#a quiet acknowledgement of life before moving on

[orellazalonia]

The Loop You Won’t Let Die

Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded on a mission. You rewind time again, again, and again, hundreds of times. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Finally, Bucky realizes what you’ve done. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to manipulate time to a limited degree. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Death. Memory Loss. Emotional Deterioration.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: I am hoping y’all will like this because I sure did. Happy reading!!! ♡

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You’ve never been good at accepting the things you can't control. It’s a trait that’s followed you for as long as you can remember. From the moment you first realized your power to manipulate time, to rewind, reset, undo, you were thrilled. However, you came to realize that you held something dangerous in your hands and that it came at a cost. You were never able to rewind it all away. Not the pain, not the guilt, not the consequences.

It was supposed to be simple at first to test your power. No one expected you to use it on something so… delicate. You didn’t understand the gravity of it, not when you first rewound time to save a child who wandered too far into the street. The child's life was saved, and everything went back to normal. At least, it felt that way. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been lost in the process, your ability to forget.

And then came Bucky.

The first time you met him, it was on a mission. Some joint operation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few of the Avengers. You’d been part of the team tasked with gathering intel from a Hydra facility that was holding someone important who had crucial information on a new weapon. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. But that’s how things always go, isn't it? You weren’t prepared for the chaos.

The explosion rocked the compound, sending you flying across the ground. You were dazed, but before you could register the pain, you saw him. Bucky was already moving to shield you, taking the brunt of another blast, the force knocking him down. You'd heard the stories, seen the flashes of the Winter Soldier’s past. But this was real. This was human, a man who had been broken, rebuilt, and forgotten.

You reached him instinctively, adrenaline spiking. You felt the sharpness of his blood in the air. The metal arm, the familiar, haunted expression in his eyes; the man you had read about in the files was here, right in front of you, struggling to get up.

He looked at you, and something passed between you then. Not recognition, not understanding, but something else. An acknowledgment of something lost. A silent kind of empathy.

"Stay down," You said quickly, hands already at his side, pressing against the blood that began to spill. "I can help. Let me help."

His expression didn’t change, but he nodded, as if he knew you could. As if he knew you wouldn’t let him die here. You didn't realize how true that would become.

It wasn’t long before you began to notice things about him. It was small things at first like how he seemed to stay on the perimeter of conversations, never quite fully engaging. How he always looked like he was on the edge of a nightmare, his eyes haunted even in the quietest moments. How he never quite trusted himself, not really, not after everything Hydra had put him through.

You, too, understood that weight, though you didn’t wear it the same way. Your power, the ability to manipulate time, had long since been a burden. But you didn’t carry it in silence the way Bucky did with his past. You didn’t need to ask him why he closed off. You understood it in ways most people wouldn’t. You understood what it was like to feel broken, to have the world try to take away something fundamental from you. So, you never pushed. You stayed in the background, offering quiet support during missions, sharing small conversations where he could let his guard down a little.

But it was when you first showed him your power that things began to change.

It was during another mission that went wrong, a hostage situation where things got messy, and you were forced to make a choice. There was no way to save everyone. But you saw Bucky, standing there, his arm pinned under rubble, the enemy advancing. You felt the panic of the moment, his life slipping away in real-time. So, without thinking, you rewound it. You manipulated the timeline, reset the scene, and in an instant, the world around you shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were back before the blast, before the rubble, before the threat. But this time, you acted. You moved faster, knew the exact sequence of events that would unfold. You saved him.

It was the first time you showed Bucky the extent of your power.

“Did you…” He was breathless, looking at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. His hand that had once bled from where the rubble had crushed him moments ago was normal, it was as though it had never happened. You felt him staring at you, processing the truth.

“I can rewind time,” You explained quietly, meeting his gaze. “Change things. Undo them.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, voice rough and raw. “What does that mean for you?”

You had to think about it. Your ability was both a gift and a curse. You couldn’t rewind everything. Not the pain, not the way time bled into your mind. Every reset took something from you: memories, emotions, the strength to keep going. But you kept doing it. For all of them.

You were unable to provide an answer, but he didn’t need words to understand.

The relationship between you and Bucky grew slowly after that. He began to understand you in ways you didn’t even know how to explain. You never talked about the toll your power took on you, but somehow, he always seemed to know. He’d ask you about it with a careful quietness, never pushing too hard, but always aware.

It was a delicate balance. You both walked around each other’s fragility, never forcing things, but always aware that there was something unspoken between you, an understanding that transcended words. You both had scars. But he was the kind of man who never let you carry the weight alone. And you, in turn, made sure that when his nightmares got too loud, when his mind fractured from all the things Hydra had done to him, you were there.

And one day, it all fell apart.

This mission was supposed to be straightforward.

Bucky and you, side by side, infiltrating a Hydra base to disable a weapons system. Nothing the two of you couldn’t handle. He’d been in worse situations and so had you.

But there’s always that one variable, always that one thing you can’t account for. The moment when the mission goes wrong, and everything unravels in the blink of an eye.

Bucky takes the first hit.

You’re there, just a step behind, but it’s too late. The bullet hits him right in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. You hear him grunt, feel the tug of his body as he collapses to the ground. Blood, dark and heavy, stains the concrete below him, it wasn’t any ordinary bullet. His metal arm is a blur of motion as he tries to pull himself up, but it’s no use. His movements slow. His breath becomes ragged.

You don’t even think. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind screams. You don’t want to lose him. Not like this. Not when there’s so much more you need to say. To do. To live for.

Rewind.

The world shudders around you, pulling you back to the beginning. The mission resets. You find yourself in the same place with everything the same, but you know what’s coming. You know what you have to do.

This time, you’re faster. More prepared. You have to be.

You move ahead of Bucky, keeping your focus sharp, anticipating the angle the sniper will shoot from. The plan is simple. You’ll get to the control room first, disable the weapons system, and clear the path for him. He won’t get hurt this time.

But something goes wrong. A twist, a misstep. The shot rings out from a different angle, and Bucky is hit again, this time in the chest. He crumples to the floor with a choked gasp, blood pooling around him. His eyes lock with yours, wide with shock and pain.

“Not again,” You mutter under your breath. "Please."

Rewind.

The third time is no different. No matter how many angles you try to cover, no matter how many ways you attempt to divert the sniper’s aim, Bucky always falls. Every time, it’s the same. Every time, you lose him. And every time, you’re forced to go back. Your mind becomes a haze of timelines, of trying to change the same sequence of events that always ends the same way.

By the tenth loop, the crushing weight of the failure begins to take its toll. You can feel it in your bones, the exhaustion of it all. The tension in your muscles, the faint tremor in your hands. It doesn’t matter how many times you reset. The result is always the same.

The bullet. The blood. His body crumpling. His eyes losing their light.

Rewind.

By the thirtieth loop, you're no longer just running through the motions. You’re starting to lose yourself. Every time you reset, something is chipped away. Maybe it’s your clarity, your sanity, your sense of time, or maybe all three. You can’t remember if you’ve already tried this particular strategy or if it’s the first time. You’ve forgotten the feeling of his hands in yours when you weren’t on a mission. Forgotten the sound of his laugh.

And yet, you keep doing it. For him.

But no matter how you try, no matter how you fight, he dies again. And again. And again.

Rewind.

The fiftieth time is when you break.

You’ve tried every strategy, every variation, every distraction. You’ve shot the sniper first, thrown grenades to create chaos, tried to fight through the whole base alone, but nothing works. Every loop, the result is the same.

Bucky dies, and you’re the one who has to watch it. Over and over.

You find him in the same position again. The same injury. The same wound. His hand, trembling, reaching for you in his final moments. His voice, strained and broken as he mutters your name. The world spins, distorting in the corners of your vision. It’s too much.

“Stay with me,” You beg hopelessly, tears burning your cheeks once again.

His eyes flicker. He’s fading. You can see it in the way his chest rises more slowly. His lips barely form a smile, and it breaks your heart. "I’m sorry," He whispers. "I’m so sorry."

Rewind.

When you wake again, you’re in the same place. The mission has started over, but it feels like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime. You know exactly where you are, what you need to do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted. Broken. Every reset feels like a piece of you is being torn away.

You barely register his presence next to you. The way his arm brushes yours as you move through the base. He’s always there, always close, but you don’t look at him. Not anymore. You can’t.

This time, he dies again.

And it’s then that you finally realize something: it’s not just the mission that’s killing him. It’s you. Your power. Your need to save him, to do whatever it takes, even if it means losing yourself.

Bucky’s last breath is quieter than the others. This time, he doesn’t even speak your name. When the world shifts back again, the weight of everything crashes down on you. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing him. You’re falling apart.

He’s alive in like normal at the start of your next loop, but you can’t meet his gaze. You can’t pretend anymore. His presence is suffocating now, and you can’t stop the dread from creeping up your spine.

“Hey,” He says softly, his voice full of concern. “You good?”

No. You’re not good. You’re shattered, and the weight of his repeated death is too much to bear. You give him a short lie that you’re fine only to watch him die again later.

-

By the hundredth loop, you stop trying to fix things. You stop trying to make the perfect plan, to save him. Because each time, you lose a little more of yourself. A little more of who you were before this madness.

You’re no longer sure if you’re even human anymore. You don’t recognize the face in the mirror. The loops have become your reality. And the more you rewind, the more you forget. What’s real? What’s memory? What’s a life worth saving when you’re already so broken?

The next time Bucky dies, you don’t even speak. You just let the world crumble, knowing that you’ll try again. And again. And again.

During one of your next loops, Bucky can feel something’s wrong. He’s always been able to read people, even before everything that happened. You’re different now in the sense of being much more distant and quieter than you were a few hours ago. You still move with precision, and you still have the same sharp focus on every mission. But your eyes, those once bright eyes that shone with warmth, now carry a depth of sorrow he can’t quite place.

It’s subtle at first. The way you recoil when he touches your arm. How you don’t meet his gaze for too long. How your voice, when you do speak, trembles just enough for him to notice. He watches you. He’s seen this before. But this time, it’s different. There’s something more. Something deeper.

-

It happens after the hundred and thirtieth loop. You’ve grown so tired, so worn down that you can barely keep track of the details. It’s becoming harder to find the motivation, the drive, to reset. But you push yourself, as always, because he needs you to.

Once again, you’ve failed. Bucky is dead. Again. The blood pools around him, his breath fading into silence. His final words are a shadow in your mind, repeated over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

You reset the timeline, but this time, it feels different. The world doesn’t reset as quickly. It lingers. You’re slow to stand, slow to move. The pressure in your chest is suffocating. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve done this. But then you feel a hand on your shoulder, warm and firm. You know it’s him without looking. The touch is a relief in its familiarity, but it also makes your heart ache more than it should. You don’t want him to feel this. Not like this.

“Stop,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is low, but the command is there. It cuts through the fog in your mind.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re terrified of him seeing you, seeing what you’ve become, what you’re willing to do to save him. You’re terrified of the way you’re slowly losing yourself in this, and the last thing you want is for him to understand.

But he does.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His gaze is sharp, the deep blue of his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that makes you want to collapse.

“No, you don’t,” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice breaking just a little. “I do.”

You shake your head, turning away. "You don’t get it. I… I can't lose you, Bucky. I can't-“

“Stop,” He interrupts, his voice firmer now. “Stop trying to save me.”

