people were into you.

She did have a really fucking cool roommate.

──────────────────────────────

The next morning, Nayoung looks sad, her shoulders slumped as she sits at the kitchen table, picking at her breakfast. You take in her demeanor, noting the furrow in her brow and the downturn of her lips. You have to put your acting skills to use, masking the knowledge of why she's upset with a concerned expression. You go to her immediately, your voice filled with worry, "What's wrong? Did he? I'm gonna kill him—"

Nayoung huffs softly, a mix of frustration and resignation in her breath. "We're gonna stop seeing each other," she explains, her voice tinged with sadness.

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you're about to throw hands but she shakes her head and tells you to calm down, making ‘no’ motions, a small smile playing at her lips. She shakes her head and chuckles softly, "No, he did nothing wrong. I'm not gonna miss him. I know this was just sex, but god, he's really attractive and has a good personality. I'm not getting caught up, but wow, I just feel overwhelmed and intense. How can someone be such an attractive and hot person and know how to use his cock?"

You're at a loss for words, your voice catching in your throat as you struggle to find the right response. You were awkward when it came to emotional conversations, you didn’t know how to comfort someone! One to one intimate moments like this overwhelmed you. However, Nayoung drops a bomb that leaves you speechless and stunned.

"And he likes you."

You choke on your own breath, your eyes widening in disbelief as you shake your head vehemently. "Me? What? That’s absolutely ridiculous, Nayoung, no he doesn’t! He doesn’t even know who I am."

Inner turmoil consumes you as conflicting thoughts swirl in your mind. How could someone like Jeno possibly be interested in you? You've never exchanged a single word, never shared a moment beyond fleeting glances in passing. Logically, it doesn't add up; you're strangers. He revels in the chaos of getting high and fucking, while you find solace in quiet evenings, lost in the intricate world of LEGO creations and the soothing melody of your bass guitar. It's inconceivable that someone like him could find anything remotely intriguing in someone like you.

"I'm telling you. He likes you. It's true! He pointed out every single thing in the living room that was yours. He likes all the things you do. He's a nerd like you."

Your voice cracks with disbelief, your hands gesturing in denial as you try to process Nayoung's words. "Lee Jeno? Nerd? He's far from... he's a fuckboy with no heart, he's popular and parties like there's no tomorrow, he smokes and does drugs and—"

"Y/N! You know better than to stereotype. Yes, he does party, is popular, and loves fucking, but he's more than that. He's obviously more than that, and it's not like he hides it. You're only seeing what you want to see. The image you have of him in your head is an image that is surface level. He's actually a good guy, he doesn’t think of himself as above people, and he's chill and kind. He aces exams, and he knows about all the rare little Legos like you do, so he’s clearly a nerd!"

You sigh heavily, feeling a mix of frustration and realization wash over you. Nayoung was right. You were only seeing what you wanted to see. Your idea of him was so fixed and stubborn that you refused to look deeper, beyond the surface.

"It’s like you, Y/N. People only see you as that nerdy, quiet loner who doesn’t talk to anyone and doesn’t drink or party. People think you’re weird—"

"Gee, thanks a lot," you cut off Nayoung's words, sarcastically thanking her for her honesty.

"But I know that you’re way more than that! You’ve got so many cute little side interests! It all adds to your personality and it’s all important. It shouldn’t be overlooked. It makes you who you are. Not only are you a med student, but you’re also in a fucking band! You’re the bassist! It’s fucking hot and cool, Y/N. Lee Jeno even asked for the name of your band."

──────────────────────────────

What you knew about Lee Jeno’s cock was against your own will.

Nayoung’s words echo in your mind, each syllable sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. "Jeno’s literally so good at dirty talk," she continues, her voice dripping with excitement. "He knows exactly how to please a woman. He doesn’t just stick his dick in and out. He actually has superb technique."

You breathe heavily, shutting your laptop once and for all. "If you and Jeno have stopped seeing each other then why are you telling me this?" you interrupt, unable to conceal the frustration in your voice. Nayoung and Eunji exchange a glance, their eyes twinkling mischievously as they exchange silent communication. It's like they're speaking a language that only they understand, leaving you feeling increasingly left out and confused.

They'd been giving each other these secretive glances for the past week, making you desperately wish you could tap into whatever little secret they were keeping. Yet, whenever you brought it up, they simply shifted the topic.

"You guys are seriously starting to annoy me," you finally snap, unable to contain your frustration any longer. "Can you just tell me whatever the fuck it is you’re thinking about?" You're met with a knowing smirk from both Nayoung and Eunji, their lips quirking into sly smiles as they continue to exchange secretive glances.

Nayoung leans in closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as she continues to regale you with tales of Jeno’s abilities in the bedroom. "You know, Jeno’s not just about the physical stuff," she says cryptically, her gaze flickering with something you can’t quite decipher.

Eunji nods in agreement, her lips quirking into a sly smile as she adds, "He’s got this way of making you feel like you’re the only woman in the world when he’s with you. Once he went down on me and I couldn’t walk for days."

Your eyes widen in surprise at Eunji’s revelation, feeling a mix of shock and arousal coursing through you. "When did you fuck him?" you blurt out, unable to conceal your curiosity.

She just laughs, shaking her head as she brushes off your question with ease. "We’ve casually fucked from time to time," she says nonchalantly. "It’s not that shocking, Y/N. His body count is high, after he broke up with Arin, his cock has been unstoppable."

You huff in disbelief. "Who has he not fucked?" you mutter under your breath, your mind reeling with thoughts of Jeno's sexual conquests.

"You," Nayoung and Eunji say simultaneously, their words hitting you like a ton of bricks. Silence falls over you as you process their words, feeling a strange mix of shock and excitement swirling inside you.

“Do not go all ‘Joe Goldberg’ on me!”

"What is that even supposed to mean?" you stammer, feeling a sense of unease creeping over you at their cryptic words.

Nayoung just smirks. “Nothing. I’m just telling you how good he is in bed.” You had a feeling she was lying. She had her reasons and motives, ones you were far from understanding.

"And why is that of use to me?" you question, expecting an answer. You turn to Sunwoo when you’re met with silence from the girls.

"Sunwoo, help me," you nudge him from beside you, knowing you could trust your closest and oldest friend.

You sigh in relief when he turns to the two girls. “Leave her alone, this Jeno thing is ridiculous, he’s way out of her league.” His words bring you peace and you rest your head against his shoulder, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, I love you, Y/N, but no one is out of Jeno’s league. If anything, it’s the other way around,” Nayoung retorts.

“Thanks a lot,” you snort.

“It’s not just you, everyone is out of his league,” Eunji clarifies.

“I’m not,” Sunwoo says dryly.

“You shut up!” Eunji points an accusing finger at Sunwoo. “I know you have protective, brotherly tendencies when it comes to Y/N, but you have to admit… our girl needs cock!”

He turns to you, a knowing smirk that only the two of you will understand. “You do really need to get laid though,” he says in a low voice.

Nayoung goes back to praising Jeno for his sexual abilities. “And let me tell you, his dirty talk is next level,”

A devilish grin spreads across Eunji’s face as she shares a smirk with Nayoung, recalling one of her past encounters with Jeno. “I’ve never had sex with someone who has such good timing and pace,” she confesses. "He knows exactly what to do with his cock, hands, and lips, and where to do it."

"He’s not just in it for himself, you know," Eunji adds, her tone serious as she looks you straight in the eye. "He genuinely cares about his partner’s pleasure. He’s the perfect person to experience all of your firsts with."

"Hey!" you exclaim, feeling a surge of indignation rising up inside you. "This feels very targeted and personal," you accuse, your voice cracking with frustration. "Where is this coming from?"

You had never spoken a word to Lee Jeno in your life. Sure, you noticed that he seemed to take an interest in your belongings around the apartment, but that wasn't enough to warrant Nayoung and Eunji sudden push to get you interested in him. It all felt too orchestrated, too deliberate, and you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to their agenda than they were letting on. Despite their efforts to convince you otherwise, you remained skeptical about the idea of getting involved with someone like Jeno, especially considering your vastly different personalities and lifestyles.

"I'm not saying you have to jump into bed with him right away," Nayoung says, her voice softening with sincerity. "But maybe give him a chance. You might be surprised. I know what you're gonna say, 'He's the Lee Jeno, campus fuckboy and resident player, we're in completely different leagues and scenes, and we'll never get along.'" Nayoung mimics your voice, and you narrow your eyes.

"I sound nothing like that!" you frown, realizing you sounded exactly like that.

"Just think about it, Y/N," Nayoung says, her voice tinged with excitement.

"I'm not gonna think about it, my mind is gonna be on the gig I have tonight. You guys better be there!" you declare.

Nayoung's response comes with a gleam in her eye, a spark of something mischievous lurking beneath her casual assurance. "Oh, we wouldn't miss it for the world," she says, her glance sliding over to Eunji as they share a knowing look. They wink at each other, sealing a silent pact, the first stage of their mission to bring you and Jeno closer is already in motion.

──────────────────────────────

Jeno received a text from Nayoung, inviting him to meet for some drinks at the bar. The anticipation of a night filled with pleasure courses through his veins, driving him to accept the invitation without hesitation.

He goes because he anticipates getting laid. Jeno enjoyed the sex with Nayoung, as he did with any other girl. He had an insatiable appetite for sex, and he never shied away from indulging in it. However, he was always respectful and mindful of boundaries. His partners knew that he was only seeking physical satisfaction, and he made sure they felt just as much pleasure as they gave him.

It didn’t matter to him if Nayoung's personality didn’t align with his; he was solely focused on fulfilling his carnal desires. Feeling sexually frustrated, Jeno eagerly heads to the bar, eager to find release in Nayoung's company.

Jeno's steps quicken as he approaches the bar, the dim lights and pulsing music heightening his senses. He craves the distraction, the temporary oblivion that comes with losing himself in the warmth of another body. And so, with a determined stride, he pushes open the door.

As Jeno strides into the dimly lit bar, the air heavy with the scent of alcohol and anticipation, he feels a rush of excitement course through him. Dressed in a sleek leather jacket that hugs his form, he exudes an air of rugged charm and allure as he scans the room, his eyes alight with anticipation.

The bar is cast in shadows, a dimly lit sanctuary with a retro flair that gives it an air of timeless charm. Neon signs flicker softly against the dark walls, casting a warm, inviting glow over the eclectic mix of patrons. The atmosphere is a blend of nostalgia and mystery, each corner telling a story, each shadow holding a secret. Vinyl records adorn one wall, a nod to the classics, while the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses provide a steady soundtrack to the night.

A familiar tingle zips through him, it’s an echo of the sensation he felt that first time he crossed the threshold into your apartment, a sense of rightness, of being exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Something shifts inside him. The retro vibe, combined with the sultry air, sets a scene that's both familiar and charged with new energy. Shadows dance across the walls, and the music's pulse syncs with his own heartbeat, signaling a night of unexpected turns.

Amidst the noise and the crowd, Jeno spots Nayoung. She's there, laughing, surrounded by friends, exactly where he should want to be. But he doesn’t move towards her. Instead, there's a compelling force, a curiosity leading him elsewhere, towards something—or someone—he hadn't anticipated.

It’s you.

Amongst the faces, yours catches his gaze like a lighthouse in the fog. It's inexplicable, this sudden redirection of his night, his desires. Something inside him has decided, without a word, that the night was never really about Nayoung. It was about discovering what he didn't even know he was looking for—until now.

Perched on the stage, bathed in the soft glow of the neon lights, you exude a magnetic energy that draws him in like a match to its flame. You were breathtaking. Dressed in a mini skirt that accentuates every curve of your ass and thighs, paired with a top that leaves little to the imagination, you radiate confidence and sensuality that leaves Jeno spellbound.

For a moment, time seems to stand still as Jeno’s gaze locks with yours, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of you. In that instant, he feels a surge of desire unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Who were you? He was sure that you were one of the students at the college, he was sure he had seen you before. He’s just shocked that this is the first time he’s recognising how hot you are.

In that fleeting moment, as Jeno's eyes meet yours, time itself seems to pause, the air charged with an electric tension. His gaze, intense and unyielding, speaks of a yearning that goes beyond mere attraction, hinting at depths of desire that are raw and untamed. As your smile fades, replaced by a questioning frown, the atmosphere thickens with unspoken possibilities, a palpable sense of what could be.

The sudden break in your smile sends a pang through Jeno, a silent plea for the connection not to sever. The eye contact between you is a live wire, sparking with the potential to ignite. Amidst the crowd, amidst the noise, there's a silent conversation happening, a dance of glances that speaks volumes.

Your mind races with questions. Why was Lee Jeno here? He was the campus heartbreak and residential fuckboy, the last person you’d expect to see you play. You always assumed no one ever found you interesting so why does his interest seem to settle on you tonight? His reputation precedes him, yet here he is, looking at you with an intensity that suggests a desire for something more profound than his usual pursuits.

You weren't naive, why was he looking at you like he wanted you? Like he wanted to fuck you. Why now? His gaze, laden with an unmistakable intensity, seeks to pierce through the layers, to see beyond the facade everyone else sees.

Your band commands the space. The rhythm is captivating, a vibrant blend of guitar riffs and drum beats that fills the room with an infectious energy. You're on the bass, and it's clear this is a passion. The bass itself is a striking piece, its sleek, polished wood and the smooth curves of its body reflecting the stage lights.

As Jeno watches, he can't help but marvel at the skill in your fingers. The way they dance and glide over the strings, with precision and a sort of grace that's both powerful and delicate, stirs something unexpected in him. His gaze fixates on your hands, fingers moving in perfect harmony with the music, and a primal desire ignites within him.

The thought of those talented fingers exploring your own body, tracing every curve and fold, sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He imagines the sensation of your touch, firm yet gentle. Lost in the moment, Jeno feels a surge of arousal building within him, his breath hitching as he envisions your fingers delving deeper.

What fucks him up even more is when you smile at him, such an innocent smile that makes his chest tighten with an unexpected surge of desire. It's a smile that lights up your entire face, eyes sparkling with warmth and sincerity, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through Jeno's veins.

As you lock eyes with him and smile, Jeno feels as though the air has been knocked out of his lungs. You look breathtaking, radiant in the soft glow of the stage lights, your beauty almost otherworldly in its intensity. Every curve and contour of your features seems to be highlighted.

You had no idea what he was thinking, so oblivious to the effect you had on him. It was maddening how effortlessly captivating you were, how your mere presence could stir such intense longing within him.

He knows this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts, shouldn’t be so turned on by you. Desperately trying to regain control of his thoughts, Jeno attempts to focus on the other members of the band. They exude coolness, lost in the music and their own world. But for all their visual appeal, none of them compare to you.

In that moment, Jeno finds himself singularly captivated by you, unable to tear his gaze away as he succumbs to the intoxicating allure of your presence.

He’s not the only one. The energy of the room has shifted, centering on your presence on stage. It's palpable, the way you've drawn every eye towards you. You're undeniably magnetic, a fact made evident by the sea of faces turned in your direction, yet what truly fascinates Jeno, what truly fucks his mind, is your obliviousness to the effect you're having. You’re just lost in the music, not looking for any approval or basking in the spotlight. This contrast, between how much you stand out and your indifference to it, really catches him.

Though he can't hear your laugh over the music, he sees the way your shoulders shake, the brightness in your eyes, and he knows—it's a sound he wants to discover, to keep. A smile, unbidden, spreads across his face, mirroring the joy he sees in you. It's a strange, fluttery feeling that takes residence in his chest, a sensation both foreign and exhilarating.

Nayoung makes her way through the crowd to him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She leans in close, her fingers tracing a daring path down his back and over his thighs. Her touch, bold and teasing, makes his heart skip a beat. "You wish that was Y/N touching you, right?" she whispers, her voice a blend of mischief and suggestion.

Turning to face her, Jeno's eyes darken, a smoulder of intensity burning within them as he contemplated her words. "Y/N?" The name, unfamiliar and yet suddenly significant, rolls off his tongue.

Nayoung's nod is all the confirmation he needs. "Yeah, she's the one. She's my roommate," she reveals, each word painting a clearer picture in his mind.

"I'm off to Eunji’s house, but you're staying here, right? Y/N normally walks home from the bar. Maybe you could offer to walk her, maybe keep her company. Our apartment is going to be empty… use your imagination." With a final wink, she slips away.

──────────────────────────────

As Jeno steps out into the cool night, he spots you alone under a streetlamp, the smoke from your cigarette curling into the night air. As you take another drag, the ember glows, casting a soft light on your features. He’s mesmerised by the sight, a girl smoking would always be hot to him, the sight of the smoke framing your face proves that. It gives you a mysterious vibe, making you appear all the more captivating and irresistibly sexy in his eyes.

Drawn to you, he moves closer and asks if he can join. Noticing his gaze linger, you offer him a cigarette with a knowing smile. You offer him a cigarette with a knowing smile. As he accepts, your fingers brush against his, sending a jolt of electricity through both of you. There’s a charged energy in the way your gazes lock. As he inhales, his jawline becomes more pronounced, the smoke curling around him like a caress. There’s a deliberate slowness to his exhale, the smoke weaving between you, creating an intimate veil.

As the conversation between you and Jeno progresses, you find yourself surprisingly at ease in his presence. Normally, you'd keep your guard up, especially around someone as notorious as Jeno, but tonight, there's something different. Before you realize it, you're drawing him in closer, the usual barriers falling away. You might have blamed it on alcohol, but you're sober, leaving the connection between you both intriguingly genuine.

Conversation starts light, with Jeno leaning in slightly, the warmth of the moment closing the distance between you. "Watching you tonight… I was taken aback, you’re really good," he says, his voice low and appreciative, tinged with genuine admiration.

You laugh softly, a bit of surprise flickering across your face at his observation. "I just love playing, didn't think anyone actually noticed," you reply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a hint of bashfulness in your smile.

"Oh, trust me, it's hard not to notice," Jeno continues, his gaze steady on you, making sure you understand he's talking about more than just the music.

You giggle, feeling a mix of flattery and nervousness under his focused attention. "Well, I'm glad you think so. I'm usually just hoping I don't mess up the chords," you respond, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone, even as his compliment sends a warm flutter through you.

"Mess up? I think you could play anything and make it sound incredible," he asserts, a playful yet sincere edge to his words. His flirtatious confidence is smooth, but it's his underlying earnestness that catches you off guard, drawing an unguarded smile from you.

The conversation flows, creating a comfortable yet charged atmosphere. Your laughter comes more easily. With a playful smirk, Jeno’s eyes trail down your figure, appreciating the way your tight top accentuates your curves and your skirt hugs your hips and thighs. “You look stunning,” he comments, his tone flirtatious yet respectful.

Blushing at his compliment, you giggle softly and playfully respond, “I thought I looked pretty today.”

Jeno’s gaze meets yours, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes as he leans in closer. “You look hot,” he says, his voice dripping with desire, sending a thrill down your spine.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink as you accept Jeno's jacket, letting out a soft giggle that speaks volumes of your appreciation and the fluttering emotions within. "Thank you," you manage to say, your voice light and airy, tinged with a mix of gratitude and a growing warmth that has little to do with the dropping temperatures around you.

The way Jeno looked at you changed everything. You had noticed his eyes when you were on the stage and you’re noticing it now. The opinions you had formed about him, the guard you had meticulously built up, the walls you constructed around yourself—all of it began to crumble the moment his gaze met yours. You found yourself inexplicably drawn towards him, a magnetic pull you couldn't resist.

There's just something about him.

There's something about his eyes, particularly striking, that makes it impossible for you to look away. It's as if they hold a depth of understanding and kindness, captivating you, making you feel seen and acknowledged in a way that's disarmingly comforting.

There's something about his smile, too. It's genuine, radiant even, cutting through your defenses as if they were made of paper. His smile seems to speak directly to your soul, warming you from the inside out, and making the corners of your own lips twitch upwards in response.

You can't help but admit, there's something about him—something undeniably compelling that makes you feel like you’re rediscovering something familiar, a connection that's both unexpected and deeply welcome.

You start to shiver, you’re not sure whether it’s because of the weather or how he’s making you feel. Jeno, noticing your discomfort, doesn't hesitate. He smoothly takes off his jacket and places it over your shoulders. The sudden warmth from the jacket contrasts sharply with the cool air.

As Jeno's jacket settles around your shoulders, the immediate sensation is one of warmth, the material soft against your skin. The jacket, slightly too large, feels like a hug, a protective barrier against the chill. But it's his scent that truly captivates you — infused with notes of wood and spice, subtle yet distinctly masculine.

Jeno's gaze inadvertently falls on your arm. There, slightly peeking out from under the fabric, is a tattoo that immediately captures his attention. It's a butterfly, intricately designed, its wings seemingly crafted from delicate wisps of ashes, as if it has risen, reborn from the remnants of a past life. The detail is exquisite, symbolising transformation, resilience, and the beauty of emerging stronger from challenges.

"That's... I have the same tattoo," Jeno reveals, his voice tinged with disbelief and a newfound depth of connection.

For a moment, the world seems to pause, the ambient noise of your surroundings fading into the background as you lock eyes. The eye contact is intense, it’s as if the discovery of your matching tattoos has unveiled a deeper layer of understanding, a serendipitous link that neither of you expected but both inherently feel.

The butterfly, for you, symbolizes a journey through personal trials, a testament to the strength it takes to rise anew. For Jeno, it represents a parallel path, a reminder of his own resilience and the transformative power of embracing change.

You feel a surge of heat pooling in your core as he shifts slightly, his movements drawing you in closer. “Are you okay with me showing you?” he asks, voice low and husky, dripping with seduction. It sends a rush of heat straight to your core. You narrow your eyes, confused but nod immediately, your chest tightening and your eyes firing when you realise what he means. It’s a tattoo under his shirt, and the thought of him revealing it to you ignites a fiery desire within you.

Your heart races as you meet his gaze, your eyes smouldering with desire. With a deliberate yet sensual touch, you place your hand on his, stopping him from lifting his shirt. “Do you want to come home with me?” you whisper, surprised at how forward you’re being but this feels right. Your voice is laced with longing and need. You can feel the electricity crackling between you, the air thick with anticipation.

A wicked grin spreads across Jeno’s lips as he gazes at you, his eyes darkening with desire. “You can show me then. I have a tattoo on my thigh that I want to show you,” you add, your words sending a surge of arousal through both of you. The tension between you is palpable, the desire for each other burning hotter with every passing moment.

──────────────────────────────

Ultimately, you made the first move. The walk back home was charged with an energy that couldn't be ignored, an undeniable sexual tension that seemed to pull you both closer with every step. Heated glances were exchanged, each look sending a clear message of the attraction between you.

The moment the front door clicked shut, you seized him, your fingers digging into his shirt as you pulled him into you with an urgency that bordered on desperation. His lips crashed against yours like a tidal wave, igniting a firestorm of passion that consumed you both. It was a kiss fueled by the electric charge that had crackled between you since the moment you laid eyes on each other.

His lips were like a drug, intoxicating and addictive, sending shockwaves of desire coursing through your veins. He knew exactly how to move his lips against yours, each brush and caress igniting a blaze of longing deep within you. The taste of him, a heady blend of musk and spice, lingered on your lips, driving you to explore every inch of his mouth.

His tongue traced the outline of your lips with a teasing flick, coaxing them to part with an insistence. His tongue delved deep into the recesses of your mouth, seeking out every hidden corner with an eager hunger. Your tongues tangled together with a longing that left you both breathless. With each stroke and caress, the intensity of the kiss grew.

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you impossibly close until there was no space between you, his body pressing against yours with a delicious urgency. You tangled your fingers in his hair, each touch and pull of his hair igniting a wildfire of need within you.

As you stumbled blindly through the room, knocking over objects in your path, you couldn't bring yourself to care about the mess you left in your wake. You knocked over one of your lego sets, one that took endless hours to build but in that moment, all that mattered was kissing him, the taste of him on your lips, and the overwhelming need that consumed you both.

Jeno’s hands are rough and eager as he rips your top off, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound that echoes in the room. He wastes no time in unzipping your mini skirt, but the tightness proves to be a challenge. You both share a moment of laughter, the sound muffled by your desperate kisses, as he struggles to pull it down your legs.

Giggles mix with moans as you continue to ravage each other. You dragged him impossibly closer, as if trying to meld your bodies together into one. His arms wrapped around you, his hands roaming over your back and shoulders, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You detach your lips for just a moment, recapturing your breath, then you leap into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly off the ground. The sensation of his body against yours was electrifying. Your breath mingled with his, hot and heavy against each other’s mouths as you panted and moaned.

"Who's home?" he breathes out, desperation lacing his words, a different side of him emerging with a heavier, more urgent tone.

"No one. Just us," you reply, your voice a low, throaty moan, thick with desire.

You've heard Nayoung talk about her experiences with him, listened to her descriptions of how it felt to fuck him. You knew more about what you were getting yourself into than you let on. She had mentioned how he was softer in the beginning, but that wasn't what you wanted.

"I don't want you to hold back. I don't want you to be soft," you pant out, the words dripping with raw need and insatiable longing. "I want you to fuck me like you mean it," you demand, your voice husky with desire, your eyes blazing with primal hunger.

In response, he lets out a low, primal moan, almost a growl, that resonates deep within you, setting your senses ablaze and igniting a fire in the depths of your core.

He throws you onto the bed, a rush of exhilaration coursing through you as you land with a soft thud. His lips remain locked with yours, refusing to break the connection as he positions himself on top of you.

With a fierce determination, he discards your lace bra and thong, his hands moving with precision and purpose. As you lay exposed before him, you feel the heat in his eyes, a primal desire burning bright as he admires every inch of your bare form. His growl of appreciation sends shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that can only be quenched by his touch.

Between kisses, he whispers, "You don't know how much I've wanted to see every inch of your skin like this," his tone heavy with longing and anticipation. His lips continue their exploration, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. He murmurs, "I've been thinking about you all night long,"

Between kisses, he whispers, "Thinking about how you'd moan my name as I take every inch of you," his tone heavy with longing and anticipation. "The feeling of your body underneath mine, how it would arch and tremble," he continues, his breath hot against your skin. "Feeling your tight pussy gripping me.” He confesses, his words sending a surge of heat straight to your core.

Your whimper, feeling utterly speechless, yet you manage to muster one pleading request. "Take your clothes off," you whine, pouting as the realisation sinks in that he remains fully clothed against your bare skin.

He responds with a shake of his head, a smile dancing on his lips. "Not now," he murmurs before returning his focus to admiring every inch of your body.

His breath hitches when he finally sees your tattoo, it really was identical to his. With a hungry look in his eyes, he leans in and presses his lips against the outline of your tattoo, tracing it with tantalizing kisses. His lips move slowly, sensually, as he explores every inch of the intricate design, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body.

You gasp as his tongue joins the dance, tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo with a teasing touch. Each stroke of his tongue sends waves of pleasure rippling through you, igniting a fiery passion that consumes you both. In the heat of the moment, you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips and tongue caressing your skin, driving you to the brink of ecstasy.

“You're so fucking pretty," he purrs, his voice low and husky with desire as he drinks in the sight of you. He groans softly, unable to resist the magnetic pull of your beauty, longing to taste every inch of your skin.

His body presses down against yours with unyielding force, the weight of him grounding you to the mattress. You can feel every contour of his form pressing into you, every muscle tense with desire as he hungrily devours you.

The sensation of him against you is overwhelming, a reminder of his presence as he presses closer, leaving no space between you. Your breath hitches when you feel the unmistakable hardness of his cock rubbing against your thigh, igniting a fire of need within you.

As his lips trail from yours to your neck, he leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses in his wake. Each touch leaves behind a mark of his possession, a hickey to brand you as his own in the heat of the moment.

As his lips trail from yours to your neck, he leaves a scorching path of hot, wet kisses in his wake. His kisses are possessive and rough, each touch a declaration of his dominance as he claims you as his own. With each press of his lips against your skin, he leaves behind a red mark of his possession, his lips tugging at your skin with a delicious mix of pleasure and pain, leaving behind teeth marks that throb with a sensation that borders on ecstasy.

With a lingering kiss that sets your senses ablaze, he teases your lips before trailing down your body with determined intent. Each movement is deliberate, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine.

As he reaches your nipples, he captures them between his lips with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His tongue dances across your sensitive peaks, tracing intricate patterns before swirling around them in long, languid strokes. The sensation is electric, igniting a firestorm of desire deep within you as he sucks and licks with an insatiable hunger.

"Fuck," you moan, your voice dripping with need as he drives you wild with pleasure. "Jeno," you urge, your fingers grasping at his hair as you lose yourself in the overwhelming sensation.

"Harder," you demand, your voice laced with desperation as you beg for more of his intoxicating touch. "I need you to make me cum," you whimper, your body arching towards him as he complies with your wishes, his movements growing more urgent with each passing moment and you can’t help but feel his smirk against your skin.

With every tug of his hair, you feel a surge of pleasure coursing through you, intensifying the already overwhelming sensation of his mouth on your nipples. As he trails scorching kisses down your body, every touch sets your skin ablaze with desire, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. His lips linger over every inch of your flesh, igniting a firestorm of need that consumes you from within.

"That's it, good girl, cum for me," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a sultry whisper that sends shivers down your spine. His head rests against your thigh, his gaze locked with yours as he watches you with dazed eyes, the intensity of his stare driving you wild with desire.

"Keep your eyes on me when you cum," he demands, his voice low and deep, sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through you. You whimper in response, your hands trembling as you remove them from covering your face, laying them by your sides as your orgasm approaches rapidly.

As he locks his hands with yours, his touch sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, his fingers coaxing and guiding you towards ecstasy. "Cum all over my tongue, pretty girl, can you do that for me?" he urges, his voice a husky growl that ignites a firestorm of need deep within you.

As the tension coils tighter within you, you feel your release building, a primal urge threatening to consume you entirely. With a tight grip on his hands, you surrender to the overwhelming sensation, your body trembling with anticipation.

The pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, your senses overwhelmed as you feel yourself spiraling into ecstasy. Behind closed eyelids, flashes of intense pleasure dance across your vision, colors swirling in a sensation.

He smashes his lips against yours, the kiss suffocating but so hot and heated that it sends a jolt of desire coursing through your veins. As he breaks away from the kiss, his words hang in the air, a response to the desire you had expressed earlier.

You notice a shift in him, a different look in his eyes that sends a thrill of excitement down your spine. There's a hot, intense side to him that you hadn't expected, a side that turns you on more than you could have imagined.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” Jeno whispers huskily, his lips trailing languid kisses all over your face.

His gaze softens with anticipation as he waits for your response, and you find yourself ready to comply. You nod eagerly, but he just tuts, wanting a clear answer.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," he says, his voice a mixture of softness and anticipation, contrasting with the demanding tone in his voice. He's really asking you? You hadn't expected this, never experienced this level of openness and desire before.

"I - I..." you begin, stumbling over your words, unsure how to articulate your deepest desires.

"Baby, don't hold back," he tuts gently, his index finger resting at the bottom of your chin, keeping your gaze locked on his.

"Don't laugh at me," you pout.

"Why would I do that?" His voice deepens, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he reassures you with his words.

"I - I want you to be rough," you finally admit, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want you to slap me, choke me, spit on me. I don't want you to be gentle. I want to see if you live up to the hype of being this 'sex god' that everyone claims you are. I - just do whatever you want to me. Use me and control me."

Your confession leaves you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as you await his reaction. You gasp in shock at your own words, your eyes widening in disbelief at the boldness of your desires. But as you look into his eyes, you see nothing but desire and hunger reflected back at you, fueling the fire of anticipation burning between you.

His movements are confident and commanding as he grips your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. You dare not look away, captivated by the raw desire burning in his eyes. With his other hand, he traces the curves of your body, his touch rough and demanding, igniting a fire within you.

As his fingers trail lower, teasing your already sensitive peaks, you gasp at the electrifying sensation. A low growl escapes his lips as he feels how wet you already are, his finger slipping effortlessly into your eager heat.

“Fuck, you’re already dripping?” he murmurs, his voice laced with desire and disbelief. “I haven’t even touched you yet, needy slut.”

You moan as his fingers slide effortlessly into your eager heat, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. He doesn't hold back, pushing deeper with each thrust, stretching you to accommodate his every movement. The rough pads of his fingertips brush against your sensitive walls, igniting a firestorm of desire deep within you. You arch your back, offering yourself up to him completely, craving more of his intoxicating touch.

He adds another finger, and then another, the stretch deliciously overwhelming as he fills you completely. You can feel the pressure building, the tight coil of pleasure threatening to unravel at any moment. His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent and relentless as he drives you closer to the edge. You can't help but cry out, lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

With each stroke, he pushes you closer and closer to the brink, until finally, you shatter into a million pieces, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as you succumb to the overwhelming pleasure he's given you.

"I want you to eat me out –" you manage to breathe out, your voice trembling with anticipation and need.

With a hungry glint in his eyes, Jeno positions you just how he likes, spreading your legs wide as he settles between them. His touch is demanding, yet precise, as he dips his fingers between your slick folds, reveling in the wetness that greets him. Already, he's moved his head down, and you eagerly cage it between your thighs, your breath hitching in anticipation.

Throwing your legs around his shoulders, you pull him closer, urging him to delve deeper. And delve he does, his tongue tracing intricate patterns along your throbbing heat, each stroke sending jolts of electricity coursing through your body. There's no gentleness in his approach; he's forceful, relentless, determined to devour you whole.

He attacks your clit with fervor, his tongue flicking against it with a ferocity that leaves you gasping for air. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you in place as he intensifies his assault, his head bobbing between your legs as he drives you to the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he growls against your sensitive flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. He's not content until you're a writhing mess beneath him, lost in a sea of pleasure that only he can provide.

Your moans fill the room, broken and desperate, as he takes you higher and higher, pushing you closer to the brink with each skilled stroke of his tongue. But just as you close your eyes to savour the moment, his hand comes down hard on your pussy, giving you a sharp slap. "I told you to look at me when you cum," he growls, his voice a commanding presence that leaves you breathless. You let out a moan, not expecting to be so turned on by this. It sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through you.

With a small nod, you oblige, opening your eyes to meet his gaze, letting him see the raw, unbridled desire written across your face. You're completely at his mercy, your body aching with need as he continues to devour you with his mouth.

He sucks dry every last drop of your pleasure, his praises ringing in your ears like a symphony of desire.

He presses his lips against your throbbing core with a mouthy and wet kiss. "Good girl," he murmurs, his words a soothing balm to your fractured senses. "Such a pretty cunt," he adds, his voice a husky growl as he admires your pussy.

And as you come down from the dizzying heights of ecstasy, you're left panting and trembling in his arms, completely spent and utterly satisfied.

As Jeno pulls back from devouring you, his eyes blaze with unquenchable desire, hungry for more of you. Your body trembles with anticipation, aching for his touch as you meet his intense gaze, silently begging for him to fulfill your craving.

“Please, Jeno,” you plead, your voice thick with need, your fingers grasping at the sheets beneath you. “I need you inside me.” His grin is wicked, a mirror of your own desire, as he savors your desperation, relishing the power he holds over you.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” he purrs, the husky timbre of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You nod fervently, a smile tugging at your lips as your hands reach for his top, swiftly pulling it over his head. Your fingers trace over his bare chest and abs, the sight of his toned physique eliciting a gasp of admiration. His chest and abs glisten in the dim light, sculpted to perfection, each muscle defined with precision.

Your breath hitches with each passing moment, the ache between your legs growing more insistent with every heartbeat. Fingers trembling, you reach for his belt, your urgency evident in the way you fumble with the buckle. With a swift motion, he pulls it down himself, his boxers following suit, revealing his hardened length. You gasp at the sight, your eyes fixated on his cock as you reach out instinctively. He groans in response, his voice strained with desire as he warns, "Don't, baby. I won't last."

With a primal growl, he positions himself between your parted thighs, his throbbing cock poised at your entrance, close yet agonisingly out of reach. You can see it in his eyes, and the way he's looking at you, he's going to go soft despite his earlier promises of roughness.

As you express your disappointment with a soft whine, he silences you with a gentle shake of his head. "Trust me, baby, I'm big," he whispers in a husky tone, his words sending a thrill through you.

"I don't care. I still want you to be rough with me," you assert, your desire palpable in your voice.

He shakes his head once more. “You don't want me to be too rough for the first time," he explains softly, his eyes filled with tenderness. "Maybe next time," he adds with a teasing wink, prolonging the anticipation as he plays with your desires.

As his lips crash against yours in a breathy kiss, a symphony of moans escapes from the depths of your souls, mingling in the air like sweet melodies of desire. Each touch of his lips against yours ignites a fire within, sending sparks of electricity dancing across your skin. With every exhale, you both moan into each other’s mouth.

He backs away from your lips too early for your liking. With a devious glint in his eyes, he teases, testing your patience and leaving you craving more.

You grow increasingly impatient when he doesn’t move, he smirks, he’s teasing you, testing your patience. Your whimpers become more urgent with each passing moment. “Please,” you beg for any type of movement

But he continues to toy with you, his smirk widening as he revels in your desperation. “I don’t know, should I let you have my cock?” he taunts, his voice dripping with desire and dominance.

You deadpan. “Your cock is literally inside of my vagina right now—”

“Do you really think you deserve it?” he says, his voice low and dark, sending shivers down your spine.

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you match his tone. You find yourself enjoying the charged atmosphere, how comfortable it feels with him. You find yourself holding back a grin. "I bet you're not even that big," you retort.

“Oh?” he says, a smirk playing on his lips as he closes the distance between you, his gaze burning with intensity.

As he thrusts into you with relentless force, you feel an overwhelming mix of pleasure and discomfort wash over you. His cock is so thick, stretching you to your limits with each deep penetration. You whimper, struggling to adjust to his size, but he shows no mercy, drilling into you with undefeated determination.

His movements are harsh and unforgiving, his hips driving forward with brutal force as he claims you as his own. Each thrust sends shockwaves through your body, leaving you trembling with need. You moan uncontrollably, unable to form coherent words as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“You’re so big,” you manage to gasp out between ragged breaths, your words breathy with a hint of disbelief in your voice as you feel him filling you completely. But his response is cold and mocking.

“You were talking so much shit earlier,” he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. “Now stay there and fucking take it.”

As his hips collide with yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a rhythmic symphony of lust and desire. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, your moans echoing off the walls as you surrender to the raw intensity of his touch.

He fucks you with a primal urgency, his movements rough and demanding as he claims you as his own. His cock drives into you with relentless force, stretching you to your limits and filling you completely with each deep penetration. You can feel every inch of him inside you, his hardness pressing against your most sensitive spots and sending waves of ecstasy crashing over you.

His cock pounds into you relentlessly, driving deep into your slick heat with each forceful thrust. You can feel every inch of him stretching you, pushing you to your limits as he claims you as his own. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and pain that only serves to fuel your desire for more. “More,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper.

"Beg for it, beg for my cock deeper inside you," he commands, his voice dripping with desire and dominance. As his words hang in the air, you feel his hands gripping your thighs, pulling your legs around his waist. With a swift movement, he positions you exactly how he wants, allowing for deeper penetration and intensifying the sensations between you. This change in angle sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, pushing you both to new heights of ecstasy. With each thrust, he buries himself deeper inside you, his cock filling you completely as you cling to him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of the moment.

"Harder, please," you plead, your voice trembling with need as you yearn for him to give you everything he's got. Your body craves the intensity of his touch, the roughness of his thrusts driving you wild with desire. You arch your back, offering yourself up to him completely, desperate for him to take you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond.

He obliges, increasing the tempo of his thrusts, his movements becoming more urgent as he drives himself deeper into you. The sound of your moans fills the room, mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin, loud moans and your headboard creaking.

With each merciless thrust, your body succumbs to the relentless assault, every movement driving you closer to the brink of ecstasy. The raw power of his domination leaves you breathless, your senses consumed by the overwhelming pleasure he bestows upon you. You teeter on the edge of climax, every nerve ending ablaze with desire, craving release like never before.

“I’m gonna cum,” you moan desperately, your plea echoing through the room, but instead of granting you release, he chuckles darkly, a sinister sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

With a cruel twist, he wrenches his cock back, the abrupt movement sending a jolt of pain coursing through you. His gaze is unforgiving, a menacing glint in his eyes as he stares down at you, relishing in your torment. Your whimpers of protest only fuel his cruel pleasure, a smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your frustration.

“You were talking so much shit earlier,” he taunts, his voice dripping with contempt as he watches you squirm beneath him. “Do you think you deserve to cum?” His words are like daggers, each one laced with venom as he taunts and belittles you, his dominance asserting itself with every syllable. “Only good girls deserve to cum.”

Jeno’s anger is palpable as he flips you onto your back, the force of his movement taking you by surprise. Your heart races with anticipation, knowing that his roughness is a sign of his frustration. You can feel the tension in the air as he shifts you onto all fours, his movements primal and commanding.

“Spread your legs wider,” he demands, his tone brooking no argument. “That’s it,” he murmurs.

With a primal growl, he positions himself between your legs, his grip on your hips firm and unyielding. “Hold onto the headboard,” he orders, his voice commanding obedience. You obey without hesitation, your nails digging into the wood as he takes you from behind.

Each forceful thrust elicits a gasp from your lips, the intensity of his desire overwhelming your senses. “You like it rough, don’t you?” he taunts, his words punctuated by the sound of skin slapping against skin. “Tell me how much you want it,” he demands, his voice rough with desire.

In the heat of the moment, his anger fuels his actions, his movements rough and unyielding. As he fills you completely, you’re overwhelmed by the sensation, your senses flooded with pleasure. Gasping for air, you’re left breathless, the intensity of his desire consuming you.

Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, driving you further toward the edge of ecstasy. Your ass meets his thighs with each forceful movement, the impact sending a shiver down your spine. He takes advantage of your vulnerability, delivering sharp slaps to your pussy, each one igniting a fire within you.

With a forceful grip, he fists your hair back, tilting your head upwards to expose your neck to him. He leaves bruises and hickies along your skin, marking you as his own. His grip tightens, asserting his control over you, his hands roaming possessively over your body.

With a firm grip on your hips, he dictates the rhythm of his thrusts, each one a testament to his dominance. Your arms are held in place, you're left feeling exposed, entirely at his mercy. “I could fuck you like this forever,” he muses in a dark whisper

As he relentlessly pounds into you, his cock stretching you beyond your limits, tears well up in your eyes. The sheer force of his thrusts drives you to the brink of madness, each movement sending waves of both pleasure and pain rippling through your body.

“You really thought you could handle me?” he taunts, his voice dripping with disdain as he continues to ravage you without mercy. His words cut through you like a knife, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable beneath his intense gaze.

Despite the overwhelming sensations coursing through you, there’s a perverse sense of pleasure that accompanies the pain and humiliation. You find yourself surrendering to him completely, lost in the primal rhythm of his thrusts and the raw power he exudes.

Your cries mingle with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the symphony of your shared desire. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “Take it all”

Each thrust drives you closer to the edge of sanity, your body trembling with the exquisite torment of his rough ministrations. The pleasure-pain dichotomy consumes you entirely, leaving you lost in a haze of ecstasy and agony.

You feel completely overwhelmed by him, your senses drowning in the intoxicating cocktail of desire and desperation. The need to please him at any cost drives you to new heights of submission, your every thought and action dedicated to his satisfaction.

His reaction is one of twisted satisfaction, his grin a sinister reflection of the dominance he wields over you. He takes perverse pleasure in your tears, viewing them as a testament to his power and control. With each sob that escapes your lips, he revels in the knowledge that he holds your very soul in his hands, a willing captive to his every whim.

“I-I’m so close,” you gasp out between ragged breaths, your voice trembling with desperation. “Please, let me cum.”

His response is immediate and commanding. His hands wrap around your throat with a firm grip. As he tightens his hold, you feel a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, intensifying the sensations overwhelming your body. At the same time, his other hand delivers a sharp, stinging spank to your cheek, sending a jolt of mixed pleasure and pain radiating through you.

“You don’t get to cum until I say so,” he growls, his voice low and authoritative. “Remember that.”

"Please," you beg, your voice strained with desperation. "I need you to cum inside me. Fill me up."

His resolve breaks at your plea, his control slipping as he gives in. Jeno ravages you mercilessly, his own release momentarily forgotten as he focuses solely on driving you to the brink of pleasure. His hands roam over your trembling body, his touch igniting sparks of electricity that dance along your skin. He holds you close and with one final thrust, he sends you hurtling over the edge into blissful oblivion.

As the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of ecstasy. Your body trembles with anticipation, every nerve ending alive with sensation. With a primal cry, you shatter into a million pieces, your orgasm consuming you completely. Waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you gasping for air as you ride the euphoric high.

Shortly after, with a primal roar, he releases inside you, his hot seed flooding your depths as you both reach the peak of ecstasy together. Waves of pleasure wash over you, leaving you breathless and sated in each other's embrace.

He removes his cock from you, a mixture of wetness and cum slipping out in its wake. With a firm grip, he manhandles you, turning you around to face him. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a complete contrast to the roughness with which he just fucked you. Using his thumb, he wipes away the mascara trailing down your face, his expression softening as he takes in your fucked-out appearance.

Your eyelids droop with exhaustion, but before you can succumb to sleep, he speaks with a gentleness that catches you off guard. "Don't sleep just yet. I need to get you cleaned up." The difference in his tone leaves you feeling dizzy and confused, his soft eyes meeting yours.

Later on, you’re all cleaned up, thanks to him running a bath for you and cleaning your body with your favorite scent of soap. There were lingering kisses and massages, and he even sat in the bath with you, sharing in the intimacy of the moment. Now, you’re in your pajamas, feeling cozy and comfortable, then he asks if he can stay. It’s late so you nod in agreement. That was the only reason. He settles onto your bed, his eyes closing with a contented smile.

But suddenly, you get up, breaking the serene atmosphere. “I need to clean the apartment,” you declare, and he laughs at first, thinking it’s a joke. However, his expression turns serious when he realises you’re not joking.

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‘Did the four positions and the five times I made you cum not make you sleepy?’ He questions from behind you.

You turn to him, shaking your head. “It was not four —”

You feel the heat rising to your cheeks as he lists them off. “Missionary, from the back and then against the wall in the shower. You also rode my cock in the shower.’ His words send a shiver down your spine and you gulp. Where did this sex drive come from?

“I just counted, and I made you cum six times,” he adds with a satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Do you count the amount of times you’ve made a girl cum for every girl you sleep with?”