Your body tenses. “I have to. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re killing yourself to save me,” His voice is full of raw emotion. “You’re breaking, and you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this for me.”

“I’d rather lose myself than lose you,” You say quickly, too quickly. The words come out of you without thought, without any real sense of control. It’s all you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Save him at all costs. You’d sacrifice everything for him, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

But Bucky, he doesn’t want that.

“No,” He says firmly as his hand cups your cheek gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I won’t let you destroy yourself like this. You can’t keep trying to save me like this.”

For a long moment, you stand there, frozen. His touch grounds you, even as the weight of his words presses down on your chest. It feels like the world is spinning too fast, like everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed, is suddenly meaningless.

“Bucky,” You breathe, the tears finally coming. “I don’t know how to stop anymore. I can’t… I can’t let you go. I can’t-“

He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please… stop doing this to yourself.”

You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the steady rhythm grounding you. “I can’t… I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to fix it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me help. You’re not alone in this. I’m not going to die again, not if I can help it. But you have to trust me. Trust us.”

The weight of his words crashes over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that there’s another way. Another chance.

“You won’t die,” You murmur, as though testing the words on your tongue.

“I won’t die,” He affirms, his voice soft but firm. “But only if you let go of this loop. Let go of the pain. Let me be here with you.”

The silence between you two is heavy with the unspoken promise. The possibility that, maybe, there’s a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrifice, doesn’t involve losing yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you can live without having to rewind the world every time something goes wrong.

“Together?” You ask quietly.

“Together,” Bucky answers, holding you close.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that it’s true….

Until you don’t. Because he lied. He dies again. It was futile.

You stop counting.

Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth reset, numbers stop meaning anything. You've tried ambushes, distractions, extraction before contact, calling in the others earlier, shielding him, shielding yourself, leaving. You've tried pretending you were never there. Tried running. Tried fighting harder. Stronger. Smarter. He always dies.

And now he knows. Bucky sees it in your eyes even before you reset. You don’t have to say it anymore. The moment things go wrong, he just looks at you, and there’s this helpless, aching resignation in his voice when he mutters, “Don’t.”

But you always do.

The loop consumes you like erosion that’s slow and invisible. You forget details. You forget whole days. You forget what smiling used to feel like. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. As long as he lives.

Rewind.

-

This time, you're quiet when the bullet rips toward him. You don't scream his name. You don't even blink. You step in front of him.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your body hits the ground before the pain registers. Heat blooms across your ribs like fire. And for some reason, Bucky manages to take out the sniper this time, the threat gone. He drops down beside you instantly.

His hands pressing into the wound, voice shaking. “No. No, no, no. Stay with me. Stay with me!”

Your mouth tastes like iron. Your fingers twitch, reaching weakly for his cheek.

“I did it,” You whisper.

His hands are covered in your blood.

“What are you talking about?” He breathes. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help. You’ll be-“

“I broke the loop.” You manage a smile, cracked and fleeting. “You’re alive.”

His breath catches. He knows. Of course he knows. “You can still rewind,” He begs. “Please. One more. Just one more.”

You shake your head faintly. “No. This is the only way I could win.”

Tears slip down his face as he holds you closer, his voice growing frantic. “You can’t leave me. I don’t want this. Not like this. I’d rather die than lose you.”

You reach up, your blood-streaked hand brushing his jaw. “I’d rather lose myself than lose you.”

“You already did,” He chokes, voice breaking. “You already have, look what this did to you.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “Then let me rest now.”

“No. No-“ His arms shake as his shoulders crumble. “I love you. You don’t get to leave.”

Your fading eyes search his, and for once, they're not haunted.

“I know. That’s why I did this,” You whisper. “I love you too.”

Your hand falls and your breath stops.

And for the first time in hundreds of timelines, Bucky lives.

But in this one… You don’t.

[elliespassagerprincess]

I NEED MORE PROFESSOR ELLIEE

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie / first time / nsfw headcannons / more headcannons (currently reading) / grading

starting a life together / getting married / having a baby

☆ Ellie gets visibly irritated when you mention other professors. Even in passing. If you compliment how “funny” someone else’s lecture was, she tightens her jaw and changes the subject fast — she can’t stand the idea of you admiring anyone else.

☆ She checks your schedule obsessively. Ellie memorizes your timetable. Not just for logistics — she needs to know where you are, who you’re with. It gives her a sense of control over the chaos she feels when she’s around you.

☆ Ellie started sitting in on classes that aren't hers. Just to keep an eye on you. She pretends it’s departmental observation, but she’s watching to see how you interact with other faculty.

☆ If she sees another student get too close, she gets cold. The moment someone touches your shoulder or makes you laugh in a way that feels too casual, her demeanour ices over. You recognize the shift instantly.

☆ Ellie fantasizes about pulling you into her office mid-argument. Half because she wants to shut you up with a kiss, half because she wants to remind you that you’re hers — in private, in the dark, where no one else sees.

☆ She collects pieces of you. A forgotten scarf, a sticky note you left on a textbook, a doodle you made in your notebook. She keeps them all in her desk drawer, like a shrine.

☆ She dreams about being caught. Not in a ruinous way — in a way that feels freeing. She pictures slamming the door behind you, kissing you like she doesn’t care who knows, and the thrill makes her stomach flip.

☆ Ellie acts dismissive in public. She’ll barely make eye contact with you in the hallway, won’t even acknowledge your presence during staff meetings. But her eyes follow you like a storm cloud.

☆ She talks about you vaguely to her colleagues. She’ll say things like, “Some students are… incredibly driven. Borderline obsessive.” They don’t know it’s about you. But you’d recognize that tone anywhere.

☆ Her jealousy is worst when you're not speaking. If you argue or take space, she becomes consumed with the idea that you’re already moving on, already finding someone else to fill the void.

☆ She keeps a second phone. Just to talk to you. It’s not official university property. It's locked, private, and hidden under a loose floorboard in her apartment. She checks it more than her main phone.

☆ Ellie has you saved under a fake name. In her phone, you’re listed as “M.” Short for “Muse.” You thought it was ridiculous — until she whispered it in your ear one night, and it suddenly didn’t feel so silly.

☆ When she gets jealous, sex turns rougher. She’ll grab your hips hard enough to bruise, mutter things like “mine,” and leave marks on your neck she shouldn’t. The next morning, she’ll panic, gently trace them, and apologize with trembling fingers.

☆ Ellie spies on your Instagram using a burner account. She doesn’t follow you, of course. But she checks your stories obsessively, zooming in on every face you tag, every drink in your hand.

☆ She’s obsessed with your lipstick stains. On her coffee mug. On her collar. On her inner thighs. She hates herself for it, but sometimes she doesn’t wash it off — lets it linger like a secret message.

☆ Ellie’s biggest fear is you getting bored. That one day you’ll wake up and realize she’s too rigid, too cold, too closed off — and you'll leave her for someone who can love you publicly.

☆ She hates your ex. Doesn’t matter how long ago it was. If they text you or their name comes up, Ellie shuts down. She’ll kiss you with a quiet desperation that night, trying to erase every memory before her.

☆ When she's drunk, she lets it slip. One time, at a faculty party, she got tipsy and said something to a colleague that almost revealed how much she knows about your life. You had to drag her away before she said your name.

☆ Ellie keeps writing a resignation letter. Over and over. Never submits it. The thought of giving up her position — her career — for you is terrifying. But the thought of losing you feels worse.

☆ She hates hiding, but she loves it too. The adrenaline of stolen glances, the tension of brushing hands in a hallway, the risk — it drives her mad. Sometimes she touches herself to the memory of almost getting caught.

☆ She memorizes your perfume. You once wore something new and she spent all lecture distracted, breathing it in. She bought a bottle for herself the next day just to spray her pillow with it.

☆ Ellie keeps saying "this is the last time." After every heated night. After every reckless kiss behind her office door. She says it while your lips are still swollen. Neither of you ever believe it.

☆ She leaves coded messages in your feedback. “Brilliant insight.” “Could explore further.” “Unexpected depth.” It’s her way of saying: You’re brilliant. You consume me. I see every layer of you.

☆ When she’s jealous, she punishes you academically. Subtly. A harsher grade. A red mark through a paragraph she secretly loved. She always apologizes later, hands gripping your waist, voice full of guilt.

☆ Ellie bought you a necklace. Something simple, something that wouldn’t raise questions. She told you it was nothing. You wear it every day. She notices. Every time.

☆ She’s terrified you’ll leave first. That you’ll grow out of the danger. That you’ll crave stability. Someone your age. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time the dean walks by.

☆ Sometimes she whispers your name in her sleep. You’ve heard it. In her apartment, curled up beside her, while she dreams. You never tell her. But you smile.

☆ Ellie wants to take you away. She fantasizes about both of you disappearing to a city where no one knows her, where she can hold your hand in daylight and not look over her shoulder.

☆ She’s more in love than she knows how to handle. The intensity of it — the fear, the yearning, the possessiveness — it swallows her whole. Sometimes she thinks she might drown in it.

☆ She’s planning an endgame. Whether it’s after graduation or a new job or burning everything down — Ellie’s secretly working out how to make this real. Because despite all the fear, she wants you forever.

[wingedblooms]

Some tapestry of fate

“Would the Bone Carver make a difference?” And Bryaxis.

The Suriel had no eyelids. But its milky eyes flared with surprise. “I cannot see—not him. He is not…born of this earth. His thread has not been woven in.” (acowar)

The Suriel, a being similar to Elain in unexpected ways (link and link), implied that they could not see the Bone Carver’s impact because he is not born of this earth and it wasn’t woven in. Woven into what, exactly? One of my favorite scenes in the original trilogy has an answer:

My lips tugged toward a smile. But Rhys stared at all of us, somehow assembled here in the sun-drenched open grasses without being given the order. Our family—our court. The Court of Dreams.

They all quieted.

Rhys looked them each in the eye, even my sisters, his hand brushing down the back of my own.

“Do you want the inspiring talk or the bleak one?” He asked.

“We want the real one,” Amren said.

Rhys pushed his shoulders back, elegantly folding his wings behind him. “I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don’t know. I don’t really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn’t…I might have become as awful as that prick we’re going to face today.

[…]

And then he said to my sisters, “We have not known each other for long. But I have to believe that you were brought here, into our family, for a reason, too. And maybe today we’ll find out why.”

He surveyed them all again—and held out his hand to Cassian. Cassian took it, and held out his other for Mor. Then Mor extended her other to Azriel. Azriel to Amren. Amren to Nesta. Nesta to Elain. And Elain to me. Until we were all linked, all bound together.

Rhys said, “We will walk onto that field and only accept Death when it comes to haul us away to the Otherworld. We will fight for life, for survival, for our futures. But if it is decided by that tapestry of Fate or the Cauldron or the Mother that we do not walk off that field today…” His chin lifted. “The great joy and honor of my life has been to know you. To call you my family. And I am grateful—more than I can possibly say—that I was given this time with you all.” (acowar)

This scene still gives me all the feels and it is still so very relevant to the overarching plot. I’ll explain why.

Rhys references a tapestry of Fate (alongside the Mother and Cauldron, naturally; there’s evidence it’s all part of the the same vast source).

He also acknowledges each member of the Court of Dreams—a court dedicated to fighting for life, for survival, for their futures—before he binds them together through their hands, a mirror of their fates woven together in that grand tapestry. 🥹

Woven together, they create 8 points.

What else is connected by 8 points?