He winks, his voice bringing chills to your spine. “Only you.”

As he leans down beside you, your heart skips a beat. “What do you need help with?” he asks, his gaze locking deeply with yours. Despite the tired lines etched on his face, he alludes such an effortless attractiveness. He was incredibly magnetising and radiant, basking in a sex afterglow.

Your voice is soft and gentle as you speak. “We dropped so many lego sets… I could do with some help putting them back together.”

He smiles warmly and nods, his tired eyes twinkling with affection. "Let's do it."

As you both delve into the intricate world of Lego, your fingers deftly reassembling the scattered pieces, you find yourself opening up to Jeno in a way you never have before.

“You know… no one ever wants to build them with me, this is quite surprising,” you admit, your eyes fixated on the task at hand.

He hums in response, his attention fully captured by your words. “It’s not common for people in their 20s to be into Lego,” he remarks, his tone tinged with curiosity.

As you delve into the details of your Lego collection, Jeno’s genuine interest shines through. He listens intently as you recount the origins of each set, marking the first time you’ve shared this hobby so thoroughly. “I got this one from a fair I went to when I was 12, my uncle got me this one, Nayoung got me this one,” you explain, a nostalgic smile playing on your lips.

His curiosity peaks as he spots a rare Lego set on your shelf, one he surprisingly recognizes by name. “How the fuck did you get that one?” he asks, pointing directly at it.

You respond with a deadpan expression, “I camped out at 3am in the winter to get it.” The absurdity of the situation hits both of you at once, sparking uncontrollable laughter.

Jeno, catching his breath, manages to say, “Tough,” with a mix of admiration and amusement in his voice.

“Did anyone get you this one?” Jeno points at a very rare and expensive set, his eyes glowing with awe. It’s one that was already made, one of your prized possessions, you were glad it was still in tact.

You giggle, a smile lighting up your face as you give him the go-ahead to touch it. You don’t let anyone touch your Lego collection. Especially that set.

An immediate smile lights up your face, and you nod. “Sunwoo got me that one,” you say, relishing the memory. It was one of his random gifts, one that cheered you up when you needed it most.

“Kim Sunwoo? You’re friends with him?” Jeno’s curiosity peaks, his surprise at the mention of Sunwoo not shocking you.

You nod. “My best friend.”

“You seem really different from each other,” Jeno observes.

“We are,” you agree. It’s a common observation, one that you’ve heard countless times before. Sunwoo spends his time getting high and indulging in casual sex; he’s the ultimate fuck boy. But despite his wild ways, he’s also your best friend. He’s intense, but you need him in your life. “People say opposites attract, we balance each other out well. Plus, I’ve known him since we were kids.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you don’t spend your time getting laid because the things you were doing when we were fucking… it takes experience to —”

You interject with a soft whisper, “I’m not a virgin.” You anticipate a reaction from him, but he surprises you by simply smiling and nodding in acknowledgment.

“It was clear when I was fucking you,” he explains calmly, “I could tell it wasn’t your first time.”

Your laughter fills the room, accompanied by a blush coloring your cheeks. “It’s just that there’s a ridiculous rumor that goes around that I’m some Christian girl who’s waiting until marriage and that I’m untouched when it’s not true.”

Jeno’s curiosity persists. “Why did that rumor start?”

Shrugging slightly, you respond, “I don’t even know… I guess people just see me as a quiet and shy person and automatically equate that to me being innocent and clueless. I’m very private; I keep my sexual life on the low. I don’t gossip about it or talk about things like that openly, even to my closest friends. They’re my best friends, so they know I’ve had sex before, but they still join in on the joke that I’m a Christian virgin just to wind me up.”

As Jeno hums thoughtfully, you sense his presence beside you, his silence speaking volumes. Despite not responding verbally, you know he's listening intently, absorbing every word you say. His attentive demeanour reassures you, reminding you that he's there, fully engaged in the conversation. It's a rare quality that you appreciate, his ability to be present and attentive without the need for constant verbal affirmation.

“Why did you start playing bass?” Jeno’s question catches you off guard, his gaze lingering on the eccentric blue bass in the corner of the room in a way that makes your head spin.

You can’t help but giggle at his curiosity. “I was kinda forced to, actually.”

“Really?” His surprise is evident in his voice.

You nod, recalling how Sunwoo had roped you into joining his band. “It’s Sunwoo’s band, and he needed a bass player. He decided it was going to be me, so he taught me how to play. He’s very serious about his band, you know. His major is music, so it makes sense. Sunwoo’s good at everything. He can sing, rap, dance, and play any instrument. I’m the bassist in the band, but he’s better than me at playing it.”

Jeno shakes his head with a smile. “Don’t say that. You’re such a natural at playing bass.”

You offer him a grateful smile in return, touched by his compliment.

“I didn’t see Sunwoo at the gig, though,” Jeno observes, his gaze lingering on your face.

“Or Ryujin,” you add, a burst of laughter escaping your lips. Jeno’s eyebrow quirks up in confusion.

“She’s our main vocalist and plays piano. She wasn’t there either because Sunwoo was balls deep inside of her,” you explain, amusement evident in your voice. “She’s our fifth main vocalist, and we’re probably gonna need to replace her soon. Sunwoo keeps fucking the main vocalists in the band, and they always leave because it makes everything awkward and tense.”

Jeno shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Sounds like him.”

You nod in agreement, a knowing look passing between you. “He can’t keep his fucking cock in his pants. Always has to go fuck the woman in the group.”

Jeno chuckles in response, the sound warm and genuine.

You and Jeno have been talking for what felt like hours.

The ease of conversation made it feel like you've known each other for much longer. You didn’t expect to have so much in common with him, you didn’t expect the conversation to flow as smoothly as it did, you also didn’t expect for him to actually stay, especially after you had finished having sex.

His confidence and appeal enhance the atmosphere. Jeno's casual demeanor sets the tone the moment he begins to speak, his confidence is almost dripping from him, as if it's part of the very air around him. He's got this cool, laid-back vibe that's utterly captivating, standing here in your apartment as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Jeno's gaze holds yours, an unspoken intensity lingering in the way he looks at you. There's an undeniable attractiveness in his focus, in the deliberate way he gives you his undivided attention. Each time he listens, it's with an intensity that makes the moment stretch, filling it with an undeniable tension.

His eyes, expressive and deep, seem to capture and reflect every flicker of emotion, making the connection between you feel both electrifying and profoundly intimate. His smile, when it breaks, is like a slow dawn, gradually illuminating his features and warming the space between you.

You bond about little things but in retrospect they were big, they were such specific and unique things, things that were so special to you.

You give him a tour of your apartment, showing him around with a sense of pride. Each room holds a piece of you, and you’re eager to share it with him. As you lead him through the space, you point out your prized possessions, sharing the stories behind each one.

“This is where I keep my vinyl collection,” you explain, gesturing towards a shelf filled with records. He pauses, running his fingers over the sleek covers with a sense of appreciation.

“Your taste is… amazing.”

He believes in those words even more when you show him your book collection, you're surprised to find that Jeno has read them all. You point out one of the most important books to you, ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ and as you're about to recite your favourite line, he says it at the same time as you. “One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.” you both say in unison, the words echoing in the room.

The eye contact that follows is strong and intense, making you feel weak in the knees. You want to look away, but you can't tear your gaze from his. He's captivating, and in that moment, you feel a magnetic connection that transcends words.

──────────────────────────────

You sit surrounded by your closest friends in a secluded corner of the student lounge. You and Eunji are working on university assignments and projects, both studying musical arts. The steady hum of youthful chatter and the clatter of laptop keys fail to distract you. You’re here but you’re not really here. The noise around you fades into the background as thoughts of Jeno consume your mind every time you close your eyes.

Your mind relentlessly replays the sensation of Jeno's lips against yours, the way his hands explored every inch of your body, and the intensity in his eyes as he gazed at you. The memory of his touch lingers, leaving you dazed and confused. And then there's his cock, thick and pulsating with desire, the mere thought of it sending a shiver down your spine. It's as if his presence has etched itself into every corner of your mind, dominating your thoughts and leaving little room for anything else.

You try to push the memories aside, to focus on the task at hand, but it's no use. His image, his touch, his presence, his lips—it all feels so real. To make matters worse, Eric and Nayoung keep probing and probing.

“Y/N!!!!!” Nayoung interrupts your thoughts. “Are you ready to tell us what happened last night?” she asks with a mischievous wink, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and you immediately understand the implication. You discretely shush her, promising to tell her later, not wanting to draw attention, but nothing ever slips past Eric’s sharp eyes.

As you’re grappling with the weight of your previous conversation, Sunwoo walks in, offering what you hope might be a timely distraction.

The moment he enters, you shoot him an accusatory glare. “You left me and Eric stranded yesterday! We had to find two people willing to perform with us last minute,” you scold, your frustration evident in your tone.

Sunwoo shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, I was balls deep inside of Ryujin,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You turn to him, tutting and shaking your head in disbelief. But deep down, you’re not truly surprised. “Really? Again?” you sigh, knowing all too well the consequences of Sunwoo’s actions.

Ryujin, the lead vocalist and keyboard player in your band, was now the latest victim of Sunwoo’s need of fucking the lead vocalists. It has become a recurring theme in your band’s history. Sunwoo's habit of sleeping with the lead vocalists inevitably leads to their departure from the band, as they realize he's only interested in a fling without any emotional attachment.

There had been four lead vocalists before Ryujin who had left for the same reason, and now she was the fifth. It was a cycle that seemed impossible to break, it was annoying but it was pretty funny.

“Pay up,” Eric demands, holding out the money jar to Sunwoo. With a roll of his eyes, Sunwoo begrudgingly adds a £5 note to the jar, another contribution to Eric’s growing collection of Sunwoo’s indiscretions.

Sunwoo lets out a deep sigh, his head tilting back against the cool wall with a suggestive noise that’s entirely inappropriate for 8 AM on a Monday morning. He’s always horny, he was missing Ryujin, missing her pussy.

The brief distraction provided by Sunwoo’s antics quickly fades as Eric, always persistent, picks up the previous line of questioning. He laughs loudly, turning to face you with an expression that feels a bit too much like an interrogation. You brace yourself, knowing exactly where he’s heading with this.

Eric lets out a loud laugh, turning to you like it was an an interrogation, letting you know he wouldn’t drop it you instantly know what he’s going to say. “Where did you run off to after the gig?” he questions, but before you can respond, he answers for you. “I did see a certain Lee Jeno checking you out.”

Silence fills the room, and then Nayoung screams in excitement. “They fucked!!! They had sex!!! Look, it’s all over Y/N’s face, she’s practically basking in the afterglow of Lee Jeno’s massive cock.”

The room erupts into laughter, and you can feel your cheeks burning with embarrassment as everyone turns their attention to you, leaving you wishing for the floor to swallow you whole.

You groan and sit there silently, wearing a defeated expression as Eric and Nayoung exchange comments and jokes, teasing you mercilessly. Sunwoo, however, remains silent, his expression unreadable as always, leaving you feeling perplexed by his demeanour.

He turns to face you subtly, and all he says is, “Really?” before breaking into a smirk.

You shoot Sunwoo a deadpan look. “You’re not allowed to judge me. You keep fucking our lead vocalists out of the group!”

As Sunwoo is about to defend himself, Eric’s playful smirk and words cut him off. “Hey, missed a spot?” he quips, at first you narrow your eyes in confusion but then you gulp when you realise he’s talking about the concealer on your neck. A suggestive grin plays on his lips. “Need some help covering up all those hickeys Jeno left all over your neck? I’m sure Nayoung has some concealer in her bag.”

You shoot him a warning look, shushing him with a nervous glance around the room. “Keep it down, Eric,” you hiss, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “People could be listening.”

Nayoung, always one to push boundaries, takes it a step further. “Hey, do you need to order a new bed frame?” she asks innocently, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I’m sure yours has broken after Jeno fucked you in it all night long.”

Eric's teasing hits a nerve, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. "Seriously though, I heard that you were moaning like a bitch in heat," he says with a sly grin, his words laced with mischief.

You roll your eyes, trying to brush off his remarks. "You weren't even there," you retort, hoping to shut down the conversation before it escalates any further.

But Eric wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, did you want me to be there? To watch?" he asks, his tone playful yet suggestive. "I didn't have you down as a kinky bitch, Y/N," he adds with a smirk, clearly enjoying getting under your skin.

You huff in frustration. "Oh? You don't want me to watch but to join in? I'm down! And so is Jeno, I heard he lost his virginity to not one girl but two girls... at the same time," Eric continues, his grin widening at the shocked expression on your face.

Nayoung joins in with a chuckle, adding fuel to the fire. "That's not true, he lost it to Arin. But he's had multiple threesomes and orgies," she chimes in, somehow knowing everything about everyone. She even knew who you had lost your virginity to even though you had sworn to keep it a secret.

“Arin?” you respond, taken aback. “Isn’t she the one from our classes with that angelic voice?”

“Yeah she studied music and she’s also a bitch,” Nayoung doesn’t hold back.

You huff. “Really? She looks quite sweet.”

“She’s got talent, sure, but she’s like a snake. All sweet to your face then she strikes when you’re not looking,” she continues with a grimace.

“You’re just pissed because after you fucked Jeno, he ghosted you,” Sunwoo chimes in, unable to resist teasing her.

“Why did he ghost you?” you ask, intrigued by the drama unfolding.

“Because he went back to fucking Arin,” Nayoung says, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

You scratch your neck, ignoring this sinking feeling. “Did they ever actually date?”

Nayoung shrugs. “I don’t think they dated, just fucked. But she’s been the one constant in his bed. Seems like they’re casual fuck buddies, on and off whenever it suits them.”

Sunwoo’s expression catches you off guard, his eyebrows arching in genuine confusion. “Y/N? Are you jealous?” he probes, clearly trying to understand your reaction.

Quick to dispel any misconceptions, you respond firmly, making sure there’s no room for doubt. “No! We only had sex, nothing more. There’s nothing to be jealous over,” you assert, hoping to shut down any further speculation about your feelings towards the situation.

However you can’t supress the swirls of discomfort and confusion inside you, unsettling you more than you'd like to admit. Arin’s history with Jeno, something intense and vaguely defined, gnaws at your peace, leaving you to wonder about the legitimacy of your feelings. Was it valid for you to even be jealous?

But as these thoughts churn, the lounge's doors swing open, and a group of engineering students enters, breaking your inward spiral. Jeno is among them, still dressed in his work attire—an apron dusted from a practical session, and a tool belt loosely hanging around his hips. The engineering gear marks a stark contrast against the casual styles of your graphic tee and jeans, emphasising the divide between your worlds.

Your eyes instinctively find him as he walks in. He's laughing with his friends, completely at ease, seemingly untouched by the intense sex you had just hours ago. He looks so calm, so put together. It's as if he's able to effortlessly recompose himself, while you're still reeling from the memories and his touch. It’s as if the night you shared was just another ordinary event for him.

As Jeno adjusts his apron, a simple yet deliberate action, your gaze inevitably travels to his hands—those same hands that had so expertly explored the depths of you just hours earlier. The casual way he shifts the strap of his tool belt, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric, vividly conjures memories of how those very fingers had traced your curves and navigated your folds in a way that left you breathless. The memory of his touch, precise and bold, sends a wave of warmth flooding your cheeks, your body involuntarily responding to the mere thought of his proximity.

He casually stretches his fingers, the joints clicking softly in the quiet of the lounge. The sound, distinct and resonant, wasn't loud enough to be heard by others, but your focus is entirely on him. To you, the soft click echoes significantly, a subtle reminder of the way those fingers had moved with such deliberate intent, exploring and memorising every contour of your body with a precision that left an indelible mark on your senses.

Your gaze can't help but follow the motion of his hands up to his forearms. His sleeves are pushed up slightly, revealing forearms marked by prominent veins that stand out against his skin, tracing paths of strength and vitality. These are the arms that had held you with a confident, yet gentle touch, their power barely restrained as they explored you. The casual way he shifts the strap of his tool belt, his fingers brushing against the coarse fabric, each movement of his hands, the visible veins pulsing slightly with each flex, brings back a rush of sensations, the memory of his touch—both precise and bold—sending a wave of warmth flooding your cheeks.

Caught in this reverie, you almost miss the moment he looks up. His eyes meet yours, and for a suspended heartbeat, the world around you blurs into insignificance. His gaze holds a depth that reflects a shared history, mirroring the intensity of your intimate encounter. It's a knowing look, laden with an unspoken promise, silently communicating that he recalls every detail just as vividly as you do.

Eric’s voice breaks through, calling out, “Hey, Jeno!” He motions for him to come over.

As Jeno approaches, the simple tee visible beneath his partly open engineering apron catches your eye again. His full name ‘Lee Jeno.’ was neatly embroidered on the pocket, adding a personal touch to his otherwise utilitarian outfit. With each step he takes, it seems as though the room rearranges itself to accommodate the energy he brings. Despite there being an empty seat next to Nayoung, Jeno bypasses it, choosing instead the space directly beside you. It's a deliberate choice, requiring him to traverse around the table from where he started, signalling his intent to be as close to you as possible.

As he settles down, his body exudes a warmth you can feel even before he fully sits. The proximity is almost too much to handle, his scent—a rich blend of brown sugar, cinnamon, and a hint of citrus, underlined by a masculine note of metal and solder from his engineering lab—fills your senses, making your breath hitch. The unique aroma is both comforting and intoxicating, distinctly Jeno, and unmistakably alluring. The scent takes you back to mere hours before when you both had fucked.

His knee brushes against yours as he adjusts in his seat, the simple touch sending a jolt through your body. You catch your breath, your attempt to focus on anything else utterly futile. Jeno is here, right next to you, and every fibre of your being is acutely aware of his nearness.

Beside you, Eunji leans closer, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. "You okay?" she whispers, noticing the sudden pallor that has overtaken your features. You manage a nod and offer her a shaky smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside.

As Eric yaps on and on, you find his voice a magnetic force. Just focus on Eric, you repeat internally, seeking any lifeline to distract you. But Jeno’s presence is a force impossible to ignore. He leans closer, his body shifting just enough so his knee presses gently against yours under the table.

The subtle contact sends a shiver up your spine as he leans in, his voice a low whisper meant only for your ears, "I didn’t know you were interested in Eric." His words, edged with a teasing undertone, jolt you. The closeness of his mouth to your ear, the warmth of his breath, it all muddles your thoughts

"I… um, he’s fascinating," you reply, your voice a hushed stutter, drowned out almost entirely by the pounding of your heart.

Jeno pulls back slightly, his eyes holding yours in a steady, penetrating gaze that seems to delve deeper than the casual jest warrants. He nods, a slow, thoughtful movement, but the intensity doesn't wane. His eyes linger, searching, as if trying to read the unspoken feelings you're struggling so hard to mask.

“Are your legs okay?” Jeno asks, his tone serious but with an unmistakable undertone of teasing—a playful provocation he seems unable to resist.

You swallow hard, the sudden dryness in your throat making it difficult to speak. With a slight tremor in your voice, you whisper back, “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” His smile is soft yet knowing, as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a breathy whisper. Then, almost as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, his hand finds its way to your thigh. His fingers gently press into your skin, starting a slow, deliberate massage that sends waves of both comfort and electric tension through your body.

His eyes lock with yours, holding the gaze intensely. The world around you seems to blur into the background, all sounds fading away except for the intimate space he’s created. As his hand moves subtly, the connection deepens, communicated through that steady, penetrating eye contact that says more than words ever could.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

You offer a shy and closed-off response, "Nothing much." But the truth is, your mind is racing with thoughts of him-his touch, his scent, the way he made you feel.

"What about you?" you ask, trying to gauge his thoughts.

With a devilish grin, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I can't stop thinking about the way your pussy clenched around my cock when you came. I also can’t get over how good your ass looked bouncing on my cock.” He whispers, his voice dripping with desire.

As Jeno's words swirl around you, suffocating you with their intensity, you gasp for air, feeling the tight grip of panic clenching your chest. Your fingers tighten around the coffee cup, the ceramic surface offering a fleeting sense of stability amidst the whirlwind of sensations. Each breath feels strained, as if the air itself has thickened, making it difficult to draw in the oxygen your body craves. Despite the burning embarrassment prickling at your skin, you cling to the mundane act of sipping your drink, a feeble attempt to anchor yourself.

Sunwoo speaks up from beside you, thankfully shifting the atmosphere with a different topic. "Guys... we need to host auditions for a new lead singer," he announces, clicking off his phone before flicking his eyes between you and Eric, signalling the urgency of the situation.

Nayoung can't help but burst into laughter at Sunwoo's statement. "He's fucked Ryujin so hard she found her way out of the band," she jokes, her comment cutting through the seriousness with her typical irreverence. Her laughter echoes around the group, lightening the mood and drawing a collective chuckle that momentarily dispels the heaviness in your heart.

──────────────────────────────

You’re all in the campus’ performance hall, Spotlights illuminate the stage, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden floors and plush red curtains. You, Sunwoo, and Eric are perched in the judges’ area, positioned strategically to catch every nuance of the performances.

Suddenly, Nayoung rushes into the room with a tray of four steaming coffees, her hurried steps echoing against the polished floor. “I’m sorry I’m late! I’m here now, let’s start!” She shouts as a strand of hair escapes from her bun, framing her delicate features in a soft halo of morning light. Her beauty is striking, even in the early hours of the day. There's an effortless elegance to her appearance, from the way her eyes sparkle with warmth to the curve of her lips as she smiles apologetically.

Nayoung wasn’t a member of the band, and she never had been nor probably ever would be, but she relished the opportunity to judge people, which explained why she always ended up as a judge alongside you, Sunwoo, and Eric.

“Guys, the auditions are starting,” Eric says.

The first person walks in, accompanied by two others. “I thought we were auditioning for a female lead vocalist?” you mumble, confused. But Eric just claps his hands together, excited for what’s to come.

“We’re the Foreign Swaggers,” one of the guys introduces the group name.

“Guys, you know we’re looking for one female lead vocalist, and you guys—” You’re interrupted by Mark Lee, known for being one of the best students in the music department. You know him, you’ve seen him at some parties, he’s friends with Donghyuc who was friends with Sunwoo. Mark was notorious for his talent and popularity among the girls.

“Alright, guys, what’s up,” Mark starts, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun adds, trying to sound confident.

“What’s up,” Johnny chimes in, his tone more relaxed.

“We’re the, uh— we’re the, uh— Foreign Swaggers,” Mark stutters, trying to maintain composure.

“So, yeah, uh— Johnny’s gonna rap,” Johnny declares.

“I lived in America for four years! That’s why I’m here, man!” Jaehyun boasts.

The audition starts with a beatbox, followed by some mediocre rapping at best. They’re awkward, but there’s a certain charisma about them.

However, Sunwoo cuts them off as soon as their performance ends, not even bothering to judge them. “That’s it, you can go now.” he says hastily, signalling for them to leave.

You were about eight people in, and no one had impressed you yet. No one seemed to fit the image of your band, and you were starting to lose hope. Then, Hwang Yeji walked in, and your eyes lit up, though not as much as Eric and Sunwoo’s. You side-eye them and roll your own eyes, especially as you catch a glimpse of something very familiar in Sunwoo’s eyes—the fire and hunger.

Yeji introduces herself sweetly, with the most beautiful smile and laugh. You hope she can sing well, as visually she matches the image of your band very well. You let out a sigh of relief when she does sing, and she’s really good. Her voice is perfect, and you can already see her in the band.

“I’ve found the voice of an angel. I’ve fallen in love,” Sunwoo breathes heavily, his typical behaviour not surprising you in the least.

“You should view the auditions objectively. You shouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of your judging,” you say, smirking.

“Shut up,” he replies hastily, unable to deny the truth in your words.

You’re taken aback by the look of genuine admiration in Sunwoo’s eyes. Could it be that he’s actually serious about his feelings for once? You’ve known Sunwoo long enough to recognize when he’s being sincere, and this time, it feels real.

After Yeji finishes her audition, a serene silence envelops the room, filled with admiration and appreciation for her talent. Sunwoo seems ready to offer her the role of lead vocalist on the spot, but you intervene before he can speak.

“Wait,” you interject, ignoring Sunwoo’s eagerness and turning to Yeji with a warm smile. “There’s one more person who wants to audition. Let’s hear her out before making a decision.”

You can feel Sunwoo’s frustration, but you know it’s important to give everyone a fair chance, even if Yeji seems like the perfect fit.

Your heart sinks when you see who walks in —it's Arin. An unsettling feeling washes over you, stirring up uncertainty that you try to push away, but it lingers like a stubborn shadow. She's so radiant and beautiful, exuding an energy and light that's hard to ignore. You understand why she's so popular; she's captivating in every way.

Of course you know who she is—someone in the year above, who seems to have a magnetic pull on everyone around her. All the guys are crazy for her, drawn to her like she's the centre of gravity in the room. And it's not just the guys; even Sunwoo and Eric seem infatuated by her presence, their eyes lingering on her like she's the only thing in the room.

She's sweet, with an infectious laugh and a presence that commands attention. She's the girl every guy wants to fuck and every girl wants to be.

And apparently, she has a beautiful singing voice too?

She's good. Really good. Her voice is like an angel's, filling the room with a captivating melody that earns her instant appreciation from everyone present.

You scoff and shoot a sideways glance at Sunwoo, muttering, "She's so bad."

He just smirks and shakes his head, clearly disagreeing with you. "She's definitely not," Eric chimes in, his voice laced with a dreamy quality that seems to be a common affliction among the guys in the room. Arin has this effect on every single one of them.

Nayoung smirks knowingly and teases, "I thought you didn't care about Jeno fucking her?"

You huff in response, denying any emotional investment in the matter. But no matter how much you try to defend yourself, it's clear that they all think your judgement is clouded by the rumour about Jeno and Arin.

Sunwoo remarks, "You should view the auditions objectively... You shouldn't let personal feelings get in the way of your judgement," he smirks, a reference to your previous words.

──────────────────────────────

As the crisp autumn evening settled over the campus, the university art gallery was abuzz with activity, its warmly lit interior casting a welcoming glow through the expansive glass doors. Tonight, it hosted the annual student art exhibition, a highlight for the arts department and an event that drew a crowd of eager students, local art enthusiasts, and faculty alike.

You, dressed in a favourite band tee that had seen better days and comfortable, well-worn jeans, felt a surge of excitement as you stepped into the gallery with Nayoung at your side. Your casual outfit, coupled with a pair of sturdy sneakers, was perfect for an evening spent on your feet, moving from one display to another.

As you adjusted the strap of your camera bag and pulled out your camera, the bustling art gallery buzzed around you. “Smileee,” you called out to Nayoung, who obliged with a fake grin and a thumbs-up. You rolled your eyes, she did not want to be here. She looked hot though, styled in her black mini dress and brown leather jacket

As you entered the gallery, the air was filled with the murmurs of impressed spectators and the soft, jazzy undertones of background music that added a sophisticated touch to the evening. The exhibition space was vibrant and packed, walls adorned with an array of artworks that ranged from abstract paintings to complex sculptures and daring installations.

Your eyes widened with genuine appreciation as you took in the scene. The exhibition was a canvas of creativity, each piece telling its own vivid story. Driven by your innate love for art, you began to ramble enthusiastically about the techniques and hidden meanings behind various artworks, pointing out the bold strokes and intricate details that might escape the untrained eye.

Nayoung, trailing slightly behind, matched your pace but not your enthusiasm. Her responses were polite, nodding along and offering the occasional “that’s really cool” or “wow,” though it was clear that her interest lay more in the social than the artistic aspects of the event. Despite this, she was there for you, you had dragged her here.

As you delved deeper into the nuances of a particularly captivating installation—a mixed media piece that utilised recycled materials to comment on consumer culture—Nayoung’s attention occasionally drifted. She was more absorbed in scanning the crowd, perhaps looking for familiar faces or simply taking in the overall ambiance.

You couldn’t help but launch into detailed explanations as you moved from one artwork to another, your enthusiasm bubbling over. “See the way the light is captured here?” you pointed out, gesturing toward a series of dramatic black-and-white photographs that explored the interplay of shadow and light. “It’s all about the angle and timing, which is something we discuss a lot in my music composition classes, except we’re capturing sound, not light.”

Nayoung trailed beside you, her interest clearly elsewhere. With a drink already in hand, thanks to the small flask she'd pulled from the pocket of her leather jacket, she took occasional sips, her other hand frequently fishing her phone out to check messages or scroll through her feed.

"Do you ever get tired of talking about brush strokes?" Nayoung teased, an exasperated but playful tone in her voice as she watched you analyze yet another painting. Her question hung in the air, punctuated by her taking another discreet sip from her flask.

Throughout the evening, Nayoung seemed more intent on steering the conversation away from art and towards more personal topics. "So, let's talk about Jeno," she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You sigh inwardly, already anticipating where this conversation is headed. "No," you reply bluntly, hoping to steer the discussion away from your private life.

But Nayoung is undeterred. "Yes!" she insists, her tone teasing.

"So, in what position did he fuck you? How big is his cock?" she asks with a playful smirk, taking a sip of her drink.

You can't help but laugh at her audacity. "Nayoung, you've literally had sex with him. You know how big his cock is," you retort, rolling your eyes.

She tuts mockingly. "Who said I was looking?"

You shoot her a skeptical look. "If I tell you, will you finally leave me alone?" you challenge.

Nayoung nods eagerly, but you can tell she's not entirely sincere in her promise.

"We did it in missionary," you lie smoothly, not wanting to divulge too much. "And his cock? It's about two inches bigger than Eric's," you add truthfully.

Nayoung nearly chokes on her drink, her eyes widening in surprise. "It's that big?" she exclaims, clearly impressed.

You lean in closer, whispering, "You know how big it is! You fucked him too!"

Despite her promise to drop the subject, Nayoung continues to pester you, her questions becoming more probing with each passing moment.

"How was it? Did you feel anything when having sex with him? Anything deeper?" she inquires, her gaze fixated on you with an intensity that makes you uncomfortable.

You shake your head firmly, maintaining your composure. "Absolutely nothing," you lie smoothly, not yet ready to divulge the details of your encounter with Jeno-especially not the parts that still make your heart race just thinking about them.

While you were mid-sentence, breaking down the complexity of an abstract painting that caught your artistic eye, a movement at the entrance abruptly halted your train of thought. Jeno strolled in, he was impossible to miss, He had shifted the room's focus. He moved with an unassuming confidence that drew looks from every corner, a quiet testament to his presence. You watched, just for a moment, as all eyes flickered toward him.

He wore a plain white tee that seemed to accentuate his toned figure, paired with jeans that fit just right. His hair, effortlessly swept back, gave him a look that was both polished and carefree. Jaemin, his best friend, was by his side, the light catching his blonde hair, a relaxed figure in his hoodie. But it was Jeno who had stolen the moment, his mere presence causing your heart to skip a beat and your words to stumble into silence.

Reacting instinctively, you reached out and clasped Nayoung’s arm, diverting her mid-chuckle into a quick detour. “Let’s check out the sculptures,” you said hastily, feeling the weight of Jeno’s unintended intrusion tighten around your chest as you steered both yourself and Nayoung toward a distant corner of the gallery.

Concealed behind the angular shadows of a towering metal sculpture, you and Nayoung stood secluded from the gallery’s hum. Its cool, hard surface offered a strange comfort, a silent ally amidst the turmoil within you. Nayoung’s face, usually so composed, now mirrored concern. “Why are you hiding from him? Haven’t you talked to Jeno since that night?” Her voice, though soft, seemed to fill the entire space around you.

Leaning against the sculpture’s chill offered a small reprieve, its coldness a stark counter to the warmth flushing your skin. Words felt like distant things, hard to grasp, harder to voice. You responded not with words but with a faint shake of your head, the motion carrying the weight of unspoken confessions.

“Y/N, this is messy,” Nayoung said, her voice layered with a mix of reprimand and concern.

“He messages me,” you found your voice, albeit shaky, “tries to talk to me, to come up to me on campus.” The words felt heavy, laden with a confusion that seemed to cloud your thoughts.

Nayoung’s smile flickered with a glimmer of hope. “That’s good, right? It means he’s interested in you,” she reasoned, her smile fading into a frown as she caught the turmoil twisting your features.

You sucked in a breath, feeling trapped in the sculpture’s cast shadow, a dim refuge from the gallery’s soft lights. “I don’t know how to face him,” you admitted, your whisper barely rising above the hush of distant conversations. “That night was overwhelming, and now… now I’m just lost.”

“Why are you so scared if that night meant nothing to you?” Nayoung probed gently, her fingers interlacing with yours in a solid, warm grip.

You covered your face with your free hand, rubbing at your eyes as if you could wipe away the uncertainty. “I don’t know what it meant. I’m confused. It’s all just so intense, so much for my heart… I’ve never felt this way, and it’s terrifying.” The words tumbled out, a chaotic mix of fear and longing. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him.”

“I’m scared, Nayoung. I’m scared of what I’m feeling, of what all this might mean.” Your words hung suspended, resonating with the same enduring presence as the art around you.

Nayoung didn’t release your hand; instead, she drew you closer, a pillar of support in the echoing vastness of the gallery. “It’s okay to be scared,” she assured you. “But hiding here won’t answer any of your questions. You can’t let fear hold you back.” Her encouragement was soft but firm, a gentle push toward the clarity you so desperately needed.

You nod. As you step backward, ready to leave the comfort of the sculpture’s shadow, your movement is abruptly halted by a solid, unexpected barrier. A quick gasp escapes your lips as you spin around, words of apology already forming, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Your voice trails off when you see it’s Jeno you’ve bumped into. His presence, so close and unexpected, sends a jolt through you that’s part shock, part something more electric. For a split second, you’re frozen.

He stands mere inches away, his expression initially mirroring the tired detachment you’ve seen in Nayoung’s eyes tonight, suggesting he’d rather be anywhere but here. But the moment his gaze meets yours, something shifts. There’s a flicker of something more intense, more profound.

Your eyes lock with his for a fleeting second, and in that brief exchange, his look deepens, becoming electric and unreadable. The air around you thickens as if charged by this sudden connection, leaving your heart pounding not just with nervousness but with a bewildering rush of emotions that you can’t quite decipher. His presence envelops you, intense and palpable, drawing you into a moment you both seem reluctant to break, yet overwhelmed to sustain.

Jeno, dressed casually but looking every bit the effortless figure who haunts your quieter moments, just smiles slightly. His voice, when he speaks, is soft and carries an undertone of warmth that only adds to your turmoil. “It’s a beautiful sculpture, isn’t it?” he comments, his eyes lingering on yours, trying to capture your gaze.

You notice the slight upturn of his lips—a knowing, almost teasing smirk that suggests he might understand more than he lets on. But you can’t hold his gaze, your eyes darting away after a fleeting, charged moment of eye contact that sends an array of sensations coursing through you. It’s too much, too intense—every nerve ending seems to scream, your skin tingling from the nearness of him.

With a rushed, barely audible excuse, you stutter, “Sorry, gotta get to the lecture!!!” Your hand shoots out, finding Nayoung’s, and without waiting for a response, you pull her away from Jeno and the sculpture, eager to escape into the crowd. Nayoung follows without protest, casting an amused glance back at Jeno, who stands there watching you leave, his expression unreadable.

As you navigate through the throng of people, your pulse racing, you don’t dare look back. The brief interaction leaves you with a flood of emotions you’re not ready to dissect—not here, not now. Nayoung remains silent beside you, her presence a comforting constant as you put distance between yourself and Jeno. Your escape feels both like a victory and a defeat, the complex emotions swirling inside you mirroring the intricate artworks you leave behind.

Nayoung’s laughter echoed in the otherwise quieting atmosphere of the lecture hall as you both settled into the back left corner. “Would you stop?” you whispered harshly, crossing your arms and sinking lower into your seat, though a secret smile tugged at your lips for securing such a strategically secluded spot.

“I’m just happy we got the best seats in the house,” you added with a pout, pretending to sulk yet relieved by the thought that Jeno wouldn’t easily spot you here.

The hall gradually filled, the buzz of conversation growing as students gathered. Your heart skipped a beat when Jeno walked in, accompanied by Jaemin. They took seats a few rows ahead, seemingly unaware of your presence. You let out a silent breath, hoping to remain unnoticed.

Professor Doyoung, widely recognized as the best arts professor at the university, began the lecture with his usual charismatic flair. Today’s session was special—a celebration of student achievements, spotlighting various art pieces and sculptures. The room dimmed slightly as the projector lit up with images of student artwork.

Your pulse quickened when a photo of your own creation appeared on the screen. The room filled with murmurs of admiration, but your own heart pounded for an entirely different reason. “And here we have an outstanding piece by one of our brightest students,” Professor Doyoung announced, his voice filling the lecture hall with enthusiastic approval. “This innovative work was created by none other than Y/N, whose artistic vision and execution have consistently impressed us.”

As he showered you with praise, detailing the depth and creativity behind your work, a sense of pride mixed with intense embarrassment washed over you. It was meant to be an anonymous exhibition, yet here was Professor Doyoung, breaking protocol because he believed certain students deserved recognition for their efforts.

While you appreciated the acknowledgment, your cheeks burned hotter when Professor Doyoung, spotting you trying to sink further into your seat, pointed you out to the entire auditorium. “Let’s give a round of applause to Y/N, sitting right at the back there, for such a brilliant contribution!”

The audience’s applause thundered in your ears, but it was the sound of bodies shifting and heads turning that heightened your anxiety. Jeno turned around, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on you. When your gazes locked, a silent jolt of electricity shot through you. His expression transformed from casual interest to a more intense, unreadable look, tinged with a hint of a smile that seemed both knowing and curious.

The world around you seemed to blur into the background as the two of you maintained eye contact. The warmth of his smile, despite the distance, sent waves of nerves dancing up your spine, mixing with a thrill that you couldn’t quite suppress. You felt exposed yet oddly seen, the kind of visibility that made your stomach twist yet somehow left you wanting more.

You averted your gaze first, looking down at your lap as your face heated up. Beside you, Nayoung nudged you gently, a silent gesture of support—or perhaps encouragement to acknowledge the connection you obviously had with Jeno, one that seemed to extend beyond mere academic coincidences.

The lecture continued, but your mind was elsewhere, caught up in the whirlwind of emotions triggered by that brief yet impactful exchange of looks with Jeno. Your heart still raced, not just from the public praise but because of him.

After the lecture, you spot Jaemin lingering near the front of the room. Despite sharing a few classes, your interactions had always been casual—pleasant exchanges about coursework and occasional class discussions. Jaemin was known for his calm demeanor, a stark contrast to Jeno’s more dynamic presence. Now, with your recent involvement with Jeno weighing on your mind, you find yourself curious about their friendship. They seemed like opposites yet clearly got along so well, everyone knew they were best friends, brothers even. Perhaps it was true what they said about opposites attracting.

As you’re methodically packing up your things, Jaemin approaches with a gentle ease that diminishes the room’s formality. His presence feels like a quiet reassurance in the noisy aftermath of the lecture.

“He went ahead, you don’t need to worry,” Jaemin says softly, noticing the tightness in your expression. It catches you off-guard how observant he is, how he seems to catch even the subtlest shifts in your mood.

You gulp, a bit flustered by his insight. “I—”

“I think he’s really intrigued by you, you know,” Jaemin continues, his voice warm and encouraging. “I don’t know why, but he seems genuinely interested in getting to know you better. You always seem to run the other way, though.” His smile is gentle, nudging you towards reconsideration without pushing too hard. “Maybe you should give him a chance; Jeno’s actually a decent guy.”

“I’m not intentionally trying to avoid him,” you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. “He just… makes me nervous.”

Jaemin’s chuckle is soft, a sound that spreads calm. He reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder for a fleeting moment, grounding you. “He makes everyone nervous at first. You get used to it,” he reassures, his touch light but affirming. “Who knows, you might even start to like it. I know I like it.” You can’t help but giggle when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I know it might seem like he’s intense, and yeah, he’s serious when it comes to things and people he cares about. But he’s also really chill once you get to know him better. He’s the kind of person you’d want in your corner,” he explains, his tone earnest.

“He doesn’t just give his attention and effort to anyone,” Jaemin continues, his eyes locking with yours to emphasise his point. “So don’t take it for granted or push him away. You might lose his interest forever, and trust me, you’d miss it. He’s someone you really want in your life. He's a really good guy..”

His comforting grin lingers as he steps back, giving you space to process his words. With a friendly nod, Jaemin walks away, leaving a trail of thoughtfulness behind him. His advice resonates with you, stirring a mix of anticipation and resolve. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to confront your nerves and see where things with Jeno could lead.

──────────────────────────────

The crisp morning air nips at your skin as you traverse the campus pathway, lost in the world curated by your playlist. With every sip of your coffee, you feel the warmth spread through you, contrasting with the coolness of the day. Your steps are unhurried, a rare moment of solitude embraced amidst the hustle of your life.

Suddenly, a gentle tap on your shoulder pulls you from your reverie. You pull out one earbud, turning to see Jeno standing behind you. Despite the flutter in your stomach, you remember Jaemin’s words: Don’t push him away. Taking a deep breath, you muster a smile, not just any smile, but one that reaches your eyes, showing Jeno you’re here in this moment with him.

“Hey,” Jeno greets, his voice smooth, drawing a line of warmth up your spine despite the autumn chill.

You manage a nod, trying to appear composed. “Hi, Jeno,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. His gaze is intense, and you find yourself unable to meet his eyes directly, focusing instead slightly over his shoulder.

As you walk together, Jeno’s voice breaks through the crisp air. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last month now…”

Every attempt he made to bridge the gap between you was met with your nervous laughter or hasty excuses. His presence—so wanted yet so overwhelming—left you fumbling, your words tripping over your rapid heartbeat. But today you would handle things differently.

Or so you wished.

His voice seemed to blend into the background, making it difficult to focus. “Are you free this weekend?” he asked, a simple question that felt loaded with possibilities. Is he asking you out? Or is this just casual?

The campus around you felt unusually constricted as pairs of eyes turned to follow your interaction, their stares prickling uncomfortably on your skin. The judgmental looks from passing students, especially from girls who eyed you with undisguised envy or disdain, made it challenging to concentrate on Jeno’s words.

Jeno closes the distance between you with a measured step, his presence enveloping you in a subtle but undeniable warmth. His fingers tuck a stray hair behind your ear, the contact tender yet anchoring, pulling you back to the moment. His eyes lock onto yours, his voice a soothing whisper, “Just ignore them. Just look at me.”

Your breath catches, the simple command resonating deeply as you murmur, “But they’re all looking at me. At us,” your voice trembles in the air.

He smiles softly, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks as he holds your face with a careful, affectionate grip. “And I want you to look at me,” he insists, his gaze steady and piercing, radiating a calm confidence that makes your heart race yet somehow reassures you.

As Jeno's hands gently cradle your face, his thumbs softly caressing your skin, you find yourself nodding as he tells you to focus on him… The steady throb of your heart begins to calm, settling into a rhythm that feels less frantic, more in tune with the moment. Your eyes lock with his, and as you let yourself truly look at him, all fears begin to melt away. You lean slightly into the warmth of his touch, the tension in your body easing as you allow yourself to be anchored by his presence.

“Are you coming to Sunwoo’s party tonight?” he asks casually, his hands resting gently on your shoulders.

You give a small nod. “Maybe.”

“I hope you’re there,” he says, his tone sincere. “It gives me a reason to go.” He’s always so honest.

“Eric will be dealing, are you sure that’s not reason enough?”

He smirks. “Close second.”

──────────────────────────────

“It’s too much,” Yeji giggles shyly, running her hands over the dress she was going to wear tonight, in awe of the beautiful decorations and sparkles.

Her eyes moved to the brand new microphone Sunwoo had gifted her to congratulate her for winning the auditions and becoming the newest member of the band. “It's definitely too much, I didn't anticipate or expect any of this.”

You shake your head. “It’s not too much, you deserve it all.”

“Plus the dress is stunning, you’ll look beautiful,” you add. The dress was quite out there, adorned with sparkles and glitters. Yeji was definitely going to stand out and be the star of the show. “How did you get a dress as beautiful as that?” you ask.

“I don’t know… it just turned up to my door with a note telling me to wear it!” she responds.

“Sunwoo,” you respond immediately.

You both laugh. You know why he’s throwing this party randomly, with no warning or planning. It’s a surprise party for her, celebrating her joining the band. Sunwoo is welcoming her.

“I bet he buys dresses for all his girls,” she rolls her eyes as she slips into the dress.

“No, he doesn’t,” you say matter-of-factly, shaking your head in astonishment. Yeji was different for him. You could already feel that.

Applying the prettiest shade of pink to her cheeks, you couldn’t help but admire how blush looked so beautiful on Yeji. It complemented her complexion perfectly, adding a touch of radiance to her already glowing skin. As she examined herself in the mirror, a smile lit up her face, and you knew she was going to steal the show tonight.

“Aren’t you going?” she questioned, her eyes glancing over your pyjamas and messy bun.

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of exhaustion and a slight headache creeping in. “I don’t feel well,” you admitted, hoping she’d understand.

“No, you have to come. I’ll be nervous all there by myself,” she pleaded, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

Despite your reluctance, you couldn’t resist her puppy-dog eyes and the genuine warmth in her voice. Yeji had a way of making even the most mundane moments feel special, and you didn’t want to disappoint her.

“You won’t be by yourself,” you assured her with a smile, knowing Sunwoo and Eric would be there to keep her company.

Yeji was a new student, still adjusting to the rhythm of college life, but she had quickly become a familiar presence. Her easygoing nature and infectious enthusiasm had won over the hearts of many, including yours.

But she’s so sweet, and you couldn’t bear to see her disappointed.

“I’ll come,” you relented, knowing that her smile was worth it.

Her eyes lit up with excitement, and she practically bounced off the bed. “We need to get you ready,” she declared, already bustling around the room, gathering clothes and makeup.

As Yeji helps you pick out what to wear, her eyes light up when she spots a particular outfit. “This,” she exclaims, her gaze hungry as she holds up a daringly bold ensemble.

You feel your cheeks flush crimson at the sight of the revealing outfit. “That’s way too much,” you protest, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and excitement at her suggestion.

“But you’ll look so sexy though!” she insists, her excitement infectious as she imagines you rocking the outfit.

Despite your reservations, you can’t deny the thrill of the idea. “I don’t want to draw too much attention…” you murmur, but Yeji is already convincing you otherwise.

In the end, you settle on the cherry blossom pink mini dress she picked out, the soft hue flattering your complexion perfectly. As you change into the outfit, you can’t help but feel a surge of confidence wash over you. You opted for minimal makeup, you wanted to enhance your natural features, and soon you’re both admiring the stunning result in the mirror.

“Your wardrobe is so daring,” Yeji remarks, her eyes scanning through your clothes with awe.

──────────────────────────────

As you step into Sunwoo’s house, a wave of nervousness washes over you despite how familiar you are to this house. It’s practically your second home, yet tonight feels different somehow.

A rush of color and a buzz of activity immediately greet you. You walk through the entryway bathed in vibrant lighting that casts dynamic shadows across the textured, dark-stained wooden walls. The decorations hanging there are bold and modern, each piece making a statement with its bright colours and daring strokes.

Beneath your feet, dark hardwood floors stretch out, absorbing the light and noise, giving the house a grounded, almost intimate feel. In the living area, a group of people lounge on oversized furniture, upholstered in deep, rich tones, chatting over glasses of chilled drinks pulled from stacked ice coolers that blend seamlessly into the decor.

You walk to the backyard where the atmosphere shifts from subdued luxury to a lively party scene. The garden is lit by strategically placed neon lights that highlight the lush greenery with an almost surreal glow. Music pulses in the background, the bassline vibrating softly underfoot.

It was a chaotic blur of vibrant colours, pulsating music, and energetic bodies moving to the rhythm. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol and the haze of cigarette smoke, mingling with the scent of drugs and anticipation.

The sight of so many people, each lost in their own world of intoxication and euphoria, is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Everywhere you look, there are couples making out, friends sharing laughter and secrets, and strangers forging connections in the dimly lit corners of the room.

Amidst the chaos, you catch sight of Sunwoo, his expression dazed and his movements sluggish as he navigates through the crowd. He spots you and stumbles over, enveloping you in a drunken hug. “You actually came!” he slurs, planting a sloppy kiss on your forehead before his attention is quickly diverted to Yeji, already taking her hand and leading her somewhere.

As you weave through the lively crowd, the familiar laughter of Nayoung and Eunji draws you in like a beacon. You break into a wide smile, the tension melting away as soon as you see them, both teetering slightly, drinks in hand, their laughter filling the air.

“Heyyyy!” you shout over the music as you approach, arms open wide. They spot you and immediately stumble forward, nearly spilling their drinks in their excitement.

Eunji, with a tipsy grin, throws her arms around you, pulling you into a wobbly hug. “Oh my god, look at you, gorgeous!” she squeals, squeezing you tight. Nayoung joins in, her arms encircling both of you, her laughter contagious.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Nayoung exclaims, her words slurring just a bit. She steps back to give you a once-over, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Look at you!!!” She whistles, holding your hand above and twirling you around.

As Jaemin’s advice echoes in your mind, you find yourself fully immersed in the party atmosphere. Surrounded by the pulsing lights and thumping bass, you allow yourself to embrace the carefree spirit of the night. You’re a college student—young, pretty, and ready to let loose. If everyone else can dive into the highs of a college party, why shouldn’t you?

One step at a time. You want to take things slow tonight, hoping to eventually join Nayoung and Eunji on the dance floor, dancing and laughing without a care. But for now, you need a few more drinks to help shake off your inhibitions. Sitting beside Eric, who's thankfully keeping you company, you feel a bit more anchored. He hands you a cup filled with your favourite drink—your first for the evening and hopefully the first of many.

"Y/N, I might be going crazy but everyone seems to be staring at you," he whispers, close enough for only you to hear. You hum in response, your eyes scanning the room. He's right. Unlike other nights where you blended into the background, tonight it feels like you're under a spotlight. Is it because of your earlier encounter with Jeno on campus? That thought unsettles you as you realise people had stared then, and they’re obviously staring now.

Not quite drunk enough to completely let go of your inhibitions, you feel the weight of the stares pushing you to the edge. "Let's dance!!!" you suddenly exclaim, seizing Eric's arm and pulling him towards the dance floor where Nayoung and Eunji are already lost in the rhythm. Eric follows, his surprise evident but quickly morphing into enthusiasm as you both join the lively crowd.

You join Nayoung and Eunji on the dance floor, their bodies moving freely to the rhythm of the music. Joining them, the three of you fall into sync, bodies swaying and twirling in a shared rhythm. The energy is infectious, and soon Eric joins in, the four of you forming a tight circle.

Laughter and song blend as you dance, the music enveloping you completely. There’s a moment of pure joy as you all grind against each other, singing at the top of your lungs, the world outside fading away. Tonight, it’s just you, your friends, and the music—nothing else matters.​

The relentless pace of the party begins to wear on you, and you wonder how your fellow students manage this every weekend. As your head starts to spin and a wave of dizziness washes over you, you realize you need a break. Muttering a quick excuse, you make your way to the quieter snacks section to catch your breath and steady yourself.

You smile when you see one of your favourite snacks, content to just munch on it, knowing Sunwoo got it just for you. Suddenly, he appears and checks on you, prompting a playful eye roll from you when you realise he’s been absent for the entire night. He was the host and was normally present but he was clearly occupied with Yeji.

You notice lipstick stains scattered across Sunwoo's neck, prompting a raised eyebrow from you. "You already fucked Yeji? Sunwoo, she hasn't even been in the band for a month—"

Sunwoo interrupts, "I haven't fucked her yet. We're just chilling in my room."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Really?"

He smiles, nodding. "Yeah. I want to take it slow. I really like her."

Sunwoo puts his arm around your back, concern evident in his voice as he asks, "Are you okay? You look tired. You can go and rest in one of the spare rooms; if anyone's fucking there, I'll kick them out."

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, "You'll walk in on them having sex?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, but you barely register his response. Your attention is suddenly captured by someone else.

Jeno.

He's here, partying, and he looks hot. Your eyes instantly gravitate towards him, taking in his appearance. Jeno is wearing a fitted button down shirt that manages to accentuate his muscles and toned chest, a chain dangling from his neck, adding to his appeal.

You’re engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions, your heart somersaulting within your chest, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. A nervous energy courses through your veins, setting your skin ablaze with a feverish heat, as if every nerve ending is on high alert, tingling with anticipation. Despite your attempts to remain composed, you can’t shake the feeling of butterflies fluttering wildly in the pit of your stomach, a chaotic dance of excitement and nervousness.

He’s in his element, downing shots with ease, his movements fluid and effortless. Girls press against him, grinding against him, each one vying for his attention. Laughter fills the air and his smile makes your heart twist, his presence is so magnetic and captivating. Despite the chaos around him, he’s the calm in the storm, his confidence unwavering as he basks in the attention of those around him.

The party’s intensity overwhelms you as much as you don’t want to admit it. You can’t help but feel suffocated amidst the pounding music and throngs of people. You need a break. So, you slip away to one of the rooms in Sunwoo’s vast house, seeking solace from the chaos. You were sure no one would find you here, Sunwoo’s house was massive so it was easy to hide away.

This dimly lit room on the lowest floor is your sanctuary, a hidden refuge from the party’s noise. Sinking onto the plush couch, you find comfort in its soft cushions. Closing your eyes, you let out a sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift from your shoulders.

Surrounded by silence, your thoughts fill the space. Reflecting on the evening, you wish you could shed your self-consciousness, to join the fun without fear of judgement. But anxiety holds you back, trapping you in doubt.

Taking a deep breath, you try to let go. In this quiet room, you find peace, if only for a moment, amidst the chaos outside.

Parties always felt like too much for you. The noise, the crowds, the energy—it all overwhelmed you. You'd stand there awkwardly, like a wallflower, while everyone else seemed to thrive in the chaos. You wished you could just let loose, have fun without worrying so much.

The door creaks open, breaking the silence of the empty room. Startled, you look up to see Jeno standing there, his presence filling the space with an unexpected intensity. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, time seems to stand still as the connection between you sparks to life. You feel a flutter in your chest, an electrifying sensation that makes your breath catch in your throat. Unable to hold his gaze, you quickly look away, feeling a rush of heat flood your cheeks.

As Jeno steps into the room, his energy is different from the chaotic atmosphere of the party. It’s composed, calm, yet brimming with an underlying intensity that sends shivers down your spine. There’s something unspoken in the air, a silent understanding that hangs between you, pulling you closer despite the distance.

He takes a seat beside you, and when you steal a glance at him, you find his eyes already locked onto yours. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt of electricity through you, and you can’t help but feel drawn to him, as if there’s an invisible thread connecting you both.

As his gaze bores into yours, it feels like he’s peeling away the layers of your soul, seeing you for who you truly are. It’s intense, electric, sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire deep within. His eyes hold a mixture of curiosity, desire, and a hint of something more profound, leaving you breathless and longing for more.

In a soft voice that sends tingles down your spine, he asks, “Why aren’t you enjoying yourself? Why did you come?” His words are laced with concern, genuine and caring, yet there’s an underlying tone of desire that makes your heart race.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I came for my friends, but I already regret it… I don’t know why I can’t let myself have fun, I really don’t know… I tried to let loose but I just can’t.” Your voice trails off, filled with uncertainty and self-doubt.

His response is like a bolt of lightning, unexpected and thrilling. “That’s a shame… The prettiest girl here tonight should be enjoying herself,” he says, his words dripping with charm and confidence. The way he looks at you, coupled with his bold statement, sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

Feeling a mixture of surprise and desire, you meet his gaze head-on, your eyes locking in a silent exchange filled with unspoken longing. “I-I…” you stutter, unable to form coherent words as his proximity overwhelms you. “I… thank you,” you manage to whisper, your cheeks flushing with heat as you avert your gaze, feeling his intense presence enveloping you like a warm embrace.

“But I’m definitely not the prettiest girl here tonight, not even close. Have you seen Yeji? Or Nayoung and Eunji? Or Karina? I even saw you dancing with her, and I don’t blame you if you left with her tonight because she’s breathtaking and—” Your words tumble out in a rush, cheeks flushing crimson as you realise how much you’ve said. Fortunately, he cuts you off with a forward tone, sending your heart racing again.

“You’re prettier than all of them,” he declares, his words laced with confidence and desire.

“Why aren’t you partying right now? Did you follow me here?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him. His chuckle sends shivers down your spine as he shakes his head. “I was partying, then I saw you and realised you were here. I saw Sunwoo with you and got distracted. I didn’t follow you, I just wanted to find a room that no one would be in, and that’s how I came here…” His words hang in the air, leaving you speechless and breathless.

As he moves closer, you feel your pulse quicken, his presence overwhelming yet comforting. “Why can’t you look me in the eyes?” he asks softly, his fingers gently lifting your chin to meet his gaze. You try to avert your eyes, but his touch guides your focus back to him.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” you finally muster the courage to whisper, the intensity of his gaze leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“Like what?” he replies, his tone smug yet enticing, as if he’s enjoying the effect he has on you.

“Like you’ve seen me naked,” the words spill out, unfiltered and honest, hanging between you in the charged air. It feels like a confession, a secret desire laid bare, but instead of recoiling, he leans in closer, a smirk playing on his lips.

Without a word, he closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a heated passion that sends sparks flying. His lips are warm and demanding against yours, moulding perfectly to fit as if they were made to kiss yours. The taste of him is intoxicating, a heady mix of brown sugar and whiskey that ignites a fire within you. Your hands instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his soft hair as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

There's a primal hunger in the way he kisses you, a raw, animalistic need that leaves you breathless and wanting more. His tongue dances with yours in a tantalising rhythm, exploring every crevice of your mouth as if he's trying to imprint himself on you.

Moans escape your lips as the kiss grows more fervent, the passion between you reaching a fever pitch. With a low growl, Jeno's hands roam over your body, tracing every curve and contour with deliberate intent. His touch ignites a fire within you, sending shivers down your spine as his fingers trail up and down your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

You can feel the heat between your bodies intensifying, the urgency of desire driving you closer together. As he pulls you onto his lap, you straddle him eagerly, the hardness of his arousal pressing against you, a potent reminder of the passion between you.

With each movement, Jeno grinds against you, his hips rocking in perfect synchrony with yours, creating a rhythm that sets your heart racing. The friction between your bodies sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building the intensity of your desire with every touch. His hands guide your movements, urging you to grind against him with increasing urgency

"Good girl," he whispers against your ear, his voice husky with desire, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. His words fuel the fire burning between you, igniting a primal hunger that demands to be sated.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning with urgency while still grinding against him, your ass meeting his clothed thighs with every bounce. His hands grip the flesh underneath your dress, and you feel the tension in the air as you both lose yourselves in the moment. With a swift motion, his shirt is off, discarded in the heat of the passion that envelops you both.

As you look into his eyes, you see the same emotions reflected — lust, longing, want and need. You're consumed by the desire to pleasure him, to take him to the heights of ecstasy and beyond. With a primal urge coursing through your veins, you drop to your knees before him.

As you look up at him, a playful and innocent smile dancing on your lips, he groans in response, his reaction uncontrolled and raw. His moans escape him in a series of loud, guttural sounds, each one filled with the urgency of his desire and the pleasure coursing through him.

With a confident hand, you unzip his jeans, anticipation building with each tug of the zipper, until they're open and his arousal is straining against the fabric of his boxers. Pressing open-mouthed kisses to the fabric covering his cock, you revel in the feeling of his hardness beneath your lips, the heat of his desire seeping through the fabric. His reaction is immediate, a guttural groan escaping him as he feels your warm breath against his skin, the promise of pleasure tantalisingly close.

With a wicked grin, you tease him further, nipping at the edge of his boxers before slowly sliding them down, revealing his throbbing length in all its glory. The sight of him, hard and ready for you, only fuels your own desire, igniting a hunger that demands to be sated.

"You're driving me insane," he growls, his voice thick with desire as he locks eyes with you, the intensity of the moment igniting a fire between you. "Now, are you gonna suck my cock like the good girl you are?"

With a smirk playing on his lips, he teases you with his cock, tracing the tip along your parted lips. He grips his hardness firmly, using it to lightly slap against your eager mouth, the sensation sending shivers of excitement down your spine. Your mouth hangs open, ready and waiting for him, aching to feel him fill you completely.

With a hungry urgency, you take him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around him as you sink down onto his hardness. You touch each other all over, your hands exploring his body while his fingers tangle in your hair,

Your head bobs rhythmically, your mouth working him with skill and determination, each movement eliciting loud grunts and moans from him. He guides your movements with his hands, urging you to take him deeper, to suck him harder, to drive him to the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, his voice thick with desire as he watches you pleasure him. "Just like that, baby, take me all the way."

You comply eagerly, your hand tight around his length as you stroke and tease him, syncing your movements with the rhythm of your mouth for maximum pleasure. His rough and primal sounds of pleasure fill the air, spurring you on as you work him towards release.

But he wants more, needs more. With a sudden roughness, he tightens his grip on your hair, pulling you closer until your head is arched back, your neck exposed for him to take control. With a makeshift ponytail in his grasp, he guides your movements, angling your head for a better angle as he thrusts into your mouth with renewed intensity.

You surrender to his dominance, letting him guide you as he thrusts deeper into your mouth, each movement driving you both closer to the edge. Your senses are overwhelmed by the taste, the scent, the feeling of him filling you completely, and you revel in the primal pleasure of giving yourself over to him entirely.

"Fuck yes," he growls, his voice a primal command as he takes control. "Suck my cock, just like that. I want to feel you swallow me whole."

His grunts and moans grow louder, more urgent, as he approaches the pinnacle of his ecstasy. With one final, powerful thrust, he releases himself into your waiting mouth,

As you take his cum, you look up at him with eyes that are both desperate and satisfied, your mouth aching for more of him even as you savour the taste of his release. “That’s it, baby.” He strokes your hair softly, relishing in the feeling of you tasting his cum.

He whispers huskily, "take it all, baby... swallow every fucking drop."

You gaze up at him with a mix of desire and vulnerability, your eyes pleading and soft. He feels a primal urge stir deep within him. The sight of you, so desperately wanting, ignites a fire in his veins and a fluttering feeling in his chest.

With a growl of need, he effortlessly lifts you from the floor, his strength undeniable as he pulls you into his arms. Lowering you onto his lap, he holds you close, his hands roaming over your body with possessive urgency. Each touch is rough yet tender, a silent declaration of his desire to claim you as his own. And as he pulls you closer, the heat between you intensifies, the air thick with anticipation and need.

In his hold, your bodies meld together, hips moving in a primal rhythm, grinding against each other with an urgency that borders on desperation. As your lips meet, it's a clash of tongues and teeth, a passionate exchange that leaves you both breathless. Moans and sighs escape between kisses, mingling with the sound of your heavy breathing as you lose yourselves in the moment.

Breaking apart briefly, you pant against his lips, your desire evident in every ragged breath. "I wanna fuck you so badly, please," you whisper, your voice a husky plea.

With a low growl of desire, he meets your gaze, his eyes smouldering with need. "Ride my cock, baby," he commands, his voice rough with urgency as he guides your hips, urging you to take control.

His hands move with purpose as he pulls your dress up to bunch around your waist. His fingers deftly unzip the back of your dress, exposing your back and revealing your breasts, a sight that only fuels his desire further. With a primal need, he leans down to pepper kisses along your exposed neck, his lips trailing a path of fire along your skin.

You feel the pulsating heat of his arousal throbbing against your dripping core as you lower yourself onto his cock. A primal moan escapes his lips as you take him deep inside, your walls greedily enveloping him in a tight, wet embrace. With each downward thrust, you revel in the sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, sending sparks of ecstasy coursing through your veins.

"That’s it," he groans, his voice husky with desire as he grips your hips, urging you to ride him harder. "You take me so well." He praises, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek.

Your bodies move together in a frenzied rhythm, the sound of your skin slapping against his filling the room with the symphony of your passion. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing over you, your senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating heat between you.

Your breasts bounce in front of him, a tempting display that drives him wild with need. He reaches up to grasp them, his fingers kneading and teasing your sensitive flesh, sending bolts of pleasure shooting straight to your core.

"You’re so fucking hot," he growls, his voice rough with urgency as he meets your gaze, his eyes burning with unbridled lust.

With each bounce on his cock, you relentlessly ride him, your bodies colliding with the sound of skin slapping against skin. The sensation of him filling you completely, stretching you to your limits, is overwhelming, a delicious tightness that leaves you breathless with desire.

Jeno can't help but marvel at how impossibly tight you feel around him. Every inch of his cock is enveloped in the warm, velvety embrace of your pussy, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through him with each thrust.

Your walls grip him with an intensity that leaves him breathless, a sensation so exquisite it borders on agonizing. He can feel every twitch, every ripple of your inner muscles as you ride him relentlessly, driving him to the brink of ecstasy with your insatiable hunger.

As the intensity of your rhythm escalates, the impending release becomes undeniable. "Jeno, Jeno," you gasp, your voice barely audible as you cling to him, the sensations overwhelming.

He meets your gaze with a primal hunger, his own need evident in the depths of his eyes. "I know, I know," he growls, his voice strained with urgency. With synchronised movements, you both reach the peak together. Your bodies tremble with the force of your climax, every nerve ending ablaze with pleasure.

"I'm cumming!" you cry out, your voice echoing in the room as your walls clamp down around him, milking him for every drop of pleasure. Jeno's own release follows suit, his moans mingling with yours as he spills himself into you, filling you with his warmth.

As you reach up to gently brush the hair away from his face, you notice a change in Jeno’s demeanour. His features soften, his expression becoming more relaxed and carefree under your touch. An unspoken tension, one that he didn’t even realise he was carrying, was released, leaving him looking more casual and at ease. Under your hold, you can feel the satisfaction coursing through you, you did this to him.

“Are you tired?” he asks sweetly, his voice laced with concern as he looks down at you.

You shake your head with a shy smile, reassured by the warmth in his gaze.

But before you can say anything else, he surprises you by suddenly lifting you effortlessly into his arms, turning you around with a speed that leaves you yelping in surprise. The sudden movement catches you off guard, a rush of exhilaration and excitement coursing through you as you find yourself wrapped up in his embrace.

As Jeno holds you in his arms, you feel a surge of exhilaration mixed with a potent cocktail of desire and trust. His strong and steady embrace grounds you, his warmth enveloping you in a sense of security and anticipation.

“Do you trust me, beautiful?” His whispered words send shivers down your spine. You nod eagerly in response. His kiss on the side of your head ignites a fire within you, fueling your desire and surrender.

Positioning himself behind you, Jeno aligns his throbbing cock with your eager entrance. With a primal growl that resonates deep within your core, he thrusts forward, driving deep into you as he supports your weight effortlessly.

His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding the rhythm of your movements with precision and intensity. Each thrust is a calculated display of strength and control, hitting all the right spots with a relentless pace that leaves you breathless and wanting more.

Despite carrying you, his movements are powerful and controlled, each thrust driving you closer to the edge of ecstasy. The sensation of him deep inside you, his cock driving into you with primal intensity, is overwhelming and intoxicating.

With each thrust, he emphasises his strength, his dominance evident in every movement as he holds you close to him, his body pressed against yours. The slickness of your combined arousal acts as a natural lubricant, enhancing the pleasure of each thrust and driving you both closer to the brink of release.

In the heat of the moment, Jeno’s dominance takes centre stage as his fingers entwine themselves in your hair, firmly grasping a fistful of your locks. With each deliberate tug, he exerts his control over the pace and intensity of your movements, guiding you with a commanding yet sensual grip. As he pulls you closer, you can feel the electric tension building.

With each rhythmic movement, his hand connects with your flesh, delivering a sharp, stinging sensation that ignites your senses. The contrast between the gentle glide of his thrusts and the sudden impact of his hand sends jolts of pleasure racing through your body, heightening the intensity of the experience. Each spank leaves behind a lingering warmth, a tangible reminder of his dominance and your shared desire. As the sensations wash over you, you find yourself surrendering to the raw passion of the moment, lost in the electrifying connection between you and Jeno

With your hands securely pinned behind your back, you’re completely at his mercy, unable to move or resist as he takes you with an intoxicating blend of strength and desire. His muscles ripple with every movement, his veins pulsating with the intensity of his passion. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, his biceps flexing with each powerful thrust. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, his primal energy consuming you as he claims you as his own. In his embrace, you’re lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and surrender, utterly captivated by the raw masculinity of his touch.

He’s crazy. With each sharp slap to your cheek and each forceful tug of your hair, there’s a gentleness in his soft kisses grazing your cheeks. Amidst the heat of passion, he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You find yourself on the brink of ecstasy, your body writhing with desire as you whimper, “Please, I need to cum.”

Jeno’s response is immediate, his deep whisper urging you on, “Cum for me, that’s my good girl.”

With renewed intensity, he thrusts harder, driving you to the edge and beyond. Finally, as the pleasure overwhelms you, you reach the pinnacle of bliss, and with a primal cry, you release, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. In that moment of euphoria, you feel Jeno’s own release, his body tensing against yours as he joins you in ecstasy, the culmination of your shared passion leaving you both breathless and spent.

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Jeno’s house is not what you expected.

The cool evening air brushes against your skin as you approach Jeno’s place, his hand gently holding yours. He’d asked if you were comfortable coming over after the party, and something in his gaze made it impossible to say no. As you near his home, you’re taken aback by its appearance. Unlike the typical cramped student accommodations, Jeno’s house boasts a spacious front porch, its design minimalist but striking with shades of grey and sharp black accents.

“I live with a few other guys… it’s not all mine,” Jeno chuckles, noticing your wide-eyed wonder. His laughter eases the awe that had momentarily seized you.

“Who do you live with?” you ask, glancing around the spacious interior curiously.

Jeno chuckles, leading you through the open layout of the living room. “Jaemin, Renjun, and Donghyuck. Shotaro and Yangyang practically live here too, though. It’s a big place, it never really feels crowded… the more, the better, actually,” he explains, his voice echoing slightly in the expansive space.

He continues, a smirk playing on his lips as he mentions Donghyuck. “Donghyuck can be a real pain sometimes, he’s the one who keeps telling me you’re some Christian virgin but I tell him to shut up and hit him.” He says nonchalantly while you let out giggle. “But he’s one of my best friends. Always keeps things interesting around here.” He laughs softly, shaking his head at some unspoken memory.

“As for Renjun, he’s the quiet, mysterious type. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s reliable, always there when you need him.” He adds thoughtfully.

“Are they your best friends?” you ask, intrigued by the warmth in his voice when he speaks of them.

He nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, they’re the people I’m closest to. We’ve been through a lot together—it’s like having a second family, you know?”

“And Jaemin?” you ask, knowing he was closest to him out of all people

“I love Jaemin.” He responds quickly and surely.

“Awww.” You coo.

Jeno’s expression softens. “Yeah, Jaemin and I go way back. He’s one of those friends who’s seen you at your worst and still thinks the best of you,” he explains with a laugh. “I’ve known him the longest. He has this way of keeping me grounded, especially when things start to feel overwhelming. His voice is so calm and he’s always so understanding, I’ll always be so thankful for him.”

He shifts slightly, his enthusiasm growing as he talks about his friend. “We don’t always have to talk to communicate. All we need to do is look in each other's eyes and we know what the other is thinking.”

He says it so seriously but you can’t help but snort. “That’s incredibly romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, a sign he’s used to that response whenever he speaks about Jaemin.

He takes you inside, then leads you on a brief tour, his hand still warm in yours. “My favourite part, the kitchen,” he announces as you step into a sleek, modern space. The kitchen is a testament to minimalist design, dominated by grey tones with vibrant blue accents that add a playful splash of color. The clean lines and uncluttered surfaces reflect a sense of order and style.

“You cook?” you ask, genuinely surprised by the sophisticated setup.

“Do I cook?” he repeats with a raised eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m the best cook around.”

The confidence in his voice sparks a smile on your face. “You’re gonna have to cook for me one day,” you say, the words slipping out more comfortably than you expected. It feels natural, easy even and you just allow it to happen.

“Yeah, I’ll make it my best work,” he responds, his smile broadening. He looks down at you with a warmth that makes your heart flutter slightly.

As you and Jeno chat comfortably in the kitchen, the sudden sound of footsteps causes you to startle. Before your nerves can fully spike, you realize it’s Jaemin entering the room. He seems nonchalant, sporting headphones and munching on popcorn, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to your presence.

Jaemin’s casual demeanour initially leaves you wondering if this is a common scene for him, witnessing Jeno with company. Jeno, for his part, doesn’t seem surprised or perturbed by his friend’s appearance, reinforcing the depth of their friendship. They’re comfortable around each other, sharing a living space without the constant need to fill it with conversation.

However, the quiet moment shifts as Jaemin finally acknowledges the room. He pulls one earbud out, glancing up from his phone with a mischievous smirk. His eyes flicker between your entwined hands and both your faces, a hint of amusement in his gaze. “Don’t start fucking each other against the countertop. I just cleaned it,” he quips, his tone light but pointed.

Jeno simply rolls his eyes, a small laugh escaping him as he looks at you, unfazed by Jaemin’s comment. “Ignore him,” he advises with a grin, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “He always loves to tease.”​

Some time passes and Jeno leads you to the third floor, to his room. When he pushes open the door, a sense of tranquillity washes over you. The room is meticulously curated, the white walls pristine, exuding an aura of calm and control. Your eyes immediately travel to the bed, high-set with a soft charcoal comforter. Above his bed, an abstract painting commands attention—its tempestuous strokes of blues and greys mirroring the complexity within Jeno himself.

On one side, a sleek desk stands, supporting a high-powered computer with dual monitors. A nearby shelf holds a collection of engineering textbooks and a scattering of eclectic reads, your eyes lighting when you see some of your own favourite books.

The room’s ambiance is carefully controlled, LED strips casting an intentional glow, highlighting the books and illuminating a space that is both a study and a sanctuary. His headphones lie within reach, resting comfortably on its own stand.

As Jeno’s voice breaks the quiet, you realise he’s been watching you take it all in. “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”

You nod but then your smile falters. “I didn’t bring anything —”

Before you can finish, Jeno is pulling out one of his black hoodies, his movements smooth and assured. You accept it with a quiet “thank you,” your fingers brushing against his as you take it.

The moment’s calmness is palpable as you sit on the edge of Jeno’s bed, the comforter cool beneath you. Jeno bends down to retrieve a couple of drinks and snacks from a compact compartment below, something you hadn’t noticed in his room prior. With a fluid motion that suggests familiarity, he pops open your drink using his teeth, his hands full, and hands it to you.

Does he realise how hot that was?

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, turning to face you with the remote in hand.

You shrug playfully, “You choose.” A grin spreads across your face as you hear the faint clicks of him browsing through the movie selections.

As Jeno fiddles with the projector, the soft glow of the screen illuminates the room, casting playful shadows around his minimalist space. You settle more comfortably into his bed, pulling a cushion under your arm.

Your giggle fills the room when you see his choice pop up on the screen— Lemonade Mouth. It’s unexpected, and his reasoning makes you chuckle even more. “Seems fitting to watch the most iconic movie about a band with the hottest and coolest band member I know,” he explains, a teasing tone in his voice.

“It’s an amazing movie,” you whisper, sinking deeper into his bed, drawing the comforter up to your chin. You’re so engrossed in the opening scene that you don’t notice Jeno’s gaze lingering on you, his attention only half on the movie.

The film’s lighthearted humour unexpectedly draws peals of laughter from you, your giggles echoing in the quiet room. It’s endearing to Jeno, how easily you find joy in simple moments.

“Did you guys start your band in detention too?” he jokes, referencing the plot of the movie, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You shake your head, still smiling. “No, we started it because Sunwoo lost a bet. We’ve only been a band for like… less than a year.”

Settling back, he watches you more than the movie, a soft smile playing on his lips as he enjoys your reactions just as much as the film itself. The evening unfolds with a gentle, easy magic, the kind that seems to pause time just for the two of you.

As the characters in Lemonade Mouth rally together for their iconic ‘Determinate’ performance, Jeno chuckles, pointing at the screen. “Can Sunwoo and Eric rap like that?” he asks, genuinely curious yet teasingly.

You laugh, the sound is light and easy. “Both, actually. Especially Sunwoo—he’s surprisingly good. But he can’t ever be serious about it. I swear, half the time, I can’t take him seriously at all, and I can’t believe he’s in a band.”

Jeno’s laughter joins yours, creating a symphony of amusement that fills the room. “That must make rehearsals interesting,” he comments, imagining the scene.

“It’s like managing a group of kids sometimes.” You deadpan, eyes twinkling with the memories of countless rehearsals.

As the movie winds down and the room dims with the soft light of the credits rolling, your eyelids grow heavy. Nestled comfortably under his covers, you find the cosy warmth too inviting, your voice barely above a whisper, “Can I stay here tonight?” You’re already sinking deeper into the cushion of his pillow, the fatigue of the night drawing you closer to sleep.

Jeno’s response comes with a gentle chuckle, warm and reassuring. “Yeah, you can,” he smiles, the softness in his voice making it clear you didn’t even need to ask. As you nestle in, he reaches out, his touch light as he brushes his hand over your cheek. “Don’t you wanna remove your makeup before you sleep?” he asks, his concern tender.

You groan softly. “Can’t be bothered,” you mumble.

Without hesitation, Jeno offers, “I’ll do it for you.” He pulls open a drawer, retrieving cotton pads and makeup remover. His movements pause as his fingers brush over the items—remnants of past routines, he frowns, breathing in deeply before letting it out. Not tonight, not now.

He gently turns your face towards him, ensuring not to disturb you too much as your eyelids flutter in the struggle to stay awake. With care and immense attentiveness, he begins to dab at your face, removing the makeup with strokes so soft they could be mistaken for a caress. Each motion is careful, ensuring not to tug at your skin, his touch as light as air.

“So pretty,” he whispers, his voice a hush in the quiet room. He finds you absolutely breathtaking like this, bare-faced and in his hoodie, resting on his side of the bed. Normally he doesn’t let anyone sleep on his side of his bed, but with you, he decides to make an exception.

Jeno reaches for a spare blanket and pillow, throwing both onto the couch beside his bed but just as he turns to leave, your hand reaches out, catching his wrist with a gentle, yet firm grip, your fingernails embedded in his wrists slightly.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, the softness of your voice masking the intensity of your plea.

He pauses, turning back with a chuckle. “I sleep here all the time, it’s fine,” he assures you, his voice a blend of amusement and comfort.

But tonight, you want him closer. “I want you to stay,”

Jeno sighs, a sound of subtle delight, he can’t argue with that. as he slides into the bed beside you. “You’re kinda on my side of the bed,” he teases, a playful note in his voice that makes you smile in the dimly lit room.

“Come closer then,” you whisper back, shifting to make room and tossing the spare pillow off the bed. Your arms open, inviting him into a more intimate embrace. He obliges without hesitation, his hands finding their way to the small of your back, his fingers trailing along your skin as he pulls you closer, the heat of his breath mingling with yours.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close. The fabric of his shirt is soft under your fingertips, and you trace patterns absentmindedly as you both adjust into a comfortable cuddle. His presence is a calming force, and you feel the earlier tension of the evening begin to dissipate.

The proximity is electrifying yet soothing, with his breath rhythmic and steady against the side of your face. “This is better,” you admit, your voice a soft confession in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. His hand finds its way to your hair, fingers gently sifting through the strands, a touch that sends shivers down your spine.

“Mmm,” you hum in response, content and a little more daring as the night deepens. “I like having you close,” you continue, the words spilling out with a vulnerability that feels right in the moment.

Jeno’s response is a gentle squeeze of his arms around you, pulling you even closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you, his voice a low rumble that you feel rather than hear. His hand trails down your back, settling with a comforting weight that anchors you to the moment, to him.

The morning after, sunlight sneaks through the curtains, painting the sheets in a warm glow. You wake up to find yourself comfortably nestled in Jeno’s arms, his arms secure around you. Is it the bed or his strong embrace making you feel so cozy?

You feel his warm breath on your skin as Jeno leans in to kiss you, his lips hovering just inches from yours. But before he can make contact, you blurt out the question that catches him off guard.

“How did you find fucking me?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He pauses, his lips lingering near yours for a moment before he chuckles softly. “Good morning to you too,” he replies, giving you a quick peck on the lips.

“Was I good?” you press, your heart pounding in your chest.

Jeno plays with your earrings, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Really good,” he admits, his voice husky with desire.

“Really?” you can’t help but sound a bit silly, your insecurities bubbling to the surface.

“There’s a reason I kept calling you my ‘good girl’,” he reassures you, his words sending a flutter of excitement through you.

You giggle at his response, feeling a surge of confidence wash over you. “I mean, who taught you how to suck cock like that?” he teases, wiggling your eyebrows playfully.

“I’m self-taught,” you continue, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “No one needs to teach me.”

He moves his body on top of you, his gaze smouldering with desire. “Do you want to show me what else you’ve learned?” he asks, his voice low and husky with anticipation. His eyes lighting when you nod eagerly.

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You fidget with the hem of Jeno’s hoodie as you descend the stairs, the fabric soft against your skin but heavy with the weight of the night before. Hickeys dot your neck, a visible reminder of the passion that unfolded in the quiet of his room. Jeno follows closely behind, his hand finding the small of your back, a silent assurance as you step into the heart of his home.

The kitchen buzzes with morning activity, the air thick with the scent of coffee and the low hum of conversation. It’s a stark contrast to the serene isolation of Jeno’s bedroom. You’re not prepared for the burst of energy that greets you, but then again, you should have expected it. Jeno’s housemates, a notorious and eclectic group known campus-wide, are gathered around the island, their presence as commanding as their reputations.

Jaemin spots you first, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “Good morning, did you sleep well? Or should I say, fuck well?” he teases, winking at you with a grin that spells trouble.

Donghyuck stands, clapping dramatically as he eyes the marks on your neck. “Oh, look, someone lost their virginity!” he declares, earning a chorus of laughs from the others.

You shoot him an annoyed look, choosing not to engage with his antics. Renjun leans against the counter, a smirk playing on his lips. “Did he fuck you do hard that you couldn’t make a sound? We didn’t hear a peep last night,” he adds, his voice dripping with mock concern.

Despite the barrage of teasing, Jeno remains unfazed. He steps closer, his arm snaking around you, pulling you to his side. His presence is a wall against the playful onslaught. “Ignore them,” he murmurs, his voice low and comforting by your ear, leaving a soft kiss on your cheek.

You feel a tightness in your chest as their chatter swirls around you, the familiarity and ease of Jeno’s friends contrasting sharply with your own nervousness. You cling slightly to Jeno, tightening your grip on his arm. You manage a small smile, avoiding direct eye contact with the group, your gaze flickering between the countertop and the mug you’re now holding.

With a soft touch, he leans down, his breath warm against your ear. "Hey, just take a deep breath, okay? They really like you," he whispers just for you, the reassuring tone blending with the underlying rumble of his voice. He guides you subtly to stand slightly behind him.

You nod, managing a shy smile as you lean into his protective form, feeling the tension begin to ease. The physical closeness, Jeno's body shielding yours, brings a quiet comfort that helps you relax into the moment, the earlier apprehension slowly melting away under his attentive care.

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As the weeks pass, your interactions with Jeno become increasingly frequent and intense. You find yourself actively seeking him out. You’ve spent endless nights in his house, in his room. Endless laughter and soft touches weave between you, gradually building a deeper connection. Days without seeing him leave a noticeable void, highlighting just how integral he has become to your daily life.

Lee Jeno was not what you expected, he was better, he left you breathless. He had effortlessly evolved into a constant presence in your world. His ability to make you laugh and smile becomes a cherished aspect of your days together. You don’t shut up around him; it’s something he wasn’t expecting. He finds it endearing, how much you babble and talk. You simply share every thought and feeling with him — unmasked and raw. It was a massive difference to the shy girl who never used to be able to look him in the eyes.

(You still struggle making direct eye contact with him though).

You don’t know how it happened so quickly, but you begin trusting him and instinctively needing him around before actively realizing it. It was your bodies and minds’ natural response.

In getting to know Jeno, you discover a multitude of shared interests, from music and literature to movies and even Lego sets. Yet, it's the differences that add depth to your connection. Jeno exuded confidence, his outgoing nature and commanding presence drawing you in. He knew how to navigate any situation with ease, always in control and never at a loss for words.

Yet, alongside his confidence was a wild streak that ignited a fire within you. He embraced the thrill of indulging in drugs, drinking, sex and getting high, finding euphoria in the freedom of letting loose. His uninhibited nature was undeniably attractive, adding to the magnetic pull you felt towards him.

Despite his wild side, Jeno displayed a remarkable intellect and dedication to his studies. He approached engineering with a seriousness that spoke to his ambition and drive. Behind his cool exterior lay a focused individual with clear goals and aspirations for the future. This combination of intelligence, ambition, and spontaneity only served to deepen your admiration for him.

You also love when he kisses you.

The entire world melts away in those moments, as his soft lips meet yours in a dance of warmth and affection. Each kiss is filled with smiles and unspoken promises, drawing you closer to him with every tender touch. The closeness you share in those stolen moments is everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more.

It happens often—more often than you would have expected. You find yourselves kissing, making out, lost in each other’s embrace, more frequently than you could have imagined. Yet, despite the overwhelming desire that burns between you, you haven’t been able to take that next step.

Do you want to have sex with him again? Yes, without a doubt. The thought of being intimate with him again sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. But have you been able to? No. And why? The answer eludes you, buried beneath layers of uncertainty and hesitation.

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You meet his eyes through the reflection in the mirror, the anticipation palpable in the charged air between you. His hands trail down the curve of your back. As he zips up the back of your dress and places your necklace around your neck, his whispered words send a wave of bliss coursing through you.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into your ear, arching your neck to meet his eyes directly now. his lips pressing against yours with longing, roughness, and breathlessness all at once. You moan softly into his mouth, your fingers instinctively fisting in his hair as he effortlessly picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his waist.

With a sense of urgency, he guides you to the chair by his desk, both of you breathless and eager for more. You straddle him, the heat of your bodies igniting as you grind against each other. As the cool metal of the zipper trails down the small of your back, a shiver runs through you—mixed, not with the anticipated thrill, but an unsettling trepidation. Your breath hitches, caught in the tangle of your conflicting desires. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The question haunts the fringes of your mind, echoing with each inch of fabric that parts under his fingers.

He pauses, and the room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. You can feel his gaze, heavy with concern, as he leans back to look at you. It’s a careful, searching look, one that seems to pierce right through the façade of readiness you’ve put up. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low, a soft thread in the tense silence.

Your heart pounds louder, faster, betraying your outward calm. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks as you meet his eyes—so full of worry now. Why can’t you just be okay with this? The frustration at yourself bubbles up, sour and accusing. You feel exposed, not just in flesh but in spirit, as if he’s peeling back layers you’re not ready to shed.

You open your mouth to speak, to explain, but the words dissolve into a heavy breath. His concern deepens, the atmosphere shifts; it’s no longer just about desire, but about the raw, unmasked corners of vulnerability. “Y/N,” he says, and it’s gentle, almost reverent.

In that moment, caught between wanting and uncertainty, you realize the gravity of intimacy—not just the physical merging, but the emotional exposure. It’s not just bodies that are laid bare in such encounters, but hearts and hidden fears, all intertwined.

He catches every faltering word, his expression softened by an empathetic understanding that seems to wrap around you like a warm blanket. “It’s okay. You don’t need to say sorry,” he reassures you, his voice steady, a stark contrast to the tremble in your own.

You glance up at him, the turmoil inside bubbling over. “No, I do… I do want to have sex with you, I think I do but something is holding me back. Something doesn’t feel right inside of me, and I don’t know what it is. I just feel weird, I feel tense, my anxiety has never felt this high.” The words spill out in a rush, your voice cracking under the strain of the heavy, churning emotions.

“I feel nauseous. I’m sorry… I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or guilty. I’m really sorry.” You mumble, biting your lip to hold back the tears that threaten to break free. Guilt gnaws at you, twisting tighter with each apology, fearing how your words might weigh on him.

He listens, his eyes never leaving yours, not even for a moment. There’s no hint of frustration or judgement, only deep, unwavering patience. “You don’t need to say sorry to me about that, or explain yourself to me, ever,” he responds, his tone firm yet gentle. It’s comforting, like a steady anchor in the tumultuous sea of your emotions.

“I know what you’re feeling. Having sex does take a toll on your body and mind. It can be a lot mentally. You don’t need to explain yourself to me because I will always understand, okay? Just tell me if anything is making you uncomfortable and don’t ever feel guilty about it.” His assurance is a soothing balm, addressing not just the immediate anxiety but acknowledging the broader, often unspoken pressures that come with intimacy.

The room stills, the earlier tension slowly dissipating as his words settle over you. You nod, a silent acknowledgment of his kindness. In this moment, the physical space between you is charged with a new, quiet intimacy—a connection not of bodies, but of souls understanding each other in profound silence.

His hand reaches out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. It’s a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes, reinforcing the safety and acceptance in his presence. It’s not about what happens next, or what didn’t happen tonight. It’s about being seen, understood, and cared for without conditions. And in that understanding, the heavy cloak of anxiety begins to lift, replaced by a lighter, more hopeful sensation—a whisper of peace amidst the storm.

“Do you still wanna go or do you wanna stay here and chill for the night?” he asks, his voice gentle, leaning in close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes search yours for an answer, patient and undemanding.

You smile, a wave of relief washing over you at how understanding he is. “Of course I still want to go.” You respond, your voice steady but soft. There’s comfort in his presence, a safety that peels back the layers of guard you’ve meticulously built around yourself. For a moment, you hold his gaze, seeing the sincerity and warmth that flicker in his eyes, revealing his true intentions. It’s this truth that captivates you, locking your eyes with his and making the world around you fade.

He nods, a small, understanding smile playing on his lips. Standing, he offers his hand, and you place yours in it, feeling a rush of warmth from his touch. His hand is strong and secure around yours, a contrast to the smooth, gentle hold that sends a thrill up your arm. As he leads you through the crowd, you can’t help but notice the confident way he moves—each stride purposeful and assured, his shoulders relaxed yet commanding presence. The feeling of your hand in his—a delicate yet perfect fit—makes your heartbeat a little faster.

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As time passed, Jeno’s friends became an integral part of your life, their presence a constant presence in your shared moments. You found yourself spending more and more time at his house, naturally integrating yourself into his circle of friends. Initially intimidating, you soon discovered that they had big hearts and welcomed you with open arms

Jeno also bonded with your friends, although it got a bit awkward considering he had fucked Nayoung and Eunji before, it’s not shocking, he has a high body count. It wasn’t easy to forget that the way he met you was through Nayoung, through his initial interest in her. But it was clear that boundaries were now set, and he viewed them as your friends specifically.

Jeno exuded an unexpected chill vibe that effortlessly drew people to him. He possessed a natural charisma that made it easy for him to get along with everyone, though not in a desperate, boundary-less way. Rather, he was the type who genuinely wanted to keep everyone happy and safe, yet he also harbored a darker, more defensive side. If you crossed him or someone he cared about, he wouldn’t hesitate to assert himself.

His presence was magnetic, with eyes following him wherever he went. Being around him was like basking in sunshine—impossible not to smile, to feel light and happy, to keep your eyes fixed on him with a wide smile. That’s why you warmed up to him so easily. His ability to effortlessly connect with your friends was incredibly hot, and seeing him make an effort was a major turn-on.

Your friends have grown accustomed to seeing you in their own world, whenever you and Jeno are together, their glances and remarks go unnoticed by both of you. You’re so engrossed and caught up in each other that the outside world fades away. There’s constant eye smiles, giggling, stolen glances, whispers, and communications, all adding to the intimate atmosphere. Physical closeness comes naturally, and you always make space for him. He, in turn, chooses to sit next to you and focuses solely on you.

You’re in the campus student lounge rooms. The last time you were here, the mere thought of him used to send chills down your spine, he used to make you incredibly nervous. The last time you were here with him was the morning after you had sex, and the memories flood back, mingling with the present moment.

But now? You’d say you’ve become a lot more comfortable around him. Don’t get it wrong, he still makes you nervous. At times it’s still difficult to look into his eyes and he loves it, especially right now, when he’s tracing the skin under your pretty little skirt with such precision. His eyes gaze into yours, penetrating deep into your soul, while the sides of his lips upturn into a smirk. As always, your friends are rolling their eyes as you and Jeno are eye-fucking again, completely oblivious to the scene around you.