The Harp sat atop a large rendering of an eight-pointed star. Its cardinal points stretched longer than the other four, with the Harp situated directly in the heart of the star.

The hair on the back of her neck stood. She could have sworn the blood in her body reversed course.

She had the creeping feeling she’d been brought here.

Not by the Cauldron or the Mother or the Harp. By something vaster. Something that stretched into the stars carved all around them. (acosf)

The eight-pointed star. A symbol of the Starborn. Something both @offtorivendell and I have theorized means something more and is connected to Wyrd. In the Dusk Court, it is depicted as a compass rose and the Harp rests in its heart (or the space between where all those points meet).

The Harp makes perfect sense there. When the right strings are plucked, it can manipulate time and space, even move power from one place to another. These strings seem to mimic the ley lines in Wyrd’s grand tapestry, which move magic and communication across great distances. And the vast force that brought Nesta to that symbol and object—which are linked to Wyrd’s magic, especially since one of them was Made in the Cauldron—is Wyrd. She is a force that governs all life and winds between worlds.

I’ve suggested before that Elain might have access to Wyrd’s secret language (the language of the universe, of creation) and linked it to her tapestry and ley lines in one of my absolute favorite metas. It makes even more sense why Elain and the Harp would echo one another, if their magic is connected to Wyrd’s tapestry and ley lines in particular.

In hofas, we learn the Asteri knew how to bend this tapestry—the fabric of worlds—through ley lines. They used this knowledge to conquer worlds and amplify their own magic when needed, pooling massive amounts of raw power, or firstlight, in the land where these lines met.

“We grew too populous. Wars broke out between the various beings on our world. Some of us saw the changes in the land beginning—rivers run dry, clouds so thick the sun could not pierce them—and left. Our brightest minds found ways to bend the fabric of worlds. To travel between them. Wayfarers, we called them. World-walkers.”

[…]

Vesperus backed up a half step, hissing at the gleaming weapon. “We hid pockets of our power throughout the lands, in case the vermin should cause … problems. It seems our wisdom did not fail us.”

“There are no such places,” Azriel countered coldly.

“Are there not?” Vesperus grinned broadly, showing all of her too-white teeth. “Have you looked beneath every sacred mountain? At their very roots? The magic draws all sorts of creatures. I can sense them even now, slithering about, gnawing on the magic. My magic. They’re as much vermin as the rest of you.”

[…]

“There are certain places, girl, that are better suited to hold power than others. Places where the veil between worlds is thin, and magic naturally abounds. Our light thrives in such environments, sustained by the regenerative magic of the land.” She gestured around them. “This island is a thin place—the mists around it declare it so.”

[…]

“Every world has at least one thin place,” Vesperus drawled. “And there are always certain people more suited to exploit it—to claim its powers, to travel through them to other worlds.” (Vesperus speaking to Bryce, Azriel, and Nesta; hofas)

-

“No,” Aidas agreed. “But Helena knew that Midgard possessed its own magic. A raw, weaker sort of magic than that in her home world, but one that could be potent in high concentrations. She learned that it flowed across the world in great highways, natural conduits for magic.”

“Ley lines,” Bryce breathed.

Aidas nodded. “These lines are capable of moving magic, but also carrying communications across great distances.” Like those between the Gates of Crescent City, the way she’d spoken to Danika the day she’d made the Drop. “There are ley lines across the whole of the universe. And the planets—like Midgard, like Hel, like the home world of the Fae—atop those lines are joined by time and space and the Void itself. It thins the veils separating us. The Asteri have long chosen worlds that are on the ley lines for that exact purpose. It made it easier to move between them, to colonize those planets. There are certain places on each of these worlds where the most ley lines overlap, and thus the barrier between worlds is at its weakest.” Everything slotted together. “Thin places,” Bryce said with sudden certainty. (Bryce speaking to the Princes of Hel, hofas)

In blooming dreams, I mentioned the curious terms Bryce uses to discuss the secrets that were left behind in the land:

“No,” Bryce said quietly. “We’re exactly where we need to be.” She pointed to the floor, the carving of rivers of stars winding throughout. “And this place wasn’t built by Pelias. He had nothing to do with these tunnels, the carvings.” She laid a hand on the floor. Her starlight flowed through the carvings in the stone, the walls, the ceiling—

What had looked like etched seas or rivers of stars now filled in with starlight, became…alive. Moving, cascading, coursing. A secret illustration, only for those with the gifts and vision to see it.

The rippling river of starlight flowed right to the sarcophagus in the center of the chamber. Swirled around it like an eddy.

Bryce threw herself against the coffin, legs straining as she pushed—

And the sarcophagus slid away. Revealing a small, secret staircase beneath. (hofas)

Secrets were left behind for those with the gifts and vision to see. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it a thousand times more: this screams Elain to me. I’ve theorized that she was given gifts and vision from Wyrd to unravel the Asteri’s remaining secrets buried in the land. And it is interesting how this illustration of flowing magic on Avallen, magic that Bryce followed to uncover a hidden chamber, mirrors how Elain’s is described in acosf:

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves. (acosf)

It wouldn’t surprise me if Elain’s words to her family in acosf were, in fact, prophetic (and not just iconic): find me when you wish to begin. Based on the events in hofas, the IC will likely require the third sister’s gifts and vision to find a true beginning untethered from the Asteri. The more I think about the Asteri’s influence on Prythian—from the rotted peaks to the rigid division of magic to the objects they weaponized—the more I am convinced Wyrd’s tapestry wasn’t meant to be controlled this way, especially not in the name of violence toward her creation.

I’m not the only one who believes Elain’s magic is linked to this grand tapestry, particularly the ley lines and thin places that overlap within it. @merymoonbeam recently discussed Elain’s sight, ley lines, and thin places; she theorized that the Cauldron itself may be a thin place. @offtorivendell also theorized that Elain’s sight is connected to weaving and the Cauldron and Ouroboros are portals associated with thin places in her meta on the Chaos star. The Cauldron, Ouroboros, and Trove are all connected to Wyrd; they were Made to harness her magic (or exploit, claim - as Vesperus said, which explains how they utterly destroyed their own world). Thin places are parts of the tapestry that connect beings and worlds through overlapping ley lines. It’s where Void and Chaos meet. Certain symbols reflect this balance, like the Starborn star.

These places of balance, where opposing forces meet and merge in the tapestry, is also repeatedly reflected in those who are farseeing, like Wyrd, and in symbols that represent her across worlds, as @merymoonbeam and I have theorized.

Elain’s murky realm and unfocused eyes;

the milky eyes of the Suriel;

the murky darkness in the Oracle’s chamber;

the cloudy water in mystic tubs;

the smoky water of the Cauldron;

the murky darkness in the Night Court’s library;

the smoking black altar in Wyrd’s temple;

the breathing, bottomless pit of Chaos in Hel.

In other words, as @merymoonbeam pointed out, they reflect thin places in Wyrd’s grand tapestry. Sarah also includes subtle references to this tapestry through words like entwined, weaving, veil, and…braid:

Seer. The word clanged through me. She’d known. She’d warned Nesta about the Ravens. And in the chaos of the attack, that little realization had slipped from me. Slipped from me as reality and dream slipped and entwined for Elain. Seer. (a description of Elain’s sight, acomaf)

-

The smoke parted, and he sucked in a breath at the being that emerged. Sphinxes were rare—only a few dozen walked the earth, and all of them had been called to the service of the gods. No one knew how old they were, and this one before him … She was so beautiful he forgot what to do with his body. The golden lioness’s form moved with fluid grace, pacing the other side of the hole, weaving in and out of the mist. (a description of the oracle, hoeab)

-

A withered humanoid form, veiled and dressed in gray robes, the material gauzy enough to reveal the bony body beneath, stood at the massive desk at the entrance of the room. The Mistress of the Mystics. If she had a name, Lidia had never heard it uttered. (a description of the Mistress of the Mystics, hofas)

-

It was like a braid, the song—a plait of seven voices, weaving in and out, individual strands that together formed a pattern. (a description of the priestesses’ service honoring Wyrd, acosf)

These references ultimately bring us back to where this meta began: the Suriel. Their sight was limited to the beings woven into the tapestry of their specific world. But what about Elain’s sight? Without any training whatsoever, she was able to see Koschei, his prisoners, his lake, and an onyx box that was important to him. Koschei, like the Bone Carver, was not born of this world. She might not be able to see all of the threads of his story yet, but maybe it’s a matter of finding the right combinations—threads, or ley lines, in the tapestry—to locate the information she needs. Or a matter of securing the right help. If she can learn how to use the threads in Wyrd’s tapestry, it might be possible for her to learn the Asteri’s secrets, who are also not born of this earth, and unravel the threads that bind their land.

I believe Nesta’s comment about Elain training in acosf with her friends and Azriel was a very big hint: she did not wait for her family to begin. She is probably already exploring her gifts and vision with friends, Azriel, or even the priestesses who worship Wyrd and seem to possess their own methods for piercing the veil like subterranean mystics.

We’ve already seen her friends (and Azriel) bend the fabric of the world to vanish and move through it unseen. Cerridwen and Nuala even created their own dark tapestry, another reflection of the grander one governed by Wyrd, in acotar:

Nails clicked on stone, and my escorts swapped glances before they swung me into an alcove, a tapestry that hadn’t been there a moment before falling over us, the shadows deepening, solidifying. I had a feeling that if someone pulled back that tapestry, they would see only darkness and stone. (acotar)

What if, like so many have suggested (@silverlinedeyes, @merymoonbeam, @offtorivendell, myself and more), that is why Elain was drawn out of the House to learn about the weaver’s tapestry with Feyre? Was Elain so curious about it because she’s seen something similar in her mind, or watched her friends create a void with their magic? Could they help Elain master Void so she can weave Hope?

If this is the direction Sarah goes, I can see Elain claiming the forbidden magic of Wyrd not for violence or power, but for life. To fight for her own future, and the futures of her friends and family, like her sisters before her. Maybe she already has at least once before and we’re about to see it on a far grander scale in her book.

[millie-multifics]

Miles to Go

Jack Abbot x f!Attending!Reader

While offering to take some stress off Robby's plate, you accidentally implicate yourself in the question of Jack's sleeping arrangement.

Warnings: Mentions of death, trauma and insomnia. Crossing boundaries, cuddling, softness.

Word Count: ~1.1k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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x x x

Hour Six: Sleep Deprivation

9:00am

“Hey, Dr. Robby,” You found him leaning on a banister near the stairs, claiming a second of peace before he was needed back in the Emergency Department by a patient’s family or inquiring resident. “Dana mentioned you were with the sister of Jack’s patient, and all things considered it seems to be a rough morning for you, so I thought someone better check in.”

“There are rats in the ED, a missing at-risk teen, I have multiple families understandably unable to accept the deaths of their loved ones, a med student who lost their first patient in the hallway and I feel physically the oldest I have ever felt in my life at this very moment” Robby sighed, hands moving wildly before moving to grip the edges of his neck, his fingers attempting to stretch out a persisting knot.

“Sore?”

“Is everything in your apartment vintage?” Robby questioned, leading you down the stairs, back toward the Pitt. “How did Jack sleep on that couch daily and manage to stand upright?”

“He told you he slept on the couch?” You prodded, curiously.

“I assumed.”

You hummed, acknowledging his words as you felt unsure whether to be amused or disappointed by Jack’s choice of secrecy.