Why is he touching you? Well, you mentioned wanting a tattoo, so you asked Jeno to trace an artistic outline of what he thinks would look good on you. Of course, deep down, you just wanted his hands on you; you weren’t actually planning to get inked. But you couldn’t exactly blurt out, ‘Jeno, please touch me!’ in front of everyone, could you? He doesn’t mind though; he sees right through you and finds you endearing and cute. Plus, he’s not exactly opposed to any excuse to touch you either.

As Jeno’s fingers glide over the bare skin of your thigh, you feel a surge of desire coursing through your veins. His touch is electric, sending shivers of anticipation up your spine. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, but the sound escapes anyway, earning a smirk from Jeno.

“Really? In front of everyone?” he teases, his voice husky in your ear, dripping with desire. You shake your head, unable to form words as his touch sets your nerves on fire. Every brush of his fingertips sends waves of pleasure straight to your core.

“You like that?” he whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear. You can only whimper in response, the ache between your legs growing more insistent with each passing moment.

His hand moves with purpose, tracing the curve of your thigh before inching higher, closer to where you need him most. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, matching the fire burning within you.

In your mind, you’re chanting ‘higher’ over and over, craving his touch to escalate. Suddenly, his voice, a low whisper in your ear, sends shivers down your spine. “You want me to touch you higher?” His words, dripping with seduction, fuel the fire burning within you.

How does he know? It’s maddening yet exhilarating, the way he can read your desires with just a glance. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the moan building in your throat, but it’s futile. You want him to know, to feel the raw intensity of your longing.

“No,” you manage to whisper, but it’s a lie, a feeble attempt to resist his irresistible allure. He smirks knowingly, his fingers teasingly brushing against your folds, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You can’t hold back anymore as desire consumes you, craving his touch, his warmth, his everything.

He repeats his question with a smirk, his tone dripping with teasing temptation. “No?” he says, drawing out the word, his eyes sparkling with mischief. But you’re beyond words now, lost in a haze of desire as his touch threatens to unravel you completely. All you can think about is him, his hands, his lips, igniting a hunger that only he can satisfy. “Jen—”

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As you lay your head on Jeno’s lap, the comfortable silence of the room wraps around you. You’re scrolling through his phone, a small gesture that shows just how close you’ve become, trusting each other with such personal devices. He’s doing the same with yours, each of you lost in a quiet exploration of memories captured in digital form.

Your fingers pause as you swipe through his camera roll, a gallery of his life displayed in bursts of pixels and colours. There’s an array of images: candid shots with friends, selfies, beautiful scenic photos, gym progress and a few of his university projects. You also come across an array of your own photos that you’d almost forgotten sending him—naughty and risqué shots of you in lingerie, revealing outfits, and even some playful nudes.

Then, amidst the casual swiping, you halt. A photo pops up that halts your breath and tightens your chest. It’s an image of Jeno with Arin. 

You were still unclear about who Arin was to Jeno, and the nature of their past relationship. He hadn’t ever spoken about her, and the bits you pieced together from Eunji and Nayoung suggested they were together a while ago, though whether it was serious or not, you couldn’t be sure. But seeing this photo cuts your breath in half.

They’re caught in a serene moment—her seated on his lap, an arm draped comfortably around her. Her smile is radiant, the kind that seems to illuminate her entire face, and her eyes sparkle with joy. Jeno’s gaze is fixed on her with an intensity that’s palpable, his eyes soft, mesmerised. It’s clear from the photo that there was something deep and affectionate between them.

Among the multitude of images, this one stands out conspicuously, the only visual record of her presence in his phone. The absence of any other pictures of her prompts a troubling realisation: he must have deliberately removed them, yet this one remains, was it accidental? Was it not? 

You doubt it. A chill runs through your spine, your breath shakes, and you feel a painful strain in your chest at the realisation. This photo had to be recent—you notice him wearing one of his commonly used jackets, and the hairstyle is the same.

You’re so incredibly jealous and shaken up that your vision blurs; you can’t think straight, you feel like you’re about to throw up, you feel so fucked up and nauseous that you don’t even think to check the date the photo was taken. All you can focus on is looking at her. 

You can’t believe how breathtaking the photo is. Arin’s dress hugs her figure elegantly, accentuating her curves in all the right places, while her radiant smile lights up the frame, infusing the image with an undeniable warmth. Her eyes sparkle with genuine joy, drawing you into their depths with an irresistible allure. But it’s the way Jeno looks at her that leaves an indelible impression on your mind—he’s captivated, his gaze fixed on her with a mesmerising intensity that speaks volumes.

As you stare at the image, a cold realisation washes over you. She embodies everything you fear you’re not; her ease and vibrancy in the photo make you painfully aware of what you perceive as your own shortcomings. Jeno’s mesmerised look serves as a sharp reminder of your insecurities, feeding the jealousy that coils tight in your chest.

Now you know what it means when people say that a photo speaks a thousand words. It’s evident just by one photo—they look like they’re in love. The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks, confirming what your heart already suspected. With a single glance, the photo lays bare the truth of their relationship, leaving you reeling with a pang of heartache.

The photo stirs a storm of emotions within you—jealousy, envy, confusion. “She’s pretty,” you whisper to yourself, so quietly that Jeno doesn’t hear. You try to shake off the discomfort, to scroll past, but your eyes are glued to the image. Arin’s beauty, her dress, the happiness on his face—it’s a vivid portrayal of a potential love that fills Jeno’s life.

Silence stretches, heavy and thick, as you digest the image and its implications. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air around you charged with unsaid words and emerging doubts. Your fingers tremble slightly as they linger on the screen, the brightness of the phone casting shadows on your thoughtful face.

Jeno’s voice breaks through the heavy silence, calling out your name with increasing urgency. He notices the sudden change in your demeanor, the way you’ve gone silent and still, and follows your gaze to the photo of him and Arin. He meets your eyes, and there’s an unreadable, cold expression as if he’s masking or hiding something.

Your faint, broken voice fills the room with a small whisper. “Why do you have this photo on your phone?”

He’s about to answer, his mouth opening to form words that you’re not sure you’re ready to hear, when suddenly his phone vibrates loudly on the table. Your head snaps towards the device, a sharp intake of breath catching in your throat as you see the name illuminated on the screen. A single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down your cheek, but you quickly wipe it away before he can notice. With a huff, tinged with a mix of anger and hurt, you ask, your voice trembling slightly, “Why is Arin calling you?”

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authors note thank you for reading :) hope you enjoyed, happy birthday to my love jeno <3 if you liked, pls interact, leave a message, ask, reblog, my dms on here are always open too so speak to me! i love meeting new ppl. there is a part 2 to this, the last part, which will be out asap. it was all initially going to be one fic but it was too long and tumblr didn't allow it so i had to split it up

tag list @apuppygirlfriend @babbymochiiii @actually-vl @mingiandbaconjam @nakamotai

[the-unidentified-author]

Like Northerners | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Cregan Stark x Southern Noble Reader

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], smut, minors DNI, established relationship, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another.

You're the wife of Lord Cregan Stark and you share an intimate moment together

Words: 5,644

A/N: This is feral and fithy and I have nothing to say for myself.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

As laughter and music swirled around you, the candlelight danced like flickering fireflies, casting shadows across the bustling hall. The room hummed with energy, filled with the chatter and movement of people, yet you couldn't recall a time when you'd felt more alone. Your husband thrived in this setting, effortlessly navigating the festivities with the ease of one accustomed to grand gatherings since childhood.

You watched as he mingled with the Northern men who had pledged their loyalty, their voices rising in camaraderie as they spoke of allegiances and battles. Each interaction was smooth and natural, his laughter a deep, comforting sound that mingled with the clinking of goblets. His face crinkled into a warm smile as he clapped a man on the back, their goblets clashing together in a celebratory toast.

In that moment, he unexpectedly turned his gaze to you, his grey eyes finding yours across the room. The connection, filled with unspoken affection and recognition, caught you off guard. Flustered, you let your eyes drop back to your plate, your heart fluttering with a mix of longing and shyness under the weight of his attention.

Cregan rounded the head table where you were seated, moving with an easy grace that belied his formidable presence. As he approached, he paused just behind you, leaning in so that his mouth was close to your ear.

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. The air was thick with the hum of conversation and music, but Cregan’s closeness seemed to draw you into a world of your own. His subtle scent—a mix of leather and fresh pine—wrapped around you like a familiar cloak. A moment passed, charged with anticipation.

Suddenly, a soft touch on your shoulder broke through your reverie. You turned to find Cregan leaning closer, his storm - grey eyes glinting with mischief. "Enjoying the festivities, my love?" he asked, his voice a low murmur. "Have you eaten your fill?"

"It’s quite the gathering. The preparations are… grand. And no, my lord." you replied, nudging the chicken leg and roasted potatoes on your plate with your fork. "I don't have much of an appetite."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Grand? Or tedious?" His gaze was playful, yet there was an undercurrent of seriousness in it.

You smiled softly, glancing at the bustling crowd. "A bit of both, perhaps. But the company makes it bearable. It's just so different from what I'm used to."

As if on cue, there was the sound of smashing tableware and the crowd parted in one of the corners, two men at the centre appearing to be making at attempt at a fight. The evening had been long and the two men clearly having indulged a little more than they should have, each throwing slow unbalanced punches that the other could easily sidestep even in their drunken state.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, and he leaned closer. "I was hoping you’d find a moment to escape with me," he said, his breath brushing against your ear, sending tingles down your spine. "There’s a terrace outside, away from all this. Just a few minutes, I promise."

Your heart raced at his suggestion, excitement, and nervousness coiling within you. You nodded, unable to speak for fear of betraying the fluttering in your stomach. Cregan reached for your hand, his grip warm and reassuring as he guided you through the throng of guests.

As you stepped outside onto the terrace, the cool night air enveloped you both. The stars shimmered overhead, twinkling like diamonds scattered across the deep blue sky. Cregan released your hand, and you both leaned against the ornate stone railing, looking out over the vast expanse of Winterfell. The night was cold, your breath leaving your lungs in great white clouds that were pulled out and away from you by the chill wind. On your first night, Cregan had presented you with a beautiful black cloak made from the fur of a dire-wolf he had hunted in the weeks before your wedding. It did a wonderful job at protecting you from the frigid temperature.

“This is more peaceful,” you remarked, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, feeling liberated from the clamour inside.

He turned to you, the moonlight accentuating the strong lines of his face. “Just us here, away from the talk of war and duty.” There was a heaviness to his words, a reminder of the trials that lay ahead. “I needed a moment with you, away from the eyes of the Northern lords.”

"Well, husband," you started, and you could see the flicker of happiness in his eye as you spoke the word. "You are more than welcome to use me as a means of escape whenever you like.”

A flicker of appreciation flashed in his eyes, and he stepped closer, the distance between you diminishing. His gaze softened as he studied your face, the laughter, and merriment of the hall dissolving into the background. “You always know how to ground me,” he said softly. “In these uncertain times, you are my anchor.”

"I think there is at least another hour before I can depart from this celebration without suspicion." he started, looking from you out over the castle.

"Why, would you want to leave the festivities early?" you asked.

His lips curled into a mischievous smile, his eyes sparkling with an intoxicating blend of affection and raw desire. The low rumble of his voice sent a pleasant shiver coursing down your spine. "Well, my love," he continued, his breath still warms against your neck. "I have a new wife, who, I believe, is in need of attention." A playful glint shone from his stormy grey eyes. "We have tried your soft southern way," he continued, leaning in, his breath warm against your skin. "Tonight we fuck hard,” he paused, your breath catching in your throat as he met your eye. "Like Northerners."

His voice was deep and gravelly, rich with the promise of pleasure. The light of the party in the great hall spilled from the doorway behind you both. He stepped forwards and cupped your face in his large hand and kissed you. The kiss was filled with promises of the night ahead. His free hand moving to grip your waist, it was firm and possessive, as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go.

Then he stepped away from you, moving back through the doorway into the throng of people enjoying the evening. Your breath caught in your throat, and a rush of warmth flooded your cheeks as you glanced around the empty balcony, terrified for a moment that someone might have overheard his words. Anxiety swirled within you, but there wasn’t anyone out here with you; the lively music spilled from the doorway as you attempted to steel yourself to reenter the celebrations. Yet, the heat in your face lingered, a vivid reminder of the raw emotion he’d stirred in you. The vibrant laughter and clinking of glasses felt distant, as if you were trapped in a world where only his words resonated. You pushed forwards back into the crowd, your eyes searching for him.

As he moved, the shadows in the room seemed to cling to him, accentuating the sharp lines of his features. The orange - hued light made his storm grey eyes appear darker, betraying the unbridled desire that lurked behind them as he glanced over at you. A shiver ran down your spine, not just from the sudden absence of his hands on your body but from the electric anticipation that now filled the space between you.

As the feast continued, the laughter and lively chatter around you seemed to ebb, leaving you cocooned in your thoughts. The golden glow of the torches flickered like fireflies, casting playful shadows on the ornate tapestries that lined the walls. You returned to your seat and absentmindedly picked at your plate, the food forgotten as the thrill of Cregan’s words danced in your mind.

The hour had dragged on, so much so that you began to think it was the longest sixty minutes of your entire life. But finally Cregan returned to your table, excusing himself from conversation with a couple of Lords that stepped into his way on his path to you. He leaned over the back of your chair, placing a kiss on your cheek.

"Shall we?" he asked, looking at you then back to the crowd.

You nodded quickly standing and accepting the arm he offered you. One of the Lords, likely drunk, didn’t accept that Cregan was no longer in the mood for conversation and blocked the two of you before you had managed to make it to the exit.

"My Lord," he slurred, standing unsteady on his feet. "I think we really must talk about this war with the inbred white haired foreigners." he mumbled, gesturing with his goblet so wildly that some slopped out onto the floor at your feet. He looked down at the puddle on the floor and then into his cup as though he were perplexed as to how it had fallen out.

"My Lord," Cregan replied in a tone that almost hid his irritation at the man. "My wife and I are to retire to our chambers for the night, and I believe it to be in your best interest to do the same. Lest someone other than myself hear the treasonous words you so confidently let leave your lips."

The lord's face contorted with fear, and despite his inebriated state making his actions difficult to control, the respect and fear he held for the Warden of the North shot through his haze, sobering him just enough to regain his composure.

""Yes, yes," he replied meekly, pretending someone in the crowd was calling him over. He gave you and Cregan a curt nod before slipping away.

Cregan glanced at you, a soft warmth in his stormy eyes, before placing his free hand gently over your arm that was entwined with his. With a subtle nod to the guards, he signalled them to open the doors. As they swung open, you both stepped out from the crowded room, moving towards the quiet comfort and privacy of your chambers, leaving behind the clamour and revelry of the feast. The anticipation of solitude and the closeness of his touch made your heart beat a little faster as you walked side by side.

* 

As you both reached the quiet solitude of your chambers, the door closed softly behind you, shutting out the distant echoes of the night's celebrations. The room was dimly lit by a fire flickering in the hearth, the flames cast lively, warm shadows across the ancient stone walls, it made the space feel cosy, the stress of the day melting off you. Cregan guided you to a chair covered with furs near the fire, the heat a striking contrast to the persistent chill that lingered in Winterfell’s expansive halls.

He knelt beside you, his eyes roaming your face with affectionate tenderness. "I’ve been wanting to steal you away all evening," he murmured, his voice tinged with relief now that you were finally alone.

You smiled, reaching out to entwine your fingers with his. "I’m glad you finally managed it."

Cregan chuckled softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "The whole night my thoughts have only been of you. "

He stood up, drawing you into his arms. The warmth of his embrace was comforting, grounding you amidst the uncertainties beyond these walls. "For now, let's forget everything else," he said softly.

Cregan's fingers traced slow circles on your hand, his gaze soft and focused solely on you. You could sense the shift in the atmosphere, the intimacy between you both becoming more palpable.

"What do you think, wife?" he murmured, his voice a warm caress that matched the heat in his gaze as it returned to yours. "Do you think we should retire to bed for the night?"

You smiled and stood, allowing him to draw you close, pulling you against his solid frame. His arms wrapped around you securely, and he gazed down at you with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

"I assume sleeping is not what you have in mind?" you teased, your eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"No," he whispered against your hair, his breath warm and inviting, "that is not what I have in mind at all."

You tilted your head slightly, playful curiosity painted across your features. "You mentioned the northern way. Would you enlighten me on what that means?"

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. "In the south," he explained, his voice deepening with affection, "it seems to be the duty of the wife to satisfy the husband. Here in the North, it is the duty and responsibility of a husband to ensure his wife is well taken care of."

"Taken care of?" you asked.

With a gentle chuckle, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "Let me show you," he murmured, his voice a soothing promise. His fingers wove into your hair, guiding your gaze back to his as he captured your lips in a kiss, before pulling away.

Slowly, he took your hand, leading you toward the bed, each step a silent vow of what was to come. The room was a sanctuary, the flickering fire painting playful shadows across the stone walls. As he drew you near the bed, his touch was both gentle and firm, conveying strength and tenderness in equal measure.

His hands lingered on your waist, tracing the curve of your back with reverence. He paused for a moment, his stormy grey eyes locking with yours, silently asking for permission, for trust. You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips, and together you sank onto the bed, your back welcomed by the soft furs as he moved over you.

Cregan leaned in, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. Your breath caught in your throat, anticipation swirling within you as he moved closer.

His hand reached up, gently cupping your cheek as he tilted your face towards his. The kiss that followed was unhurried, achingly slow exploration of lips and breath, each movement filled with an emotional depth that seemed to transcend mere physicality.

His lips were warm and soft against yours, the slight roughness of his stubble creating a delicious friction against your skin. A low, breathy sound escaped from the back of your throat as you leaned into him, your hands finding his shoulders, holding on to him as if to anchor yourself amidst the swirling current of emotions.

With the kiss deepening, Cregan's hands began to explore, tracing a line from the curve of your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. The sensation of his touch sent a shiver racing across your skin, heightening every sense.

Breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, he smiled against your lips, a mixture of warmth and desire in his eyes. Gently, he began to slide the fabric of your dress from your shoulders, the soft material whispering down your arms as it slowly fell away.

His fingers were sure and tender as they traced the newly exposed skin, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. The cool air was a stark contrast to his touch, enhancing the sensation and causing the hairs on your skin to stand on end.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, his voice a husky murmur that made your heart race. His large hands spanned your waist, drawing you closer still, his breath mingling with yours in the intimate space between you. "Out there I am a Lord and you are a Lady. In here, you are my wife, and I am your husband, do you understand me?"

Your breath hitched, words stuck somewhere between thought and voice. You nodded, a small, affirmative gesture that spoke louder than any words could. A soft laugh bubbled from his chest, rich and warm.

"There won't be an inch of you left untouched tonight, not a part of you that doesnt know my touch" he murmured, his voice a soft promise carried by the crackling of hearth flames. His fingertips continued their exploration, memorising every curve and line of your body like a map he intended to know by heart.

His hands traveled down your arms, featherlight across your skin, stirring electric anticipation with every touch. As he reached the intricate fastenings of your dress, he took a moment, fingers moving with careful skill. The complicated ties and loops gradually gave way under his gentle yet assured attention, each undone knot a quiet act of unfolding trust between you.

Despite the complexity, there was no rush. Each movement was deliberate, a testament to the patience and reverence he held for you. As he finally loosened the last of the fabric, it cascaded slowly away, finally revealing your body to him.

As he gazed down at you, lying nude beneath him, Cregan's eyes were filled with desire. The sight of you ignited a fire within him, a fire that burned hotter with every curve and line of your body that his eyes explored. He leaned forwards, placing another kiss on your lips before his lips moved across the contour of your jaw and down below your ear towards your neck.

He nipped playfully at the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, igniting a primal fire within you. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips possessively as he worshipped your body with an intensity that made you feel both alive and claimed. His hands were large and rough, the sensation of them driving you to buck your hips towards him, an action that earned you a smile from him.

His mouth found your breasts, and he lavished fierce attention there, his tongue and teeth teasing your sensitive skin with a raw, untamed passion. You gasped, arching into him, caught in the delicious tension between pleasure and the edge of pain. Unfamiliar ground, but a place you desperately wanted to explore.

Moving lower, his kisses trailed down your stomach, his rough stubble leaving a faint, delightful sting in its wake. His tongue flicked out, tasting your skin, savouring every moment like a beast intoxicated by the scent of his mate. The Wolf of the North was becoming a more fitting title with every passing moment.

As he descended, his hands traveled over your thighs, gripping firmly, spreading you open with a commanding authority. The heat of his breath lingered over the most sensitive parts of you, promising a wild, primal ecstasy that set your nerve endings aflame.

As he spread you open with a commanding authority, his eyes never left yours, locked in an intimate connection that intensified the already potent atmosphere. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, the sound of it echoing in your ears like the primal growl of a predator claiming its mate.

His fingers dug into your thighs, the sensation both possessive and possessively pleasurable, a reminder of the raw, animalistic passion that coursed through his veins. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the heat of his breath teasing you with the promise of the wild, primal ecstasy that awaited you.

And then, without warning, his tongue darted out, tasting your most sensitive flesh with a skill that belied his seemingly untamed demeanour. You cried out, the sound a mixture of shock and pleasure, as if the very air had been set alight.

Every lick, every touch, served to fan the flames of your desire, the room around you seeming to grow hotter and more humid with each passing second. Your heart was racing, your breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed in the charged silence between you.

Then, just as you thought you might shatter from the intensity, he stopped. The sound that left your lips was a mixture of desperation and longing as you lifted your head, peering down at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

His focus shifted to his attire, hands moving with a fevered urgency as he worked to free himself from the confines of his clothing. He shrugged off his cloak, the fabric falling away followed by the soft sound of it hitting the floor.

Next came the leather armour, the buckles, and straps relinquishing their hold under his skilled hands. Piece by piece, it slipped away, revealing the well-defined muscles that lay beneath, each movement unveiling more of the powerful physique that had surprised you the first night you had met him.

Finally, he reached for the linen shirt, the last barrier between you and the man beneath. He pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric tousling his dark hair before falling forgotten to the floor.

Your breath caught at the sight before you—his chest, broad and strong, the muscles shifting beneath the skin like a promise of the power he possessed. His skin gleamed softly in the firelight, each shadow and highlight accentuating the raw, masculine beauty of his form. The light played across his chest, catching on the subtle scars that marked his skin, each one a testament to his strength and prowess as a warrior. They told silent tales of battles fought and won, accentuating the sinewy resilience of a body refined through conflict and survival. The body of a Northerner.

With nothing left to hide, he met your gaze once more, his storm-grey eyes locked onto yours, reflecting a hunger as deep and consuming as your own. He swept his hair from his eyes, a movement filled with deliberate intent, and closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, his body descending like a promise of passion unspoken.

He was rougher with you than he had been before, his tongue moving with firm skill that served only to push you towards the precipice of pleasure. His arms were circled your thighs, his fingertips digging into your skin, right to the point that lingered between pleasure and pain. He chased you to the edge of ecstasy, your hips bucking upwards in response, the intensity of your climax completely overwhelming you. But he didn't relent, his tongue persisting in its relentless pursuit, never wavering from its mission, as though he was driven by a primal need to bring you to the brink of pleasure again and again.

The room seemed to swirl around you, the air thick with the scent of desire and the sounds of your ragged breaths.

"Cregan," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched your back, the muscles in your legs tensing as you rode out another wave of pleasure. Your other hand clutched at the furs beside you, as you bucked your hips and rode out another wave of pleasure.

His mouth drifted away from yours, and you thought the unrelenting rhythm had finally paused. But then, his finger pressed into you with a gentle insistence, a sensation that was teasing rather than painful. As if sensing your reaction, his mouth returned to your sensitive spot, and his finger curled upwards, creating a blissful mix of sensations.

You found yourself gripping the sheets, your jaw tight, as you tried to hold back the temptation to cry out. The intensity of his actions sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you breathless and utterly captivated in the moment.

His mouth moved from you, and you thought that the relentless cycle had come to an end, you felt one of his fingers gently press into you, it wasn’t painful, but tender. His mouth returned to your clit just as his finger curled upwards towards your bellybutton. It made you grab at the sheets and clench your jaw as you resisted the urge to scream out at the overwhelming pleasure both actions made wash over you.

As his mouth returned to your clit, your hands found the sheets, gripping them tightly as you steeled yourself against the onslaught of sensations. The sensation of his finger curling upwards towards your bellybutton was an exquisite mix of pleasure and anticipation, the intensity building up within you like a tempest.

Your jaw clenched, your breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed in the charged silence between you both. In that moment, it was as if the entire world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

His mouth moved from you, his breath hot on your sensitive flesh. "I want to hear you." he whispered before returning his mouth to you. His finger flexed up, and you again resisted the urge to cry out in pleasure.

His mouth lifted away, and you felt his hot breath on your sensitive skin. "I want to hear you," he murmured softly, his voice like a tempting promise, before he returned his mouth to you. His finger flexed upward, drawing out a surge of pleasure that tested your restraint.

Then he began to kiss and suck relentless again, as if attempting to draw the screams from you. His finger curled upwards, touching something inside that made your vision go white at the moment your climax once again washed over you.

"Cregan," you yelled, your hand grabbing his hair so hard it must have hurt, but he didn’t flinch.

Finally , he pulled away from you, looking up your body and meeting your eye. His mouth was slick with you. His shoulders flexed with a subtle, powerful grace, he slid another finger alongside the first, his touch both careful and deliberate, igniting a new wave of anticipation.

Rising to his feet, he maintained a slow, deliberate rhythm with his fingers, each movement sending shivers down your spine as the fire inside your stomach began to build again. His other hand skilfully worked the belt, the buckle coming undone with a precise flick of his wrist. As he slipped it free, his gaze remained locked on the mesmerising dance of his fingers moving in and out of you. His hand found its way into his trousers, fingers curling around himself, the heat of his own desire evident in his touch. The intensity in his storm-grey eyes reflected the deep, consuming hunger that mirrored your own.

You yearned for him, no, you needed him. The anticipation he had teased out in you ignited a craving deeper than you'd ever imagined possible, reaching into the very core of your being.

He withdrew his fingers from you, leaving you aching with unfulfilled desire. With a decisive movement, he pushed his trousers down his hips, the fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud. His thick cock sprang free, the sight of it causing a fresh wave of lust to surge through you.

You moved to climb off the bed, your desire to take him in your mouth burning bright within you. But as you sat up, he stepped forwards with an air of quiet authority. "No, you stay." he whispered, as he caught your hand as you reached to touch his cock.

"Please?" you whimpered, your eyes falling to his cock, thick veins bulging along its surface.

"Lie back, I told you. Tonight we fuck like Northerners.” he breathed, and you swallowed, sinking back onto the soft furs as you lay on the mattress.

He stepped forwards, grabbing your hips and pulling you roughly, so your pussy was in line with the edge of the bed. His thumb moved to circle your clit. The action causing you to draw in a sharp intake of breath as his rough thumb rubbed the sensitive pearl of flesh.

tThen, his hand shifted, the intensity replaced by the hot head of his cock now sliding up the length of your pussy. He paused momentarily, drawing a sharp intake of breath from you, before he delivered a single swift thrust. Then, he began to glide the length of his cock over your sensitive clit, his movements slow and torturous, each deliberate stroke arousing torment against the bundle of nerves.

Next, he shifted his position, leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss as he continued to slowly thrust over you. His hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers gently tangling in your hair, while the other hand braced his weight against the bed. His lips trailed down your neck, before his hand left your hair to take his cock in his hand. With meticulous care, he guided the head of his cock into you, letting out a deep, throaty moan as he began to move into you with agonising slowness. His determination to make you feel every inch of his thick shaft was evident in his every deliberate movement.

The sensation of him slowly entering you was a mix of intensity and closeness. He seemed to relish the way you moved beneath him, the gradual pace allowing you to adjust to his presence comfortably. Your eyes were drawn to the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, the tension evident in his firm grip on the bedding beside you, his knuckles turning white. You took comfort in the fact that this was just as torturous for him as it was for you.

With a low grunt from him, he fully seated himself inside you, the sensation an overwhelming mix of pleasure and an indescribable sensation. You revealed in the way that you could take all of him, and the way that he filled you up so completely.

Then he began to rock his hips, slowly, barely any movement at all to begin with, as his grey eyes searched yours asking a silent question. You grabbed the wrist of his hand that was still clutching your hip and nodded.

As his rhythm quickened, his restraint fell away, replaced by a raw, instinctual drive. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to him as every thrust sent waves of pleasure cascading through your body. Your fingers found his wrists, holding on tightly, each touch grounding you in the exquisite intensity of the moment.

He leaned forward, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, every exhale punctuated by a low, primal sound. The connection between your bodies was electric, a shared surge of desire that spurred him to move even faster, each movement more powerful, more consuming.

His hands shifted, one pressing gently on your lower stomach, sending a delightful pressure radiating through you. The sensation heightened your awareness of him, feeling the rhythm of his thrusts and the warmth of his body as it melded with yours.

On the brink of climax, his furious movements pushed you ever closer to that edge—a presence so consuming it threatened to unravel you completely. When the wave finally crashed over you, pulling you under in a rush of explosive sensation, he didn't stop. The relentless rhythm continued, driving you beyond the familiar boundaries of pleasure.

Overwhelmed, you tipped your head back, an almost guttural scream escaping your lips, a testament to the raw, unfiltered intensity coursing through you. You found yourself dancing on that delicate line where ecstasy and pain blurred, but you didn’t dare tell him to stop.

You whimpered softly, your fingers clenching into a tight fist as you bit down on your knuckle. The waves of pleasure threatened to consume you whole, yet in this moment of raw intensity, you found unexpected strength.

Cregan's voice, low and gravelly, resonated with a heady mixture of desire and reverence, punctuating the rhythm of their intimate dance. "Come on now wife," he murmured between breathy moans, the sound of his words blending with the symphony of gasps and sighs that filled the air. "You're the lady of Winterfell. You can take its Lord."

His words were a potent reminder of your role, your status, and what this act would hopefully lead to.

You gritted your teeth, clutching the sheets tightly as another wave of pleasure surged through you. Looking up at him, you marvelled at the way his muscles rippled, flexing with every powerful thrust. The firelight danced across his skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat that accentuated his strong, chiseled form.

In that moment, there was an undeniable sense of possessiveness that bloomed within you—he was yours, completely yours.

His thrusts grew increasingly needy, each one carrying a fiery urgency that filled the quiet room with its resonance. His grunts grew louder, breaking through the stillness, raw and primal. He breathed heavily, the oxygen fuelling his relentless pace.

You watched as his jaw clenched tightly, the muscle in his cheek flexing, a clear sign of his nearing peak. The intensity in his eyes spoke volumes, revealing a vulnerability rarely seen—a moment where desire and emotion intertwined, leaving you both on the cusp of something beautifully potent.

Then he reached his peak, a loud grunt escaping his lips as his final, powerful thrusts rocked through you. The rhythm became a series of uncontrolled, yet intimately satisfying movements, until he nestled deep inside you, your hips aligned perfectly.

He leaned down, the heat of his breath mingling with yours as he captured your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. You cupped his face tenderly, feeling the warmth and tenderness of the moment, his kiss sloppy but passionate.

He released himself gently, collapsing onto the bed beside you with a satisfied sigh. Rolling over, he wrapped an arm around you, drawing you close against his chest, his heartbeat a comforting rhythm beneath your ear.

In the soft glow of the firelight, you nestled into the warmth of his embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was a moment of peace and connection, where words were unnecessary, and the world seemed to shrink away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in a cocoon of shared warmth and tenderness.

A link to my Complete Invetory

[weirdstrangeandawful]

I see a lot of posts explaining how scary it is for a wheelchair user to be pushed without their consent and I think people assume able bodied people / people who have never used a wheelchair know one fact that they actually don’t:

It’s pretty damn scary to be pushed with your consent too.

I’ve been in situations where I’ve been pushed consensually because I was unable to push myself and that was scary. I’ve been in situations where I’ve been moved unexpectedly and that was scary. I’ve been in situations where I was taken from someone pushing me and taken to an unfamiliar location without either of our consent and, yeah, that was terrifying.

I think a lot of people think ‘oh, it’s just like being pushed by someone you trust but it’s a stranger’ and that is true but they’re fundamentally missing the understanding that it’s not just the strange that’s scary. When you’re consenting, you’re saying ‘this is really scary but I am trusting you to keep me physically safe and to support me during this scary experience.’ With a stranger, not only do you have to trust them to keep you physically safe, but you have to trust them to support your fully which they will never even think of.

[jubshead]

𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐚

Paring: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: The only person who could ruin a vacation in Italy was your stepmother, but what if she made it unexpectedly better?

A/N: Okay, so this was inspired by the second season of White Lotus and the title is in italian because I thought the english word was too crude.

I hope this isn’t too OOC, let me know!

This isn’t beta read and english isn’t my mother language, so bear with me.

Warnings: Face slapping, Non-consensual spanking, Dubious consent, Unwanted arousal, Degradation kink, Face sitting

Word count: 3.1k

Date: Nov 05, 2024

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!

Masterlist | Taglist | Read on ao3

Tag list: @jmkjournalblog @thecavalrywife @yourbasicqueerie @polaris-likethestar @riosslut @maevaofendora @yippie-kai-gay @w1theredroz3

─────── ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ───────

The sun shines through the blowing white curtains and into the bedroom. The last few days in Sicily were cloudy and, as pleasant as they had been, you’ve been longing for a day at the beach. The weather today was perfect for spending time in a bikini and staying at the hotel, not visiting any tourist spots or museums.

Italy is breathtaking. College was wearing you out, spending a few weeks away from the student mentality is doing you good, and it also helps that your father is paying for everything, even if it doesn’t erase the complicated relationship you two have.

Waking up early is mandatory in every vacation and today was especially easy. As soon as you had taken a peek at the open window of your room, you got out of bed. The constant tiredness you felt from your routine had vanished a few days into the city, and you were excited to make the most of it.

Skin glistening with sunscreen, you head downstairs for breakfast. The buffet was set up on a covered balcony with the chairs outside, where you could enjoy the view of the italian architecture as you ate. Grabbing a few fruits and a spoonful of eggs, you head out to find an empty table, only to catch sight of your father’s raised arm moving left and right to get your attention.

This vacation would be perfect if it weren’t for them. 

“Good morning.” You say, settling on one of the chairs.

Your greeting goes unanswered. Your father is back on his phone and your stepmother gives you a mouth pressed smile, doesn’t bother pretending she likes you. Every time you were in their presence, you felt like throwing up. Besides the fact that your father is 30 years older than her, you still hated both of them for the affair they had while your parents were together. 

You’ve always known your father was an asshole, but adultery was the final straw. The only reason you kept in contact with him was because of your mother. The saint she was, begged you to not distance yourself from him, scared you would be alone when she was gone. How could you not grant a dying woman’s wish?

Rio was a cunt. You couldn't deny that she was attractive, however. Your father wanting to stay with her wasn't a huge surprise. It was pretty clear, though, that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. She was obviously with him for the money, you were pretty sure she was cheating on him. Karma is a bitch, after all, and your dad’s time finally arrived. 

Eating your meal slowly, you enjoy the light breeze blowing your hair back. Cargo navy blue shorts and an open white button shirt hide away your black bikini. When you stretch your arms up, you feel eyes on you. Turning towards your stepmother, you’re greeted by sunglasses covered eyes and a similar blouse to yours, her brown hair is down. 

“I have to get some work done, so I won’t be able to spend the day with you.” Your father tells you, finally looking up from the phone.

“That’s fine.” You reply, shoving a spoonful of papaya into you mouth 

Oh, thank goodness you wouldn't have to stay with them today. 

“Rio will go to the beach with you, though.” 

Your eye twitch at that. Glancing in her direction, you see her tongue poking into her cheek and a side smile, clearly enjoying your suffering. 

“I’m sure she would like to do something else. “ You try. 

“No, no. I want you to spend time together, get to know each other.” Your father and his need to make you two close, this whole trip was about that and yet you still avoid her like you have done all these years. You have never wanted any kind of relationship with her and that wasn’t about to change. 

“Whatever.” You breathe out. 

“Come up to our room. Rio needs to change and I can give you girls some cash to go out and buy a few clothes.” Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. Spending as much time away from her as possible was one of your goals in this vacation.

He leaves his uneaten breakfast on the table and stands up. 

“Fine.” You concede. 

In the hallway, they walk ahead of you and you take a moment to watch them. Your father moves with the confidence of a rich white man with a plastic filled face. He’s in his 70's and doesn’t have the worst body, but if Rio was putting up with him because of money, it must be torture. She was clearly above his level, with black hair, slim body and defined arms. Anyone could see that. She had a powerful aura and walked with a sway to her hips. 

You look up when you realize you’re staring at her ass. 

The white door opens up with your dad's key card. Their bedroom is huge. The entrance leads to a living room with two couches and a coffee table. At the parallel wall to the entry, a large door opens to a balcony with a beautiful view of the mountains, the water constantly crashing against the rocks. Their bed is on the left side and is separated by a bow shaped wall, the other side of the room is the bathroom. It has a big counter with multiple beauty products. 

“I’m off. There’s a computer room downstairs, if anyone needs me, I’ll be there.” He hands you three hundred dollars and goes to kiss Rio. 

He holds her waist firmly and she turns her head before his lips contact with hers. She pushes him slightly back and pat his shoulders, you hold in your laugh. 

“Okay then.” He mutters embarrassed, ruffling your hair on his way out.

It doesn’t take 10 seconds after he leaves for you to turn to her and say. “Look, we don’t have to do this. I don’t want to spend time with you and I’m sure the sentiment is mutual.” 

She fake gasps at you, eyebrows raised and smirks. “Reluctant, already?” 

Rolling your eyes, you head to the bathroom to wash your hands, they feel sticky from the juice of the fruits from breakfast. You hear some movement in the bedroom and assume Rio is grabbing her bikini. The wardrobe door closes shut and you glance up in the mirror to watch your stepmother's figure walking behind you. You’re one step away from moving out of the restroom when she slips her blouse and shorts off. 

Time seems to stop as you watch her with her back to you, her ass is completely bare and you stare as she first ties the top knots of the two-piece. She bends to pull up the bottoms and you look down to your hands, your breath comes out shallowly, the image buried into your mind.

“Boo.” A voice says, her breath ghosts your ear and you try to hide your startlement. 

Looking up, you purse your lips. She’s standing a foot behind you and smiles smugly in your direction. When you turn around, her face is closer than you expected.

“What do you want?” You ask sharply.

“What do I want?” She repeats slowly, her fingers running through your hair ends. “You tell me.” She stares into your eyes and you squint, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her back.

“Fuck off.” You let out an incredulous laugh. “I always knew you were a slut, but this is beyond anything I’d have expected.” 

“Why? Are you still mad at me because of mommy?” She teases with a fake pout. 

Your entire face closes off and you take a step towards her. 

“Don’t talk about my mother. You could never be half of the woman she was.” 

“Oh, yeah? Your father would disagree.” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Your palm stings from the contact and you gape at her, surprised at your own slap. 

With your hand frozen in midair, you observe as her head turns back in your direction, her cheek is stained by red fingers and she lets out a breathy laugh, running her digits through it. 

“You are gonna regret that.” 

The apology that was about to come out of your mouth is cut off by the yank on your scalp, your body is forcefully rotated towards the sink and you hold the impact with your palms. The tug in your hair makes your back bend in an uncomfortable way and your neck aches as it’s pulled back. Rio presses firmly against your arched ass, resting her chin on your shoulder and looking at your startled face through the reflection. Her nails sink in your flesh.

“What are you doing?” You breathe out, partially scared and slightly aroused. 

“Has anyones ever told you that you’re a brat?” She avoids your question with one with her own, you feel fingers running down your waist. 

“Has anyone ever told you?” You return. 

She scoffs as her mouth breaks into a grin, softly shaking her head left to right. The digits you felt moving through your covered skin grip you with full force and move to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning it. Panic flashes in your eyes as she pushes it down. You struggle against her hold and she pulls your hair harder. 

“Don’t fight it, sweetheart.” 

Breath catches in your throat when her fingers grab a handful of your bare ass. 

“Do you know how I tame a brat?” She whispers in your ear and answers her own question. “I teach her a lesson.” 

The sound of her palm colliding with your backside echoes off the white walls and your surprised yelp follows it. The slap doesn’t hurt, you could bet Rio didn’t put all her strength into it, the worst part, for sure, is that it felt good. The sting brings a delicious burn to your skin and you prevent yourself from asking for more.

The second time it happens, you grab harder into the counter. Words seem to fail you and you stand still, this whole thing feels like a fever dream. You look up at the mirror and see Rio’s eyes completely fixated on your ass, she smoothes her hands through it and you shudder. 

The one that follows is firmer and you groan, unable to contain yourself. Goosebumps mark your skin and your body reacts to the pain, shifting uncomfortably against your bikini.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” She asks, raising her brows and giving you a maniac grin.

“Fuck you.” 

She tusks behind you and hums, slapping you three times in a row. The reaction is instantaneous and you hate yourself for pushing your ass back against her. 

“Who’s the slut now?” She asks in your ear and laughs. 

The taunting worsens your condition. Slick gathers in your underwear and you bite your lips, stressed by the way your body is reacting to your step mother. She doesn’t give you any type of relief and smacks you two more times. This torture seems to be going on forever, but you’ve only counted seven slaps. You had no idea how long it would last.

You’re about to speak when she strikes you one more time, with an open mouth, you aren’t able to contain the moan that escapes you and your face lights up like a christmas tree.

“You are so cute when you blush, sweetheart.” She tells you and licks your ear, her palm massages your sore butt and she adds. “Everytime we meet, I just want to have you all to myself.” She pulls back and looks at your pitiful position. Arched back, red ass and shorts bunched up mid-thigh, she runs tongue over her teeth. “When I saw the opportunity today, I just knew I had to take it. It’s so easy to rile you up and the fact that you hate me only makes it all the more delicious.” You shudder at her words. 

She is fucking mental. 

She surprises you for a second time with a spank. Tears well up in your eyes, the sting is worse than before and your arousal is burning you up from inside. The whole situation is making you dizzy, you feel like you’d fall down if Rio wasn’t holding you so tightly. Your neck hurts and you almost beg her to stop, but you couldn’t handle the humiliation, so you face it like a big girl. 

She delivers two more and you screw your eyes shut. One tear runs down your face and you feel Rio releasing the grip on your hair, turning you around to face her. 

“Ten slaps, that’s all. No need to cry.” She runs her thumb over your wet cheek. 

The sink presses against your backside and the cold of it helps with the burn, with your eyes still closed, you take a deep breath. You’re still in shock. 

“Did you learn your lesson?” She asks, her palms holding your wrist against your breasts. 

You stare at her for a second. Laughing at her smirk, you spit right in her face. She closes her eyes, whipping the dripping saliva with her fingers. Her entire face closes off, her patience seems to have run thin. 

She doesn’t say anything else, turns around and pulls you by the forearm. You struggle against her hold, but she’s stronger than you expected. Losing your balance when she throws you on the mattress, you don’t have time to get up before she’s upon you, holding your wrist above your head and kissing you roughly.

You hate yourself for it, but it doesn’t take more than 5 seconds for you to kiss her back. She’s in full control of the kiss and you writhe beneath her, failing to release your arms. Her tongue runs against yours and you can barely breathe from the intensity, your head spinning. 

One of her hands runs down your side to the bikini bottom. 

You suck in a breath when she separates. 

“I could eat you alive in this, couldn’t take my eyes off you at breakfast.” She tells you, licking your cheek. 

Her hand brushes the black fabric before pushing it aside, you are embarrassed by your state. Her fingers run through your wet folds, circling your entrance as you whine, desperate to be fucked.

“You are pathetic.” She says close to your face. 

Fuck your body for reacting the way it shouldn’t. The degradation turns you on even more and you feel your resolve crumbling. Rio chuckles at the intern battle she sees in your eyes. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to use that pretty little head of yours for long.” 

She rolls off of you. The opportunity to escape presents itself and you don’t move an inch, with your wetness sticking to your thighs, you just want Rio to have her way with you. She smirks at you and crawls up your body until she’s stradling your ribs. 

She doesn't put her full weight on you as she squeezes your cheeks and says. “Let’s see if this mouth is good for anything else besides being disrespectful.”

You barely have time to understand the implication before her cunt completely shadows your vision. Her bikini is set aside and she pushes her hips down, making you grip her thighs in an attempt to control her pace. Giving up on your moral high ground, you lick a stripe up her lower lips. She hums on top of you and grinds down, her juices smear on your chin and you’ve only just begun. 

Apparently you weren’t the only one affected by the spanking.

Focusing your attention elsewhere, you leave a hard bite on her inner thigh, taking your hatred on her skin. She moans and sits completely on your face, making it impossible to breathe. 

“You better get to work, sweetheart.” She mocks you and amends. “Before you pass out.”

You fully believe she’d let that happen so, with renewed energy, you grab into her butt and grind her center against your face. Your tongue circles her entrance before going in. Hearing her hand grab the headboard, you begin to move in and out. Your pace is rapid and she seems to enjoy it as she starts to ride your face. Sucking her lower lips makes her groan on top of you, so you repeat the motion and squeeze a handful of her ass, making her moan. 

With little breath, you stick your tongue out and let her chase her own orgasm. She slowly moves in circular motion and spreads her juices around your face. Her movement picks up speed and within seconds she’s bouncing against your mouth. You grip her ass tightly and feel your nose bumping against her clit. 

She becomes a moaning mess on top of you. 

For someone who can’t breathe, however, eternity seems to pass as you struggle to keep up with her. She is clearly on the edge and trying to reach her peak, so, in a last attempt to get her off of you, you run your tongue all the way up before sucking her clit as hard as you can. 

Her movement comes to a halt and you feel her body tensing up, her thighs tighten around your head and your ears ring from the pressure. Her orgasm finally hits and she shudders on top of you, breathing heavily and letting out unrestrained moans. 

She collapses beside you and you take the biggest gulp of air you can manage. Your breathing is as ragged as hers and you curse yourself for having a weakness for older women, this shouldn't have happened. 

Silence befalls you for about a minute as Rio gathers herself and you contemplate your life choices. As soon as her breathing is slower, she gets up on her knees in the bed. All your previous worries leave your mind as soon as she’s back upon you, straddling your waist and biting her lips.

She kisses you and grasps the wrists that hold her face, you press your center against hers and let out a whine when she pulls back and gets out of the bed. With a puzzled face, you sit up and ask.

“Where are you going?” 

“To the beach.” She simply says, grabbing a sun hat and putting it on. 

“What?” You rapidly blink.

“You heard me.” Her face breaks into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen in her sulking face. 

“Rio.” You whine like a petulant child. 

She comes towards you and gives you a long peck. Your mouth follows hers as she pulls away.

“Brats don’t get rewards.” She states and heads for the door, exiting the room with a witchy cackle as you throw yourself back onto the bed. 

[wandasaura]

ITS SIN

summary — when the weight of your day finally catches up to you, you find yourself tethered to the precinct with olivia

warning(s) — dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, age gap relationship, power imbalance, authority kink, domestic dominance, implied mommy kink, praise, soft affirmations, pet names, primarily comfort, light hurt/angst mentions of a shooting, alluded to anxiety, very lightly implied anxious attachment style, maybe illusions to subspace, olivia ‘pick your poison babe, i’m poison either way’ benson, men/minors dni

authors note — this was written by high aura on a whim. happy 4/20. this was not proofread nor edited and literally not a single thing on this blog ever has been or will be. part two here.

You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve left hours ago, but there’s a gentle glow coming from beneath an office door, and you’re reminded that you’re not alone, that you’re never alone — anywhere you go, she’ll be there; at work, at home, at the corner store across from her apartment with Noah when you’re just trying to surprise her with flowers — her favorite flowers, the kind that die in days but evoke a smile anytime the eye catches their colors. It’s wrong, straight up sinful really, dating your boss, engaging in explicit sexual scenarios with your superior officer, letting personal mix with professional, but you crave her like a rugged addict. Maybe you’ve never experienced addiction. Not true, stone cold, shivering, bone shattering addiction, but you’ve experienced Olivia Benson, and her withdrawal symptoms come at a much larger price. She’s unavoidable poison, and she takes pleasure in your pain. Distance pulls your heart to shreds, but proximity gets you drunk. Either way, she’s compromised you, but you’re too far in it to care anymore.

The blinds are drawn, an attempt to dissuade any disruptions. You know she wants to get back to Noah, how she likes to spend her nights, and how she gets unruly when things go unexpectedly even though she’s been within the claws of unpredictability for decades. You know her skin is stained with blood from its sharp unforgiving grasp over the years, and you can only think of how it’s probably slickening with more as the unpredictable crimes of New York City keep her tethered to her desk like she’s the criminal. You want to go in. Every muscle aches to be caressed beneath her fingers. You want to sit with her, share the lemonade you just pulled out of the vending machine, but you couldn’t possibly pull her away. Not when you’re the reason she’s here.

You swallow thickly, not sure if you want the lemonade anymore. You feel queasy, hot and cold. The belt around your waist had been noticeable when you’d gotten dressed this morning, and it’s outright insufferable now. You know your skin is rubbed raw, red and probably irritated. The marks on your thighs had been just as raw days ago, but bearing those had been different, consensual and somewhat dizzying. There’s no room for arousal at the memory of Olivia between your thighs when you so violently remember how you’d frozen during a chase. How you could’ve detained the suspect before he’d shot himself if you’d just moved faster when he turned the gun on himself after shooting at your feet. Your heart hammers now. You can hear the gunshot. Feel the reverberations through the bones in your feet even though there’s no bullet mark on these tiles. You shake your head. You told 1PP you were okay. You’d been cleared by psych. Everything that should’ve been broken was intact, but everything that could be broken and allow you to still function was shattered into a million pieces.

You’d never been shot at before.

Not like that. Not with the wind in your face, the blush in your cheeks, the clip already half empty. It was a messy fight. He shot back behind him. You shot head of yourself, only ever missing him by an inch as he weaved and zipped. You fired your gun twice. He fired nine. Seven shots had missed. Bouncing off windows, cars, bricks. One had so nearly grazed your toe for a second you wondered if it was gone. The second after that he had shot himself, and you thought it was you. Olivia had run past you, you only know because her fingers brushed your side as she made sure the suspect was dead and you’d never mistake the tingles she provoked, and that was the only confirmation that you hadn’t been shot before you’d been thrown around by medics and officers all questioning you, only some concerned about your health.

Your fingers pass across the cold metal of a broach pinned to your right pocket. It’s important to note that it wasn’t a necklace. Not one that would tangle on your hair when you ran. Not a bracelet that could catch on the safety of your gun or the brackets of the taser holstered to your belt. It’s a thoughtful sentiment. A meaningful one. A small mouse head sits sparkly against the dark thread of your slacks. Sterling silver. A notable addition. One that keeps you pushing toward one day having a metal to decorate you as a detective instead of a pin that represents a stupid nickname in the department. Mousey. Benson’s creation.

You live up to that name as you continue past her office, the only evidence of your prolonged presence in the precinct the scrape of the rolling chairs wheels on the floor. Your body feels heavy as you fall into the cushions. You set the lemonade down, sure it’ll stay there to die until Olivia inevitably grabs it off your desk and throws it away. The paperwork is standard follow-up, something that can certainly wait until the end of the week when everyone else stays late to overcompensate for the things they pushed off, but you can’t leave. Something tethers you to the precinct the same way it chains Benson to her desk. If you leave, you’re out there again, and the streets of Manhattan have never felt so unsafe; so changed. You’d been in SVU six months, but every day was opening your eyes to fears you’d ignorantly thought out of reach.

It could’ve been minutes, but it might’ve been hours before something shifted in the quiet building. The buzz of every device in the room quieted, letting you hear the creek of hinges behind your back. Olivia. You want to fall into her, to crash against her, but you failed today. You didn’t step up despite her laying the stepping stones for it to be possible. It wasn’t the end of the world. In the end, a criminal got taken down, but this wasn’t just about karma coming around. For six months Olivia had gone to bat for you. She’s taken you beneath her wing and you let her down. That’s never felt good, and it certainly doesn’t now.

“Sweetheart,” Olivia’s voice calls for you, sweet, soft, dripping with velvet affection. “Come see me, hm?” She attempts to draw you in, even opens her arms and nods her head toward her off in just the oddly specific way she knows makes your heart soar, but you don’t look up from the black ink stained page to realize she’s putting this much into comforting you.

She should’ve comforted you before — you’d wanted her to comfort you before. When you’d thought you’d been shot twice. When your heart was pounding in your chest and your hands were trembling and you could see the way all of your wrong doings piled up on her shoulders in an instant. It was too late now. You felt submerged in the weight of your guilt and anxiety. You were drowning in your feelings, beneath the crushing knowledge that you’d disappointed her; the one person who’d ever seen you.

When she realized you were purposefully ignoring her, your muscles flexing in unconscious acknowledgment of her presence, her jaw set, and her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t seen it before. You’d put up a mask of indifference and she’d let herself accept it, but just the simple fact that you’re still here says enough. She doesn’t think you realize that you do it, that you gravitate to her like an affection craving kitten seeking attention, but you do, and that need for closeness only strengthens when you’re distressed.

Olivia’s heart hammers with guilt. She knows that you can handle so much. You’ve proven that fact and yourself time and time again — in ways you weren’t even aware of — but so often you fell short recognized your own personal needs and feelings. As she’d learned you, memorized your every emotion beneath her fingertips, your heartbeats pulsing as close as they possibly could, she’d learned that certain events and feelings could leave you fuzzy, uncomfortable in your own skin, grappling for structure that gives way at the slightest touch. Your misstep had caused quite the commotion within 1PP and the precinct, it had pulled her away because it was job, but she can’t let that keep happening. You’re hers. She loves her job, honors her duty and serves it fully, but you’re worth more. At that moment, Olivia decides she’s done with paperwork for the night.

“Detective.” Paperwork may be done, but the badge hasn’t yet been unclasped from her waistband, and she can’t help but take advantage of that — of you. “My office. Now.” Her voice is thin, leaving no room for arguments of failure to comply. Your insides bristle. Prickly and uncomfortable. Her tone sent shockwaves through your bone marrow.

You need her.

When you still remain stationary, heavy in the rolling chair clutching your favorite black clicky pen that Olivia steals to sign rushed documents, she clicks her tongue demandingly, rolling out the kinks in her neck. “Detective, that was not a suggestion.”

You bristle again, but you swallow that sharp sting of stubbornness to finally give into the yearning in your bones. Your body moves towards her automatically, and when you blink up at her, swayed by the authority in her hard stare, she knows it’ll only take a moment before you’re in the palm of your hand, the way you should’ve been hours ago.

She lets the office door close behind her body before she draws you into her chest in a manner that convinces you to sink against her. “Hi, sweetheart.” Her ribcage rattles beneath your cheek, her fingers twisting into your hair and pulling down, gently tugging the roots behind your ear — your weak spot, one of the quickest ways to get you to crumble that Olivia has found. You preen, knees buckling, and Olivia smiles tenderly. “Look at you.” She cooed, her fingers trailing across your cheekbone now, so high that your eyes flutter closed on instinct. The darkness that consumes you paired with the heat of her touch only draws you into that fuzziness further. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

You nod, just slightly, your eyes still closed even though her hands have wandered down to your waist, unbuttoning your pants that she knows are driving you crazy. You sigh when the pressure is released, and her fingers do wonders to ease the string where material had rubbed soft skin raw.

“I need words, my love.” She encourages, tilting your chin upward until your eyes meet hers. They're so soft. The love she holds for you makes your eyes sting, and your lip quivers at the release of all the emotions you’ve been keeping inside.

“Yes.” You whisper, the words hoarse as they cut through the air, slice your throat. Your lips downturn, something Olivja anticipated. You never were a fan of her religious checks for consent and understanding, and when you found yourself in this state, drunk beneath her affection and overworked from life, you don’t exactly have a way with words.

“And I wasn’t very attentive, was I?” She frowns sympathetically, letting you know that she’s aware of her shortcoming in your relationship, even if you never expected her to guide your flight through life at every new gust of wind. You shook your head tentatively, because you know she wants an answer, and she accepts it. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I’m here now. I’m here now. Just let me have you, okay? That’s all I need you to do for me.”

“Okay.” You whisper, because the prospect of falling into your roles, your discussed dynamic, it just sounds too tempting after thinking your life had met an untimely end. Maybe some would call that dramatic, but some things couldn’t be explained. Something changed today, your perspective had been more fragile than you’d realized.

“Okay.” She nodded, patting your cheeks before she let you go, “Come on, we’re just gonna sit down for a little while, okay?” Olivia asked softly, guiding your languished body toward her couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as the King sized bed in her bedroom, but it made for a decent spot to steal five minutes of affection throughout the day. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me, sweetheart.”

Olivia sat down first, and the look that crossed your face was one she wished she could memorize. Your lips downturned, your eyes glassy and wide in betrayal. A short whine slipped out, but before you could stamp your foot into the ground, though it would’ve been a welcomed sight, Olivia clicked her tongue disapprovingly at your impatience and guided you into her lap by the belt loops on your pants — and action that always made you feel small.

You sighed in content when she allowed you to sink into her chest, moving your hair and hers away from her chest so you could feel the soft pulse of her skin beneath yours directly. She didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t needed. Her fingers thrumming against your back, her breath against the shell of your ear, her perfume surrounding you… it was enchanting.

“Your strong, sweetheart, but you don’t always have to be.” She reminded you, and even though she’d been speaking those words to you for months, they only just settled in now, and your blissful state amplified.

Olivia chuckled warmly when you nuzzled your face up into her neck, blocking out the office light until that comfortable darkness got to you again. Olivia didn’t let you get too comfortable, she never let you get too comfortable. The unpredictability of her love was adventurous and addictive, another dilemma to conquer whenever distance forced your heart to grieve what wasn’t dead, just suspended. Before you could fall asleep, your breathing enough indication to say that was coming, Olivia tapped your thigh, shifting with the motivation to stand.

You whined, shaking your head, grabbing a fistful of her blazer to assert your claim over her even if she was in charge. You didn’t want her to leave, to be any farther away then she already was right now. “None of that, come on, let’s go, sweetheart. We can get you home and all comfy.”

When you remained unmoving, she tried another approach, trailing her fingers up your thigh until the tickle of her touch became prickles of arousal you weren’t at liberty to shove aside at this time. Your breath caught and Olivia smirked knowing you were in the palm of her hand. “The sooner we get home, the sooner we can work out some of these knots, baby girl.” She coed, her fingers curling around the fleshy part of your thigh until your breath trembled and your eyelashes fluttered tellingly.

“Good girl.” Olivia cooed, and guided you up when your persistence gave way. She didn’t bother buttoning your pants again, just fixed your shirt to cover the bulge where metal stuck out, and nodded her satisfaction. “Alright, home now, little Mouse.”

[neuvistar]

AN ANGEL’S GIFT.

— featuring ┊sunday x fem!reader

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! not proofread, cunnilingus, he plays w ur tits lol (t!tplay), established relationship, use of nicknames, mentions of breeding wooopeee (not rlly tbh its jus him yapping abt angel babies) a lil rushed but it’s okay! pt 2 will be out when i’m not lazy :3 | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

— a/n ┊this might b a bit messy sincd it’s VERY late n i’m half asleep but i’ll correct things tmr! sunday has been on my mind 24/7 all day all night all morning it’s actually insanity.. sunday <33 tbh giys this doesn’t rlly have a specific theme.. it’s jus sunday eating u out n yapping abt giving u angel babies… instead of leaving n doing boring work business LMAO (the pt 2 will have more guys trust i’m jus a tad bit lazy..)

“m—more sunday..”

the two of you spent a cherished night together in the hours before his impending departure to meet and discuss matters with the members of the IPC, catching news of them arriving to penacony a few days prior. in all honesty, you wanted this to last as long as it can.. you missed sunday’s touched, and he missed yours. as sunday caressed and kissed your body, your soft squirms and moans filled him with a pleasant sensation of affection for you. the halovian savored the moment as much as he could, cherishing every last bit of intimacy and closeness between the two of you. “you’ve always impressed me, my angel. it brings me pure joy hearing all sorts of sounds leaving your pretty lips.” soft moans that escaped your lips and the gentle caress of your fingers through his hair stirred up a pleasant sensation within him. even the sight of you wrapped up in his arms, his lips kissing your sensitive skin as your body writhes in pleasure, it made him feel the immense satisfaction and fondness between you two. even that, your presence itself brought sunday immense joy, and he made sure to relish every single moment together with you.

"please... don't stop..." your voice cracked slightly, betraying your own need. a chuckle rumbled from your husband’s throat as he leaned in closer. sunday grabbed hold of the hem of your shirt. with one powerful yank, it ripped clean off your body, revealing your lacy bra underneath. you gasped in surprise, your breasts jiggling slightly as they were exposed to his hungry gaze.. he could feel his cock throbbed even harder, practically leaping out of his pants at the sight of your firm breasts.

"so beautiful, my girl.” trailing his tongue along your collarbone, stopping just short of your neck. sunday’s hands moved downwards, roughly palming your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra.. aeons, they were soft and supple just like be remembered, heavy with anticipation. “it would be such a wonderful sight see these pretty things leak with milk don’t you think, sweetheart?” with a chuckle of desire, he ripped the bra apart as well, freeing your breasts from their restrictive confines. “think about it, my angel,” he pinched your nipples, earning another sharp gasp from you. “imagine.. your belly round and full with my heirs, your breasts heavy with their milk.”

his hot breath fanning over your sensitive nipples caught you by surprise, his talented tongue traced slow, teasing circles around your nipple, closing his lips around it as he sucked greedily. sunday’s tongue flicked and swirled around the sensitive tip, tasting your flesh.. breathing in your aroma, that same aroma that drove him to the edge. “talk to me, baby. what do you say? do you like the idea of that.. hm?” his hands roamed downward, lifting your skirt and pushing your panties aside in one swift motion, exposing your pussy to his hungry gaze.

“hng.. i mean, i’m not against the idea.. it’s just that..” you lost your composure completely when sunday went even lower down to your region, his tongue darted in and out of your folds unexpectedly. “ah.. hey! aren’t you supposed to be meeting with the IPC—“

“shush baby, work can wait.” sunday could feel your arousal building up, your body arched slightly as he continued his brutal attack on your sensitive cunt. his large hands and held your legs wide open, giving him full access to his feast as the wings that protruded from each side of his head tickled your skin. his tongue probed deeper, finding your core and teasing it with quick flicks. you were so vulnerable under him, and it turned him on even more. "i’ll make sure to take good care of you, but remember who's in charge here.. just enjoy my tongue. you should be grateful i’m here giving you attention you wanted for days rather than talking with them.”

your husband’s tongue flickered against your cunt once more, causing you to arch your back slightly. sunday was relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure, determined to make you feel good. "you’re so fucking small, angel.. it’s driving me insane." sunday’s voice was muffled by your flesh, he could feel the adrenaline coursing through your body every time his tongue explored every inch of her. "so innocent, yet so brave... fascinating." feeling your warmth envelop his face was like heaven to him, he wanted nothing more than to show you just how much he loved moments like these. the halovian reached up and grabbed your hips, guiding your movements against his face. goodness.. it was like he wanted you to suffocate him. “a place filled with life and chaos... much like your body." he licked and sucked at your folds, the rough muscle of his wetness swirling around your clit , his nostrils breathing in the scent of your arousal.

“to feel my tongue fucking and sucking this perfect little cunt.. this is truly an angel’s gift is it not, my wife?”

[mihii-i]

hi! could you maybe do a smut fic with a drunk sub mizu who is usually the top in the relationship so it comes as a surprise that she was unexpectedly loud and whiny while taking it on all fours? like, she's so needy and RAAAH the description sounds so raunchy i'm sorry i had a vision 😔

unspoken words.

Pairings: mizu x fem!reader

CW: nsfw, female reader, afab reader, strap on/harigata usage, strap referred to as a cock, doggystyle, mating press, vaginal sex, mizu is slightly ooc, overstimulation, wlw, drunk sex (consensual), bottom mizu yay can’t wait to eat that coochie raw like sashimi, very very heavy nsfw because holy shit, implied to be after the series ends, oh you guys think the warning is gonna be girls kissing?? no it’s girls fucking, sough rex, I know I’m gonna be embarrassed writing this, this is insane but ykw hell yeah, sigh lazy writing again, not proofread.

A/N: now playing — ride for you by sani knight & bosquet. I have to emphasize this because some people are stupid please don’t have sex with others irl while they’re drunk even if they say yes. Anyway I got so embarrassed I started walking around and talked to my candle every now and then. Imo this one turned out ok it’s not amazing but it’s not bad. Also, I’ve never emphasized this before, but I want to do it for this one: MEN DNI. FEMALE READER. This is NOT for men to insert themselves as the reader, gtfo. Anyway love yall enjoy <3🕯️

A coil of euphoria snapped apart within your body as your back seized itself forward into an arch, the damp heat of glistening sweat raking along the feverish rose tint of your throat to dribble down your chest. Your eyes disappeared back into your skull at the elation of your orgasm oozing through your veins in each drawn out second of your body jerking against Mizu’s slender fingers buried inside you.

Spent exhales hissed against the openings of your teeth pressed against one another, lugging out the heavy breaths exhausting your tense muscles in the aftermath following your climax trickling along the ridges of Mizu’s knuckles carefully withdrawing from your cunt. Albeit with the slight aid of her strength upon tugging her palm away from the cushion of your thighs clamped together to envelop her hand between the heaps of soft flesh.

“I can’t take my fingers out if you trap me like this.” Mizu finally spoke up, cerulean gaze glinting up to meet your own as she cocked an eyebrow. You merely lulled your head back into the cloudy pillows hugging your head on both sides with a dry huff pushing past the glossy pink of your lips, courtesy of Mizu’s endless sloppy kisses assaulting your mouth during your earlier encounter moments ago.

“Mm. Don’t worry about it…” you hummed, the joints of your trembling knees muted in the afterglow of sex as you steadily parted your legs in slow, steady jerks. Shines of your cum decorated along her stiff digits truly was a sight to behold upon fixing your sights at Mizu steadily dragging her fingers out of your walls, throbbing along the ridges in tandem with your pulse.

Your breaths evening out in low groans gradually cleared alongside your hazed periphery, the dim candlelight of your shared room blurred together in a gradient tinted in gold. You could only blink through your lashes within the foggy sights of your whole life practically flashing before your eyes accompanying your earlier rush as Mizu idly rested the freezing callouses of her hands atop your reddened skin, twitching in periodic shivers beneath her touch.

Bloodied corpses, the stench of foul crimson drenched along the reflections of those aberrant irises reflected in the wave patterns crashing on the sharp ridge of her blade remained the first idea flashing in anyone’s mind upon thinking of the samurai. Overlooking any sign of justice or reason within Mizu remained to be the common speciality of most that strode past her, instilling the plague of her hatred that gnawed away at her from the moment she came into this cruel world.

Despite the hesitance that tore her apart from the inside out, the disdain of her mixed blood pumping across her veins as a loathed part of her identity she had wished to rip out, Mizu remained looking to you as her pillar of stability ingrained into the soils of her dreadful life. Your presence alone latched onto her like the sole peace closest to a sanctuary bestowed unto her by the gods themselves, warmed in the aftermath of eternal struggle to finally rest in the comfort of your arms.

Evidently so, Mizu wasn’t accustomed to returning gratitude due to the harsh toils of her life. It wasn’t uncommon to see the woman’s chin pinched between her index finger and thumb, carefully pondering as to how she would repay your kindness and display her love in some grandeur sense, with her glasses unnoticeably tipped over the bridge of her nose from how lost in thoughts she remained. The difficulty of synthesizing any gesture of kindness back had proved to be difficult, not only from her lack of such in childhood, yet also the nature of society being uninterested in lovers sharing any actions of thanks.

Yet such a difficult question wore away into a deep fervor the moment you both engaged in sexual intimacy for the first time. Mizu’s gaze widening as soon as she laid eyes on your body trembling at her feather light touch grazing over your skin lined with goosebumps was a sight you’d refuse to forget, taking in the mesmerized look boring across your figure as she drank in every little detail of you laid bare before her. You could tell how she longed to please you, devoting herself to you as her own personal form of thanks she couldn’t think up in the past.

From then on, she always brought it upon herself to take the lead whenever you two had sex, swallowing back any desire of her own to be touched for the sake of you feeling good. Pushing back any thought of herself getting off as she kept either her fingers or the harigata dug deep inside you, determined to earn more of that sweet expression of yours twisted in pleasure, the driving force being her need to show you how much she loved you.

She didn’t know any other way she could display her affection besides the usual gestures of kissing you or grasping you in her tight embrace, the words ‘I love you’ even uttered from her mouth feeling empty. It truly wasn’t enough for her, it was as if she was unable to truly convey how much she cherished you, relished in the adoration of you glued to her as her woman.

So naturally, if she could make you feel good—feel loved through the act of sexual passion enveloping you both whole, then she’d make sure it wasn’t for her own gain, that you knew she wanted to focus on you. And only you.

“(Name)..”

Swallowing back the drools of saliva accumulated on your tongue through occasional gasps, you blinked your eyes open to whip your head over at Mizu. Who was off to the side scrambling together her fresh clothing neatly folded in a stack as she rose to her feet, her tall stature glowing bare in the streaks of candlelight accentuating the flushed tint of her skin coated in a thin blanket of sweat.

“We should clean ourselves up. We don’t want to be late for Taigen’s engagement celebration.”

Nodding, you staggered to the wobbling ground of stability tensed in your legs, dug into the ground with every ounce of remaining energy that you kept. Right, Taigen had a new bride who he had fallen for recently, and was dead set on marrying the woman the second he realized he was into her. To both you and Mizu however, the prospect of him quickly falling for this woman only molded a feeling of shrouded unease, especially considering how he had been head over heels for Akemi not too long ago.

“You think we could do this again after the celebration? I don’t feel..satisfied enough.”

“When we’re drunk off our asses?”

“Basically.”

“Hm. Why not. I suppose it could feel nice with liquid courage.”

Tremors of your shaky palm jittered as you took Mizu’s hand for support, damp fingers intertwined as you nearly slept while standing in the familiar friction of her calloused hand grazing your own comfortably.

“There’s a stream nearby. Let’s go there and wash up.”

—

“Congrats, Taigen! Marrying a beautiful girl like this, truly befitting of a man as great as you!”

Taigen chucked at the stranger’s compliment, tilting his head back to eye the looming crowd’s incessant chatter as his bride sat beside him. Several people had gathered to celebrate Taigen’s engagement, delighting in the lavish arrangement in eruptions of laughter accompanied by the clank of teacups filling your ears. At a safe distance away, you noticed a scoff pushing past Mizu’s lips, the corners curving up into a slight smirk as the two small cups of sake before you two remained untouched.

Her fingers snaked beneath the rounded bowl of her cup, thumb tracing along the curves rounding upward along the ceramic as she rested the rim against her bottom lip. Allowing spills of the alcohol to run down her tongue, you followed suit in sipping the sake intently, the dry bitterness seeping into your mouth to overtake your senses in a drowsy heaven inhibiting your rational thought.

“You know, I can’t believe that Taigen finally got someone he could stick with.” She slurred, amused at the other samurai lazing off in the indulgence of food and alcohol splayed out on a short table in front of him.

“Oh yeah? Akemi here seems to think he’s pretty brainless as well for running off back then when he got his chignon cut off.” You replied, face dusted a gentle pink as you caught the princess seated beside you shooting you a disapproving glare.

Mizu’s rounded eyes lowered as she nudged you for a brief moment, uncharacteristically being unable to stop downing sip after sip of the sour richness burning down her throat. Perhaps you should allow her to satiate herself by drowning in alcohol tonight, considering the lack of the worry eliminating liquid ever being something she had indulged in through her hardships of life.

You’d allow her to relax. Get as drunk as she wanted. Mizu truly deserved it after all the shit she’s been through.

Sliding the pale ceramic tokkuri toward her, grating against the wood in a high screech, your own drunken gaze lingered onto the swordswoman greatfully accepting the go to indulge in the alcohol granted to her as much as she wanted. As Mizu continued to pour her own cup, disregarding anyone who could do so for her, you drew in a breath, shifting closer to Akemi.

“Hey, Akemi?”

She craned her neck over to face you, dulled brown eyes fixed primarily on her own cup of sake. Excusing herself from her husband, Akemi raised an eyebrow in your direction, as if prompting you to speak. Right. She still had a bit of a grudge against both you and Mizu, even if it was miniscule.

“Well?”

“I just wanted to ask if you were alright…you were romantically involved with Taigen at some point were you not?”

Akemi shook her head briefly, hand planting onto her lap to smooth out the fine silks and fabrics of her clothing beholding the shogun’s crest—almost as if she was showing off the high status of her opulent lifestyle as an indication she wasn’t even remotely close to being unhappy among the Itoh clan with the shogun’s son—well, now brother as Takayoshi’s elder brother had taken the chair.

“I couldn’t care less about that arrogant man child.” She stated firmly, bringing the personal porcelain cup to her lips as she took a sip of the sake downed past the darkened, black pearls of her teeth. A sigh hummed in a satisfied vibration against your throat, glad that the princess had forgotten about Taigen in pursuit of her own goals, and her contentment with the current life spent with Takayoshi.

Your head spun into the deep swirls of a typhoon overtaking every sense of yours able to perceive the world properly, the fuzzy effects of the alcohol flipping the teetering border between heightening and blocking your senses. One moment, everything was clear, sharp like a lens outlining every little detail of the world. While the next, the distinct crowds of people grouped together into blurred globs, similar to a stroke of paint messily blending into the other within an abstract painting.

Glancing over at Mizu, your brows raised in surprise as your eyes roamed over your lover continuing to carelessly swallow down the beverage, a slim stream of clear sake unnoticeably trickling from the corner of her lip to drop onto her kimono in a small, darkened dot. Despite your flickering vision wavering in and out of an uncertain puzzlement of a perfect and imperfect world, you were certain Mizu was…gorgeous.

Had she always been this captivating? Sure, she was beautiful, yet you don’t believe she had left you this entranced and locked onto her features for this long. Your vision greedily consumed every little detail of her body, down to the single crease of fabric lined along her kimono clothed over her ribs as your hazed sight somehow made out her perfectly each time despite the woozy effects of the alcohol racking your mind.

Perhaps your peripheray was playing tricks on you, or simply mustering up bundles of courage that heightened your perception of Mizu’s dusted features as the swish of sake involuntarily pumping in your chest masked your vision in the obstruction of your crowned lashes fluttering up and down in your drunken state.

And as if in an intertwinement of your souls grasping onto each other in accordance with the other, mirroring your every move in the deep interconnection of your affection transcending past physical touch and words of affirmation—you swore you noticed Mizu do the same, her blue irises staring you down from the corner of her eye with that look, screaming out how perfect you looked in the storm of her intoxication clouding her senses.

It was as if you were kissed by the rays of both tenderness and beauty laying their hands along your body from every direction, the most ‘irrelevant’ of details, your imperfections, everything was engulfed in the shroud of perfection.

And of course, you could say the exact same, her own imperfections a flame of your reason for living in this world, the hold of her hemmed between your arms or vice versa being the remedy to any ailment the universe dared to even poke at you with.

You of course, were the cure to her ailment of hatred, the one that had consumed her for so long its foul grasp tainting her soul in the depths of agony.

Mizu stumbled across her own buckled knees as she tried to navigate her way over to you, lips parted like an impaired human being unable to see properly. Guilty of excessively consuming alcohol yourself, you staggered over to your lover through the sear of your muscles aching as if they were being gnawed at by some wild animal.

Even in the state you were in, the way Mizu twitched in an uncharacteristically dazed manner wrought an immediate concern as to take her back home, or to an inn at the very least, your hand tapping at the ground in several missed attempts to land on top of hers. Once you finally landed your palm to collide with the roughened bumps of her knuckles, it prompted Mizu’s eyes to trail upwards to meet yours, her own pupils dilated and fluffed over with the hazed effects of the alcohol slowing down time itself within her nerves as her head bobbed up and down in an attempt to keep it up.

She could certainly drink more, and she had enough energy to do something. Just…not necessarily anything rational until she was sober.

Firmly asserting yourself to rise to your feet, you tightly slung Mizu’s limp arm over your shoulder, the burden of her weight dragging down on your body as you struggled to keep her up with a huff. She was skinny from malnutrition, sure. But that didn’t exactly mean you were in any state yourself to carry a swordswoman built with a good amount of muscle on her lean frame.

Nevertheless, you hoisted the samurai against the curve of your back firmly, grunting at the pressure weighing down on you and jerking back up in accordance with the way her eyelids fluttered shut before snapping back open. Evidently so, you could tell the distant trance Mizu was plunged into, a newfound act of her slurred words and flushed cheeks becoming of a sight you thought you’d never see, as she had refused even a drop of alcohol to land on her tongue in the past. Your pointer finger cautiously located her glasses slipping off of her nose, pinpointing the center through your own doubled view as you proceeded to push them back up.

Yeah. You both were far too drunk to consider staying any longer.

Resting your chin atop Mizu’s shoulder, you were barely able to ignore the brief tingle of the navy fabrics tickling your chin as your hand rose to signal your goodbyes to Taigen, pushing back the urge to roll your eyes at the brisk nod he delivered you in response almost dismissively.

—

Bundles of your hair squeezed between her fists as Mizu tugged at the back of your head certainly stood as a surprise you didn’t expect yourself to be in the moment you got home. The wavering heat of sake stinging your nostrils as the odor of alcohol remained rubbed across every inch of Mizu’s body, her lips being no exception as it batted against your lip in a wash of what you could only describe as desperation.

Her lower lip colliding against your own mirrored the familiar thrill Mizu sought from the scrape of a katana against another in the joys of a friendly duel. Rather this time, the clash of your lips pushing against hers induced their excitement in one more physical—closer to the woman she craved, yet sparking the same, if not a more intensified fuel that roused her longing for you.

To be honest, it was a fairly new feeling to adjust to with the unfamiliar nudge of the harigata resting against your hips, palm tracing along the thick shell as your nervous expression fixed onto Mizu. She was absolutely out of it, her eyes that were usually sprawled in with hate, an unforgiving storm that wrecked ship after ship in its floods of a tempestuous maelstrom, finally calmed to the ripple of a steady stream.

In your own hazy blindness, you refused to focus on anything else outside of your lover, blocking out even the howl of the winds blowing outside of the room as you kept your gaze on the pale moonlight filtered through the paper doors glowing along the slivers of her bare ribs. Mizu’s low moans rang in your ears as they fell from every corner of the room past her pretty lips just from the mere kisses you peppered along her body, hands resting along her bare hips to steady her, as if you were worshipping a goddess from the delicate manner in which you handled her.

The blur of your head sinking away any other feeling but desire slowly crawled in to nearly overcome your senses, the gnawing urge to just ram yourself inside her cunt growing enticingly appealing to you right about now. Yet with the little rationale that grappled within you, you instead cleared your throat, looking down at the entrancing woman sprawled out before you, heavy lidded to meet your gaze in her daze of need.

“Mizu…are you- sure? I mean, you’re still not in the best mind and-“

Her nod was more than enough to cut you off, unable to spit out any more words through the gasps occupying her throat at the moment.

“It was for a while. I just couldn’t find it in me to express it to you.”

“You…I- ugh..”

You sighed, unable to properly formulate your thoughts as you simply gave up. Pressing your lips back to hers hungrily, the decision was crystal clear in your head, eyes closed as you succumbed to the wash of Mizu alluring your into her hold. It was final, you didn’t care about anything else. Who heard, who saw, or even if you were condemned to death by any god who saw the two of you entangled so closely together, impossible to seperate.

You just wanted her. You needed Mizu right now. Nothing else mattered in the growing need to make love to her screaming at you with all its might.

Quick blows of air expelled from her lungs danced along your tongue in the heat of the kiss, your lips holding onto hers as your hands ran along the scarred sanctity of her shoulders. A treasure you would never even think to ruin no matter what threatened to break you down, the sight of her vulnerable and open for you to touch a rare piece of her soul you had uncovered and promised to cherish. Mizu could only thrash about, yearning for the thick shell pressed against the flat of her stomach as the center barely touched upon her slit.

Of course, she’d used it on you countless times, and adored your legs spread wide open to take her every time. And yet, it was still her first time taking the harigata herself, finding the extra sensitivity throbbing along her nerves to be quite a surprise considering she’s done something similar before.

Mizu sharply hissed through her teeth as her hands flew up to dig her fingers into your back, indenting the callouses of each one into the stretch of your flesh each time she felt the head of your cock prodding forward against her. The leisurely roll of your hips ground against her own ached for the burning friction she chased, her heart hammering against her chest in the blanket of painful anticipation cast over her each time the tip pressed to her, yet not pushing in like she wanted.

“Could you maybe lay on your stomach?”

Your embarrassed squeak of a voice pathetically spoken caught her attention, the red tinted hue sprinkled over your face as you kept your hold on her hips tight. Smoothing over the brief curves of her sides, you pursed your lips at how she pivoted over to rest her grip on the edge of the mattress, knees aand elbows holding her up as Mizu peeked past her shoulder to fix her gaze onto you.

Craning over, your chin rested on the dents of her bony shoulder, tilting your head over in the warmth of silent tenderness to dig the tip of your nose into the crook of her neck from the side. Mizu couldn’t help but reciprocate such a loving gesture delivered from you, pressing her cheek over as best as she could while keeping herself held up on her arms and knees, barely even noticing the length of the harigata laying against her rear.

Finally, an encounter with the echos of bliss chimed along the enclosure as you squeezed your eyes shut anxiously, biting down your teeth against the tense muscle of your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in worry as Mizu’s drawn out whine ripped out of her throat. Her breaths shook out heavily as her chest heaved up and down with your fervent motions paced inside her, your grasp cupped around the plush of her hips as your gaze raked over her bare back, rhythmically rocking back and forth against your cock sheathing inside her with her head hung low.

Curtains of her dark hair obscured her face in the intoxicating sensations of the harigata stretching open the damp walls of her cunt, the stretched out grasp on your cock drooling against the toy pushing back against your waist sucked it in with the deathly grip of a thousand armies. Despite struggling against the initial issue of her pussy clamped around you, you couldn’t help but weaken your resolve at her struggling to bite back the chorus of low pitched moans gradually heightening in pitch with each thrust of your hips slapping against the back of her cunt.

Mizu’s whimpers only grew more frequent as her already blended vision continued to fog up further, thighs partially folded apart to expose the strokes of shining slick reflected along the back of her slit, eventually loosening up more and more through her moans nearly screaming out.

“Haah..fuck..more-“

You’d be lying if you said that your surprise didn’t cause you to falter said movements a little. After all, she had never been like this, practically begging for you to shove your cock deeper inside her as her hips steadied themselves enough to push back against you. You retracted your head off her shoulder to lean back with your torso upright, yet not ceasing the movements of fucking into her for even a second, savoring the full-picture sight of her taking your cock to the hilt, almost as if she was eager for each tingling sensation of your dick splitting her open in a stretch to accommodate you.

Her wanton moans only persisted through even as Mizu’s well built arms struggled to keep her upright in the erotic position, her taut muscles searing in a blanking ecstasy around your cock spearing against her. Incoherent slurs of “don’t stop” and “so good” were the only things you could make out in her drawls of pleasure blabbering in nothing but broken moans and whimpers spilling past her feverish lips as your hips collided with her rear skin to skin.

Chewing at your lip to hold back your own noises, you drew in a shaky breath at the sight of her greedy cunt swallowing your cock in no matter how deep you sheathed yourself into her. Signifying her covetous desire toward the woman she loved, her need for you almost insatiable as she never wanted to let you go. Dropping her arms to sink into the futon, her torso rested into the mattress eneveloping her worn out body, before gasping out at the aid of you raising her rear up to meet your hips once more. You were the light in her once shadowed world of torturous hatred, you truly loved her, she swore would never lose something like this again. Ever.

Even after the rush of her juices adorned the length of your dick, her recovery from her orgasm was short lived as you rested your hands on her shoulders, gesturing her to turn over once more. Mizu’s thirst for a further horizon of pleasure overpowered the exhaustion of her body, lulling over onto her back as she allowed your grasp to snake under her knees and brush over the quaking tremors of her shaky thighs.

Pressing her knees forward, you hastily aligned the head of your cock with the leaking opening of her cunt, already stretched out as her folds glistened in heaps of her cum smeared against her in an erotic work of art. You planted a kiss against her neck, allowing your hot breath still lingering of sake to fan against the damp sweat of her chest.

“You’ve always taken care of me, let me do the same for you.”

With that single whisper, you ran the shell along her slit experimentally blind eyed, locating her hole before penetrating the tip past her soaked folds, and wringing out those sweet noises of hers once more.

Each thrust of yours hitting deep along the velvety contractions of her pussy trapping your cock inside her grazed against her cervix occasionally, the rugged head splitting her as her moans swallowed you whole in tandem with her cunt engulfing your cock inside her, squeezing tight as if she begged you to never leave. Mizu’s unending strings of moans were the only thing you wanted to hear, the only voice you could truly get lost in upon relishing the vocal, loud gasps drawling out of her whenever you cut away any space between you two, grinding your hips to her clit within the comfort of her whines spurring you on.

Mizu’s eyes locked with yours as you resumed your harsh movements thrusting inside of her, crescent marks embedded from the blunts of her nails tearing at your back with her gaze practically refusing to leave yours. Brows furrowed, she savored the languid hug of your lips to her for a brief moment in the exhilaration of your eyes boring into hers, each heavy breath hung in the air through each others movements professing volumes of your love through the intensity of unspoken words.

You quickly descended your lips back down onto Mizu’s, taking in each whimper vibrating against your mouth as you could practically taste her noises spilling against your tongue, slamming your hips forward with her knees nearly pushed to her chest. Through the melody of her high pitched moans, you acknowledged her teetering over the edge of another orgasm as her eyes rolled back in breaking contact with yours, clenching around your cock digging inside her spongy walls broken off with her pleading sob.

Mizu trembled under your hold as her chest heaved up and down, gentle dusts of pink decorating her chest in the aftermath of her climax unwinding within her. A grunt hummed against her hoarse throat as you withdrew your cock from her pussy slipping its grip off of the harigata, eyelids masking over her irises as she lay limp on her side, fighting back her drained state urging her to sleep. You simply kicked out of the toy around your waist, deciding to clean it in the morning as you stared down her cum pooling down the shell head, before setting it aside and fitting yourself against Mizu’s back.

You could feel yourself growing tired as well, cradling yourself in the comfort of your leg draped over her waist as you surrendered to the soft solace of holding the one person you’d burn down the world for.

—

“Shit…I know we had sex, but why does it ache all over? More than usual..” Mizu complained as she wove a hand through her messed locks, fingers digging into her scalp as she crossed her legs together. She cocked an eyebrow at your smug expression set over to her, her blue eyes dusted over with her usual groggy morning freshness.

“…(Name), what did you do.”

The samurai squinted over at you, pondering upon and piecing together every possibility of what could have possibly happened for you to be looking like such a haughty prick. You only giggled in response, leaning over as you flicked your pointer finger over her nose devilishly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mizu?”

A/N: FINALLY I FINSIHED I DIDNT HAVE TIME TO FINISH THIS EARLIER THIS WEEK YWASSSSS anyway again, I was so ridiculously embarrassed writing this I’m crying. And posting this on Ugadi is lowkey crazy but ykw it’s okay and ngl this was a little just a TEENY bit self indulgent

I CANT GET BOTTOM MIZU OFF MY MIND IM SORRY I THOUGHT OF THE IDEA BEHIND THE NSFW PART DURING MY MATH TEST TODAY.

She’s so gorgeous pls I love my wife I miss her sm

also, a somewhat important a/n, this may be my last fic for a bit and I’ll have to go on break, considering final exams are coming up. feel free to leave requests, but I will not be writing until after atleast two months.

ily mizu nation and my followers ily all

my gf isn’t she beauiful

[chimcess]

❆ Chapter One: Homecoming Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Coach!Yoongi Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Word Count: 24.1k+ Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player. Warnings: Reader is injured and still using crutches, meet-cute reference to an unhealthy relationship with mom, absent father, parental issues, pining, low self-esteem, reader has anxiety, reader is very stressed out, honestly my girl is just exhausted, very pushy neighbors (but we love them for it), Taehyung is adopted, this is really just an introduction to everyone so not many warnings here... A/N: Happy New Year! Let's kick things off with a new massive series. This one will touch on very heavy topics such as toxic parents, mental health issues, and non-consensual touching. Please proceed with caution. New Chapters every month!

masterlist || next

I never used to think about what came next.

Why would I? Back then, the future felt like a far-off, shapeless thing—something for other people to worry about. I was too tangled in the middle of my story to even consider its ending. Life moved fast, like pages riffling under a restless thumb, each chapter running into the next before I had time to catch my breath. There was no pausing, no foreshadowing. Just motion. Just noise.

And sometimes—if the stars aligned, if the right song played through the speakers and your body remembered everything it had trained for—sometimes, it felt like you were brushing up against something holy. Like a dream you hadn’t dared say out loud. It sat there on the edge of your reach, glowing with possibility. But just when your fingers grazed it—when you let yourself believe it might be real—life had a way of snapping its fingers. Books closed. Lights cut out. And you were right back where you started, blinking in the dark.

I don’t think I ever really knew what “normal” meant.

Normal was something other people lived. People who wore buttoned-up shirts and had reliable morning routines, who drank coffee in break rooms and complained about meetings. My days started before the sun—slipping out of bed in the pitch black, lacing up my skates while the cold gnawed at my skin. Stretch until it hurts. Practice until the movements melt into muscle memory. The rink always smelled like frost, metal, and sweat. And underneath that, something sharper—hunger. Not the kind that fades with a snack, but the kind that lodges in your ribs and won’t let go.

That was my rhythm. That was my religion. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t remember the first time I stepped onto the ice. I just know I never wanted to step off. It was the one place that made sense. My body knew what to do there. My brain went quiet, finally. The chaos in me stilled, every time. That’s what made it home.

My mom, Emily, was the first to see it in me. That spark. That thing you can’t quite name but can’t ignore, either. And once she saw it, she refused to let it go. Her love didn’t come in soft words or warm embraces. It came in early alarms, packed bags, and a pressure so constant it eventually felt like air.

Some people called her obsessive. They said she was chasing ghosts, trying to reclaim something she’d lost. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was her second chance, her do-over. But I never resented her for it. Not really. Her ambition burned hot—too hot, sometimes—but it kept me warm. Even when it singed the edges of us.

She’d been a skater, too. Once. Before everything changed. Before the pregnancy, the marriage, the slow surrender of all the things she used to dream about. Her life narrowed, like a funnel, until all that remained was me and the rink. That was the shape her love took—sharp-edged and relentless, but real.

She met my dad when she was still trying to outrun her own shadow. He was in town for police training. They fell hard and fast—or maybe just fast enough to not question it. I came along not long after. A courthouse wedding. A move to Olympia. A life that never quite settled into the one they’d imagined. Eventually, we left. Colorado was calling. Or maybe just the ice.

Jim—my dad—stayed behind, burying himself in his routine, in a house that still smelled like old coffee and missed chances. I became the in-between. Tugged between two versions of love: his quiet, distant steadiness and my mother’s blinding storm.

And now here I was. Back in Michigan.

The intercom snapped me out of my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve begun our descent into Detroit, where the local time is 5:18 p.m., and the temperature is a brisk fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and tray tables are locked.”

Fifteen degrees. Michigan always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the clouds give way to gray city lights below. My knee ached, a deep, pulsing throb. The kind that doesn’t fade. I was supposed to see Dr. Jeon on Monday. Everyone said he was the best, that if anyone could fix it, it was him. But I wasn’t waiting on a verdict—I already knew.

The moment it happened, I knew.

The rink had been quiet that day, sun slanting in through high windows, music drifting through the speakers—Swan Lake, soft and haunting. I wasn’t competing. Just skating for myself. My mother sat in the stands beside my coach, their heads bowed in conversation. I picked up speed, moving into a fan spiral.

Then—nothing. Just the wrong angle. The wrong second.

The blade caught. My body twisted. My world flipped sideways.

When I hit the ice, it wasn’t the pain I noticed first. It was the sound. The dull, sickening crack, and then silence. My breath caught somewhere in my chest.

The plane touched down with a jolt, the wheels screaming against the runway. I flinched, the memory scattering like glass.

Around me, seatbelts clicked and passengers jostled for overhead bags, their conversations humming back to life. I stayed seated. My crutches were wedged beneath the seat in front of me, cold metal pressing against my legs.

A few months ago, I moved like wind. I was weightless. Now, every step felt like a negotiation. Every breath like a debt I didn’t remember agreeing to.