Jack had to work your first night home from the hospital. He had tucked you into bed before leaving; cushions stabilizing your injured limbs, an extra blanket within arms reach, your fan turned low in the corner to keep you from overheating and a glass of water on your bedside table. He returned the next morning with groceries and an air mattress, the inflatable had lasted a mere 48 hours. You had felt guilty watching the Attending struggle to achieve a restful 8 hours on the floor of your living room.

When Jack had tried to sneak into your apartment without waking you on the fourth morning, he discovered you stretched out on the couch after a particularly rough, sleepless night. The whirlwind of pain and exhaustion had given way to the trauma of your experience; your apartment had been too dark and quiet to shut your eyes. He regarded you softly as the tv glowed, the crevices under your eyes deeper than he had ever seen them during your residency.

He helped you into bed, closing the curtains to block out the rising sun, tucking the blanket up to your chin. Once you were comfortable, your eyes began to droop, and Jack took the quiet opportunity to use your shower to wash off the long night.

“Jack?” It was meek, he had almost missed the way your voice called out for him as he passed by your bedroom. He paused, damp towel still brushing against his salt and pepper hair to remove the beads of water clinging to his curls. “Jack?”

He pushed open the door, worry gripping him as he scanned the bed. “Need something?”

“Could you lay with me for a while?”

He felt conflicted as he sat on the edge of your bed, your eyes shining with the fear of rejection. You were his resident- wrong, now you were an attending, he was no longer your boss in the same capacity he had previously been. It somehow felt inappropriate, being here with you, asking him this but he was unable to break your meek gaze as want filled his chest. He wanted to be here with you. He wanted to help you get back on your feet. He wanted to be subject to your soft, thoughtful gaze.

“My leg, is it okay if I-?”

You nodded, a breath of relief escaping your lungs. “I don’t mind.”

He removed his prosthetic, leaning it against the bedside table before lowing his head onto the lone free pillow. His hands resting at his sides as he stared at the ceiling, letting the silence grow comfortable in the room. He heard your quiet groan and felt your body shift on the soft mattress as you rolled onto your side.

“It’s only been a few days, but I miss it, despite everything.” You confessed, “I miss the never-ending hum of the Pitt and the mess of it all. It’s too quiet here, too hard to fall asleep without that bone deep exhaustion after a 12-hour shift.”

Jack huffed a short chuckle, knowing exactly what you meant. It was nearly impossible for him to get good rest on his days off, his mind and apartment too quiet for sleep to truly settle in.

“That’s why I always keep a police scanner on at home, to fill that silence.” He rolls to face you, arm bending to rest under his head for support. “And to be ready, just in case I’m needed.”

Your faces were inches apart, eyes locked in a soft gaze, deep breaths of relaxation grazing each others skin. Your eyes dipped, taking in the darkened splotches of water droplets soaking through the soft gray material of his shirt, eyeing the way it clung to his broad chest and wide biceps. For the first time you had a clear view of his military issued dog tags as they hung out of the shirt. Without thinking, your fingers found the cold metal, tracing the ingrained letters with the pad of your finger. Tracing the raised letters of his name, identification number and blood type.

Jack nearly shivered as the cool metal chain slid around his neck, a soft sigh escaping as you allowed your eyes to drift shut. He braced himself on one strong forearm, maneuvering his body to fill the gap. Your fingers did not loosen their grip as his warmth seeped through your shorts and worn t-shirt, or when his arm hesitantly folded around your waist, holding you firmer and closer. Comfort in the companionship meant sleep quickly claimed you both, unaware of him tucking your head beneath his chin or your nose nuzzling his neck to breathe in the scent of his signature body wash.

Robby sensed your apprehension through your silence, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as his eyebrows rose with a suspicious amusement. “Did he sleep somewhere other than your couch?”

“No comment.”  You fought to keep a straight face as you emerged into the Pitt, keeping your gaze anywhere but on the Chief Attending. “Anything I can take off your plate?”

“Keep clearing beds.” He instructed before his eye caught the third-year resident across the room. “Maybe keep an eye on Dr. Mohan for me? We discussed her speed; I want to keep her on track.”

x x x

Tags: @nosebeers @eugene-emt-roe @wolfbc97 @qardasngan

[maevawrites]

'and they were neighbors' . . . jack abbott - mini series pt.2

✦ disclaimers/warnings: drabble, fluff, cuteness, the use of y/n, abbott elementary-style f!teacher x jack abbott (the pitt), written with a black reader in mind but anyone is welcome to read, reader is an art teacher, let’s just pretend abbott elementary and the pitt are in the same area for the sake of this, possible grammar and spelling mistakes...

✦ summary: as you're about to head to abbott elementary for your first day, your nerves are slowly taking over but when you catch a moment with jack, you realize things are going to be just fine.

✦ word count: 788

pt.1 | pt.2 | pt.3

imagine... you see jack as you're headed to your first day teaching at abbott elementary.

summer was over before you knew it, and back-to-school season was now in full swing.

you'd been going down to your new classroom at abbott elementary for the past couple weeks to get things prepared for the new school year. you were going to be the schools new art teacher.

you taped up colorful posters, hung up fairylights, even made a cozy corner with a pink fluffy rug and bean bag in efforts to make your room feel like yours. but still, everything felt unfamiliar. things were going to be a lot different this year.

new school. new classroom. new students.

this move brought lots of change into your life. everything constantly changing around you as you got adjusted. strangely enough, jack, your new neighbor had slowly become a constant in your life.

every morning when you left your place to start the day, he was just getting home to end his. there was never much said between you guys. just quiet acts of acknowledgement as you both went on with your days.

jack worked nights—something you picked up on quickly, judging by the way he always looked half-ready to collapse when you were stepping out bright and early. it was almost like the two of you existed in opposite realms that were somehow close.

he was dusk. you were dawn.

in the short time you guys had been neighbors, something about the silent encounters you had with him quickly became your favorite part of the day. it was always either, a crooked half-smile or a gruff "morning" from him, followed by your own, "sleep well, jack." your vanilla-scented perfume hanging in the hall as you passed him—unbeknownst to you, becoming jack's new favorite smell.

to some, it might look like neighborly routine, but to you, those little interactions were grounding. humanizing. something to hold onto as you try to fall back into normalcy after the move.

this morning was no different—at least not at first.

you were locking your apartment door just as jack stepped out of the elevator at the end of the hall.

"mornin'," he said in his usual gruff tone, though there was never anything harsh behind it.

"good morning, jack." you said, trying to keep your voice even. for some reason, you were beyond nervous for your first day, even though you'd been teacher for three years now.

"first day or something?" jack asked, eyeing you.

"yeah," you nodded. "first day teaching at abbott elementary, actually. i'm going to be the school's new art teacher." you glanced down, picking at the loose thread sticking out from your cardigan. "i'm kinda nervous."

"why?" was all jack said.

"i don't know. everything's going to be different this year. i mean i've taught before, but this year feels... different."

he gave a slight nod, shifting the backpack on his shoulder as he looked at you—really looking at you—taking in what you had just said.

"different doesn't mean bad." he simply said. "you'll be fine. kids'll love you."

you glanced up at him, surprised at how steady and sure he sounded.

"you think so?"

"yeah, you got the look."

look?

you glanced down at yourself.

bright multi-colored cardigan. a pair of flowy pants. your hair freshly done in neat knotless braids, styled into two pigtails with ribbon bows wrapped around them. dangly apple earrings swinging gently with every move. a pencil shaped lanyard around your neck.

you supposed.. you did have the look—a warm, inviting one.

still, the nerves pressed at your sides, quiet but persistent. your mouth went dry as you were about to say something but jack beat you to it.

"i know you care. the past couple weeks i've seen you walking out with something new for your classroom. i'm sure the pink rugged you dragged over there will get some good use."

your eyebrows rose. "you remember that?"

"kinda hard not to. the damn thing is pretty fluffy."

"yeah" you chuckle, your nerves slowly dissipating. "it is."

you took a deep breath and let it out.

the things that jack had just told you somehow made you feel a lot better about today.

"thanks, jack." you said, heading towards the elevator.

"anytime." he then called out, "you're gonna have a good day, teach."

"i hope so. get some rest, doc." you called back, a smile forming on your face.

you tucked jack's words into your back pocket like a note.

you believed what he said—because hearing it from him meant more than you expected. and somehow, it made walking through the doors of abbott elementary feel a little easier.

✦ maeva’s thoughts: i know this part is lowkey giving slow burn but i swear the next part will have more action (abbott kinda makes a move??). i have this whole thing all planned out trust.

hope y'all enjoyed.

[crldnvrs97]

ive seen some people say that ned did not love cat as much, and saw her as a duty

Hi anon! Short answer, Ned loved Catelyn.

Sure, they did see each other as duties at first, given that they were arranged to marry each other, but they grew into something real. And not just fondness or mutual respect, I'm talking about actual, deep emotional intimacy. Ned is not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but his love for Catelyn is all over the text.

So I am going to breakdown quote after quote from Ned's POV to show you the long answer:

This is tenderness. This is emotional intimacy. Ned doesn’t just acknowledge her pain, he tries to soothe it before it even manifests physically. The kiss isn’t romantic in a flashy way, it’s quiet, instinctive comfort. This is a man who knows his wife’s pain and wants to ease it. The “thank you” is heartfelt, not perfunctory. He’s grateful to her, not because of duty, but because he respects her emotional strength and feels the depth of her pain. This isn’t a man tolerating a wife out of obligation, this is a man grieving with her, comforting her, loving her.

He says “my lady,” but not coldly... not like a title. He says it “in wonderment.” He is in awe of her. This is a reunion soaked in emotion. And notice: his first reaction isn’t assertive. It’s quiet, shocked affection. “Wonderment” implies that her love, her presence, is something that still moves him. And when he sees the raw red scars on her hands, he’s not stoic, he’s shaken, concerned, fumbling for words. This is not duty. This is love as emotional vulnerability.

This moment is rich with mutual love and fear. Catelyn clings to him, and Ned responds not with distance, but with a kiss. That kiss is not passion for passion’s sake. It’s reassurance, a reply to her desperation. This is love in its raw, weathered form, not youthful infatuation, but deeper, earned, and reciprocated. Ned doesn't flinch from her scars, he moves toward her. The moment doesn’t belong to obligation, it belongs to emotional safety and trust.

(This is from Catelyn's POV but it says a lot about Ned's actions towards his devotion and love for her so I felt the need to include it)

Now this moment right here isn’t just about sex between a lord and a lady trying to conceive more heirs. The repetition, a thousand times before, suggests consistency, comfort, and a shared life. He hates the warmth of her room, yet he still goes there. Why? Because being with her matters more than his discomfort. That's not the behavior of a man going through the motions. That’s choice. That’s habitual, lived-in love. They’ve built a life together, and even the most mundane details, sharing a bed, tolerating the heat, reveal that.

This is hope. Shared future. In the middle of the chaos in King’s Landing, surrounded by treachery and weighty responsibility, his thoughts go to creating a child with Catelyn. He doesn’t just dream of children, he dreams of children with her. It's romantic in the most domestic and sincere way. And it speaks volumes about where his heart is even when he’s physically far from her.

This line hits like a hammer because he belongs with her. That’s not obligation. That’s identity. She is not an external figure in his life. She is part of what makes him him. In his mind, Winterfell isn’t complete without Catelyn. This is how he defines home. He is incomplete without her.

The rage here is protective fury. It's not just about Littlefinger’s smugness, it’s about the implication that Catelyn could be disrespected. That her honor could be stained. Ned knows how much it means to her, and he will not tolerate anyone dragging it through the mud. He doesn’t hesitate—he reacts instantly, viscerally, with defensive love. This isn’t cool indifference. It’s ferocity born from devotion.

He speaks of longing for her. This is a man drowning in stress, isolation, and deception, and what does he want? Not power, not peace, not freedom. He wants Catelyn, in the most intimate and simple sense: to hold her. To sleep next to her. He calls her "his lady" not in formality, but in affection. And because it is the truth: she is his lady. That’s where his comfort lives: in her arms.

And of course, I would not forget of this devastating line. His thoughts of her aren’t a passing note. They’re aching. And look: he calls her Cat. That’s not just a nickname, it’s a marker of intimacy. This is what makes it so painful. He misses her so badly that it hurts. The fear that he’ll never see her again gnaws at him. This isn’t a man bound by obligation. This is a man tormented by the absence of his beloved.

These quotes are not neutral. They’re overflowing with emotional complexity, intimacy, and clear, enduring love. The narrative doesn’t present Ned and Catelyn as a mismatch, it presents them as a couple that grew into a deep, stable, emotionally rich, and earned love.

Now I don’t know exactly what magic I did here. I just pulled lines straight from the books and explained them. That’s it. So to the people who still think Ned didn’t love Catelyn? Maybe try actually reading the books.

[fattummyt]

Halsin/Plus-Size Tiefling Reader - "The Canary in the Coal Mine" - Chapter 1 - The Caged Bird Sings

Summary: Your Tiefling clan have successfully managed to capture the Archdruid known as Halsin, imprisoning him in your hideout residing in The Nine Hells. As a guard, your duty requires keeping watch of him in his cell, yet, despite his incessant humming and whistling, he somehow manages to capture your heart, blurring the forbidden line between guard and prisoner.

Tags: Forbidden Love, Prisoner x Guard, Temptation, Flirting, Reader Is Not Tav, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Protectiveness, Eventual Romance

Warnings: Explicit

Author's Notes: Any use of the Infernal language spoken by characters is indicated [“Like this!”] If some of the Tiefling traits, world building, or lore sound kinda off, I’m new to the BG3 series and D&D as a whole. Enjoy yet another story about everyone's favorite Damsel in Distress, Halsin.

Read it on AO3 here!

“I feel that I should say thank you. For whatever you did just then.” You didn't answer, but upon staring you found yourself taken with his features for a moment. His eyes, a strange assortment of colors, but his smile, a rare delicacy. [“Despite your image having been high on our bounty lists for years, I'm surprised. You're actually quite handsome in person… for an elf.”]

A high pitched sound, a whistling, echoed quietly in the cavernous halls leading up to the guardhouse door.

This was… abnormal among the caverns of the Nine Hells. Especially amongst your clan who preferred the crackling of flames to even idle conversation.

As you fetch your keys, unlocking the door opening to the relatively under-used guard house, you're greeted with a sight of your fellow guard slamming her foot against the newly occupied metal cell. 

[“Quiet, you imbecile. How many times must I threaten you to stop that haggard squawking?!”]

That earned her the peace she'd required as the room fell silent afterward.

She acknowledged you before you’d the chance to properly greet her, your superior. 

[“He's a noisy thing.”] She nodded in his direction as you approached, maintaining a fair distance from the cell. “He” watched you warily from inside as she continued.

[“Constantly talking and chirping. I don't know what he says. Perhaps the surface traveling members would understand him. Regardless, if he gets too noisy, a bit of a threat will get you your way.”]

Looking over him now, he appeared fairly sizable. Tall and muscular in a way you'd not anticipate an elven man to be. He’d worn some form of druid attire, layers with leather bindings, leaves adorning his shoulders, an emblem decorating his chest.

Physically, and given his bounty's title, he was more than capable of committing violent attacks and harm, however flora, or vegetative Earth magic, had little use this deep below where igneous rock addled every surface.

Whatever reason he may have for not attacking, success such as this was rare considering your clan are amongst the weaker born of Tieflings. You've no idea how such a small squadron managed to kidnap him with no loss of life.

[“He speaks English, more than likely. I can speak some of the common surface languages. If he provides any information that could be of our benefit I will report back.”]

That made the female huff with surprise, or rather pity. “The morning guard reports that he’s continued musing nearly non-stop.” Her hand fell heavy against your shoulder. [ “ May anger temper your patience like a mighty sword.”]

Soon enough she'd left, and with her, the last bit of interaction you'd receive for the next 4.5 hours until the evening meal arrived.

True to her report, it took less than a half hour before he started speaking. Not directed at you, perhaps to nobody, for that matter. 

“That's a rather fine shawl.”

You knew not what he spoke of, and paid no mind to his rambling. Consistently he'd move about his cell, walking himself dizzy nearly back and forth, occasionally pausing and stretching his muscled limbs or fanning himself.

If nothing else, watching him provided you ample entertainment as you sat at your stool across the way, gnawing at a bit of tough jerky you'd purchased for the occasion that you'd grow hungry between meals.

“That looks quite delicious. May I have a bite?”

You could laugh at the audacity of his request. Of course, laughing would indicate you'd understood him, and you weren't interested in letting that slip as of yet.

You simply scowled, watching with one eyebrow curled as he slid a hand through the metal bars, pointing to the food in your hand, miming.

“I’m very hungry. Could I have some of your food, please?”

[“It's too tough. You cannot eat it.”]

He looked puzzled, gesturing to his mouth again then his hand.

Surely as a primarily omnivorous species, his teeth were not strong enough, sharp enough, to chew and process the rather hard and tender meat jerky that was present around here.

In just a short moment there’d be a cook arriving to provide you your lunch, along with his. But humored, and bored out your wits end, you decided to placate him, rising to your feet and approaching his cell.

[“If you're truly hungry enough, you can eat this.”]

“Oh my, thank you. I can't thank you enough, I've been—” His sentence dropped short as he witnessed you spit the food from your mouth into your open hand, careful to not let an ounce of crumbled meat drop to the floor, before sliding your hand through an opening in his bars.

[“Not hungry, suddenly?”]

The look on his face was one of shock and as soon as you met eyes your serious façade cracked, laughing rather foolishly as you covered your face.

“Oh, I see. This is quite funny to you?” His pronounced brows drew together, darkening his expression.

You've yet to halt your laughing, further amused by his now passive aggressive response.

Though your enjoyment was quite short lived.

You're aghast when he actually cups your hand, leaning down and pressing his mouth against your palm. You gasp, nearly squealing, as you snatch your hand away, cradling your saliva laden phalanges to your side.

[“Disgusting fool.”] You cursed, scrubbing your hand against your dress bottoms. [“Touch me again and I'll feed my fingers down your throat.”]

Standing there he chewed quietly, offering no answer to your threat until he swallowed wholly, finishing it.

“Do you have any more, then? Preferably a dryer piece.”

He flinched, backing away from the wrought iron bars as your spear pierced through one of the openings, narrowly missing the center of his chest. 

[“Do not trifle with me.”]

The door swung open and in stepped your fellow Tiefling, a metal tray and a stone molded bowl in hand. Their eyes surveyed the scene briefly, curiously glancing over the bright fading blush that bloomed outward from your chest, their lips said nothing as they approached.

[“Thank you, kindly.”] You muttered, taking the much larger platter, returning your spear to its leather holster across your back as they glanced over at him, as if ensuring he still remained breathing.

It appears a palpable tension remained between you two that could be sensed by your colleague as they answered. [“Typically I'd offer the bowl directly, but I shall leave feeding up to you to decide.”]

With that, they made their exit, leaving you both to settle in your jumbled tapestry of nerves. 

He made no move to acknowledge the bowl held in your hand, surely evading any desire to tempt your anger.

[“Hands out.”] You spoke, and slowly he moved to approach the bars, undoubtedly having recognized the phrase from his prior feeding earlier in the day.

[“I've half a mind not to even feed you for your hubris.”] You spat, offering the bowl to his waiting hands.

“I apologize—” You flinched, moving the bowl out of his reach pettily, before resting it in his grasp.

[“You've 4 more hours to spend with me tonight. I insist you tread lightly.”]

He made little sound for the remainder of your meal. Despite having finished his much sooner, likely due to the nature of the varied table scraps that were offered to him, he patiently waited, standing, holding his bowl until you had finished, rising to come fetch his dish.

His fingers caressed along yours now, smooth and gentle, heating your already molten skin before you jerked away. You've experienced enough of his unwarranted touching for today.

The rest of the evening followed what was essentially the same pattern as it did prior to your attempted snack break. 

He'd entertained himself with quiet yet audible humming before whistling various tunes to the echoes of the hollow room.

This has become your routine since the prisoner's arrival roughly one week ago today.

This prisoner—the Archdruid, his name lost on you—was different. Unlike the others captured by your clan in the past, he didn't seem stricken. He showed no fear despite your presence, and despite the guards many threats, very little contempt. Despite his meals considering arriving extremely late. Consisting of nothing more than left over table scraps discarded while preparing the guards meals.

Surely it must've been a struggle for the overgrown elf. Yet he seemed unbothered... Or better yet, accustomed to this experience; this way of existence. 

Heeding your colleagues' threats to throttle him, he still hummed to himself and whistled for entertainment, but only in your presence now. Perhaps he'd learned of your higher tolerance for aggression over the week. Considering your initial interaction, he'd grown needlessly comfortable with your presence during his time here. That made his eventual decline in health all the more obvious to you.

You entered the guardhouse perplexed to not be greeted by the sound of low humming.

Your colleague sat with her head leaned against the wall, her delayed response to your entering that indicated she'd likely been asleep. She yawned behind you as the metal of her blade scraped against the stony wall, no answer to your greeting.

Looking upon him, the prisoner named Halsin, as you'd come to learn, appeared rather strange to you. Despite his movements, occasionally wiping away sweat and blinking, he's much more sluggish, lethargic. In fact he'd removed his blanket from the bed, instead resting atop it on the stone floor.

[“What's wrong with him?”] You asked, grabbing the attention of your sleepy superior. 

[“He was like this when I arrived. Just lying around on the floor. He hasn't spoken at all.”]

[“Not even to ask to relieve himself?”]

That question earned a shrug, nonplussed by your line of questioning.

You knocked on his bars, earning a frustrated groan from him before replying, voice harsh and dry sounding. “If you're not providing a meal, leave me alone. I don't wish to be bothered.”

You waved over your colleague. [“When is the last time this one had been fed?”]

[“Who knows? Feedings are only scheduled during the morning and evening shifts. At least he's been quiet, for all I care.”]

You turned to her, tone turned accusatory as you shortened the distance between you.

[“Did you at least give him water?”]

[“What do I look like, a butler? He can drink his own sweat for all I care. He's made plenty of that.”]

Color surged in your chest as you pointed your gaze at her.

[“He's a mortal, fool. And a wood elf. What feels like a cozy warmth to us Tieflings could feel like a savage blaze to him. If he doesn't remain hydrated he'll perish before we're even able to trade him in for a bounty.”]

Flames burst forth from her balled fists as she advanced upon you now, standing nearly horn to horn, mere inches taller than you as she grit.