At baggage claim, I stood off to the side, crutches tucked beneath my arms, watching the carousel churn. Suitcases slid by in slow, looping circles like planets on a lazy orbit. My hands were full. My leg, stiff and aching, was practically dead weight. I had no idea how I was going to get them off the belt.

“You need a hand?”

The voice was sudden, close, and I turned too quickly. My balance shifted. One crutch slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

“Shit—sorry,” I muttered, trying to grab for something—anything—to hold onto, but he was already there.

He caught me. Hands on my arms, steady and instinctive, like this wasn’t the first time he’d stopped someone from hitting the floor. His touch was firm but careful. Measured. And somehow, without a word, he anchored me.

Everything else—the hum of the baggage belt, the rolling wheels of suitcases, the overlapping voices echoing through the terminal—blurred around the edges. Like we were in a brief pause. A pocket of quiet inside the chaos.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was warm, level. Unrushed.

I nodded before I even knew what I was saying. “Yeah. Fine.” A lie, of course. But a reflexive one. The kind you tell a stranger who just caught you in more ways than one.

He didn’t let go right away. Just lingered a second longer, maybe making sure I was stable. Then he crouched down to retrieve the crutch, his movements easy, unfazed. When he handed it back, his gaze didn’t carry pity—just something thoughtful. Attentive.

“Thanks,” I said, too quietly. I took the crutch and gripped it tighter than necessary.

He smiled a little, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything. “No problem.”

Around us, the terminal snapped back into focus. Suitcases banged onto the carousel. A family argued about car seats. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. But for a few seconds more, he stayed beside me, his presence quiet but undeniably solid.

His eyes flicked toward my luggage—still waiting, still unclaimed. “Need help with your bags?”

My first instinct was pride. “I’ve got it,” I said, automatically.

He raised an eyebrow, not judging, just mildly amused. “You sure?”

My knee pulsed in answer, sending a sharp signal up my thigh. I sighed. “Okay, maybe not totally.”

“No shame in that,” he said easily. He stepped forward, grabbed my suitcase like it weighed nothing, balanced my carry-on on top without breaking stride.

We started walking together, or rather, I hobbled while he adjusted his pace to mine without comment. His steps were smooth, unrushed. Like he wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Someone picking you up?” he asked, guiding us toward the exit.

“Nope. Just grabbing a cab.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but I was aware of him next to me—his quiet presence, the low warmth of his voice, the way he carried my bags without making it feel like a favor.

“I’ve got my car in the overnight lot,” he said, voice casual. “Could give you a ride, if you want.”

I hesitated—too long. “That’s okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

His face didn’t change much, but something subtle shifted. Not disappointment exactly. Just... a beat skipped.

We pushed through the sliding doors and were hit with a blast of cold so sharp it stole my breath. I hissed through my teeth, pulling my coat tighter.

He glanced over. “Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Something like that.”

The air felt cruel. Not just cold, but personal. The kind of cold that didn’t just bite—it burrowed.

“So,” he said, voice soft and clouding in the air, “where were you before this?”

“Nevada,” I said. “Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot.”

“We?” he echoed, like he already knew the answer.

“My mom and me,” I said. “She never liked staying in one place too long.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Sounds like it kept things interesting.”

“It did,” I said, laughing softly. “And exhausting.”

He smiled at that, and it reached his eyes.

The conversation, somehow, didn’t feel forced. It flowed the way snow falls—quiet, natural, layering into something without you realizing it.

“You staying in town a while?”

“For the foreseeable future,” I said. I hadn’t said it out loud until now. It sounded strange. Final.

“Good,” he said simply. And the way he said it—low, certain—made my stomach flip for reasons I couldn’t explain.

I looked at him then. Really looked. He had that quiet kind of good looks—the kind that crept up on you. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His eyes were dark, warm. Like they’d seen things and still knew how to look gently.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he added, running a hand through his hair. It flopped back into place like it belonged that way—messy but deliberate.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Where are you staying?” he asked, the question light but laced with something... expectant.

“Royal Oak,” I said. “Just moved in. The old houses there are so old and beautiful. I like that.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

The space between us felt thinner suddenly, like a thread pulled taut. His gaze flicked down to my hands, and without warning, he reached for them.

His fingers wrapped around mine—bare, stiff from the cold. His hands were warm. Startlingly so. The kind of warmth you notice because it feels like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

I froze. Not physically—at least not entirely—but inside. Some part of me flinched without moving, unsure what to do with that kind of contact.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way it spread. Quick. Quiet. Everywhere.

“We should get you a cab,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you stay out here much longer.”

“Probably,” I murmured, managing a half-smile, though I didn’t pull away right away. He was just so warm, and his skin was so soft.

But eventually I did. I stepped back, and the cold rushed in like punishment.

He didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He flagged down a cab like it was second nature, raised one hand, and the car pulled over within seconds. Everything about him felt smooth, capable—like someone who knew how to move through the world.

He opened the door for me, then grabbed my suitcase and hoisted it into the trunk like it weighed nothing. I watched, rooted to the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around myself as the wind bit harder.

He turned back around and looked at me—his expression open, calm. Like maybe this was all normal. Like I wasn’t just standing there, blinking through what felt like the end of something before it even had a chance to start.

“Thanks,” I said, finally. My voice was small. Not shy, exactly. Just unsure. Of him. Of myself.

He hesitated, just slightly. Then: “Jungkook.”

It took me a second to realize he was telling me his name. Offering it, like a kindness. Or a beginning. Maybe both.

“Y/N,” I said, a little too quickly. It came out sounding strange in my ears. Like I was saying it for the first time.

He smiled, like he liked the way it sounded. “Y/N,” he repeated, quietly. Testing it. Letting it sit on his tongue for a second longer than it needed to.

There was a shift then—a lean, not quite forward, but enough to make my heart catch. He looked like he was about to tell me something else. Something private.

“My friends and I go to this bar on Grand, on Tuesdays. It’s called Bronx,” he said. Like it was nothing. Just a casual thought. “You should come by sometime.”

I felt the flicker. That sharp, involuntary flutter in my chest.

But I shut it down fast.

Because guys like him—tall, kind-eyed, warm-handed guys who looked like they belonged in glossy photos and movie trailers—didn’t mean anything by that. They didn’t say you should come by because they wanted you, specifically. They said it because they were polite. Friendly. Because that’s the kind of person he probably was—someone who didn’t leave people hanging out in the cold without an invitation somewhere.

I forced a smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

My voice betrayed nothing. Not the pulse in my neck. Not the creeping question that had already started unraveling in the back of my mind: *Did he mean it like that?*

He brightened a little. “Great,” he said. Simple. Genuine.

And then that was it. He stepped back, shut the cab door behind me, and just like that, it was over.

The cab started rolling forward, and I twisted in my seat, looking back through the window. He was still there. Hands in his coat pockets, watching me go. When he noticed me looking, he lifted a hand in a wave—casual, easy.

I raised mine back, but it felt stiff, awkward. Like I was pretending I knew what I was doing.

I sat back and let the silence fill the cab around me. Pressed my forehead against the icy window and closed my eyes. The cold helped. It grounded me.

And still, I could feel the moment pulsing behind my ribs. Like it had already dug itself in.

But I pushed it down.

He probably wasn’t even flirting.

He was just being nice. Helpful. Friendly in that way extroverts often are to the damaged and weirdly quiet.

It didn’t mean anything.

I didn’t do this. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t meet strangers and imagine possibilities. I didn’t let myself believe that someone like him could look at someone like me and see anything worth lingering for.

Still…

That smile.

The way he said my name, like it had a shape he wanted to memorize.

I told myself not to read into it. I told myself to be smart.

But even as the cab turned away from the curb, my thoughts refused to listen. For the first time in a long time, they wanted to drift somewhere else.

And against all logic, I let them whisper the one thing I’d trained myself never to ask.

What if he meant it?

It was a little past seven when the cab pulled up in front of my new apartment building. The sky had already slipped into that deep, smudged purple that comes right before full darkness—like the city had been bruised by the cold. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft, yellow halos on the sidewalk. My breath clouded the window as I leaned forward, squinting at the building like seeing it from the inside of the cab might make it feel less... foreign.

The driver popped the trunk without a word. I climbed out carefully, my crutches clacking against the frozen pavement, the wind slicing straight through my coat like it didn’t care I was already exhausted. That specific kind of tired had taken over—the kind that didn’t just live in your muscles, but somewhere deeper. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. I felt like I could lie down on the sidewalk and not move for a week.

The doorman was waiting. Late fifties, maybe older. Graying beard, wool gloves, an expression that said he’d seen this a million times before. He seemed almost bored with me, but I had never claimed to know much about faces. Emily usually had two or three and all of them usually meant roughly the same thing.

“New tenant?” he asked gently, taking in the crutches, the suitcase, the half-zipped coat.

“Yeah. 311.”

He didn’t smile, but there was something kind in his face—steady, nonjudgmental. “Elevator’s this way. I’ll get the bags.”

He moved with a quiet kind of efficiency, hoisting my luggage without fanfare and leading me through the glass doors. Warm air hit me the second we stepped inside, but it didn’t do much. The chill had already settled too deep.

The ride to the third floor was silent, except for the elevator’s low mechanical hum and the quiet squeak of my crutches on tile.

The apartment door opened with a stiff creak.

It smelled faintly of fresh paint and wood shavings—like the place had been redone recently, maybe just enough to feel new. But it was empty. No trace of a previous life. No leftover energy or forgotten curtain rod brackets. Just a blank, echoing box.

My footsteps bounced off the hardwood. There was no couch, no bed, not even a lamp. The walls were bright white and clean, but they felt more like placeholders than personality. It was like walking into the first draft of a home—raw, unfinished, waiting.

I stood in the middle of the living room and exhaled slowly. The air inside was still, untouched. A different kind of cold.

The silence pressed in. I reached for my phone and ordered pizza—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Pepperoni and mushrooms. Breadsticks. Something easy. Something normal. If I could just do one ordinary thing, maybe I could trick myself into believing this wasn’t so strange—being here, being alone, being... untethered.

The moment I hit "order," the silence rushed back in. I looked around, trying to imagine the space with actual furniture. A couch against the far wall. A coffee table. Maybe a bookshelf or two, even though I didn’t technically own any books that weren’t dog-eared paperbacks from airport terminals. Still—it would be something.

I’d never lived alone before. Not even for a week. My whole life had been spent sharing space—with my mom, with coaches, with other skaters during training seasons. I didn’t even know what someone needed to live by themselves. Like, did people just... know what to buy? Dish soap? Lamps? Rugs?

I turned slowly in place, studying the layout. The kitchen was a compact galley tucked into the left corner—sleek gray cabinets, bare countertops, a fridge that still had the protective film on the handle. No dishes, no groceries, not even a roll of paper towels. A kitchen that looked like a display model in a catalog—neat, untouched, uninviting.

The bedroom was small, but bright. Big window. Narrow closet. Enough space for a bed and maybe a nightstand if I got creative. And the bathroom was all clean lines and white tile—cold and clinical but functional. At least the water pressure seemed good.

But the best part, the one thing that made me pause, was the little alcove near the entrance. A window seat built into the wall, framed by two narrow bookcases on either side. It was unexpected—this soft, quiet space in an otherwise utilitarian apartment. I could picture myself there on some future night, curled up with a blanket and tea, snow falling outside. I didn’t even drink tea. But maybe I would. Maybe I’d become the kind of person who did.

For a few seconds, that vision held. A glimpse of what this place could be.

I sat down carefully on the window seat, resting my crutches against the wall. Outside, people moved along the street below, bundled in coats, heads ducked against the wind. They looked like they knew where they were going. Like they had homes to return to. Dogs to walk. Rooms that felt lived in.

I had a suitcase, a half-eaten past, and a blank canvas I wasn’t sure how to fill.

I tried not to think about it too hard. I’d figure it out. Eventually. Probably.

My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I answered without thinking.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you make it?” My mother’s voice came through flat and sharp, like she was trying not to sound annoyed but failing anyway.

I knew that tone. Tight, clipped—meant to sound like concern, but edged with something else. Resentment maybe. Or disappointment.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just got here.”

There was a pause, but not the kind that invited conversation. Just the kind that preceded more instructions.

“You need to eat something. Something with protein. And make sure you stretch tonight. Five reps of the ankle series. And don’t forget the quad hold—it’s been long enough. You can’t let the muscle atrophy. The longer you wait to get back into a routine, the worse it’s going to be.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it built. A rolling list of reminders and critiques I’d heard so many times they might as well have been tattooed on the inside of my skull.

“You’re slipping into bad habits,” she continued. “I get that you’re upset, but taking a break from discipline isn’t going to solve anything. You have to stay sharp, even now.”

Even now. As if everything hadn’t already fallen apart.

I didn’t say anything. I just held the phone to my ear and let her talk. She didn’t ask how the flight was. Didn’t ask how I was feeling. Didn’t ask what the apartment looked like, or if I’d managed to bring the bags in by myself, or if I was scared. She never did. And part of me hated how unsurprised I was by that.

Eventually, after a solid five minutes of talking at me—not to me—I cut in. Gently.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “I need to unpack.”

There was a beat of silence, like maybe she heard something in my voice she wasn’t sure what to do with. But it passed.

“Alright. Night.”

The call ended. And with it, the noise in my head stopped—abruptly and completely. The silence filled the space around me like water in a tank. Heavy. Quiet. Cold.

I stood in the middle of the apartment and looked around again. Still just walls and windows. Still too bright, too clean. Not a single thing to suggest a life had ever been lived here—or was about to be.

I wandered a little, dragging my fingers along the blank drywall. I couldn’t tell if it felt like a beginning or an ending. Maybe both.

Jungkook’s face surfaced in my mind, uninvited. His voice, the way it wrapped around my name like it was something rare. The way he’d looked at me—really looked.

But that was probably just him being nice. He seemed like the type who was nice to everyone. The type who smiled at baristas and helped old ladies carry their groceries. That kind of warmth wasn’t about me, personally. I just happened to be the one standing in front of him at the time.

Still... part of me wished I had asked him more. Or said yes, just to see what it felt like to say yes to something I didn’t overthink to death. But instead, I was here. Alone. In an apartment with no furniture, no food, and not even a mug for water.

I didn’t know how people did this—built homes out of spaces like this. What did you even buy? A rug? A lamp? A plant? I didn’t own any of those things. I didn’t even know how to *want* them yet. My whole life had been about function. Goals. Time splits. Physical therapy. Not... candles and color schemes.

I didn’t know what kind of person I was supposed to be without someone else dictating the shape of my day. But maybe that was the point.

Just as I started to sink into that thought, a knock at the door pulled me upright. I glanced at my phone. The pizza.

Finally.

I moved toward the door, my crutches tapping across the hardwood. But when I pulled it open, it wasn’t a delivery guy standing there.

It was a girl.

Tiny but sharp, like a spark wrapped in velvet. She wore a black knit sweater dress that clung just right and a sequined mini that caught the hallway light with every small movement. Her boots were scuffed in a cool-on-purpose kind of way, and her hair was buzzed close to her scalp—soft and dark, like velvet. She was beautiful in that specific, intimidating way that made you wonder if you should already know her name.

Her eyes were the thing that caught my eye the most. Deep brown and wide, with this gentle openness that made it impossible to look away. The reminded me of him.

“Hey!” she said, bright and familiar, like I was someone she already liked. “I’m Mina. I live next door. The pizza guy knocked on our door by accident—rookie mistake. Figured I’d deliver it myself and say hi.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My stomach grumbled loudly enough for both of us.

“Thanks,” I managed. “Would you mind putting it in the kitchen? I’m kind of...” I glanced down at the crutches.

“Oh, totally!” she said, stepping inside like it was already her second time visiting. She walked with the confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged.

She set the box down on the bare countertop and turned back toward me.

“So... what happened?” she asked, tipping her head toward my crutches.

“Sports injury,” I said. It was short, vague, and mostly true.

Mina nodded like that was good enough. “Bummer. You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Getting there.”

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “moving sucks enough when you’re healthy. Doing it like this? Brutal.”

I laughed, surprised. “Yeah. It’s... a lot.”

She grinned. “No kidding. So, what’s the plan? Sleeping bag on the floor tonight?”

“I’ve got a suitcase and a yoga mat,” I said, a little defensively. “I’ll survive.”

Mina’s expression shifted like I’d just told her I was planning to spend the night on a sidewalk.

“God, that’s so depressing,” she said, but not unkindly. “You don’t even have, like, a chair?”

“I said I’ll survive.”

She squinted at me, like she was deciding something. Then, without another word, she picked up the pizza box and marched back to the door.

I blinked. “Wait—are you taking that with you?”

She looked over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Relax. You’re coming with me. You can eat at my place.”

“I—what?” I gestured helplessly to my clothes, to the emptiness around me. “I just changed into sweatpants. I don’t even have a plate.”

“Perfect. My kind of dinner party.”

Then she was gone. Just like that. Down the hall, pizza in hand.

I stared after her, stunned. Did she really just steal my dinner?

I stared at my reflection in the hallway mirror across the entry, still wearing my old track jacket and fleece pants, socks mismatched, hair shoved under a beanie.

She wanted me to come over?

I stood in the hallway for a moment longer than I needed to, crutches tucked beneath my arms, heart racing for no good reason. It wasn’t far—ten steps, maybe twelve. It wouldn't hurt to try. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and whatever was left of my courage, then made my way to 312.

I knocked, light at first, then louder when there wasn’t an answer right away.

The door creaked open.

But it wasn’t Mina.

A tall blonde woman stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed but somehow elegant. She had this understated confidence, the kind you couldn't fake. Her long hair hung smooth and straight over her shoulders, catching the hallway light like silk. Sharp, dark brows. Almond-shaped brown eyes so deep they were nearly black.

Where Mina had this kinetic, almost manic energy, this woman felt still—centered. Like nothing could rattle her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little husky. “You must be the girl from 311. Mina said you’d be joining us tonight.”

Her tone was warm but matter-of-fact, like my presence was expected. Mina was very quick. She'd only left my apartment less than thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah. Uh, thanks,” I said, suddenly aware of how I looked—sweatpants, old track jacket, socks that didn’t match. “I don’t want to impose or anything, I just—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t bother with that. Mina’s made up her mind. There’s no use resisting. You might as well come in and let it happen.”

Before I could think of a response, Mina appeared in the hallway behind her, now in yoga pants and a faded concert t-shirt that looked like it had survived a dozen years and maybe even a festival or two.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, triumphant.

“You left me no choice,” I replied, trying for dry humor, though my voice still felt small in my throat. “You literally stole my dinner.”

Mina beamed like I’d just complimented her. “Exactly. Look how well it worked out! Way better than eating alone in your echo-chamber of an apartment.”

She stepped aside to let me in, then made a dramatic gesture toward the kitchen. “Oh my God, wait. I just realized—I didn’t even ask your name. I get so excited about people sometimes I forget basic manners.”

“Y/N,” I said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” Mina repeated, like she was adding it to a mental guest list. “Perfect.”

The blonde woman smiled from where she was leaning against the counter. “I’m Leera,” she said. “But everyone calls me Lucy.”

“Only because I care,” Mina said, opening the pizza box like she was unveiling treasure.

The apartment felt like the polar opposite of mine—warm, mismatched in the best way. The walls were painted a dusty green, and string lights wound their way lazily across the ceiling beams. Plants sat in mismatched ceramic pots on nearly every available surface. The furniture didn’t match, but it didn’t matter—it worked. A soft, oversized armchair in the corner. A chipped wooden bookshelf filled with actual books. Framed photos on the wall that didn’t try too hard to impress. It felt lived in. Loved.

And it smelled amazing.

“Wait,” I said, eyeing the counter. “Why are there four pizzas?”

Mina shrugged, already opening another box. “We ordered ours before your guy showed up with yours. Honestly, we probably would’ve ordered four anyway. This way it just feels fated.”

Lucy opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke—mine. She held it up with a raised eyebrow. “Want a glass? Ice?”

“Sure,” I said, my shoulders relaxing without my permission.

We gathered around the island, and before I knew it, I had a plate of food in front of me and a drink in my hand. Mina talked fast, hopping from subject to subject like her thoughts didn’t have brakes, and Lucy chimed in occasionally, always measured, always with that quietly amused tone like she was used to this routine and liked it more than she let on.

Mina was an event planner, which made perfect sense—she had that sort of wildly creative energy. Her life, she told me, was a mess of spreadsheets and glitter, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Her family was originally from Wisconsin, though her grandparents had emigrated from Korea. She had two brothers, both overprotective in different, exhausting ways, and one fiancé—Jimin—who she described as “obnoxiously supportive, like it’s his full-time job.”

Lucy, on the other hand, rebuilt classic cars for a living. I actually laughed when she said it, not because it was funny, but because I didn’t believe her at first. She had this sleek, polished air that made me assume she worked in design or luxury retail or something that involved perfectly tailored coats and clean fingernails.

But no. She spent her days under the hoods of aging Corvettes and vintage Mustangs, smelling like motor oil and coffee.

“People are always surprised,” she said with a faint smirk. “But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. My dad started teaching me when I was twelve.”

As they talked, I found myself nodding, laughing in places I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel like I had to earn my seat. They weren’t waiting for me to prove anything.

They were just... letting me be there.

It wasn’t until I glanced at the clock that I realized it was almost midnight.

Somehow, a night that had started with stolen pizza had turned into something else. Something warmer. Easier. Something that felt dangerously close to *belonging*.

“Get used to late nights,” Lucy said, bumping her shoulder against mine gently. “Being friends with Mina means you’re on her time zone.”

Friends.

The word hit differently than I expected. Like something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to claim.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used that word about myself—friend. Maybe never. There hadn’t been room for it growing up. My life was airports, hotel rooms, ice rinks. Mornings that started in the dark and ended long after the sun went down. Everything was measured in routines and results. Emily made sure of that. Friends, she said, were distractions. Noise. And eventually, I believed her.

So I learned how to keep my distance. I got good at it—stepping back before anyone could step away first. It was easier that way. Safer.

But Mina and Lucy weren’t trying to fit me into a box. They weren’t asking what I could do for them or weighing my worth. They just made space. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that scared me more than being alone ever had.

“So, Y/N,” Mina said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of late-night stillness, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

I blinked, pulling myself back into the room. The warmth of the apartment, the soft light overhead, the smell of garlic still lingering in the air—it all felt too good, too easy.

“Big day,” I admitted, stretching slightly. “Furniture’s supposed to be delivered in the morning. Then all my stuff from Nevada should arrive by mid-afternoon. I need groceries. And I thought about picking out paint colors, but... that might be pushing it.”

Mina’s face lit up like I’d just suggested a road trip to Disneyland. “Need help? I’m free tomorrow. I thrive on chaos. We’ll have you fully moved in and halfway redecorated by dinner.”

She gave me a playful glance, eyes flicking toward my crutches. “You know, considering your... limited mobility.”

I hesitated, instinct pulling me toward the automatic no. But Mina didn’t wait for invitations. She made herself part of the plan before you even knew you had one. And somehow, saying no to her felt more exhausting than just letting her bulldoze her way through my life.

“That’d actually be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lucy looked over from the sink, where she was drying a mug with practiced ease. “Just don’t let her bully you into a theme,” she warned, smirking. “She’ll have your place looking like a Pinterest board before you can blink.”

Mina gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have taste. I’m just trying to help her create a home. Is that such a crime?”

Lucy tossed the towel onto the counter. “I’m just giving her fair warning. Once the throw pillows come out, there’s no going back.”

I laughed, a real one this time. The kind that rose without effort, uncoiling something tight in my chest.

A yawn crept up before I could stop it.

“Go freshen up,” Mina said, waving me toward the bathroom. “I’ll set up the couch. It’s not a luxury suite, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor.”

Gratefully, I slipped down the hall, ducking into the small guest bath. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with the travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, and stared at my reflection under the soft bathroom light. I looked tired—really tired—but there was a softness to it now. Less like unraveling, more like unwinding.

When I came back out, the couch had been transformed. A mountain of blankets, layered pillows, even a folded throw at the foot. It looked lived-in, warm—inviting in a way that my entire apartment hadn’t managed to be.

“Thanks,” I said, lowering myself onto the cushions. “This is a serious upgrade from what I had planned. You’ve both officially saved me from a night of regretting every decision I’ve ever made.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “We aim to please.”

“I’ll stop by around four tomorrow,” she added. “Just in time to pull you out from under Mina’s pile of fabric swatches.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, flashing Mina a grin.

Mina feigned indignation. “Rude. You’re going to love every second of it.”

Then her eyes brightened again. “Actually, I’ll see if the guys are around this weekend. They can help with the heavier stuff. They’ve got a game in Anaheim Friday, but they should be free after that.”

I froze mid-sip of my Diet Coke. “Game?”

Mina blinked like she’d forgotten the detail. “Oh—yeah. Jimin, Taehyung, and my other brother, Jungkook? They play for the Michigan Red Wings.”

I stared at her.

“That’s... hockey, right?”

Lucy snorted into her sparkling water.

Mina nodded slowly. “Yeah. NHL. You know... National Hockey League? Ice, sticks, fighting?”

I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Hockey wasn’t really on my radar.”

“Shocking, coming from someone who lived on a rink,” Lucy teased, eyes amused.

“Emily used to complain about hockey guys hogging ice time. That’s about all I know.”

Mina’s face lit up again. “We’re taking you to a game. No discussion. The energy, the speed—plus, we sit in the family section, so you get snacks.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Mina thinks snacks are a recruiting tool.”

“They are,” Mina said. “And you’ll love it. Even if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s fun. And loud. And stressful. In a good way.”

I laughed. But inside, I was still stuck on the name.

I hadn’t said it aloud, but it echoed in my chest like a dropped pin in an empty room. Could it be... him? No. That was ridiculous. My Jungkook—if I could even call him that after a fifteen-minute conversation—had been a stranger with soft eyes and too-warm hands and a smile that had made something shift inside me.

This Jungkook played professional hockey.

I felt ridiculous for even making the connection.

But then Lucy, as if reading my mind, added casually, “He hasn’t dated anyone since Sky last year. It’s honestly kind of tragic. A guy like that shouldn’t stay single for long.”

Mina’s playful energy dimmed slightly. She gave Lucy a look, then turned to me. “Jungkook’s not like that. He’s not into flings or drama. He’s waiting for the right person."

Lucy lifted her sparkling water in a mock toast. “Not that it’s stopping every woman in Detroit. Pretty sure the entire city knows he’s single.”

Mina groaned. “Don’t even get me started on the girls who hang around the rink. I swear, some of them think it’s a dating service.”

I smiled, curling deeper into the couch, the blankets pulling up around my shoulders like armor.

“Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to stay on your good side.”

Mina pointed at me with mock severity. “Wise.”

But then she softened again, her voice quieter. “I just hate when people use them. They’re my family.”

And in that moment, I saw something deeper in her—a fierce kind of loyalty that burned hotter than all her jokes. It wasn’t about hockey. It was about the people she loved.

“Well,” I said honestly, “they’re lucky to have you.”

Mina blinked, like the words caught her off guard. But instead of responding, she just smiled, murmured, “Goodnight, Y/N,” and padded down the hallway, her socks sliding slightly on the hardwood.

Lucy lingered a little longer, eyeing me with that calm, assessing gaze of hers.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks again. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

She nodded. “We get it. Starting over’s rough. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

Only I didn’t feel alone.

I sank further into the couch, the smell of lavender detergent in the blankets, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. My body felt heavy in a way that wasn’t painful for once—just... tired. In a good way.

My eyes closed without permission. My last conscious thought was of a crooked smile and dark eyes that had somehow felt like a beginning.

And that night, I dreamed of snow falling quietly and the warmth of someone reaching for my hand.

I woke up the same way I had every day for the past eight weeks—my knee throbbing like it had something to prove.

The ache was dull at first, the kind that makes you think maybe, just maybe, this morning would be different. But then I shifted slightly and a sharper, more insistent pain flared behind my kneecap, reminding me that hope was a luxury I couldn’t quite afford yet. I winced, pulling my leg toward my chest, stretching it carefully, slowly. The stiffness resisted. Then surrendered. Barely.

Moving furniture today was going to be a blast.

I stayed there a moment longer, curled on Mina’s absurdly comfortable couch, tangled in blankets that smelled faintly like fabric softener and lavender. The apartment was quiet, the kind of deep quiet that only exists early in the morning—when everything and everyone is still. The radiator hissed softly from the corner, fighting a losing battle against the Michigan winter pressing in from the windows.

I didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but I did anyway. 5:48 A.M.

Typical.

Sleep and I had never been on great terms, but these days it felt more like a breakup. I closed my eyes again, not to fall back asleep—just to rest. Just to delay the day starting for a few more minutes.

Yesterday flickered back in fragments. The flight. The cold. The quiet, empty apartment. Then Mina. Then Lucy. Then... Jungkook.

Even just thinking his name made something shift in my chest. Not painful. Not entirely pleasant, either. Like a muscle tightening that didn’t know it was still sore.

Which was ridiculous.

He was just a guy. A good-looking one, sure—but not in the way people are in magazines. In the way that made you forget your next sentence. In the way that felt *unfair*. The way that made you certain people like him didn’t cross paths with people like you.

We’d talked for what—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? Long enough for me to catalog the exact shape of his smile, but not long enough for it to mean anything.

And yet... here I was. Thinking about him before six in the morning like some walking cliché.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t a crush. This was just a kind moment from a stranger who happened to look like a movie star and carried himself like he didn’t know it.

Still, the memory of his voice saying my name was lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

But none of it mattered. Even if he *had* meant something by it—and I wasn’t convinced he had—what was I supposed to do with that? I barely knew how to talk to people, let alone date one. Affection had always felt like someone else’s native language. My version of love was performance-based, transactional. Achieve, and you were worthy. Fall short, and the silence grew colder.

So no, I didn’t have a roadmap for this.

I shifted again, and my knee screamed in protest. Right. Focus.

I hauled myself upright with a groan, planting both crutches beside me, letting them take most of my weight. I needed coffee, but that required bravery—or at least caffeine-fueled motivation. Neither of which I had yet.

Instead, I wandered into the kitchen and finished off the warm, half-flat Diet Coke from the night before. Desperate times. The fizz scratched at my throat just enough to wake me up a little. I didn’t open any cabinets. It felt too intimate to rummage through someone else’s kitchen before sunrise.

The microwave clock blinked: 6:04 A.M.

Mina definitely wasn’t up. Lucy probably wouldn’t be either. I stood there for a moment longer before deciding to head back to my place. Shower, stretch, take my meds. Try to feel like someone capable of handling a full day of adulting.

By 8:30, I had managed it. Mostly. My hair was damp, my knee was taped and braced, and I’d done the stretches Dr. Thompson insisted on, even though they still felt pointless. The painkillers had kicked in, and I had just enough energy to start a to-do list:

Groceries. Unpack. Figure out where the hell a couch goes. Try not to cry about how bad I was at interior design.

I was halfway through scribbling down Find real food (no more pizza) when there was a knock at the door.

Mina stood there in a puffer vest, hair spiked every which way, holding out a steaming travel mug like it was an offering. “Morning. You live.”

I took the coffee with both hands. “Bless you.”

She pushed her way inside like she belonged there—and honestly, she sort of did now. “Ready for some chaos?”

“You’re a morning person,” I said, not quite accusing, but close.

“I’m an anytime person,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll learn to adapt. So. What’s the plan?”

I handed her the list.

“Furniture delivery at nine. Then unboxing. Then... Target?”

Mina studied the list with the focus of someone preparing for battle. “This is light work. You’ll be fully settled by sundown.”

She dropped onto the floor and whipped a notebook from her bag. Before I could blink, she was sketching out a floor plan, complete with boxes labeled “COUCH” and “TV?” and arrows noting things like natural light flow and ideal throw blanket zones.

I stood above her, blinking. “Is this normal behavior?”

“For me? Absolutely,” she said without looking up. “Trust the process.”

The furniture guys arrived just before nine. Mina sprang into action, directing traffic like she was born to manage chaos. She didn’t even glance at her phone, just pointed and ordered and thanked them all with charm turned up to eleven. The movers didn’t stand a chance.

For once, something in my life was going... weirdly well.

Boxes had arrived on time. The movers had only dinged the wall once. And now, for the first time since I left Nevada, I had furniture that wasn’t a yoga mat or a borrowed couch. It felt surreal. Like maybe, just maybe, things were finally starting to settle.

Mina, however, looked personally offended by the number of boxes stacked in my living room.

“That’s it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she scanned the pile like she was waiting for a second shipment to roll in.

“Yep,” I said, leaning against the counter and sipping the lukewarm coffee she’d brought me. “That’s the grand total.”

She stared at the labels like they’d betrayed her. “‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Kitchen,’ ‘Miscellaneous,’ and—oh look—‘More Books.’ Y/N, I’m gonna say something radical: you don’t own enough crap.”

I shrugged. “Less stuff, less mess.”

She blinked. “That is objectively false, but okay.”

“I travel light.”

“You travel like a monk,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Even Taehyung’s freshman dorm room had more personality, and that boy decorated with thumbtacks and gas station signs.”

I snorted. “I can literally see the gears turning in your head. Just... please. Let’s focus on the basics before you start planning a ‘vision’ for the apartment.”

Mina lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But we will be revisiting this. I refuse to let you live in a space that screams ‘mid-2000s divorcee who owns a futon and a single pan.’”

“You’ve known me for fifteen hours,” I pointed out.

“And in fifteen more, I’ll have completely restructured your life,” she said, beaming. “This is just the soft launch.”

“This is you holding back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it terrifying?” she said sweetly. “Now grab your list—we’re going shopping.”

I moved toward the entry table and grabbed the notebook I’d scribbled on that morning. “Just a heads-up, I don’t have my car yet. It’s still at the dealership getting the tires replaced.”

Mina didn’t even blink. “No problem. I’ll be your chauffeur. I insist, actually.”

“You’re really committing to this whole sidekick role.”

“Oh no,” she said, unlocking her phone with a flourish. “You’re the sidekick. I’m the eccentric lead with a heart of gold.”

She fired off a text, then made a call so fast I didn’t even catch who she was dialing until I heard her say, “Jimin? Babe, question—can we borrow your truck for the afternoon? Y/N has the cargo capacity of a shoebox and we’re going to Super Target.”

A pause.

“Thank you! Love you. I’ll wash it before we return it.”

Another pause.

“Okay, you wash it then. Delegation is a skill.”

She hung up and turned to me like nothing had happened. “We’re good. He left the keys under the flowerpot.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was clinging to the door handle of Mina’s blindingly yellow Porsche as she maneuvered through downtown traffic like she was being chased in an action movie. She drove like someone who thought stop signs were optional and speed limits were more of a friendly suggestion.

“Do you... drive like this with everyone?” I asked, voice tight.

She flashed a grin. “Sometimes. There's a reason Jimin doesn't let me hold the keys most of the time.”

By the time we screeched into Jimin’s driveway, I’d made at least three desperate mental promises to become a better person if I lived to see the afternoon.

We swapped cars—Mina took the driver’s seat of Jimin’s much more reasonable pickup like she owned it, adjusting the mirrors and setting her phone to Bluetooth before I even closed the passenger door.

“You know,” I said, finally exhaling, “this already feels like a full day.”

“Oh honey,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as she backed out, “we haven’t even begun.”

Two hours and three shopping carts later, I came to two very solid conclusions:

One—Mina was a force of nature and should never be allowed in a Super Target unsupervised.

Two—I actually kind of adored her.

She wasn’t just energetic. She was unstoppable. She flitted from aisle to aisle like a whirlwind, throwing things into the cart with the confidence of someone who truly believed in her choices—an area in which I had very little experience. A full-length mirror. Bath towels that were “the perfect neutral.” A utensil drawer organizer, which she insisted was non-negotiable.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not stabbing yourself with a rogue whisk,” she said, tossing it into the cart.

I, on the other hand, moved slower. I hesitated over cereal brands and stared too long at trash cans. I felt the need to justify every purchase—do I need this? will I use it? is it too much?

Mina didn’t ask. She just filled the space with warmth and commentary and the occasional unsolicited recommendation for scented candles.

“This one smells like baked apples. It’s cozy but not try-hard.”

“I’ve literally never bought a candle,” I said, and she stared at me like I’d just confessed to murder.

“Okay, you’re lucky you’re cute because that’s criminal.”

By the time we made it to the checkout, I was leaning heavily on the cart like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

We wheeled our loot through the parking lot, the cold air a slap after the warmth of the store. Mina popped the truck bed and we started loading everything in, box by box.

“You know,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter, “I really didn’t think I’d end up doing any of this today.”

She glanced at me over the tailgate, her breath puffing into the air. “What’d you think you’d be doing?”

“I don’t know. Sitting on the floor. Feeling overwhelmed. Ordering another pizza. Crying, maybe.”

She smirked. “That was the original plan, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Well,” she said, tossing in the last bag, “you still might cry, but now your apartment will have paper towels and a decent shower curtain. Progress.”

As we climbed back into the truck, my phone buzzed with a new text. I didn’t check it right away. I just sat there for a second, watching Mina fiddle with the heat and turn the radio down to a low hum.

It was past noon. I was sore. My knee was aching. And I was completely, utterly exhausted.

“I’m telling you, Y/N,” Mina said, tossing shopping bags into the bed of Jimin’s truck like she was confetti-bombing the neighborhood, “those shirts were a necessity. When something fits that well, you don’t overthink it. You buy it in every color. It’s science.”

I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, leaning awkwardly against the side of the truck while balancing on my good leg. “I’m pretty sure science has nothing to do with impulse-buying three identical button-ups.”

“They’re not identical,” she said, tossing the last bag in with a flourish. “One’s black. One’s navy. One is... I don’t know, ‘stormy sage’? Fashion is nuanced.”

I looked down at the shirts she was now proudly referring to as if they were designer pieces. Converse button-ups. Cropped. Surprisingly flattering. Cute, yeah. But three of them?

“I don’t even know how you did it,” I said, shaking my head. “I blinked and suddenly we were checking out with thirty more things than I planned, including three shirts I definitely don’t need.”

Mina grinned, hands on her hips. “I’m persuasive. You’ll thank me when those shirts become your entire personality.”

I laughed under my breath. She was impossible. And probably right.

“Fine,” I muttered, cracking the passenger door open. “The shirts are great. But now the gimp requires sustenance.”

“The gimp?” she said, snorting as she walked around to the driver’s side. “You really know how to sell the sympathy angle.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t feed me soon, I will collapse in the parking lot and you’ll have to explain it to your fiancé.”

She started the engine, still grinning. “How do you feel about Korean food? There’s a spot on the way back that does bibimbap so good it might actually heal you.”

“Perfect,” I said, already daydreaming about something hot and homemade and not packaged in plastic wrap. “Just promise me there’ll be rice. And something spicy. I need to feel alive again.”

“You got it. Spicy, salty, and life-giving. Just like me.”

“Debatable,” I muttered, and she stuck her tongue out as she peeled out of the lot.

The drive back to my place was slower this time—probably because she’d burned off her daily need for chaos at the store. The truck was full to the brim with our haul: paper towels, dish soap, cleaning supplies, a shower curtain Mina swore would "tie the whole bathroom together," and of course, the trio of button-ups that I was already regretting less than I wanted to admit.

Halfway there, Mina launched into an enthusiastic pitch about why Jimin needed to help paint my apartment this weekend.

“The walls are so beige,” she said, one hand gesturing wildly while the other stayed loosely on the wheel. “It’s giving rental. It’s giving dentist’s office. We need warmth. Color. Maybe an accent wall.”

I shot her a look. “I just moved in. I haven’t even figured out where the forks go yet.”

“That’s why you need me,” she said, smiling smugly. “And Jimin. And maybe Taehyung. Although he’s more of a ‘music and snacks’ helper than a ‘holds the ladder’ type.”

“No painting,” I said firmly.

“But—”

“No.”

She sighed, long and dramatic. “Fine. But I’m bringing swatches over. Just so you can think about it.”

“Compromise,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’ll look at swatches. No promises beyond that.”

“Deal. For now.”

By the time we got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, and we both looked like we’d survived a war. We unloaded the truck one bag at a time, neither of us speaking much, just working in sync. The wind had picked up, slicing through our jackets, numbing our fingers.

The second we got inside, we dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counters in a completely chaotic pile—frozen pizzas leaning against laundry detergent, cleaning sponges nestled beside a head of lettuce. No one was winning any organizational awards.

We shoved the cold stuff into the fridge in a way that would haunt any dietitian—boba cans, leftover takeout, half a dozen condiments, and nothing resembling a proper meal plan. Then we collapsed on the couch with steaming takeout containers and the kind of hunger that bordered on desperation.

I hobbled over with my box of rice and kimchi stew, trying to navigate the living room without tripping over the legs of the coffee table. My crutch caught on the edge once—then again. And then a third time, jerking my arm forward so hard the lid nearly popped off the container.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Mina watched from the couch, chopsticks in hand, expression somewhere between entertained and alarmed.

“You okay there, Y/N?”

“I’m about this close to burning these crutches in the parking lot,” I said, gesturing with my free hand and nearly dropping my food in the process. “I swear they’ve gained sentience and are actively working against me.”

Mina bit back a laugh. “You’re over it, huh?”

“So over it.”

I sank onto the couch next to her, balancing the container in my lap, my knee throbbing in protest. “Walking used to be hard enough without props. This is like trying to tightrope across a canyon with ski poles.”

“Well, the good news is: you only have to survive a few more weeks.”

“Three weeks and four days,” I corrected. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Of course not.”

She passed me a can of sparkling water, then flipped on the TV, scrolling past half a dozen crime dramas before settling on something soft and slow—a cooking competition where everyone was too nice to be entertaining but too charming to turn off.

After lunch, Mina disappeared into the glossy pages of a wedding magazine she’d snagged from the mail pile, her fingers flipping through dresses and flower arrangements with laser focus. It was the first real lull in hours. No furniture to move. No errands to run. No decorating debates to lose.

I curled up on the far end of the couch, stretching out slowly, carefully—testing how far my knee would let me go without complaint. I exhaled, head leaning back against the cushion, and let the silence settle around me like warm water.

And of course, the second my brain had the space, it wandered right back to Jungkook.

I barely knew anything about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not whether he liked cats or had siblings or believed in fate. All I really had was a twenty-minute interaction at baggage claim and the way his name had sounded when he said it—low, warm, almost shy.

Still, I kept replaying it. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name like it was something he wanted to remember. It wasn’t dramatic, and yet... it stuck.

Ridiculous. But also kind of undeniable.

He was impossibly good-looking, yeah. The kind of good-looking that made you glance twice without meaning to. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he moved, how he listened. How he’d reached for my hand like it wasn’t even a decision, just instinct. There was something about him that had made the world feel quieter for a moment. Lighter. Less sharp around the edges.

And now, here I was, replaying it like some girl in a coming-of-age novel. Like I didn’t have more pressing things to worry about. Groceries. Doctor’s appointments. Building a life from scratch.

Bronx. Tuesday nights.

He’d said it like a suggestion. Easy. Offhand. But it hadn’t felt offhand. Not to me.

Could I actually go?

Part of me wanted to. Just to see if that strange, electric hum would still be there. To see if I’d imagined it. To see him again and maybe say something smarter this time.

But then there was the other part—the louder, older part of me that had spent years learning how to protect itself. That part was already rehearsing the excuses. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he said that to everyone. Maybe it wasn’t an invitation at all, just a casual, polite mention of a bar he happened to like.

But then again... why mention Tuesday? People don’t give you days unless they want you to show up.

I sighed, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling like it might hold some answers. If this were a song—some cheesy country track—you’d just check a box. Yes or no. Done. Simple.

But life wasn’t simple. Not for me. Not for anyone, probably, but especially not for someone who’d spent most of their teenage years building routines instead of relationships. Who’d been taught that attention had to be earned. That being wanted came with strings.

Even now, the idea of someone like him being interested in someone like me felt... farfetched. I couldn’t even picture it without flinching a little. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I didn’t know what I’d do if it was real.

Before I could sink deeper into my overthinking, Mina’s phone exploded with a series of high-pitched tones that could only mean one thing: bridal emergency.

She groaned, already reaching for it as she stood up, balancing her plate in one hand and pressing the phone to her ear with the other. “What now?” she muttered, then rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

She turned to me as she shoved her feet back into her boots. “Promise me you won’t touch anything while I’m gone. That includes trying to alphabetize your books or reorganize the pantry. Lucy and I will help you tackle the mess later.”

I raised my hands like a suspect in a crime show. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She pointed at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced, then turned toward the door. “Back soon. Don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then she was gone, already halfway through a conversation before the door even clicked shut behind her.

The quiet that followed was different than before—thicker, somehow. Not empty, just... still. The only sounds were the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building settling around me.

I looked around the room, at the shopping bags still stacked near the kitchen, the unopened boxes lined up against the wall. The place was technically furnished now, but it didn’t feel lived in yet. It still felt like a set waiting for someone to walk onstage and make it real.

I didn’t have the energy to try.

Instead, I let myself sink deeper into the couch, pulled my phone from my pocket, and scrolled to a playlist that always helped me think—instrumentals, soft indie stuff, a few moody movie scores that reminded me of long drives and late-night practices.

I popped in my earbuds and hit shuffle. The music slipped into my ears like a sigh, wrapping around my tired thoughts and pulling me under.

And then, somewhere between the second and third song, I closed my eyes.

I managed to avoid Mina for two full days—an impressive feat, considering she lived across the hall and had the persistence of a golden retriever with a tennis ball. Jet lag and my still-aching knee made the perfect excuse. I leaned hard into both.

But Saturday morning came, and so did Mina—arms full of coffee, muffins, and what she proudly announced as a “battle plan.”

“Today,” she declared, kicking my door open like she owned the place, “is Divine Design Day.”

I blinked at her from the couch, where I’d been trying to read through a headache and ignore the existence of daylight. “Is that a real thing, or are you just making up reasons to rearrange my life again?”

“Both,” she chirped, setting down the coffee with the precision of someone used to delivering caffeine with urgency. “And don’t even try to wiggle out of it. The reinforcements are already on their way. Jimin and Taehyung will be here by ten sharp. Painting, organizing, general transformation of your sad little loft—consider it handled.”

I groaned, flopping my head back against the cushion. “Can’t we just live in the mess for a few more days? I haven't even decided if you could paint, yet.”

“Nope. Inspiration waits for no one. Plus, you’re lucky. If you’d given me one more day, I would’ve started mood-boarding your whole apartment.”

There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but... another part that was curious. She and Lucy had been hyping these guys up for days, and I hadn’t exactly met many people since moving in. Still, the thought of spending a whole day with strangers—loud, close-knit, apparently good-looking ones—made me wish I had more than half a muffin’s worth of energy.

“Wasn’t Jungkook supposed to be part of this decorating army?” I asked casually. I would like to meet both of her bothers. She talks about them so much it felt like I knew them personally.

Mina made a face. “Took a hit last night during the game. Spent the morning with the team doctor. He’s fine, but they’re keeping him out of practice for a few days.”

I’d heard the game through the walls—cheers, shouting, cursing, more cheering. Mina and Lucy had invited me to watch with them, but I’d passed. Something about crowds, even just two people shouting at a TV, still made me feel uneasy. I’d curled up with a book instead, but the next morning’s dramatic play-by-play had made me regret it a little. It had sounded... fun. Loud, chaotic, communal. The kind of thing I’d never had much of.

“Alright,” Mina clapped, snapping me back to the present. “Let’s hit Home Depot before the guys show up.”

I glanced down at my knee, already aching from the mild activity of existing. “Can’t Lucy come with us? She’s the one who probably cares whether my walls are ‘cool gray’ or ‘ash cloud.’”

Mina rolled her eyes. “She threatened to spike my coffee if I woke her before nine. So, no. You’re stuck with me. And you just said paint is fine, so I can assure you grey is out of the question.”

I sighed and started gathering my things—wallet, phone, crutches. “Just promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want this place ending up looking like an HGTV fever dream.”

“You wound me.” Mina held a hand to her chest in mock offense. Then, smiling mischievously, added, “But okay, compromise: you get veto power. Use it wisely.”

We took Lucy’s BMW since Mina’s Porsche could barely fit two people and a purse. As I awkwardly hoisted myself into the passenger seat, I muttered, “I still need to pick up my car. It’s just sitting at the dealership.”

“Hard pass,” Mina said, already pulling out of the lot. “You’re not driving until you’re off those crutches. And possibly not even then.”

“I’ve got a new doctor. Appointment’s Monday. Dr. Jeon.”

Mina nearly swerved. “My dad? You’re seeing my dad?”

I blinked. “...Did you not think to mention your last name?”

“I guess not?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh my god. This is perfect. You’re in good hands. He’s basically the unofficial Red Wings physician. He’s fixed more joints than a mechanic.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered, feeling strangely reassured.

Home Depot was a blur of color swatches, paint samples, and Mina flitting between aisles like a woman on a mission. She had a clipboard. She was terrifying and weirdly efficient and somehow made it through the whole trip without spilling coffee on her all-white outfit.

I couldn’t lie—by the time we checked out, some part of me was genuinely excited. The thought of my walls not looking like the inside of a beige envelope had its appeal.

When we pulled up to the building, Jimin’s truck was already there, parked next to a rugged Jeep that looked like it had seen actual mountains.

“Right on time,” Mina said, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call the guys. And no, Y/N, you’re not allowed to feel guilty. You’re not lifting a finger.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, holding up my hands.

“You weren’t,” she said sweetly, “but I know you. You hate asking for help. Tough. Today, you get to sit there and be adorable while other people carry your heavy stuff.”

“Your dad’s my doctor, not you,” I shot back, and she just winked as she dialed.

“We’re here. Come get the stuff,” she barked into the phone, then ended the call without waiting for a reply.

A few minutes later, Lucy came strolling down the front steps, looking completely put together despite just waking up. Behind her were two guys. I recognized Jimin from Mina's lockscreen—dark hair, lean and strong, with easy confidence and a smile that lit up his whole face. The other was taller, leaner, but still broad. He moved with this lazy grace, like the world would move around him if he waited long enough.

Mina launched herself at Jimin before he made it halfway up the sidewalk, and he caught her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The taller guy—Taehyung, I assumed—was already slinging bags of paint out of the backseat like they weighed nothing. His arm was around Lucy’s shoulders, and he had a grin that looked both infuriating and charming.

He gave me a once-over as Lucy led him over.

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” he said, voice warm and teasing.

“That’s me,” I said, returning his smile. “Fresh out of basic training.”

“I like her,” he said to Lucy. “She’s got good banter. Can we keep her?”

“Only if you behave,” Lucy muttered, elbowing him.

He noticed the crutches next, his brow lifting.

“What’s with the wingmen?” he asked, nodding toward them.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The crutches,” he grinned. “Your wingmen. Not very discreet, but I respect the commitment.”

“Oh. Sports injury,” I said, half-laughing.

“Ah,” he said, then mock-whispered to Lucy, “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like she can keep up.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Keep pushing it and I’ll replace you.”

Taehyung turned back to me, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Tell you what—I’ll carry you, and Jimin can handle the actual work.”

And before I could respond, he bent and scooped me up like it was nothing. My crutches clattered to the sidewalk, and I let out a yelp somewhere between startled and outraged.

“Taehyung!” Mina shrieked, rushing over. “She’s injured! You can’t just scoop people like produce!”

“She’s tiny,” he said, unbothered. “And I’m gentle.” He looked down at me, still holding me like a rom-com cover. “You don’t mind, right?”

Still processing the fact that I was somehow four feet off the ground in the arms of a complete stranger, I blinked at Taehyung, unsure whether I should laugh, scream, or demand a refund from the universe. But instead—because apparently my brain had no interest in logic—I nodded.

“Uh... sure, Taehyung,” I muttered, my voice wobbling somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement.

He grinned like I’d just handed him a gold medal. “See? Knew I liked you.” Then, louder, over his shoulder, “Y/N’s my homegirl now. No take-backs.”

Lucy snorted. “Oh, you know it, G,” she said, like this all made perfect sense. Like a guy carrying a semi-stranger across a parking lot was completely standard behavior.

Still on Taehyung’s back—because why not—I caught sight of Jimin approaching, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he’d seen this happen before. Which, honestly, he probably had.

He reached out a hand to me, his voice warm and soft. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said, and it wasn’t just politeness. There was something about the way he looked at people—steady, kind—that made you feel like you could take a full breath around him.

I adjusted my arm and leaned forward just enough to shake his hand, my own awkwardness bubbling at the edges. But there was something about him—maybe the calm in his eyes, maybe the way he didn’t flinch or rush—that made it easier than I expected.

“Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “You must be the sane one.”

“God, I hope not,” he replied with a soft laugh. “But I *am* the quiet one. You’ll get used to these lunatics. Eventually.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t have a choice,” I said.

Before I could say anything else, Mina’s voice cracked through the moment like a starter pistol.

“Alright, enough with the welcome parade!” she barked, clapping her hands. “We’re not here to flirt—we’re here to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin said with a mock salute before peeling off toward the truck to start grabbing paint supplies.

I shifted awkwardly on Taehyung’s back. “Okay. Time to put me down now.”

“Nope,” he said, the word sharp and final, like we’d made a legally binding agreement. “I said I’m carrying you in, and I meant it.”

“I have legs,” I pointed out. “At least, technically.”

“And I have arms,” he replied cheerfully. “So really, this works out for both of us.”

“You’re seriously carrying me and the paint?” I asked as he reached for a box without a hint of effort.

Taehyung didn’t even look at me. “Multitasking is a lifestyle.”

I sighed. “Can someone at least grab my crutches?”

“Lucy!” he called. “Get Goose and Maverick, will you?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t ask for clarification. Just bent down to collect them with a kind of long-suffering patience that told me this wasn’t the first time she’d played interpreter for him.

“Goose and Maverick?” I asked, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

He looked at me like I was the one missing something. “They’re your wingmen. You literally can’t take off without them.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, grinning. “Repeatedly. But people still keep me around, so I must be doing something right.”

By the time we made it up to my apartment—me, Taehyung, the paint, and my dignity all jostling for space—I had stopped trying to argue. It wasn’t worth it. And, if I was honest with myself, there was something kind of... nice about it. Not being in control. Being carried, even if it was chaotic and borderline absurd. It was the kind of closeness I wasn’t used to, the kind I usually deflected with a joke or a polite smile.

Inside, the rest of the crew filed in behind us, arms full of supplies. Mina immediately took over like she was hosting her own HGTV show, issuing orders about where tarps should go and what walls needed taping. Jimin unpacked the brushes with surgical precision. Lucy cued up a playlist. Taehyung, still carrying me like some kind of absurd prince, finally set me down gently on the couch.

“There,” he said, dusting off his hands dramatically. “Safe delivery. No scratches.”

I adjusted my brace and flexed my knee. “Do I get to rate you on the app?”

He grinned. “Only if I get five stars.”

“You get four,” I said, deadpan. “Docked a point for dramatics.”

Taehyung gasped. “Rude.”

Mina leaned over, handed me a muffin from the tray she'd brought earlier. “Don’t feed the monster. He thrives on attention.”

“He thrives on being carried in song,” Lucy said, tossing him a paintbrush. “Start with the baseboards, Prince Charming.”

The room hummed with laughter and easy movement, brushes unwrapped, music starting low in the background. It didn’t feel like a decorating day—it felt like some strange, spontaneous little family had formed inside my apartment. No one was looking at me like I was fragile. No one was asking for anything. And I hadn’t laughed this much in... I didn’t even know how long.

Somewhere between the paint fumes and the dance breaks, something inside me softened. My body still hurt, sure, but my chest didn’t feel quite as tight. The anxiety that usually sat behind my ribs had, at least for now, gone quiet. And I realized that I was smiling.

As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t just about paint and furniture. It was something else entirely.

It was friendship. It was kindness.

They didn’t say it aloud, but I could feel it in the way they handed me brushes without hesitation, the way Lucy made sure there was music playing that I might like, the way Jimin quietly rearranged a chair so I could get through on my crutches without asking. This was how they welcomed people in—not with big gestures or declarations, but through movement. Through presence. Through effort.

And they didn’t seem to need anything in return.

By lunchtime, I’d made Taehyung laugh so hard he nearly dropped his roller. I’d tossed out a sarcastic one-liner that had Lucy wheezing. Mina had crowned me “queen of passive-aggressive commentary,” and I didn’t even flinch when Jimin tried to nickname my crutches again. The air was warm with paint fumes and music and the kind of easy conversation that comes when no one’s trying too hard.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just reacting. I was participating. I was letting people in.

By late afternoon, the loft had started to change—walls no longer blank, corners no longer empty. It wasn’t just a space anymore; it was starting to look like a home. One I could actually picture living in. Unpacking didn’t feel like a task to avoid now—it felt like a step forward.

So I started with what I knew: books.

Jimin carried the boxes over, stacking them carefully by the shelves. “These yours?” he asked with a crooked smile, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “My version of comfort food.”

He grinned. “Respect.”

I opened the first box, and the scent hit me instantly—familiar, musty in a good way. The smell of ink and paper, of nights spent in bed with a flashlight and early mornings tucked into the corner of rinks. These books had followed me everywhere—Nevada, Colorado, hotel rooms, off-seasons, injuries, airports. They were mine. And in a way, they were the only thing that had ever really stayed.

I sat on the floor, carefully stacking them by genre and alphabetically—because of course I did—and let myself get lost in the quiet comfort of order.

Until Mina’s voice rang out from the living room.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called, tone casual. “Do you want us to start unpacking these other boxes? The paint’s dry in here.”

I glanced up from the shelf. “Yeah, go ahead. They should just be boring essentials.”

“One’s labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’” she said, “and the other... has no label.”

I frowned. “That’s weird. I thought I got everything.”

“You want me to open the mystery box?” she asked, and I could already hear the curiosity revving like an engine.

“Sure,” I said, distracted as I slid a copy of The Secret History into place. “It’s probably just chargers or socks or something.”

Then came the sound of tape being torn back—followed by a sharp, high-pitched squeal that nearly knocked me sideways.

“Mina,” I groaned, setting down the next book, “are you trying to communicate with bats?”

No answer. Instead, a second later, her head popped around the corner, eyes wide, smile even wider. That look she got when she was seconds away from chaos.

“What?” I asked, already bracing myself.

She strutted into the room like a cat who’d just dragged in a very shiny mouse. In her hands was something rectangular and gleaming.

And the second I saw it, my stomach dropped.

The plaque.

The one with my name on it, etched in gold under the words Olympic Silver Medalist – 2020.

It glinted in the late afternoon light like it had been waiting for its cue.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, the back of my neck prickling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mina beamed. “Explain.”

“I—where did you even find that?”

She held it up like it was an award she’d won. “In the unmarked box. Along with a lot of other sparkly surprises.”

Of course. Thanks, Emily, I thought bitterly. Who else would’ve made sure that box made the journey, whether I wanted it to or not?

Mina looked like a detective who had just cracked a very personal case. She wasn’t smug, exactly—more amused. Intrigued. Like she’d found the missing puzzle piece to a picture she didn’t know was incomplete.

“So, care to tell me why you’ve been living in my building for days without mentioning that you, I don’t know, competed in the freaking Olympics?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I could feel the heat crawling up my throat. I wasn’t embarrassed, exactly—but I wasn’t ready either. Not for this. Not yet.

“I was going to tell you,” I muttered. “Eventually. It just... didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up?” she echoed, laughing. “Y/N, this isn’t like forgetting to mention you’ve been to Italy. You were on a cereal box.”

I flinched. “Only once.”

She waved the plaque again. “You medaled. At the Olympics. And I’m your friend. Friends share things like this.”

“I know,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I know. I just... liked that you didn’t know. That for once, I wasn’t the skater or the medalist or Emily’s daughter. I was just... me.”

Mina’s face softened. She lowered the plaque.

“Okay,” she said gently. “That I get.”

I exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I’m not. It’s just—when people find out, everything shifts. They treat you different. They expect something. Or they think they know who you are. I didn’t want to start off like that.”

She nodded, sitting beside me on the floor. “And now that the cat’s out of the box?”

I gave her a sideways look. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

She grinned. “Anytime.”

I hesitated. “Does it... change anything?”

Mina nudged me with her shoulder. “You think a medal’s gonna scare me off? Please. If anything, it just makes you more interesting. Besides, Jimin and Taehyung probably don’t even know how figure skating works. You’re safe.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

She reached back into the box and pulled out more relics—photos, laminated programs, a couple of medals, and even a few old costumes, sequins still clinging to the fabric.

One had a note pinned to it. My mother’s handwriting, Just in case. I stared at it for a beat.

“Subtle, Emily. Real subtle.”

“Who’s Emily?” Mina asked, peering over my shoulder.

“My mom.”

Mina picked up one of the magazines from the box, the glossy cover catching the light, my teenage face frozen in mid-spin, smiling in a way I barely remembered. She turned it over in her hands like it might explain something if she looked long enough.

“So...” she said slowly, almost gently. “I’m guessing you didn’t pack all this yourself?”

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I left all my skating stuff back in Vegas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a topic I still hadn’t fully figured out how to talk about. “But Emily has her own ideas. She thought I might need a little ‘reminder’ of who I am.”

“Or, like... a museum exhibit’s worth of reminders,” Mina muttered, holding up one of my old costumes. It shimmered in the afternoon light, all rhinestones and careful stitching.

I reached for it instinctively, my fingers brushing the fabric like it might sting. “I didn’t want this here. Any of it, really. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever skate again, so... why surround myself with sequins and medals and expectations, you know?”

Mina’s smile faded. She set the costume down and placed a warm hand on my knee, her touch gentle. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though it wasn’t. “I just didn’t expect to see all of this again. Not now.”

We sat there quietly for a moment. Not awkward—just still. Her hand stayed on my knee, grounding me while my thoughts spun. I looked around the room, suddenly aware of how surreal it felt to be surrounded by my past in the middle of what was supposed to be my fresh start.

“She thinks I’m being dramatic,” I added after a beat, voice quieter. “That this injury is just a bump. That I should already be back on the ice, training. That I’m wasting time.”

Mina frowned. “But you’re recovering from surgery. Doesn’t she know what the doctors said?”

“Emily only hears what fits the version of reality she wants,” I said, with a dry laugh. “And her version doesn’t include me being uncertain or scared or... done.”

“She’s insane,” Mina said flatly. “You don’t just bounce back from something like this because someone else decides you should.”

“Yeah, well... she’s been pushing since I was little. It’s what she does. I think she believes if she just shoves enough glitter at me, I’ll snap out of whatever this is and turn back into the girl she remembers.”

Mina leaned back, still watching me like she was trying to figure out how to carry some of the weight I’d just handed her. “Well, screw that. Whatever version of you is here now? That’s the one we’re rooting for.”

I smiled, feeling something in my chest ease. “Thanks. I’m not really great at this whole... emotional honesty thing.”

“Please,” she said, scoffing playfully. “I grew up with three brothers and a father who thinks hugs are a form of weakness. This is practically therapy compared to that.”

I laughed, a real one this time. “I’m really glad I met you.”

Mina grinned and bumped her knee against mine. “Same. And just so we’re clear, we’re not just friends, Y/N. We’re best friends. You’re stuck with me.”

I bumped her back. “Best friends it is.”

We sat like that for a while, surrounded by old photos, forgotten trophies, and glittering ghosts of the life I’d been trying to leave behind. And for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It just felt... like part of the story. One I didn’t have to erase to move forward.

Just then, Lucy’s voice called out from the back room.

“Hey, lazy bums! Are you two just gonna lie around while we do all the work?”

“Yep, that was the plan,” Mina called back immediately, not missing a beat.

“Sounds good to me,” I added, smirking.

Lucy appeared in the doorway a second later, a paint roller in hand and a grin on her face. She flopped onto the floor beside us, stretching out like she hadn’t just spent the last hour painting trim.

“Well, if you’re being lazy, I might as well join you,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans.

Mina turned toward her with a sly look. “So, Lucy. Did you know Y/N here is a certified Olympic figure skater?”

Lucy’s brows shot up for half a second before she shrugged like someone had just told her I was good at baking.

“No shit? I knew your name sounded familiar.” She looked me over with a nod, like it all made sense now. “That’s pretty badass.”

I blinked. “You’re really not fazed by this, are you?”

“Nah,” she said, lying back on her elbows. “You kinda give off badass energy even without the medal. The glitter just confirms it.”

“Seriously,” Mina added, rolling onto her stomach, chin in her hand. “The things you can do with your legs—I’m just saying, if I had that kind of flexibility, Jimin wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom.”

I groaned, covering my face. “Mina.”

“What?” she said, unrepentant. “It’s true.”

Lucy smirked. “She’s not wrong. I mean, flexibility like that? You could probably win gold medals in other areas.”

“Wow, thanks for the visual,” I muttered, face burning as I tried to redirect my attention to literally anything else.

“Not for me, you dork. For guys. The one's you'd want to attract in this scenario.”

I forced a laugh, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest show. “Well, I wouldn’t really know.”

There was a pause.

Mina blinked. “Wait. Are you saying... like wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know?”

I stared at her, then stood abruptly, heart thudding. “Okay! That’s definitely enough over-sharing for one afternoon.”

“No way,” Mina said, sitting upright, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you—Y/N. Are you a virgin?”

The word hit the air like a firework, and I froze, eyes darting toward the window like I might escape through it.

“Mina,” I hissed, “could we not announce it to the world?”

She looked more shocked than judgmental, which helped, but only slightly.

Lucy didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me—really looked—her expression softening into something that felt neither surprised nor judgmental. Just... curious. Thoughtful. Then she shrugged.

“Honestly?” she said, voice even. “Kind of refreshing.”

I blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She leaned back onto her elbows like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “It took me a while, too. I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-one. And even then, I felt behind. Like everyone else was speaking some language I hadn’t learned yet.” She paused, her mouth quirking up at the edges. “But it turns out most of them were just faking fluency.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Huh.”

“Seriously,” she added. “You’re not weird. And it doesn’t say anything about who you are or what you’ve done or how together your life is. It just... is.”

That’s the thing about Lucy. She said what she meant, then gave you room to sit with it. I wasn’t used to that. Most people either tried to fix things or pretended they didn’t matter. But she just let it hang there, uncomplicated.

Mina, on the other hand, was already recovering from her shock with the energy of someone who’d just discovered a juicy plot twist. She grinned and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, launching it in my direction. “Okay, okay, we’ll drop it—for now. But just so you know, this is absolutely going on the future girl's night conversation list.”

I ducked the pillow with half a laugh. “Do you guys always interrogate your friends like this?”

“Only the ones we like,” Mina said sweetly.

“Pillow fights optional,” I muttered as I stood and made my way toward the kitchen, mostly for an excuse to breathe.

“No secrets between best friends, Y/N!” Mina called after me, her voice lilting with dramatic flair. “We’re basically emotional archaeologists. We will uncover every layer.”

I opened the fridge door just to have something between us, gripping a bottle of water like it might offer emotional protection. The cool air hit my face, and for a second, I just stood there, letting it settle my thoughts.

The truth was, I hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. The words had just come out—too fast, too raw. But instead of judgment or awkwardness, I’d been met with honesty. Warmth. A kind of acceptance that didn’t require explanations or apologies. And maybe I wasn’t used to that. But standing there, with their voices still drifting in from the living room and laughter bubbling up again like nothing had shifted—I realized I didn’t really want to hide anymore.

Monday morning arrived dark and quiet, the kind of morning where the sky barely bothered to shift from night. I woke up before my alarm, as I usually did, but this time I didn’t rush to the kitchen or swing into a stretching routine. I stayed exactly where I was—wrapped in a cocoon of downy pillows Mina had sworn were “life-changing.”

I wasn’t sure they’d changed my life, but for once, staying in bed didn’t feel like avoidance. It just felt... necessary. Today mattered. More than I wanted to admit out loud.

It was the kind of day that split a timeline. Before. After. The day everything might shift—one way or another. My first appointment with Dr. Jeon. A new specialist. A new city. A new shot at figuring out what came next. Or maybe just confirmation of what I was afraid to say out loud. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this to be over or not.

Back in Vegas, Dr. Banerjee had tried to be gentle, but his words had still landed like punches. He’d told me not to count on a full recovery. Not to get my hopes up. Emily, of course, had immediately decided he was being negative. She was convinced I was dragging things out. Playing the victim. Acting fragile for attention.

And the worst part? Some days, I almost believed her. Was I being dramatic? Was I just afraid of the truth?

I threw off the covers and sat up slowly, stretching my arms over my head before bending into my usual warm-up—first the good leg, then the bad. My knee felt tight, but not terrible. There was a faint ache, sure, but I’d woken up to worse. It wasn’t a sharp pain, at least, and I could still move with control. That was something.

I stood carefully and tested my balance. No major complaints from my joints. A small flicker of hope lit up in my chest, tentative and trembling. It had been so long since I let myself hope. Too long.

I moved into deeper stretches, more out of habit than optimism, and felt a twinge of pride when I realized I was still flexible. Still strong. The months off the ice hadn’t erased all of it. The grace was still in me somewhere, buried under layers of doubt and bruised confidence.

For a second, I let myself imagine it—spinning again, arms lifted, back arched. Spirals on clean, untouched ice. The moment where the world went quiet and I felt like I could breathe. I missed that feeling more than I knew how to say.

The first couple of weeks after the surgery had been a strange kind of relief. I wasn’t training, I wasn’t performing, I wasn’t pushing. It was the first time in years that no one expected anything from me. I sank into it like a vacation I hadn’t realized I needed—reading entire novels in one sitting, binge-watching trashy reality shows, eating grilled cheese at two in the morning just because I could. But it didn’t last.

By the time mid-December rolled around, the stillness stopped feeling restful and started to feel like a weight I couldn’t shake. Emily noticed before I did and took it as an excuse to “intervene.” She hauled me back to the rink, under the pretense of helping me “reconnect” with my roots. What she meant was: prove you’re still useful. Prove you’re still capable. Prove this wasn’t a waste.

She stood at the edge of the boards like a judge with a stopwatch. I hadn’t even taken five steps before my knee buckled and I fell. Flat. In front of Yoongi. In front of the kids who used to look up to me. That was the last time I let her drag me there.

It didn’t stop her from trying, of course. Emily didn’t believe in stillness. She believed in productivity, in motion, in proving people wrong—even if those people were her own daughter.

She had me “consult” with Yoongi for weeks after, pretending it was useful. But all I did was sit at the rink, freezing and frustrated, trying to pretend I wasn’t quietly unraveling. That’s when the idea of leaving started to feel like more than a fantasy.

Dr. Banerjee had mentioned specialists in Michigan who had worked with athletes recovering from similar injuries. I clung to the idea like a lifeline. If I was going to make a decision—if I was going to have any chance at figuring out whether skating was still possible—I needed space. I needed air. Emily wouldn’t give it to me, so I had to take it.

She hadn’t liked the idea of me leaving Vegas. Said it was impulsive. Said it was a waste. But when she realized I wasn’t going to budge, she pivoted to control in the way she always did—organizing everything from five hundred miles away.

She found the apartment, bought the car, booked the appointment. She made the calls, set the schedule, tried to package my new life like it was her idea. I let her. I didn’t care who pulled the strings as long as it got me on a plane and out of that house. And now... here I was. In a new city. In a quiet apartment with half-painted walls and friends I hadn’t known I needed until I found them. I still didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I got ready slowly, moving through the motions with mechanical care—shower, dry my hair, jeans, a soft navy sweater. Something neutral. Something that wouldn’t make me feel like I was trying too hard. The familiar rhythm of routine helped. A little.

I ate a lemon poppy seed muffin while standing at the counter, brushing the crumbs away absently. My mind kept drifting ahead, to the waiting room, to the questions Dr. Jeon might ask. To what he might see when he looked at my scans. Would he see potential? Would he see damage beyond repair?

Would he see me? Was I still Y/N Y/L/N, elite figure skater? Or had I already become someone else—and just hadn’t admitted it yet?

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Morning!” Mina’s voice rang out cheerfully before I even made it halfway across the room. The lock clicked, and a moment later, she strolled in like she owned the place—radiant, caffeinated, and entirely too awake for how early it was.

I’d given her a spare key yesterday. Or more accurately, she’d insisted, and I hadn’t come up with a good enough reason to say no.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. She floated into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the counter like it had always belonged to her.

“Happy Lose-the-Crutches Day!” she said, throwing her arms in the air like we were celebrating a national holiday.

“You’re so weird,” I said, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not excited to ditch your flyboys.” She nodded toward the crutches leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying, maybe with fewer metal limbs, you’ll stop knocking over every piece of furniture in your path.”

“I make no promises,” I said. “I’ve been tripping over thin air since before I could walk.”

“Not your fault,” Mina said breezily, now halfway through the banana. “You were born to glide. Gravity doesn’t apply to you unless you're off the ice.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

She met my gaze without flinching. “I’ve seen you skate. It’s like watching something—” she paused, searching for the word, “—weightless. Like you’re built for it.”

I’d heard things like that before, mostly from articles or overzealous fans, but coming from Mina, it felt different. She wasn’t trying to flatter me. She just meant it.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, my throat tightening in that annoying way it did when someone was kind and I didn’t know how to receive it.

Mina grinned again, apparently satisfied. “Come on, babe. Grab Goose and Maverick and let’s roll.”

I rolled my eyes at the names she’d assigned to my crutches—her Top Gun obsession had resurfaced with alarming enthusiasm—but I grabbed them anyway. The sooner this appointment happened, the sooner I’d know if I could finally start moving forward, or if I’d have to figure out how to live with where I was.

We made our way outside, the cold morning air biting at our faces as we slid into her car. She cranked the heat, and the vents roared to life.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my stomach was twisting itself into knots.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she said, pulling out of the lot. “I don’t mind. Besides, it gives me a reason to stop by the hospital and bug my dad. Makes me look like the responsible child.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a hard title to hold onto.”

“Okay, true,” she said with a laugh. “But I like going there. Seeing him in his element. We’re all so different, my brothers and me. Taehyung’s like this human tank on skates, and Jungkook moves like he was born doing crossovers. But they’ve always had my back. Being the youngest with two protective hockey-playing brothers definitely has its perks.”

I smiled, glad for the distraction. “How’d they end up on the same team? That doesn’t seem like something that just happens.”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “Taehyung wasn’t a huge name going into the draft. Scouts overlooked him for years. But then the Red Wings saw him in one showcase game, and that was it. They picked him up late, and it turned out to be one of the smartest moves they ever made. Jungkook came up a year later—he was already on their radar, but I think having Tae here made the decision easier. Plus, hometown brothers? The media eats that up.”

“Guess I’ll need to start brushing up on hockey,” I said, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt. “You know, now that I’m basically related to the Red Wings through you.”

“It’s practically required in Michigan,” she said, flicking her turn signal on. “We don’t mess around about two things here: winter and hockey.”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the familiar knot of anxiety settled lower in my stomach, tight and insistent. This was it. The appointment. The one that might tell me if I had a future in skating—or if I had to start imagining something else entirely.

But the fear wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in Vegas. Maybe it was the distance from Emily. Maybe it was Mina’s steady presence. Or maybe it was just the quiet sense of possibility that came from being somewhere new.

“You okay?” Mina asked, cutting the engine and turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I think I’m ready to find out.”

She nodded. “That’s all you can do.”

We sat there for a beat, the car ticking softly as it cooled. Then Mina, never one to let a moment sit too long, launched into a new story—this time about the Jeons’ childhood road trips to Canada for tournaments, how Jungkook used to get carsick but refused to admit it, and how Taehyung once brought a lizard in his hoodie and didn’t tell anyone until it crawled across Mina’s lap at a border checkpoint.

I laughed, really laughed, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but something close to it.

Mina’s stories were full of color and warmth, and the more she talked, the more I could picture it—their house full of noise and teasing, her dad coming home in scrubs, her mom in the kitchen, Taehyung trying to sneak snacks upstairs, Jungkook glued to a pair of rollerblades in the driveway. A family that made room for each other. Who didn’t just push, but protected. Who loved out loud. For the first time, I realized how much I’d missed that. Or maybe just never really had it. Not like that, anyway.

I looked out the window at the hospital entrance. Whatever Dr. Jeon had to say, I wasn’t alone walking into it. That mattered more than I ever would’ve guessed.

The front desk was all clean lines and hushed conversations between the receptionists. Signing in felt oddly ceremonial, like I was handing over the last of my denial with the click of a pen. Five minutes later, when the nurse called my name, the nerves that had been quietly simmering suddenly surged to the surface—tight and sharp, crawling up my spine and gripping my chest like a vice.

The exam room was exactly what you’d expect: bland, sterile, steeped in the sharp tang of antiseptic. The cold linoleum sent a chill straight through my sneakers, and I felt it settle in my bones. The nurse was quick and impersonal—height, weight, blood pressure—before she disappeared behind the door with a soft “Doctor will be in shortly.”

I climbed up onto the edge of the exam table, its paper crinkling beneath me, and folded my hands so tightly my fingers went pale. Mina sat in the chair beside me, swinging her foot gently, her presence steady and grounding, but even that couldn’t slow the drumbeat of anxiety pounding through me.

It was ridiculous how fast my heart was racing. I’d stood in the center of Olympic arenas, lights blinding, crowds watching, expectations weighing heavy on every jump and spin. But this was different. This wasn’t about a medal or a score—it was about who I was without all of that. About what I’d have left if the ice was no longer mine.

My foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cabinet. I barely noticed until Mina reached out and rested a hand gently on it. The pressure was light, but it was enough to still me.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

I nodded, but it felt hollow.

The door opened with a soft click.

The man who stepped in looked more like someone you’d want to sit next to at a backyard cookout than a doctor about to deliver a verdict on your future. He was tall, lean, probably in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back in a way that said he’d either put zero effort into it or had perfected the art of making it look that way. His suit was understated—charcoal slacks, a navy sweater under a white coat—and the warmth in his brown eyes contrasted the clinical chill of the room.

He glanced at the clipboard in his hands, then looked up. “Y/N Y/L/N?” His tone was even, pleasant.

Then his eyes landed on Mina, and everything about him softened. A genuine smile cracked across his face, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Well hey der, Mina! Didn’t see ya there!”

I blinked. Did he really just say ‘hey der’? The accent was unmistakable—Midwest, probably northern Michigan or somewhere not far from the Wisconsin border. Mina had said he'd grown up in Green Bay. It was so gentle and earnest, I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Mina jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Hi, Dad.”

She stepped back and gestured toward me. “This is Y/N. She just moved in next door, and I thought I’d tag along to introduce her.”

Dr. Jeon—or Suho, apparently—turned toward me, his smile still warm, still easy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Hope she’s not driving you too crazy already.”

“She’s been great,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. I was still trying to untangle the ball of nerves sitting like stone in my stomach.

He nodded. “Good to hear. And call me Suho—everyone does. Any friend of Mina’s is a friend of mine. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be around more than a little.”

Before I could say anything else, Mina piped up, practically bouncing where she stood. “Oh! Are you and Mom still going to the Red Wings game Friday?”

“You know it. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She turned to me, eyes gleaming with excitement. “You should come with us. Lucy and I always go, and after the game, we meet up with some of the players—it’s actually a blast. Please come?”

I shook my head with a small laugh. “You’re doing the puppy eyes again.”

“They work, and you know it. C’mon, please?”

I looked at her—hopeful, grinning, her hands clasped in mock prayer—and felt the last of my resistance crumble.

“Alright. I’ll go.”

“Yes!” she cheered, clapping her hands. “Can I pick your outfit?”

Suho held up a hand, chuckling. “Okay, let’s maybe not plan her wardrobe while I’m trying to be a doctor here.”

“Oops,” Mina said, kissing his cheek before heading toward the door. “See you Friday!” She waved at me before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her.

The air shifted almost immediately—less playful now, quieter. Not uncomfortable, just... different. Like we’d all remembered why I was here.

I looked at Suho, who was already pulling up a stool and flipping open my file.

“She always been like that?” I asked, my voice still light, but something in it cracked slightly.

He smiled without looking up. “Since she learned how to talk. She hasn’t stopped since.” He turned a page, scanned it, then glanced at me. “But she’s got a good heart. And she’s stubborn—runs in the family.”

I let out a soft, distracted laugh, but the nerves were already crawling back in.

Suho adjusted the file in his lap. “Your orthopedic in Nevada sent over everything. November, right? ACL tear, surgery a week later, concussion from the fall?”

I nodded slowly. My throat felt tight again. “Yeah.”

The memory was sharper than I expected, cutting through the surface like ice cracking underfoot. One second I was mid-jump, body precise and controlled, and the next, everything was wrong—air, noise, then the sound of the impact, the searing pain that came before the lights even fully faded.

Suho didn’t rush. He flipped another page. “Looks like you’ve been doing your post-op rehab consistently. That’s good. Really good.” He looked at me again. “How’s the knee feeling now?”

“Sore,” I admitted. “Mostly at night. And if I’m on my feet too long, it kind of... throbs.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. Ligaments take time to recondition. It’s not just the muscle you’re rebuilding—it’s trust. Between your body and your brain.”

He moved closer, gently lifting my leg and rotating it with practiced care. “Range of motion looks decent,” he murmured. “And you’re not wincing—that’s a good sign.”

He set my leg down gently and looked at me fully. “I think you can start weaning off the crutches. Short walks at first. Around the house. No hills, no stairs yet.”

A small breath escaped me, part relief, part fear. “So... does that mean skating’s on the table?”

He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, rested his hands on his knees, and studied me for a beat. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—professional caution, tempered by experience.

“If you’re diligent—if you give this the time it needs—then yes. I think it’s a real possibility. But don’t rush it. Your knee isn’t ready for jumps or spins. We’ll start small—treadmill by the end of the week. Gentle walking, just to get it used to bearing weight again. If that goes well, we’ll try light skating. Easy glides, no tricks.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it was hope. And right now, that was more than I thought I’d get.

“Thank you,” I said, and my voice wavered just enough that I had to look down.

“One step at a time,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

He flipped through the last of the pages in my file. “Let’s get you scheduled for a follow-up in early April. That’ll give us time to reassess—see where you’re at in terms of strength and mobility.”

I hesitated. The real question was still there, sitting in the back of my throat, bitter and impossible to swallow. I stared at the floor, then forced myself to look up.

“Will I be able to compete again?” My voice barely made it out.

Suho looked at me for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his tone shifted—gentle, but unflinchingly honest.

“It’s possible. But I won’t lie to you—there are no guarantees. Some athletes make a full comeback after an ACL tear. Others plateau. It depends on how well your body responds to the rehab. And how patient you’re willing to be.”

I nodded slowly, even though part of me was still frozen. Still scared.

“The hardest part,” he added, “comes when it starts to feel like you’re better. That’s when you’re most vulnerable to reinjury—when the confidence comes back faster than the strength. So take it slow. Let your body lead. We’ll reassess in April and see what’s next.”

He met my eyes, steady and kind. “Can you promise me that? That you won’t rush this?”

I nodded, but my mind was still spinning. Everything Suho had told me was looping back on itself, piling up before I could properly sort it out. ACL rehab. Crutches. No jumps. Maybe skating again. Maybe competing. There were so many maybes, and behind each one was a risk I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to take.

And underneath it all was the fear—quiet, patient, always waiting. It hadn’t left. It just shifted shape. I stared down at my hands, the knuckles still pale from how tightly I’d been wringing them, and tried to breathe through the weight in my chest.

Then Suho’s voice cut through the spiral. Not sharp, not rushed. Just steady.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “I know this isn’t easy to hear. And I know how hard it must be, having your future suddenly look different than you planned. But listen to me—don’t lose hope. You’re frustrated, sure. That’s normal. But recovery isn’t just physical. Mental strength is going to be just as important. Probably more.”

I looked up, caught off guard by how serious he looked. Not grim—just honest. Like he was telling me something he’d learned the hard way, something he really meant.

“If you stay patient, stay consistent, and keep showing up for yourself,” he continued, “you give yourself the best possible chance of getting back to where you were. And maybe even beyond that.”

A small, cautious warmth sparked somewhere inside me, like someone had lit a match in the dark. I swallowed hard. “You really think I can come back from this?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve seen a lot of athletes recover from worse. And I’ve seen some of the best give up—not because their bodies failed, but because they let fear win.” He leaned forward a little. “I can’t make any promises. But I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t believe you had it in you.”

I didn’t know what to say. The part of me that had braced for another clinical assessment—something cold and distant and definitive—didn’t quite know how to absorb this. It wasn’t a guarantee. But it was hope. Honest, measured hope. And after the months I’d spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, it felt like the first real breath I’d taken in a long time.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. Then, catching myself, “I mean—thank you, Suho.”

He grinned. “There you go. Getting the hang of the whole first-name thing.”

A faint laugh slipped out of me, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel forced.

Suho stood and moved toward the counter to jot something in my chart, then turned back to me. “Just remember, you’re the one doing the work. I’ll guide you, sure. But this journey? It’s yours. Own it. Take your time. Don’t skip steps. There’s a time to push—and this isn’t it.”

“I hear you,” I said, managing a half-smile as I picked up my crutches. “No hero moves yet. Got it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yet.”

I nodded again, and this time it felt steadier. Not because I suddenly had all the answers, but because I had something to aim for. A thread to hold onto.

Suho opened the door for me, then gave me a last look as I passed through. “I’ll see you Friday. At the game.”

I blinked. “Right. I almost forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “Mina never lets anyone forget.”

I smiled—really smiled—and stepped into the hallway.

Outside, the January cold slapped against my skin the moment the sliding doors opened. The wind cut straight through my coat, and my breath came out in tight little clouds. But strangely, I didn’t mind.

After the appointment, Mina wouldn’t take no for an answer. She claimed we had to eat, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So we ended up at the little café on Maple—the one with the scratched wooden tables and the chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed in three years. The kind of place where the barista already knows your order and slides it across the counter with a wink. Comfort food, warm light, good coffee. Safe.

We ate slowly, mostly in companionable silence, only breaking it to talk about the game Friday or how Minnesota had a “better winter” than Michigan, which, according to Mina, was a hill she was prepared to die on. Eventually, she checked the time, grabbed her keys, and gave me that look—the one that meant she had a plan I hadn’t agreed to.

“Come on. Emily said your car would be ready today, right?” she said as we slid into her car.

I nodded, suddenly queasy.

By the time we pulled into the dealership lot, my nerves had twisted into a tight knot at the base of my stomach. I spotted it right away—sleek, shining, sitting in the front row like it knew it was being shown off. A brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV, polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cloudy winter sky.

Of course it was a Mercedes. Emily didn’t do practical. She did statements. To her, this was a gift. To me, it felt like every moment of my life rolled into one big fucking joke on four wheels. She has no idea who I am.

I swallowed the knot of disappointment and climbed into the driver’s seat. The leather was buttery soft, the scent of new upholstery too strong, too sterile. Everything felt untouched, untouched by me at least. Like it belonged to a version of my life I hadn’t chosen.

I adjusted the seat, turned on the ignition, and rolled out of the lot with careful hands. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. Emily. Right on cue. She’d probably been watching the time, waiting for the appointment to end so she could debrief like it was a business transaction.

I stared at the screen for a second before letting it ring out. She could go to voicemail. I’d blame driving later if she pressed. It wasn’t a lie—not completely.

We pulled up to the apartment just as Lucy’s BMW came around the corner. She practically leapt from it before the engine had even settled.

“There she is!” she called out, beaming, arms already wide like she was announcing me to a crowd.

Mina laughed, waving her over. “Perfect timing.”

Lucy jogged up, flushed from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her like a cape. She had that kind of contagious energy—bright, earnest, just a little chaotic—and it made it harder to hold onto a bad mood around her.

“You guys wanna do a lap around the block?” she asked, already bouncing in place like a wind-up toy. “Gotta break in your sea legs, Y/N.”

“It’s January,” I said flatly. “In Michigan.”

“So?” Mina shrugged, already pulling on gloves. “You’re a figure skater. Cold’s your natural habitat.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees out,” I reminded them.

Lucy grinned. “Exactly. Practically tropical.”

I stared at them for a moment—two overexcited lunatics in head-to-toe winter gear—before sighing and grabbing my coat. “Fine. But if I slip and die, I’m haunting you both.”

They whooped like I’d just agreed to join a flash mob.

The walk was slow but steady. The air was sharp, biting at my cheeks, but after the stuffy silence of the exam room and the hollow quiet of the dealership, it felt... clean. Real. Every step without the crutches was a small win, even if I could feel the strain creeping in by the second block.

About a minute in, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I thumbed it silent and slid it into my coat pocket before either of them noticed.

Mina noticed anyway. “Emily again?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call her later.”

“You were living with her up until... what? A week ago?” Lucy asked, not unkindly—just curious, like she was building a timeline in her head.

“Yeah,” I said, watching my breath cloud in the air. “My parents split when I was a kid. My dad moved to Washington, and my mom and I kind of... floated. Wherever the best training was, that’s where we ended up.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Mina said, wide-eyed.

I gave her a smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Mostly it was rinks and airports. Hotels that all looked the same. The places blur together after a while.”

“No sightseeing?” Lucy asked, her nose wrinkling.

I shook my head. “Not really. It’s a job, you know? Early mornings, late practices, physical therapy. You don’t get a lot of time to explore.”

“That kinda sucks,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

I laughed, and this time it felt genuine. “Yeah, a little. I mean, I’m grateful, but it’s not exactly the glamorous life people think it is.”

“Not a lot of friends on the road?” Mina asked gently.

I looked up at the gray sky, thinking. “Mostly other skaters. But it’s competitive—cutthroat sometimes. You don’t always know who’s rooting for you and who’s waiting for you to fall.”

“Ever seen someone pull a Tanya Harding?” Lucy teased, grinning.

“Not exactly,” I said with a smirk. “But there’s definitely sabotage. Just... quieter. More backhanded.”

We all laughed, and for a second, the tension that had been riding my shoulders all day eased.

Then Mina’s voice softened. “That’s not how you got hurt though, right?”

I shook my head. “No. Just a dumb accident. My blade caught in a rut, and I went down hard. Concussion. Torn ACL. Game over.”

Lucy winced. “God, that sounds awful.”

“It was,” I admitted. “Still kind of is.”

“There wasn’t much about it in the news,” Lucy said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I didn’t even realize you were off the circuit.”

“That was on purpose,” I said. “She’s also my manager. She wanted to keep it quiet in case I bounced back fast. Didn’t want to spook the sponsors.”

“Is that... weird?” Mina asked. “Having her as your manager?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never known anything else.” I shrugged. “She took over after the divorce, when I was still competing in juniors. It just kind of became her job.”

“Do you miss her?” she asked softly.

The question caught me off guard. I looked ahead, watching the sidewalk stretch out in front of us. “It’s... complicated. I think we both needed space. She’s always been so focused on the next step—the next medal, the next competition. I don’t think she knows how to see me outside of that.”

“That would drive me nuts,” Mina said.

“It did,” I said quietly. “For a long time.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful. And then, just like that, the conversation drifted. Mina launched into a story about the latest drama with her cousin’s wedding—a florist who ghosted them mid-consultation—and Lucy added commentary so animated she nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I was tired, but not drained. My knee ached, sure, but I’d made it. The elevator ride up was calmer than we had been outside. I leaned back against the wall and looked over at them.

“So,” Lucy said, dragging out the word like it held a secret, her grin widening with each syllable. “It’s Monday night. None of us have to be up early tomorrow. The guys are off doing whatever it is they do when they disappear for hours…”

Mina looked up from her phone, eyes lighting up like a switch had flipped. Their eyes met. And just like that, I could see it—the silent conversation, the plan forming between them before I even knew what was happening.

“You know what that means?” Lucy asked, already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

I blinked. “No clue.”

“Girls’ night!” Mina squealed, throwing her arms in the air like she’d just won the lottery.

“Girls’ night?” I echoed, my brow furrowing slightly, still trying to catch up.

“Oh, you have *no idea* what you’ve been missing,” Lucy said, sliding an arm around my shoulders like we were lifelong best friends instead of new neighbors. “It’s basically a sacred ritual. We eat junk food, drink ridiculous cocktails, wear the comfiest clothes known to mankind, and watch movies until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

“It's just a movie marathon where we get wasted and eat too much food,” Mina added helpfully.

I raised an eyebrow, not quite convinced. “And this is... fun?”

Lucy gasped, placing a hand over her heart like I’d just insulted her entire personality. “Y/N. It is everything.”

“I mean, I’m not really much of a drinker,” I said, hesitating, suddenly aware of how uncool that probably sounded.