[“You will watch your tongue underling. He is the Archdruid of one of the largest druid settlements on the surface. If he's as powerful as his bounty claims, he will manage to survive without another pail of water for 12 hours.”]

Anger pitted at the root of your tongue, yet you swallowed down, instead saying nothing as she moved to leave the room.

Halsin looked on in quiet intensity as you remained there, bright, intense color visible up your back to your neck.

As soon as the door slammed shut you crossed out of his view, entering the store room nearby, a converted cell nearest the entrance that's gone unused for long enough that it now houses foods and nonessential overstock.

Your fellow guards have raided it in secret from time to time, particularly a few bottles of cheap mulled wine that had been cleverly replaced with water to avoid detection.

You returned to his cell, banging on his door and he lifted his head, though his hair appeared clung to his skin, his brows drawn in an almost intimidating, unpleasant expression.

“Liquor?” He scoffed, waving you off. “There's nothing you need of me. I'd prefer to rest, as I'm quite tired.”

[“Come here. Imbecile.”] You whispered, urgently beckoning him closer, and though you spotted an eye roll, begrudgingly he rose to his feet.

The bottle’s glass shoulders clinked against the metal segments; too wide to pass through the bars.

Lethargy hung heavy in his brow as even his eyes remained nearly half lidded as he stared upward at you, puzzling. “Surely you don't intend to feed me that, do you?”

You tipped the bottle, the first splash landing squarely over his chin and he recoiled, stepping back.

[“Hold on. Just sit still—please.”]

With little time to waste, you grabbed him by his fitted collar, pulling him closer against the bars, holding him in place.

He coughed, cursing as he clung to your arm. This was unsafe, allowing a prisoner to grab you, but the bottle was growing lighter in your hand and despite his initial protests, he seemed to be adjusting, swallowing the water now.

[“Quickly now, before another guard arrives.”]

Slower now, he began to breathe through his nose, drinking down the more even stream that spilled from the bottle mouth, allowing you to release your hold, instead cradling his chin between your fingers.

As keys turned in the door you quickly pulled away, crowding the bottle behind your back. Your less than pleased looking superior had returned, with a bowl of scraps in hand and a pail of water.

[“I managed to track down his feed. The prior shift forgot it.”]

Approaching now she looked at him warily, his face and front seemingly drenched with wetness, before sliding the stone bowl along the floor. [“You sweat like a pig on a spit.”] She spat.

She called over to you. [“He looks disgusting. Make sure he eats both his meals.”] You say nothing in response, but as you're edging closer to the store room she intercepts, snatching the wrist you'd hidden behind your back.

[“What is that you have there?”] She trilled. [“Drinking on the job carries a heavy punishment if reported to the prison warden.”]

She tossed the bottle back, merely a few drops making contact with her tongue as she grimaced. [“Woman, you've nearly finished the whole bottle.”] She blinked. [“Hardly tastes like anything. Lost its edge.”]

You nearly missed the catch as she tossed it back to you. [“Make sure this isn't seen by the others.”]

You nodded quietly before she exited, leaving a tense rhythm to your heartbeat. You sighed with relief as you returned to your stool, the bright colors previously adorning your flesh having faded back into their even red and orange hues.

He sat crouched, scooping the now empty bowl into the idle pail of water before bringing it to his lips.

“I feel that I should say thank you. For whatever you did just then.”

You didn't answer, but upon staring you found yourself taken with his features for a moment. His eyes, a strange assortment of colors, but his smile, a rare delicacy.

[“Despite your image having been high on our bounty lists for years, I'm surprised. You're actually quite handsome in person… for an elf.”]

Similarly he does not answer, returning back to the outstretched blanket decorating the floor of his cell.

You're delighted to hear as he quietly begins humming to himself again. A gentle, solemn tune that accompanies the timber of his voice.

You enjoy it.

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[neogotchi]

I've seen a lot of people talk about how scary Brennan's description of B² dying was but I don't see it that way at all.

yes, Evan killed her on a snap decision with no hesitation. no he does not regret it, because she deserved it for being a horrible bigot and hurting someone he loves. but he still has a deep respect for human life. he killed her quickly and painlessly, she didn't even have time to realize she was dying. he could have made her suffer but instead he describes her death in a sort of tender way.

"a silent custodian walking the halls, turning the lights off one by one. like someone putting a house to bed" these are gentle things he's describing. a soft goodnight as he leaves

[jose996c]

A Flame in the Cold

Summery: In a post-apocalyptic world, you’ve always kept your distance—tough, independent, and untouched. As a patrol scout in Jackson, you’ve never allowed yourself to be vulnerable. But when a storm traps you and Joel Miller in a cabin during a routine patrol, everything changes, and the walls you’ve both built begin to crack.

Warnings: Virginity, first time, post apocalypse, fluff, age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance, smut, unprotected PIV, one shot, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving).

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4k

It’s been months like this. You and him. Patrol partners. The steady kind of quiet that grows into comfort. Or something close to it.

“Gonna be a storm,” he mutters, more to the trees than to you.

You glance at the sky. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause I’m always right.”

You snort, but there’s warmth under it. The kind that only comes from repetition — same trail, same partner, same rhythm. You’ve come to rely on it more than you should.

And maybe he has too.

You catch him watching you sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking. His gaze lingers too long when you roll up your sleeves, stretch your neck, wipe sweat from your brow. He always looks away first — jaw tight, hands flexing like he’s holding something back.

You pretend not to notice. But it’s harder now, this time, like you’re both waiting for something to shift.

The wind picks up fast — sharp and biting — and the sky darkens in a way that does feel different.

Joel stops at the ridge, eyes scanning the trees. “Cabin’s not far. We’ll wait it out.”

You nod. You know the place. Been there before. It’s small and cold and drafty, but it’s better than being caught in whiteout hell.

The snow comes down harder as you walk, stinging your face, settling on your hair. Joel’s shoulder brushes yours as you move in step, and neither of you pulls away. The cabin is a beacon in the white, a promise of warmth and shelter.

Inside, it’s not much better. The fireplace is cold, the room stale with the scent of unused space. But there’s a pile of firewood in the corner, a relic from before the world went to hell. Joel’s eyes light up with something like hope, and he says, “Looks like we can keep warm tonight.”

You help him get a fire going, the sound of crackling wood and the smell of smoke bringing a semblance of life to the cabin. The warmth spreads out, chasing the cold from your fingertips and toes. You sit across from each other, the flickering light playing over your faces.

You peel off your gloves, rubbing your hands together, feeling the heat seep into your skin. His eyes follow the movement, and you realize you’re shaking. He notices. “You cold?”

“A little,” you admit, looking away, focusing on the fire.

“You should warm up,” Joel says gruffly, his eyes not leaving your shivering hands. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask, uncaps it, and takes a swig. “Here.” He holds it out to you.

You look at it, then at him. The whiskey glints in the firelight, and the warmth of his hand is almost as inviting as the liquid inside. You take it and let the amber fire slide down your throat. It burns, but in a good way. The kind that thaws the ice you didn’t realize was there.

“Thanks,” you murmur, handing it back.

He takes a swig, and for a moment, you let the quiet settle around you, the whiskey warming your chest. The storm outside seems to crescendo with every beat of your heart.

After a while, the silence grows thick, and your mind drifts to places you’ve been avoiding. You shift in your seat, restless, your fingers absently tracing the edge of your mug. There’s something about tonight, the storm, the fire, the way the cabin is small and intimate. You’ve never really allowed yourself to acknowledge it before, but the feeling — the need — is undeniable now.

You glance at Joel, watching the fire with that far-off look in his eyes, his body still and rigid in that way he always gets when he’s lost in thought. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. About how things have been different lately. About the way the tension between you has been growing, thicker with every shared patrol, every passing glance.

Your breath hitches. You need to say it. You can’t keep pretending this silence is all there is.

“Joel,” you say softly. His head turns toward you almost immediately, his expression guarded, but his eyes are sharper than usual. “I’m tired of being… alone.”

He stays quiet, watching you as if waiting for you to explain.

“I’ve never…” You pause, words stuck in your throat, but the warmth from the whiskey helps to loosen you up, helps to give you the courage you need. “I’ve never been with anyone. And I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m okay with it anymore.”

There’s a long silence. You see his jaw tighten, his hands flex slightly as if he’s holding something back. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you, and you can’t read him, not completely. But the air between you is heavy, charged. You can feel it now, more than ever. The space between you feels too small, the flickering firelight casting shadows that make everything seem too close, too real.

“I mean...” you continue, your voice a little shakier now, “I just—I don’t want to be like this anymore. Alone. I’ve been holding onto this for so long, and maybe it’s just the storm or... or maybe it’s just me, but I can’t keep pretending like it’s not there.”

Joel’s eyes soften slightly, his posture stiffening, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at his hands, the flask still gripped between his fingers. His expression is conflicted, but you can see the desire there too, hidden behind that mask of control. And that’s what makes your heart race even harder — you can see it in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to decide if he can let go.

You can’t keep holding back. Not anymore.

“I’m not asking for anything to change,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m just... telling you how I feel. I want to be with someone. You.”

Joel’s gaze flickers with something you can’t quite name. The flicker of recognition, of longing, that matches what you’ve been feeling all this time.

His voice is low when he speaks, rougher than before, but there’s no denying the desire there. “Are you sure? 'Cause once we step over this line, there ain't no going back.”

You nod, feeling the heat rush through you. You’re sure. You’re tired of being cautious, of keeping the wall between you both. You want this — you want him.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, stepping closer to him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but there’s a calmness that settles over you as you close the distance between you. “I’ve been sure for a long time.”

Joel watches you, his eyes dark and full of something raw, something real. Slowly, he reaches for you, his hand warm against your cheek as he pulls you in. You don’t fight it. You let him, your lips meeting his in a kiss that starts slow, hesitant, but quickly deepens. It’s the first kiss you’ve had in years, and it’s everything you never knew you needed. It’s gentle but firm, a promise of warmth in a cold world.

The whiskey has left a sweet, smoky taste on your tongue, and you can feel his breath, feel his need, his hesitation. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re ready, but the words are lost in the kiss. Instead, you let your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, as if to say you’re not going anywhere.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you closer. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, this desperation wrapped in tenderness, this fierce protection wrapped in desire. Joel’s other hand rests on your waist, his thumb tracing small circles that make you shiver. It’s not just the fire warming you now.

You pull away slightly, catching your breath. “I want this, Joel,” you murmur.

He searches your eyes, looking for the truth in your words, and when he finds it, his own eyes flicker with something that resembles relief. He leans in again, kissing you more urgently now, his hand sliding down to your hip, tugging you closer. The heat from his body is a stark contrast to the chill outside, and you find yourself craving more of it, more of him.

The fire crackles in the background, a gentle soundtrack to the storm outside. You let the warmth of his kiss spread through your body, let the whiskey warm your blood. His hands are steady, sure, as they explore you, as if he’s been waiting for this moment too. You realize you’re trembling, not just from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, from the fear of what comes next.

Joel’s hands slide up your arms, leaving a trail of heat. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His eyes are a storm of their own, full of unspoken things, full of questions. You nod, the smallest movement, but enough to tell him yes. Yes, you want this. Yes, you’re ready.

He takes your hand, leading you to the only bed in the cabin. It’s small and looks like it'll fall apart any moment, but for now it’ll have to do. You sit down, your heart racing, your breath coming in quick pants. He takes off his coat, then yours, laying them out like a barrier against the cold floorboards. He’s trying to be gentle, but his eyes are hungry.

When you move to unbuckle his belt, his hand stops you, his grip firm but gentle. “We don’t have to rush,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s your first time. We’ll take it slow, make it good for you.”

Surprise flits through your eyes, and he sighs, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t know much, do you?” His voice is softer now, and it makes your heart ache.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Let me show you,” Joel says, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room.

He sits beside you, his hands moving to your hips, his eyes never leaving yours. With a gentle nudge, he urges you to lay down, and you do, feeling the mattress dip under your weight. You watch as he unbuckles your boots setting them aside with care. Then, his calloused hands skate up your legs, unbuttoning your pants with a deliberate slowness that makes you squirm.

"Relax," Joel murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. He eases your pants off, leaving you in just your shirt, bra, and underwear. You're so cold you can feel your teeth chatter, but the heat from his body is a comfort. He leans over you, his hands framing your face, and kisses you again, deep and slow, until your tremors subside, and you melt into him.

His hands slide down your body, his eyes never leaving yours. You're hyperaware of every touch, every movement. His thumb traces the line of your panties, and with a gentle tug, Joel pulls your underwear down, exposing you to the warmth of the cabin. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, and for a moment, you feel self-conscious. But then his mouth is on yours again, reassuring, as his hand moves between your legs. He’s so gentle, his fingers exploring, pressing, until you’re gasping into his mouth.

You feel his breath on your skin as he kisses his way down, his eyes never leaving yours, like he’s asking for permission with every touch. And when his mouth finally meets your core, you realize what he meant. Your eyes roll back in your head as pleasure blooms through you, and you grip the blanket tightly.

The storm outside is a distant roar now, the only sounds in the cabin are the crackle of the fire and the soft noises you make as Joel’s mouth and hands work in harmony. You’ve never felt this before — the intensity, the connection, the feeling of being cherished in this way.

His tongue is warm, insistent, and you can’t help but arch into him. You’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or the warmth or the sheer need that’s building, but your body responds in a way that’s both new and exhilarating. His fingers slide in, filling you up, and your hips jerk in response.

He keeps going, his touch sure, his eyes on yours, and you find yourself letting go of all the fears and the worries. You trust him. You trust this moment. And when you finally do, when you finally let yourself feel, it’s like a dam breaking — a shock of pleasure that leaves you breathless and trembling.

Joel’s eyes are soft as he watches you come down from the high, his fingers still inside you, stroking gently. He kisses your thighs, his stubble a delicious abrasion on your sensitive skin. You feel boneless, like you could melt into the bed and never get back up again.

For a moment, he just holds you, giving you time to breathe, to process. The storm outside is a distant rumble, the only competition to the thunder of your racing heart. You're pulled out of your post orgasm bliss, when you feel Joel pulling away - You’re not ready for this to end. You want more of him — all of him.

You reach for him, your hand curling around the back of his neck, and you pull him up to kiss you. The kiss is hungry, demanding. It’s like you’re saying with your body what you can’t with words: you’re ready. You want him.

Joel seems to understand. He kisses you back, deep and slow, before he pulls away, his eyes searching yours. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, letting him pull it off. The chilly air kisses your bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in Joel’s gaze. He runs his hands over your torso, his thumbs circling your breasts before he leans in to kiss them.

You gasp at the sensation, your body responding to his touch like it’s been starved for it. His mouth is hot, his tongue teasing your nipples until they peak, and your back arches off the bed. His hands slide up your body, holding you in place as he worships you with his mouth, and you realize you’ve never felt so alive.

As he kisses his way up your torso, you can feel his arousal pressing against you, and the urgency in his touch is a mirror of what you’re feeling. You want to explore him, to feel the hard planes of his body against your softness. You want to know what it’s like to have him inside you, to feel the weight of him above you, the safety of his arms around you.

You reach for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to touch him, to feel his skin against yours. Joel pauses, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s something in his gaze that makes you pause — a question, a silent request for consent. You nod, your cheeks flushing with a mix of nerves and desire. He helps you, his movements careful as he slides the shirt off his shoulders, revealing the muscular expanse of his chest. The sight of him like this, vulnerable and open, sends a jolt of excitement through you.

His hands are trembling as he undoes your bra, his eyes never leaving yours. The cold air of the cabin is a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as it meets his, and you can feel your heart pounding in your ears. He kisses you again, his tongue delving into your mouth with a new urgency that matches the storm outside. His hands explore your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, and you moan into his mouth.

You’re both shivering now, not from the cold but from the anticipation. Joel pulls back, his eyes searching yours, and you can see the war raging in them. He’s fighting himself, trying to be gentle, to be the kind of man you deserve. But the fire between you is too strong to be contained. You reach up, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you pull him back down, your mouth hungry for his.

You kiss him like you’re trying to devour him, and he responds in kind. His hands are everywhere, memorizing the curve of your hips, the softness of your skin, the dip of your waist. You’re a canvas of sensation, and he’s the artist, painting you with his touch. His mouth trails down your neck, leaving a wake of fire in its path. You feel him undo his belt, the sound of it hitting the floor like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Joel’s hand slides down your stomach, and you lift your hips, urging him closer. He pauses, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you sure about this?” His voice is a whispered thunder, full of his own need and hesitation.

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a desperate plea. You can feel your body begging for him, for this connection that you’ve been craving.

Joel’s eyes search yours for one last moment of certainty before his hand slides down, his fingertips brushing against the wetness that’s pooled between your legs.

He groans, low and needy, as he positions himself, his cock pressing against your entrance. You feel a mix of excitement and fear, the reality of what’s about to happen crashing over you like a wave. He’s so much larger than you expected, and you tense up, unsure if you can handle it. But he notices, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that’s slipped down your face.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers, his voice a soothing rumble. “We’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

With a nod, you give him the okay, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the feeling of him against you. Joel’s hands are everywhere, holding you, soothing you, as he pushes in inch by agonizing inch. You feel stretched, filled, and the pain is sharp, but it’s not unwelcome.

He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a balm that eases the ache as he pushes further, his cock breaching your untouched depths. You grip the blankets, your body taut with tension, and when he’s buried to the hilt, he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to the feeling.

Then, he starts to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that you instinctively match. Your bodies find a harmony that’s been years in the making, a dance of trust and desire that unfolds in the flickering firelight. His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign of pain, any reason to stop, but all he finds is an all-consuming need that mirrors his own.

You gasp as he fills you, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. Each thrust is a promise, each withdrawal a sweet agony that makes you ache for more. You feel him everywhere, his heat seeping into your bones, his strength a comfort against the harshness of the world outside. And with every movement, the pain fades, replaced by a blossoming pleasure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of concentration and wonder. His strokes are deep, but measured, each one pushing you closer to the edge of something you’ve never felt before. You can feel your walls tighten around him, your body learning the rhythm of this new dance, this claiming that feels both primal and sacred.

As he moves, his hand slowly making it's way down, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub it in slow, deliberate circles. It’s a gentle pressure, a sweet torment that builds alongside the ache of his cock moving inside you. You whimper, your eyes fluttering shut, as the sensations coil in your belly.

The cabin walls seem to close in around you, the only world that exists is the warmth of the fire, the sound of the storm, and the feeling of Joel’s body against yours. His hand on your clit is a steady beat, a reminder of the pleasure that’s growing, swelling with every stroke. You start to move with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body finding a rhythm that feels as old as time itself.

Joel’s breathing changes, gets heavier, and you know he’s close. His eyes are dark with lust, his mouth open in a silent groan, his body taut with the effort to hold back. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he’s fighting to keep it slow, to make sure you’re okay.

And then he’s not holding back anymore. His movements become more urgent, his hips snapping into you with a force that steals your breath. His hand on your clit moves faster, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of something so big, so intense, it feels like it could swallow you whole.

Joel’s sounds are guttural, almost animalistic, a stark contrast to the tender whispers from before. His breathing is ragged, his face a mask of concentration and passion. His eyes are locked on yours, watching you, making sure you’re still with him, making sure you’re still okay.

You are more than okay. The sensations are overwhelming, but it’s a good kind of overwhelming, a kind that you never knew existed. Your body responds to his touch, his movements, like it’s been waiting for this all along. You feel yourself building up, climbing higher and higher, the pressure inside you growing, demanding release.

“Come for me, baby,” Joel murmurs, his voice thick with need. And it’s like the words are a key, unlocking something deep within you. Your body responds, your muscles tightening around him as pleasure crashes over you like a wave. Your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. The world narrows to just the two of you, the storm outside a distant memory.

You come with a cry that’s muffled by his mouth, the taste of him on your tongue. He groans, his hips stuttering, and you feel his warmth fill you, his release a counterpoint to the cold outside. Your bodies are slick with sweat and passion, the fire casting flickering shadows across your skin.

Joel holds you tightly, his breath hot against your neck as he slows, his cock still buried deep inside you. His arms are like steel bands around your waist, his heart hammering against your chest. You can feel the tremors in his body, the aftershocks of his release.

For a moment, you both just lie there, breathing hard, the storm outside forgotten. Then, with a shiver, you realize how cold the room has become. Joel must sense it too, because he pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough with concern.

You nod, still feeling the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your veins. He reaches over, grabbing the discarded blanket and draping it over both of you, tucking you into his side. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you snuggle into him, feeling more alive than you have in years.

Dividers by @strangergraphics

[khioneee]

ORGAN THIEF

synopsis. you tell yourself caleb was never yours to have, so you let zayne get close. until caleb decides he doesn’t like to share. warnings. jealousy. mentions of violence. angst. pairings. caleb x reader (x zayne) word count. 7k. an. felt like crying tbh. might edit later.

when you were young, there was no such thing as distance between you and caleb.

you were always together, moving through life side by side, never questioning it. there were scraped knees from racing down the street, grass stains from summers spent lying in the backyard, and lazy afternoons where he let you steal food from his plate without complaint. nights meant whispered conversations under blanket forts, his voice always the last thing you heard before sleep took you.

you grew up together, side by side, pulling each other out of the awkwardness of childhood, shedding timidity like second skin.

caleb and y/n, y/n and caleb.

here’s y/n.

here’s caleb.

here's a bond that no one else quite understands.

your love for caleb hasn’t changed, but it’s grown into something you didn’t understand. can’t understand. not yet.

but caleb has grown. taller, sharper, still careless with his hair, but just as hopeless at tying his tie in the morning. there’s a natural ease to him now, a quiet confidence that draws people in without effort. he doesn’t just enter a room, he shifts the atmosphere, commanding attention without needing to say a word.

you hear the way the girls in the hallways whisper about him, their voices hushed but excited, their eyes lighting up when he so much as glances in their direction. he’s the kind of person people gravitate toward, like planets drawn to the pull of the sun.

kind. athletic. smart. golden.

the one who remembers names, who helps the new kid find their classes, who scores the winning shot and shrugs like it was never in question.

when caleb talks to people, he makes them feel important, like they’re the only one in the room, like whatever they’re saying is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. he finds beauty in everything, in everyone, and in return, people can’t help but see the same in him. they admire him, look up to him, want to be close to him.

but they also fear him.

they don’t realize it at first. not until they get too close to you.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

the way conversations with guys ended abruptly, how some hesitated before sitting next to you, or how your lab partner, who had been openly flirting with you just the day before, suddenly kept his distance. his easy confidence had dulled overnight, his laughter forced, his eyes avoiding yours.

maybe it was just a coincidence, a strange pattern you convinced yourself wasn’t worth questioning. but then it started happening more often. the brief glances, the quiet goodbyes, the way some of caleb’s teammates barely acknowledged you despite knowing that you were close.

still, you never questioned it. because, in the end, it never really bothered you.

caleb had always been like that.

like how he insisted you wear his jersey at his games. the first time, he tossed it at you casually, like it was an afterthought. ‘now they’ll all know exactly who you’re watching.’

you rolled your eyes but pulled it on anyway, ignoring how it smelled faintly of his cologne and sweat. after that, it became a habit. if you ever showed up without it, he’d pull it from his bag and toss it over. no words, no discussion.

or how he always left his jacket with you when you were cold. it didn’t matter if you insisted you were fine. if he caught you rubbing your arms or tucking your hands into your sleeves, his jacket would be around your shoulders before you could protest. warm, a little too big, and never once did he ask for it back.

if you returned it to his room later, he’d only shrug like he hadn’t expected it back in the first place.

and then there were the small things. how he always found a way to sit next to you, even when his friends were at another table. how he would drop by your class between periods, casually placing a snack on your desk before walking off without a word. he never explained why, and you never asked.

maybe you should have questioned it more.

but the thing that stood out the most was that caleb never introduced you as his sister.

it would’ve been the easiest thing to say. it would have explained the connection, the way you were always around each other, how naturally you fit into his life. but he never said it. not once.

until people noticed.

one day, after a game, one of his teammates finally asked.