“Lightweight or just not your thing?” Lucy asked, her voice genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Neither, really. I just... never got around to it,” I said, and immediately felt the heat rising in my face. “Training and alcohol don’t mix, and I’ve basically been in bed by nine since I was twelve.”

Mina’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping with mock horror. “Wait—you’ve never had a drink?”

“Not never,” I said quickly. “Just... not casually. Not like this. Not with friends.”

“No religious reasons? Family rule?” Lucy asked, gently.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, shrugging. “It just wasn’t part of the world I lived in. Between competition schedules, meal plans, and early flights, I didn't have time for parties or experimenting. And if I’m honest, it’s always made me a little nervous.”

“Well, tonight,” Mina said, taking a dramatic step forward and pointing a finger in the air like she was making a toast, “we right this injustice.”

I laughed. “What, no bedtime tonight?”

“Exactly. No curfews, no counting macros, no stress,” she said, linking her arm with mine. “Just sugar, salt, and emotionally irresponsible rom-coms.”

Before I could answer, Mina and Lucy were already halfway out the door, calling over their shoulders.

“We’re grabbing the essentials. Don’t go anywhere!”

Their front door swung shut, left half open in their wake. I stood there for a moment, dazed and smiling.

From inside, I could hear them already arguing about what to watch. “We are not watching ‘The Notebook’ again,” Mina insisted.

“Oh, come on! You cried harder than I did last time!” Lucy shot back.

I leaned against the doorframe, listening, letting their chaos fill the quiet spaces that had been echoing in me since the fall. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for anything.

A few minutes later, their door flew open again.

Mina emerged first, barefoot and already in sweats, carrying a stack of DVDs taller than her torso. Lucy followed behind her, using a laundry basket as a makeshift party kit—bottles of something pink and sparkling clinking against bags of chips, boxes of cookies, a jar of marshmallow fluff, and three mismatched wine glasses rattling with every step.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Lucy asked, not even looking up as she wrestled the basket onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you guys are into.”

“Perfect,” Mina said, flipping through the stack. “We’re going for maximum serotonin: rom-coms, teen drama, and something slightly trashy just to round it out.”

Lucy held up a pack of rainbow-colored popcorn like she’d found the Holy Grail. “We’re starting with 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s non-negotiable.”

“I approve,” I said, laughing as I took a handful of snacks from the basket to help sort. “Do people actually eat this much during girls’ night?”

“This?” Lucy said, looking insulted. “This is restraint.”

“And sweats, Mina?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even own sweats?”

She placed a hand on her chest. “Excuse me. I am making a sacrifice for the integrity of the night.”

I headed back to my apartment to change, pulling on a pair of fleece joggers and an old, oversized Team USA hoodie that still smelled faintly like eucalyptus from my gym bag. I didn’t spend long in the mirror—just tied my hair back and grabbed a pair of fuzzy socks.

The moment I stepped into Mina and Lucy’s apartment, I paused at the threshold, overwhelmed—in the best way—by the transformation that had taken place.

The lights were low, the soft yellow string lights overhead casting a cozy, almost magical glow across the living room. A mountain of blankets and pillows was already spread across the couch and floor like the aftermath of a slumber party tornado. In the kitchen, Lucy was mid-chaos—bottles, bowls, and bags scattered across the counter like she was preparing for a sugar-fueled siege. Mina was hunched over the DVD player, muttering about the remote being possessed.

It was warm, loud, alive. The exact opposite of how my life had felt lately.

A slow smile spread across my face. Emily would’ve fainted if she saw this—junk food, mismatched glassware, alcohol in cups that weren’t crystal. She had once made a comment about goldfish crackers being "what people without standards feed their children." But tonight wasn’t about control. Or image. Or what looked good in a press photo. Tonight was about firsts.

First girls’ night. First drink. First time letting go, even just a little.

“So, what’s the first movie of the night?” I asked, slipping off my slippers and stepping into the living room like I belonged there.

Lucy tossed a bag of Doritos toward Mina, who caught it one-handed and grinned.

“We’re saving the emotional wreckage for later,” Mina said with a smirk. “We’re starting light. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

Lucy gave an exaggerated sigh as she plopped onto the couch. “Ugh, McConaughey in his prime. That man could make me move back to Texas.”

“You lived there for two years,” Mina shot back.

“Details,” Lucy said, waving her hand dismissively. “Point is, he makes me nostalgic for accents and bad decisions.”

“You and Jimin both went to school in Texas, right?” I asked.

“Texas Tech,” Lucy nodded. “But Jimin actually paid attention in class. I was mostly there for the marching band and the tailgates.”

“And you still ended up with Taehyung,” Mina said, nudging her.

Lucy grinned. “I mean... not mad about it.”

Their easy back-and-forth made me smile, even though I still felt like I was learning how to exist in conversations like this—casual, intimate, no agenda.

“Speaking of accents,” I said, “your dad, Mina... his Wisconsin thing is strong.”

Mina burst into laughter before I even finished the sentence. “Oh my God, I should’ve warned you! I’m so used to it now, I forget how intense it can sound to normal people.”

“‘Hey der, Mina!’” I mimicked, and she doubled over, gasping.

“Stop, stop—I’m crying,” she wheezed. “Seriously though, it gets worse when he’s tired. Or if he’s talking to my grandma. It’s like full lumberjack mode.”

“Honestly?” Lucy chimed in, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Your dad is kind of... hot. Like, weirdly hot. Not for a dad. Just... in general.”

“Mmm, no comment,” I muttered, face flushing as I reached for a pillow to bury it.

Lucy reappeared with three glasses in one hand and a bottle of something in the other. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice, Y/N.”

“He’s... attractive,” I said carefully, trying to sound neutral.

Lucy raised her brows. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t he basically your future father-in-law?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Lucy raised her glass like it was a mic drop. “Exactly. Means I have good things to look forward to.”

“You guys are insane,” I mumbled.

“Oh, please,” Mina said casually. “I’m not blind. I know my dad’s good-looking. My mom jokes about it all the time. She says it’s why she puts up with his weird hobbies and the way he leaves coffee mugs in every room of the house.”

“I’m going to need to un-hear all of this,” I said, laughing into my hands.

“Welcome to girls’ night,” Lucy said, plopping down beside me and handing over a glass. “Where boundaries go to die.”

I took the glass warily. “What is it?”

“Just a little something light,” she said. “Promise. Fruity, barely any alcohol.”

I took a sip—and immediately choked. It tasted like fruit punch spiked with jet fuel. “*That* is not light,” I coughed.

Mina winced in sympathy. “Oof. Lucy, you always do this.”

“Fine, fine.” Lucy rolled her eyes and stood. “One ‘starter drink’ coming right up.”

She returned a moment later with something pink and frothy in a mason jar. “Try this. It’s basically a melted popsicle.”

I sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. Sweet, fizzy, tangy—like raspberries and lemon sherbet. Still a little warmth on the back of my tongue, but nothing aggressive.

“Good, right?” Lucy asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glass, her grin twitching at the corners like she was holding back a celebratory cheer.

I nodded, a little more confidently this time, and took another sip. “Really good, actually.”

“Told you,” she said, clearly pleased with herself.

“Just... pace yourself,” Mina added from where she was curled up in a blanket on the floor. She raised a brow in my direction. “It tastes like juice, but there’s more vodka than fruit in that drink.”

“Duly noted,” I murmured, though I was already taking another sip.

The hours passed in a haze of warmth and movie quotes and laughter that felt like it belonged to another life—one that didn’t involve injuries or ice or expectations. We made it through Clueless and Legally Blonde before any of us realized how late it had gotten. I was sprawled out across the couch, my head resting against Lucy’s leg, Mina draped over the other end of the couch with her feet tucked under a pillow like a cat in hibernation.

It was the kind of comfort that felt rare—unguarded, unpretentious, easy.

“The night is young,” Lucy mumbled into a pillow, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “What’s next?”

“Leo,” Mina declared, eyes lighting up as she reached for the next DVD. “It’s not a real girls’ night until Leo shows up in a tux.”

Lucy groaned playfully. “You and your Titanic obsession.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Mina countered, already loading the disc.

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” I offered, earning a grin from both of them.

Lucy ambled into the kitchen to grab another drink. Her footsteps had a slight sway now, like the cocktails were finally catching up with her.

“Anyone else?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I probably shouldn’t...” I began.

“Nuh-uh,” Mina said, cutting me off without even turning around. “You’re still too coherent.”

I let out a breathy laugh as Mina pressed another glass into my hand. “If I end up passed out on this couch, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said, raising her own drink like she was making a toast.

By the time Jack started sketching Rose, we were full-on tipsy. The drinks had softened all the edges. Conversation got louder, the laughs longer. At some point, Lucy and Mina reenacted the "I'm flying" scene on the coffee table, arms stretched wide and teetering dangerously close to the bottle of wine Mina had insisted on opening. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

When the credits finally started rolling and the room settled into a comfortable hum of silence, Mina looked over at me, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and curiosity.

“Alright. Real talk, Y/N.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I should be bracing myself?”

“You’ve really never?” Lucy cut in, more serious now, though the playful edge hadn’t entirely left her voice.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Why are we circling back to this?”

“Because,” Mina said, poking at my leg with her toe, “you’re too mysterious. We need to know everything.”

“There’s not that much to know,” I muttered.

Lucy stared at me like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in birthdays. “Y/N, you’re twenty-four. You’ve never had sex? Not even once? I mean, I know I waited for a while, but I still fooled around a bit before that. You haven't done anything?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nope.”

Mina gasped like I’d confessed to never having tried pizza. “Are you serious?”

“There are plenty of people who wait,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. “It’s not that weird.”

“Sure,” Mina said, leaning her chin on her knees. “But you’re gorgeous. You could probably have your pick.”

“I’d totally jump you,” she added casually, reaching over to flick a bit of lint off my pants.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Wow, thank you. That’s very touching.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a proud smile.

Lucy looked genuinely perplexed. “So... no one? Not even a hot skater guy during training camps or some European fling after a competition?”

I shrugged. “Never really had the opportunity. Or... I guess I just didn’t make one.”

Mina stared at me, incredulous. “You mean to tell me that with all those hours at the gym, there wasn’t one shirtless Russian worth risking it all for?”

“Some of us actually used the gym for training,” I said.

“Some of us used it for both,” Lucy said with a wink. “Multitasking is a skill.”

“Perv,” I muttered.

“Proudly,” Lucy said, tossing a popcorn kernel into her mouth like she’d just dropped a mic.

Mina sat up a little straighter, the gears in her head clearly turning. “Okay. We need to find you someone.”

“No,” I said instantly. “Absolutely not. I don’t need a setup.”

“But think about it!” Mina said, suddenly looking far too serious for someone wrapped in a blanket burrito. “Lucy, who do we know?”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Please. Stop.”

“You can’t just tell us you’ve never and then not let us help,” Lucy insisted.

“I can and I will.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Unless... you have met someone.”

“No,” I said way too quickly.

Lucy sat up like she’d just heard a dog whistle. “You so have.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I insisted, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Mina gasped, eyes sparkling. “You met someone. Who is he? Is he cute? Is he here? Did you kiss?”

“You guys are relentless,” I muttered, laughing despite myself.

Lucy folded her arms, raising one perfectly shaped brow. “We’ve been in long-term relationships for years. We live for this stuff now. Spill.”

I sighed, realizing I wasn’t getting out of this. “Fine. I met a guy at the airport. He helped me with my bags. We talked for a few minutes. That’s it.”

“Was he hot?” Lucy asked, already leaning forward like this was the climax of the story.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Mina repeated, scandalized.

“I mean, he wasn’t just cute,” I admitted. “He was... kind of next-level.”

“Tall?” Lucy prompted.

“Yeah.”

“Dark?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Handsome?”

I exhaled. “Ridiculously.”

Both of them squealed so loudly I nearly dropped my drink.

“Did you get his number?” Mina asked.

“No.”

“Did he get yours?”

“No.”

“Y/N!” Lucy groaned. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know if he was just being polite! I wasn’t going to throw my number at him in the middle of baggage claim like some rom-com extra.”

“But he said he wanted to see you again?” Mina asked, her voice softening.

I nodded slowly. “He mentioned grabbing coffee sometime. But that was it.”

“Girl,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “We need to manifest this man’s return into your life.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” I replied. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

Mina rested her head on my shoulder. “Maybe. But maybe not. You never know.”

I smiled faintly, grateful for their enthusiasm even if it made me feel more exposed than I’d planned. The movie was still playing in the background, the soft sounds of Celine Dion bleeding through the speakers. The room had gone quiet again, but this time it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable. Safe.

Mina looked up at me, her expression suddenly serious. “Your butterflies are still out there, Y/N. You just have to be ready when they land.”

Taglist: @smartkookiee @knightofmidnight @mar-lo-pap @jjeonjjk7 @somewhatjungkook @lovingkoalaface @jimineepaboya @iswearimover5feetall @blissingtaehyung @futuristicenemychaos @kooloveys @jenniebyrubies @8thmuse @beattiestreet @tatzzz-25

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part four]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10k

A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!

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In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.

The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air. 

“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. 

His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”

His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.

You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.

His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.

Stop. 

You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.

“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight. 

“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”

The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”

“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making. 

“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”

His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.

"I can't... I—”

"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."

His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."

He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.

"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"

"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."

"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him. 

You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.

You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap. 

"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."

He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.

"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."

He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.

"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."

The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.

"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"

He nodded shakily.

"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."

You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—? 

No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?

It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.

When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.

"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."

"I’m sorry," he croaked.

"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."

That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.

You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.

“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”

His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.

Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable. 

“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”

You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators. 

"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"

He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"

"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"

“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion. 

Was he… angry? 

Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken. 

“What?” You managed to stumble out.

Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”

You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.

Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”

“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out. 

It was fear. 

Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you. 

“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.

Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.” 

He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.

“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”

Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”

You knew this look. 

The thinly veiled judgment behind it. 

It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.

“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”

You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.

“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”

Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.

“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.

You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.

“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”

Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”

His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”

You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.

“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”

The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.

It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.

So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.

“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”

Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.

“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”

Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.

You didn’t need to.

His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.

The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal. 

The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.

You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.

Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.

His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.

“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.

“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”

“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.

“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”

You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.

“So are you like dating or—”

“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.

Maybe too fast.

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails. 

“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”

He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.

You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.

He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.

“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.

Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.

Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.

“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”

“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.

You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.

You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.

The word caught your throat on its way out.

“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.

Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.

“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.

“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.

Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”

“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.

“What?” 

“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”

“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”

“You lied to me.”

“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.

“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”

“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,

Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.

“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”

“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”

“Why are you so worried—”

“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”

You recoiled in shock.

Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.

Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.

You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.

Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute. 

“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly. 

“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed. 

The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you. 

“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.

“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly. 

“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."

Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.

At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.

“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”

“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.

You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.

—

You’re on your own now.

The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.

They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.

You’re on your own now.

You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.

It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.

You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.

Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.

The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.

You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible. 

Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.

You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?

You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.

“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.

You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack? 

“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.

“Jesus, give it a break.”

“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”

“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”

You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.

“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”

Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.

Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.

You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.

But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you. 

You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.

A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.

It wouldn’t budge.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.

The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.

The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.

You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.

You’re on your own now.

—

The shower hadn’t helped.

You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.

You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows. 

With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.

You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.

The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.

Just talk to me.

Please?

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.

Can we please talk?

You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older. 

Are you still awake?

Come over?

Can’t sleep.

Still can’t sleep.

I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?

You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you. 

You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.

You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.

But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.

Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.

A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.

You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward. 

“Bucky—”

His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.

And everything stopped.

You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.

You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

—

You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.

Except it wasn’t.

You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.

And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.

“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”

You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.

Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”

Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance. 

You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”

Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”

You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.

So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”

You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.

“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”

You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”

You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”

Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.

“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”

Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.

This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?

Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.

“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat. 

You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.

The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.

“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.

You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.

“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”

A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped.

You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.

You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.

“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Your blood roared. 

Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.

But it was too late.

You charged again.

No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.

He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.

Then he flipped you.

You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.

His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.

You struggled.

At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.

Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach. 

Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.

Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.

You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.

You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.

You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm. 

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.

You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.

“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.

You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.

His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.

“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”

He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.

You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.

Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.

But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.

Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.

And that—that meant something.

Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached. 

“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”

“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?” 

He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably. 

Still, it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.

“What did you just call her?” 

Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed. 

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. 

You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.

Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.

—

Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.

You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.

God, you hated looking the part.

But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.

You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.

Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.

You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.

You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.

You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.

“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.

You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”

“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.

“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”

You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation. 

Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.

Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.

You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.

Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.

The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.

Except—

He was there.

Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.

He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.

You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.

And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.

Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.

It broke your heart.

Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.

His eyes locked on yours.

You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”

Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”

“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”

He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.

“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”

“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[worldlxvlys]

hey can u do this fic ?? basically y/n wakes matt or chris up by riding him or sucking him off

don’t stop

chris sturniolo x reader

warnings: smut (don’t read if you don’t like), p in v, creampie, reader wakes chris up by riding him but ALL ACTIONS ARE CONSENSUAL !!!

a/n: hope you enjoy <333

—————

nick, matt, chris, and i had all just finished watching a movie.

we spent the day out and and about, so we were all pretty tired.

as soon as the credits rolled, everyone got up and said good night, going to their respective rooms.

i followed chris to his, and we both immediately got in bed.

“good night ma”

“night chris” i said as i gave his lips a quick peck.

i laid down with my back to chris, as he placed his arm around my waist and his nose in the crook of my neck.

***

i was woken up by the sound of my name being moaned.

i turned to look at chris, but he was still asleep.

hm, that’s weird. i must be hearing things.

i moved around a little, trying to get comfortable again and fall asleep.

when i moved, i felt something poking against my thigh.

“mmmm, please baby” i heard chris mumble.

ok, definitely not hearing things. he’s having a wet dream.

he began to grind his hardness against my thigh, “fuck, ma” he moaned.

i was drenched.

i pushed my lower half back into him, making him groan.

i felt his heavy breathing on my neck.

i moved from my spot, getting up to take off my pants and panties.

i pulled his boxers down, watching as his dick sprung up. his tip was red and leaking with precum.

i spit on my hand and brought it to his dick, making his hips buck up.

i looked up at his face to see if he had woken up, but his eyes were still closed.

i gave him a few slow strokes before crawling onto his lap and lining myself up with him.

i sunk down onto him, and as soon as he bottomed out, he let out a loud moan and his eyes shot open.

his hands immediately found my waist, as he looked up at me through half-lidded eyes.

“hmm, nice way to wake up” he mumbled as his eyes scanned over my body.

“heard you moaning my name, baby. is this ok? want me to stop?” i asked, intertwining our fingers.

“of course it is, baby. please don’t stop” with that, i started to bounce on his cock.

“fuuuck, baby. you’re so perfect” he said as i continued to slam down onto him.

“hmmmm, you feel so fucking good in me chris” i said as i leaned forward, pressing my chest to his.

he let go of one of my hands, wrapping his arm around my back.

“i love you so fucking much” he whispered in my ear. “you’re so good to me”

something about the way he whispered in my ear as he was so deep inside me made my heart flutter.

i pressed my forehead to his. “i love you too chris, don’t know what i’d do without you”

our noses touched, as we continued to pant and moan against each others lips.

he could tell i was starting to get tired, “want some help, ma?”

i nodded my head in response as he wrapped his arms around my waist, and turned us over.

he began to fuck into me like his life depended on it.

“fuuuuuck chris, so so good” i say as my hands grip onto the sheets.

he looked down at where our bodies met, watching the way my pussy engulfed his cock.

i clenched around him, and he groaned as he was unexpectedly thrown into his orgasm.

“oh fuck, fuck, fuck ma. i’m gonna-“ his cum shot into me, coating my walls, making me moan.

“mmmm, chris, so so close”

with that, he put my legs together and pushed them towards my chest, bending them. the new angle made him brush against my g-spot repeatedly.

“holy fuuuck, chris. oh my god” my mind went fuzzy as i was overtaken with pleasure.

“c’mon baby, give it to me, cum all over my cock” he said as he ignored his own sensitivity, fully focusing on helping me finish.

i felt the coil in my stomach snap, as i released all over his cock.

“shit chris” i said as i tried to catch my breath.

he gave a few more sloppy thrusts before pulling himself out, watching as our juices mixed together and leaked out of my pussy.

“feel free to wake me up like that every morning”

—————

i’ve been neglecting dealer matt y’all i’m sorry, more parts are coming soon !!

<333

masterlist

lmk what y’all want

tag list: @lovingsturniolo @lustfulslxt @gwenlore @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @frankeelovesthesturnio @sophssturn @bernardsleftbootycheek @queen161718 @chrisdevora @cupidsword @nickmillersn1gf @stramboli4life @mattsneezing @chrisstankyleg @sturniolobltch @vib3swithanuk @ciarasturn1 @bethsturn @bernardenjoyer @mbbsgf @soursturniolo @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @ssturniolo

[charliemwrites]

Chapter 4

Content: Threats/Expectation of Torture, Dub-Con, Consensual Non-Consent Elements, Hurt/Comfort

The lines are getting thinner. Day by day, touch by touch. The parts of you that buck and bray against captivity begin to settle into the dangerous clutches of this isn’t so bad.

It’s exhausting to resist, especially when every part of you isn’t unilaterally aligned. The boundary between deep, dark desire and actual circumstance is narrowing into something you can’t discern anymore. Blurring into a strange delirium. Mornings with Ghost’s fingers inside you and afternoons warming Johnny’s cock. Meals prepared by hands that have snuffed as many lives as your own. A voice that once menaced you now lulls you to sleep.

Every interaction is a double-edged blade of seduction and condemnation. You moan at the tug of a collar you’re not free to remove. Johnny leans into the same hand that just bruised his wrist. A dozen scenarios that walk the line, never tipping either of you towards or away from Ghost.

It's things like Johnny waking in the dead of night, screaming. You know what’s going on even half-asleep; the same dream-memories lock you into burning paralysis. He’s clutching at his shoulder, fingers of the same arm spasming. Coughing on phantom smoke, seeing a night sky polluted by columns of flame instead of the ceiling.

“Kit! Kit!” he rasps, painful and terrified.

“Johnny, I’m here,” you call back, heart pounding. “Johnny, wake up! It’s over, we’re okay!”

You tug fruitlessly at the collar, at the chain. It’s useless, you know it is, but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer again. Hate Ghost and this house and your own compliance with the same fire that nearly engulfed you and Johnny.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Ghost.

You beg him to let you go to Johnny, to let you help. He ignores you for the moment, kneeling at Johnny’s side and rolling him onto his back. Speaks him back to reality, voice low and gravelly, reminding of details he has no right to know – how long you both spent in the hospital, the day of your mutual discharge, the months you two spent in physical therapy.

You want to cry, want to scream, want to be there with them. But Johnny’s finally calming down and you won’t ruin it all by losing your threadbare composure.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath, mumbling and fuzzy, “Where’s Kit?”

Ghost crosses back to you, unlocks the chain. You scramble to Johnny’s side in an instant, practically crashing into his chest as he reaches for you. He breathes deep when you gather him in, pressing his wet face to your neck.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you whisper, shaky hands squeezing at his sore shoulder.

His own trembling, clammy hands paw your shirt up, press to the scarring on your hip. Assuring himself it’s healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I never should have gone in—”

“You were doing your job,” you interrupt. Unwilling to relive the memory again or let him torture himself with it. “And I did mine.”

The cushion shifts behind you. Thick arms circle you and Johnny, guide you back against a sturdy body. Like this, Ghost feels more solid than the ground. You want to hate him. Could – should – blame him for Johnny suffering alone and resent that he comforted him first. You find yourself leaning into his strength and warmth instead.

“Not your fault the intel was bad, pup,” Ghost murmurs, carding fingers through Johnny’s sweaty mohawk.

Eventually, you and Johnny start to doze. Snuggling in with sleepy sighs and the reassurance of the other’s presence. You (or maybe Johnny) might even whine a bit when Ghost shifts as if to leave, clinging onto his sleeve. Either way, you wake the next morning to Johnny sandwiched between you two. For a man who doesn’t even let you see his face, it’s unexpectedly… intimate.

Johnny spends most of the next day in a mood about it – ends up forced to cum scraping his cock against the laces of Ghost’s boots by lunchtime.

And that should be the tipping point, right? Or at least one of them. The awful decadent violating addictive things he does to you two.

You stray too far one morning, thought you heard something in the basement, and he puts you on your knees in the living room. Forces your thighs apart with his boots imprinting the tender skin of your thighs. Grinds the tread against your crotch until you’re squirming and teary. It’s uncomfortable… but also makes you whimper for more, body on fire and apologizing into his thigh just for a bit of relief.

Johnny mouths off for the third time in an hour – was already warned twice. Ghost makes you edge Johnny for two hours, fingers in his hole and tongue flicking over his cock.

“Been gagging for the kitten to do this to you for a while, eh, mutt?” Ghost coos, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head. “I know it’s one of your favorite fantasies.”

And then when Johnny seems like he’s at the breaking point, Ghost makes you milk his prostate until he loses his voice entirely.

And that’s just when Ghost is in a good mood.

He comes down one morning visibly irritable. Eyes dark, shoulders tense. All his movements are short and quick, almost aggressive. When you try to ask him if something is wrong at breakfast, he grunts at you to shut up and eat. And when Johnny makes a snippy comment about “bad manners,” Ghost forces his jaw open and lifts his mask just enough to spit in his mouth.

Then he storms out the door without another word. Johnny’s left flushed, awkwardly pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his joggers.

Ghost returns hours later and doesn’t seem any less moody. In fact, he seems worse now. You and Johnny exchange glances. He’s already cooking up mischief, you can see it from across the room. Never did learn when to leave well enough alone. All it takes is for you to subtly shake your head at his little smirk. That might as well be a greenlight.

“Well then, Ghost?” he drawls.

Ghost, who’s been aimlessly (peacefully) flipping through channels, stops. Not that he was fidgety before, but at the smarmy note in Johnny’s voice, he gets stony. You grimace and shoot Johnny another staying look. Mouthy little bastard you may be, you’ve always had a good sense for when to shut your stupid mouth. Your serial killer kidnapper being in a shit mood is one of those times.

“Ya done sulking yet? Gonna tell us who pissed in yer cornflakes?” Johnny continues, lounging against the wall with his first arms folded behind his head. “You gonna pack your shit in or keep being a bellend?”

You feel the exact moment that Ghost’s patience snaps. The room goes cold.

He drops the tv remote onto the cushion next to him, cracks his neck, and exhales deeply. Then stands and lopes across the room. Not to Johnny.

To you.

“Ghost—” you yelp, scrambling back. Don’t get far. He snags two thick fingers around the collar and jerks you away from the wall.

“Hey!” Johnny shouts. “Hey, yeah radge bastard! I’m the one that pissed you off.”

Struggling is no use, you know that. Still, you jerk and squirm, heart pounding. Draw your fist back, only to have it caught in an iron grip. It’s going to bruise, your bones ache.

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than you’ve ever heard. Beyond the balaclava, his gaze is burning coal. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches all but survival from your body.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs to try. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you along, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing your destination. The inconspicuous white door looms ahead, sinister. You can’t swallow the scream that tears from your throat.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you cry, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to escape. Just stumble halfway to your feet, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face, mouth parted as he strains towards you.

Then cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling you down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, but he easily drags you down a set of wooden stairs. All you do is earn a threatening hand around your hitching throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

He drops you onto something hard, flat, and wooden a few feet above the ground. Your legs hang over the edge, feet swinging. A table. Ghost’s black silhouette blots out the meager light daring to peek in from the hallway.

“G-Ghost,” you choke out.

You expect to be shoved down, tied prone and helpless. Wait for the bite of a blade, the prick of a needle, the cold kiss of a gun. Brace yourself for it, scrabbling for any of the stoic demeanor you once armed yourself in.

You nearly scream again at the touch of warm hands. Not a tight grip around your throat, or a brutal fist to your face, or even strong fingers breaking yours. It’s the firm (but not painful) press of a palm over your mouth and its twin spanning your hip.

“Take a deep breath.”

You peer through watery eyes, trying to find his. With the light behind him, even his gaze is obscured. All you have his voice. Low as it is, he seems… calmer than you expect.

You obey.

“Another.”

You breathe in slowly, exhale evenly.

“Good.” Relief makes you so dizzy that your eyes flutter. Ghost shakes you a bit. “Listen, little one.”

You blink up at him, take another breath, and nod for him to continue.

“I need to get some frustration out and the pup needs to learn a lesson.” He sweeps his thumb over the curve of your hip. You shiver, confused and still frightened, but still trained to react to his touch. “You just need to put on a good show, yeah?”

You try to speak, but his hand doesn’t move, so you settle for making a questioning noise.

“I’m going to torture you,” he explains, as casual as telling you what’s for dinner. “And you’re going to convince the mutt that you hate it.”

His hand slips from your hip to your groin, rocking meaningfully. Tentative understanding dawns with a golden ray of hope.

“The alternative is that Soap takes your place,” Ghost muses in your silence, mistaking it for reluctance. “I won’t be nearly as… humane with him.”

You protest wordlessly, shaking your head.

“No?” he mocks. “You’ll be good for me, then? Let me use you to teach that brat a lesson?”

You nod. Guilt gnaws at you for getting off (literally) so easy when Johnny is up there out of his mind on fear and his own guilt.

That sentiment doesn’t last long.

Ghost rips your clothes away with a growl, leaving them in tatters beneath you. You yelp, genuinely shocked. He moved so fast. There’s nothing teasing or seductive about him, not this time. None of the patience or measure from every previous encounter.

Sharp teeth scrape your jaw, beneath your ear, over your collarbones. Harsh fingers pinch and twist your pebbled nipples until you arch with a shout. He forces his big body between your thighs, grinding your quickly warming groin against unforgiving denim and the bulge hidden beneath.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, half-meaning it, head spinning. “Ghost, please!”

He doesn’t. If anything, your pathetic pleas spur him on.

Your underwear is discarded with another tear of fabric, exposing you to cool air and a mean man.

Ghost’s mouth closes around you, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You scream. High-pitched, wounded. Would jackknife right off the table if not for the merciless pin of your hips. Sounds claw up your throat and leap from your parted lips. You’re not in control of them, not with the way he’s slurping, growling, just the faintest hint of teeth to keep your voice octaves too high.

“No, no, please stop!” you keen.

He shoves two fingers in your gaping mouth, gags you on them until you’re coughing and gasping wetly. Awful, desperate sounds. You throb.

Those fingers circle your hole.

“Don’t!” you wail. “Please, Ghost, not that. I can’t—”

You shriek as one finger pushes inside. Nothing slow or gentle about it, a firm and unrelenting push. He doesn’t wait for you to recover or catch your breath. That single finger pumps in and out of your uncertain body, mechanical. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg again for him to stop.

In answer, he pulls away long enough to spit directly on your twitching, sensitive hole. Then wedges the second finger alongside the first. This time your scream ends on a sob as his fingers pet your walls. It’s not quite painful, but it feels like it should be. It’s too much. Your body doesn’t sing, it screams for him.

Ghost has already mapped out all the places that make you shake and cry and beg. He seals his mouth around you again, and you’re gone. Bawling and kicking at air, he forces you over the edge faster than anyone ever as.

He works you through it, sticky wetness dripping down to ease the stretch of a third thick finger. Worse still, he doesn’t even slow, keeps going like you haven’t cum at all.

“It hurts!” you sob. “Please, it hurts, I can’t!”

He uses his free hand to toy with your nipples again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation that melts your brain. The overstimulation almost burns, you can’t tell if it’s ice-cold or white-hot. Just know that your nerves are shot, and yet you’re still rocking into his touch just that slightest damning bit. Because it’s not just too much, it’s not enough. You’re stuffed with his fingers, but you ache for more, for…

“Please, Ghost,” you breathe, hushed and desperate. “Please, fuck me.”

He pulls away with a filthy pop. “Fuck you?” he repeats. There’s a malicious smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you confirm, “please, I want it. D-don’t you want to…?”

He doesn’t answer – not with words. A noise thunders from his chest that raises goosebumps, freezes your blood, and burns through you like wildfire. You don’t know if you’re afraid or aroused, can’t tell if you want to run or bare your throat. It wouldn’t matter regardless. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You yelp as Ghost slides his fingers out agonizingly slow, pressing against your walls the entire way. His shifts, tugging your ass to the edge of the table and bowing up over you. Sharp teeth nip at the edge of your collar as the blunt head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance. Anticipation and trepidation chase each other through your veins, leave you shaking so hard you’re surprised the table isn’t rattling.

“Relax,” Ghost rumbles in your ear, “or don’t. Won’t make a difference to me.”

There’s nothing gentle or gradual about it, no consideration for his own size or your body’s limits. Just a hot, unrelenting press. You keen as your poor, oversensitive hole yields beneath the onslaught. It burns, you can’t breathe, he doesn’t let you adjust even once the flared head is tucked snuggly inside. Just keeps cramming his fat cock deeper and deeper.

You’re lightheaded when he bottoms out an eternity later. It feels like all the air has been forced from your lungs, like there isn’t room for anything but Ghost. And then he rocks back and slams home again.

This time, the table does rattle.

You grip desperately at the sides, nails scraping. He fucks into you viciously, teeth glinting in a half-feral snarl. There’s no consideration for your pleasure, but he still sends your eyes rolling back with every thrust. You’re too gone, dumb on ecstasy, probably drooling.

A rough hand shoves your thigh back, bending your knee to your chest. His cock rams into your g-spot and your voice breaks on the wail that follows. He shortens his thrusts, half pulling out before plunging back inside, ruthlessly abusing that bundle of nerves, snarling as your walls flutter and spasm.

“No, no, no, not again,” you babble but it’s too late.

The pleasure rapidly overflows into a mind-numbing orgasm, whiting out everything but the exquisite torture of Ghost pounding you through it. This time you can’t even muster the ability to plead or squirm. Even your body seems to surrender to his will, going limp and pliant through waves of overstimulation.

“Not yet,” he growls. “One more, and then you can pass out.”

He snakes his free hand down between your bodies. Tears stream down your temples. Helpless, wordless cries spill from your raw throat, high and sharp. Another orgasm builds frighteningly fast, crackling along your shot nerves until you blow like fuse. Blinding ecstasy cracks up your spine, envelopes your mind, and leaves everything dark.

You wake in the bathtub.

It’s a slow, reluctant crawl back to consciousness. The lights have been dimmed to something soft and warm, filtering through a curtain of curling steam. Like this, the bathroom is a dreamlike blur, all hazy lines and twilight shadow. Water laps at your collarbones, not quite scalding, just the way you like. It’s quiet save for the gentle swish of movement along the surface, and slow breathing by your head. Someone is drawing a cloth gently along your heavy body.

A low, gravelly voice coos, “Back with us, kitten?”

You roll your head, blink syrupy slow at the dark specter of Ghost knelt at your side. His sleeves have been drawn up past his elbows.  One arm supports your neck and head, protecting you from the cold, harsh side of the tub. The other disappears beneath the surface of the water, working slowly back and forth. A reaper paying dues.

“Maybe,” you hum.

He makes an amused noise. Not quite a chuckle, but close.

“You can sleep again soon,” he replies. “I think the pup has suffered for long enough, though.”

You jolt, the cotton candy haze dissolving into bitter ash.

Poor Johnny, thinking Ghost was doing something awful to you. Hearing your screams and cries and begging, only for Ghost to bring you up some indeterminate time later, unconscious. Guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

“Easy now, precious,” Ghost soothes, a hand between your shoulders as you sit up. “Take it slow. I wasn’t gentle with you.”

That becomes evident as you abandon the weightless solace of the hot water. Aches immediately bloom throughout your body, concentrated around your hips and thighs. Your lower spine is sore, a muscle in your thigh feels strained, and your hole…

“Christ,” you whimper, nearly slipping.

Ghost catches you, scoops you out of the tub altogether, and waits for you to steady your fawn-weak legs on the bathmat. You lean into him heavily, soaking wet patches like blood into his sweatshirt. You’ve paid your way like this – imaginary cuts at Johnny’s expense.

You can’t look at Ghost’s egregiously fond gaze without nausea bubbling in your empty stomach. A yawning pit grows there, hollowing you out. You can’t face the mirror either.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt your flagellation. Buffs you down with a towel in silence, polishing the monument he’s built to his own deprivation. Couldn’t have shaped it without the raw material there though, could he? Statues don’t form without a block of unformed marble, can’t make granite of limestone.

He dresses you in one of his hoodies and fresh underwear before returning you downstairs.

The state you find Johnny in breaks your heart. Tear-streaked, puffy-eyed, lips bitten bloody. His hair is tangled and disarrayed, bruised hands limp in his thighs. Though his head is leaned back against the wall, there’s no ease in his body. His jaw is so tight you worry for his teeth, brows furrowed tight. A crumpled ball of tension and regret.

“Johnny,” you say, voice splintering. The shards rain down, popping the bubble of bleak silence suffocating the den.

His eyes fly open. You dart to him, throwing yourself into his arms before he can process what he’s seeing. Press yourself close and tight, eyes stinging at the exhausted tremble in his body. Johnny’s never been anything but fire and stone to you. Warmth and heat and energy, strength and support even with the cracks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you warble. “I’m so sorry.”

He nudges you back to scan you with glassy eyes, like he’s seeing a miracle right in front of him.

“You… you’re okay,” he rasps, voice shredded to wisps.

You nod, bowing your head in shame. “He – we…” You can’t find the words to explain, don’t even know how to begin. His hands keep drifting over your arms and hands, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your bare legs.

Ghost chimes in. “Told the kitten to put on a show or you would suffer.”

You want to wipe away Johnny’s half-dry tears, offer the comfort he’s been deprived of. Cowardice grips your arm, suspends it in midair, whispers poisonous doubts about your welcome.

But Johnny presses his cry-flushed cheek into your palm, shuddering through a dry sob. He leans his weight into you, and despite the fatigue, you stay the pillar you’ve always tried to be for him.

“You both need water,” Ghost rumbles, and turns for the kitchen.

Left alone, Johnny doesn’t emerge from the safety he’s found in the hollow of your throat. You cradle him with all the tenderness you can muster, sifting gentle hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you whisper finally.

He lets out a sigh and hugs you closer. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Kit. Not mad at ya for protectin’ me. ‘Specially when I put you down there in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you for anything. I wouldn’t have blamed you even if he had…” You shake your head. “Well, regardless, it’s on Ghost for losing his temper.”

He doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, but your chest squeezes. Johnny’s a proud man, but he’s got a guilt complex a kilometer wide – especially for people he cares deeply for. He’ll be haunted by this for a while.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, luv. Don’t care about a damn other thing.”

You tilt your chin to press kisses to the crown of his head – until he finally peeks out for you to trail more down his ruined face. The kiss starts gentle, warmth and love and reassurance pouring into him from your mouth. Johnny shudders in a breath, cups your jaw. His control slips, mouth parting on desperation and relief, lapping comfort from the edges of your teeth and curl of your tongue.

You only part when Ghost returns, nudging the two of you with his knee. He doesn’t insist on separating you far, though. Just enough to bestow you and Johnny with full glasses of water. You sip in measured doses while Johnny chugs to the bottom in a few noisy mouthfuls.

As he does, you note the awful marks on his hands. Bruised and bloodied knuckles, blisters forming on his palms. Your eyes dart to the wall – sure enough, red stamps like smashed grapes, centered around the wall anchor for the chain. You follow the trail back to his collar, spot the angry skin peaking past. At least there isn’t blood.

Ghost notices too.

“We’ll have to take it off for the night.”

To your surprise, something like reluctance flickers across Johnny’s face. There and gone again, but definitely there. You say nothing; you’d have the same reaction.

Ghost disappears again – this time you hear him rummaging in one of the cabinets. While you and Johnny wait, you exchange chaste, gentle kisses while you burrow into his side.

He returns with a first-aid kit. You’re surprised when offers you a roll of bandages. “A hand for each of us.”

You hum in agreement, get to work dabbing the split skin with antibacterial.

“Can I jus’ ask why, Ghost?”

Ghost doesn’t even glance up. “Why what, pup?”

“Why take it out on Kit? Why not just give me a thrashing and call it a day?”

You frown. Don’t like this line of questioning, or the guilt still staining his words. But Ghost answers without hesitation.

“Because you told me, yeah? Your worst fear is the kitty suffering for you again,” he explains. “No better way to punish you.”

That’s no shock to you; the sentiment is mutual. It’s been damn near written on both your faces since you woke up here, and Ghost isn’t a stupid man. He had you made long before then, you’re sure.

But Johnny’s sudden silence strikes you like a cord out of key. No mutters of annoyance or even snarky comebacks this time. Just a silence that drags your gaze from the careful winding of gauze.

He’s not looking at you, though. He’s staring at Ghost, abject horror graying his skin.

“Riley?”

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[nightcolorz]

The vampire armand is NOT the oldest most power vampire he presents himself as. To prove my point here’s a list of little things I think would easily defeat Armand (expert approved)

A baby crying in his vicinity

Getting splashed with water non-consensually

dance moms (the show)

Angel of the morning (the song)

Passing by a house and getting unexpectedly barked at by a dog

iPad dies and a charger isn’t present immediately

That one face Lestat makes were he smiles and widens his eyes passive aggressively

Lestat

blonde people

men existing

Any unknown vampire breathing in his vicinity

mother Mary statues in peoples yards

Dirt getting under his nails

men

random child getting scolded by its parent in Walmart check out line

That conspiracy theory that birds are fake

public transport

toys r us going bankrupt

Those ape nfts

vampire Halloween costumes (especially children vampire Halloween costumes)

people jogging in public

Ghost hunting shows

fandom culture (in general)

internet slang such as coquette, baby girl, little meow meow

gender reveal parties

that space in malls that’s like a play area for toddlers

slender man as a concept

teenager dancing trends on tiktok

Those big ass castle like Catholic Churches

the song rock me Amadeus

family influencers

men

those spray bottles they use for cats

[jymwahuwu]

When I was picking up starfish for Neuvillette, I was illuminated by a light outside the Fortress of Meropide and automatically taken back to prison💀💔 So I'm thinking about the story of the reader trying to escape by diving and being caught by Wriothesley🥴

CW: yandere, abuse of power, non-con, escape failed, non-consensual spanking

Just today. You can escape, now or never.

You've bribed one of the guards, using all the credit coupons you earned from working in the cafeteria. He quietly brings you a set of diving equipment from outside and briefly teaches you how to use it. He's on duty today. On this day, this day only, you can take advantage of the laxity and loopholes in the guards to escape. For the past few days, you had been submissive and radiant in front of Wriothesley, warming his cock for hours. He promised to give you a day off. You can walk around the Fortress of Meropide and chat with people, or you can just sleep and read, write, munch delicious breads and desserts. It's up to you.

And you use it to escape from prison.

You were sent to the Fortress of Meropide for some ridiculous crime… or maybe even something you didn't do at all. It only took three days from the accusation to the conviction. The members of gardes somehow searched your home for "evidence of guilt". The testimonies of the witnesses all subtly accused you, as if a strange net fell from the firmament. You tried to argue and analyze the irrationality of these logics, but tears and logic… were all useless. This ordinary trial, devoid of drama, ended quickly. They escort you to an underwater prison, where you are exiled in full view of the public.

"Mmm, raise your head and let me see you."

Your eyes widened, recognizing him, a customer you met when you worked part-time in the teahouse. He helped you deal with a customer who was harassing you. Dressed in work clothes, you introduced him to new refreshments, giggling at his witty remarks. He always comes on the same afternoon, orders tea and dessert, and sits quietly, waiting to talk to you.

Once, he asked you whether the sun was so bright outside the water, and whether the people at the top of the water were the same as you. You were confused by his question at that moment.

A confession changes something. Such a peaceful life continued until one day, he hinted whether he would be lucky enough to go on a date with you, but… you had not thought about establishing any romantic relationship with the guest. Unexpectedly, the customer just nodded, kissed the back of your hand and left.

(Underwater. Inexplicable charges and sentences.) The mind is buzzing, and those clues and emotions are flooding into you. You have some understanding of what's going on-

"…It's you. It's you who is framing me…"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He smiled - with confidence and teasing. "But falsely accusing me will only make your crime worse."

You bit your lip, shaking, tears falling.

Your cell is somehow quite close to Wriothesley's office. He summons you to his office at any time, puts you on his lap, or presses on you at night. You want to resist. Once, you yelled at him in the cafeteria. Wriothesley just held your waist with one hand, took off your underwear, and slapped your exposed and swollen butt. Other prisoners were frightened.

You arrived at the appointed location, and the guard nodded to you. You prepare to put on your diving gear, but your thoughts spread like tree roots - When will Wriothesley realize you're missing? What will he do? Where can you go...Mondstadt? Sumeru is closer, but there are Matras there. They may be working with Fontaine...Wriothesley...He...

However, these are not worth mentioning in the face of freedom. You can't hide your current smile, the joy of freedom dances on the tip of your tongue, urging you to take steps forward. Beautiful sunshine. Market. The sound of people talking. The steam from the machine when brewing tea. Detective novels and newspapers. You will be able to have these again, even if you can't appear openly anymore, but it doesn't matter, anything is better than an underwater prison and a large factory.

Anywhere is better than here…

The moment you were about to dive-

a pair of arms grabbed you.

You started screaming almost immediately, broke into a cold sweat from fear, and struggled like a fish out of water without even looking at who the person behind you was. You just want to dive into the sea, but those arms are unexpectedly strong - just like when he pulled you into his arms and kissed your lips countless times. No room for rejection.

"Hey-hey, calm down, okay? Stop." He takes off your diving equipment. What Wriothesley said was like you were losing your temper, not that he was using a trick to force you to stay with him. You turned around and met his gray pupils, crying. The man still smiled and patted your head, "there there…" But as soon as he finished speaking, you found that the guard you bribed was being subdued and pinned to the ground.

"Take him away. Inform Neuvillette." He said coldly.

The guards received the order, saluted, and then forcibly escorted him away.

"…W-when did you know?" He wrapped his arms around your waist, allowing you to sniffle and whimper. You just want to ask this, to know how much you've been predicted. Does he laugh inside when he sees you being so well-behaved…? Wriothesley paused for a moment, as if he was considering how to reply, not wanting to hurt your pride. "…Is it important?"

"I want to know."

"I told you, I know everything that's going on here, the difference is whether I want to take action or not." He placed a kiss on your forehead. "I'll use the belt later, by the way."