‘so, she’s your sister, huh?’ the guy grinned, nudging caleb in the ribs.

caleb didn’t respond immediately, just looked at him, unreadable.

the guy smirked, pushing further. ‘should i start calling you brother-in-law, then?’

you expected caleb to laugh it off, maybe roll his eyes or shove the guy off like he usually would. but he didn’t. his response was smooth, controlled, and too even.

‘she’s off-limits.’

there was no room for argument.

his teammate hesitated, raising his hands in mock surrender before forcing out a laugh. ‘damn, man. didn’t know it was like that.’

you didn’t think much of it.

not until a few days later, when that same teammate got injured at practice.

a bad fall, they said.

a collision that left him with a bruised eye and a limp that lasted over a week.

accidents happen all the time in sports. it was easy to write it off as bad luck.

but when you glanced at caleb, standing on the sidelines, unbothered, indifferent with bruises along his knuckles, you felt something shift in your stomach.

maybe you should have been mad. maybe you should have confronted him, called him out, demanded an explanation.

not because it was unfair.

not because it was wrong.

but because you liked it too much.

you liked the way caleb made it impossible for anyone else to get too close. the way his hand lingered at the small of your back when he guided you through a crowded hallway. the way he always waited for you after school, even when you had nothing planned.

the way he looked at you sometimes. like there was something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken and dangerous and impossible.

and that was the problem.

because he wasn’t yours.

because he was supposed to be your best friend.your family. the one person you shouldn’t want.

you understood now. the love you had for him has grown to fill the spaces you didn’t have when you were a child. it’s grown into longing and desire and jealousy, something so fucking powerful and essential that there isn’t a piece of you that doesn’t love him.

so you did the only thing you could think of.

you avoided him.

at first, caleb let it slide, pretending not to notice the way you pulled away. he let you ignore him in the hallways, let you skip out on lunches, let you slip past him at home without so much as a glance. maybe he thought you just needed space, that whatever was wrong would work itself out on its own.

but after a few weeks, the cracks started to show. he stopped lingering after class, stopped waiting for you outside your door, stopped trying to pull you back into his orbit. the easy confidence he carried dulled, his smirks a little less sharp, his presence not as loud. he wasn’t himself, and he knew it.

then, one day, he cornered you after the last period.

the hallway had mostly emptied, students filtering out in groups, their voices fading into the distance. but caleb wasn’t moving. he stood in front of you, arms crossed, blocking your path, his amethyst eyes sharp and unwavering.

‘you’re avoiding me.’

it wasn’t a question.

your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. ‘i’m not.’

his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. ‘bullshit.’

you exhaled slowly, willing your voice to stay steady. ‘i’ve just been busy.’

he scoffed, shaking his head. ‘right. too busy to come out of your room? too busy to even lok at me? we live in the same house, y/n. you don’t just disappear on me.’

you swallowed, opening your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. caleb ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, frustration radiating off of him.

‘so you win. whatever it is i did, i’m sorry. now will you please fucking forgive me and put us both out of our misery?’

the words hit harder than you expected. he thought this was about him. he thought he had done something wrong. and worst of all, he looked miserable. bruises under his eyes, the tell–tale signs of too little sleep. heartbreak seeping through the sunshine boy's skin and weaving its way through his veins and making rivers.

the weight of it crashed into you all at once, the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. before you could stop it, your vision blurred.

caleb’s face shifted the moment he saw the tears, his frustration dissolving into something softer.

his shoulders relaxed, his hands twitching at his sides before he finally reached for you, pulling you in without hesitation. his warmth wrapped around you, solid and steady, his breath slow against your hair. his fingers found their way to your hip, his lips pressing lightly against your forehead, his presence sinking into you in a way that felt painfully familiar.

and you didn’t resist.

because despite everything, despite the space you had tried to put between you, despite how complicated things had become, caleb still felt safe.

so you pressed into his touch, letting yourself breathe him in, letting yourself forget, just for a moment, that you had ever tried to let him go.

friends, friends, friends.

he held you close, his voice rough with emotion. ‘i’m sorry, pipsqueak,’ he muttered against your hair. ‘whatever i did or said, i’m sorry, okay?’

you didn’t answer.

you couldn’t.

because the truth was—

you were the one who needed to apologize.

because this was never about him.

it was about you.

and the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you could never, ever stop wanting him.

too much, too much. you wanted caleb too much, want too much always, but you are not together and you had to accept that.

caleb’s pinky locked into yours. you weren’t sure if it’s another apology or a source of comfort you need in your state, or just plain habit, but he’s touching you (friends, friends, friends) and that’s all you really need to know.

because despite everything, caleb still felt like home.

but home didn’t last.

caleb starts staying out late.

at first, it’s nothing. just a few nights out, a way to kill time.

you hear about it through his teammates, offhand mentions from gran when she asks if he’s home yet. It doesn’t bother you.

caleb has always been social, always had people orbiting around him, always found ways to fill the spaces in his life.

but then it becomes a habit. the late nights turn into early mornings, his weekends disappear into parties, and soon enough, it feels like he’s never home. he moves through the house like a ghost, slipping in while everyone else is asleep and leaving before anyone notices.

and you notice.

you notice the way he comes back smelling like perfume that isn’t his, how his lips are redder than before, how his amethyst eyes seem heavier, dimmer, weighed down by something you don’t recognize. you see the kiss stains on his neck, the scratches down his back.

you wish they hurt. you wish you left them there.

you don’t avoid him, not entirely, but you don’t talk to him the same way. your words are clipped, your tone indifferent. you stop waiting for him after school, stop lingering in doorways to say goodnight, stop reaching for him first.

when he nudges your shoulder, slings an arm around you, tugs on your sleeve like he always does, you pull away before he can get too close.

and caleb notices.

at first, he brushes it off, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. he teases you the way he always does, pokes and prods, waiting for you to roll your eyes and shove him back. but the space between you keeps growing, stretching into something neither of you know how to name.

he stays out later. comes home smelling stronger, marked up worse, his voice hoarse in the mornings like he’s been screaming into the night. he looks at you, waiting for a reaction.

but you don’t give him one.

and for the first time in your life, caleb stops trying.

the sky was falling weeks later when the door of your own room opens. blinking sleepily, you leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp. he swayed against the wall, there is purple and green pressed all over his skin.

it’s caleb, whose lips are swollen again.

it’s late. too late.

the smell of beer clings to him, mixed with something sweeter. something that isn’t his.

his hoodie is loose, his hair messy, his steps uneven as he leans against your doorframe, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp as they land on you.

‘you mad at me, pipsqueak?’ his voice is lower than usual, playful, teasing, but there’s something behind it. something that isn’t entirely a joke.

your lamp lit up the dark bruise on his neck in a ghastly light. you could still see the fingertips, could feel the ghost of them pressing into his skin. friends.

your hand goes white–knuckled, gripping into the sheets. ‘go to bed, caleb.’

‘i’ll sleep in your bed,’ he mutters, like it’s obvious. like it’s true. like you’ll agree without doubt.

you exhale, shaking your head. ‘you’re drunk.’

‘and?’ he counters, stepping into your space, his smirk faltering just slightly. ‘you say that like it changes anything.’

you don’t answer.

because maybe it doesn’t.

he peeled off his hoodie without a word. there are red fingernail marks on the ridge of his spine and bruises on his hips, signs from the girl with perfume you smelled on him last night, the girl who gets to touch caleb in the places you can’t.

he watches you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure something out. and then, finally—

‘i don’t get it.’ his voice is quieter now, more serious. ‘what did i do?’

you settled back against the bed. ‘nothing.’

‘bullshit.’ he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. ‘you’ve barely looked at me in weeks, y/n. you don’t wait for me anymore. you barely talk to me. and every time i try to touch you, you act like it makes you sick.’ his jaw clenches. ‘so tell me. what the hell did i do?’

you should lie. you should push him away. you should say something sharp, something final, something that makes him leave.

but you don’t.

and caleb, drunk and tired and hurting, sees right through you.

when he reached your fingers, he thread them between your own, collecting all the pieces of your conscience and disappearing without a trace, all remnants of your soul in hand.

his expression shifts, something softer flickering across his face. and then—

his fingers graze your cheek, barely there, like he’s testing the distance between you. the touch is slow, hesitant, deliberate. like he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been the type to stop himself when it comes to you.

his hand moves to your hair, tucking it behind your ear with practiced ease, like it’s something second nature, like he’s done it so many times before that he doesn’t even have to think about it.

his thumb lingers, brushing over your cheek, tracing the frustration etched into your skin. it’s warm, careful, almost apologetic. like he’s trying to smooth out the anger, the hurt, the weight of everything unspoken between you.

then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, ‘how can i sleep if my favorite girl is mad at me?’

and when you look at him, really look at him, your breath stumbles in your chest. he knew how to do it. how to make you feel like the sun rises in his veins only for you.

because caleb doesn’t just sound tired. he looks it.

the dim light casts hollows into his features, emphasizing the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. his eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief, are duller now, heavier, shadowed by something that feels dangerously close to regret. there’s no cocky grin, no teasing glint.

just quiet, aching exhaustion.

for the first time, caleb looks small. like the saddest man on earth, like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t know how to fix.

you couldn't help but think of the amount of stars that had fallen with every step he took with a frown.

and it wrecks you.

you wanted to hold him, but you knew you’ll be left with burned fingertips and calloused heart.

because he smells like beer and someone else’s perfume. because there are scratches on his back that weren’t made by your hands. because he has no right to touch you this softly after spending his nights with people who don’t know him the way you do.

because no matter how much you wish you didn’t care. you do.

and so, despite everything, despite the weight pressing against your ribs, despite knowing you shouldn’t. out control, out of control, out of—

you kiss him.

for a tense, breathless second, he didn’t move.

his body stiff, frozen, caught somewhere between hesitation and something else entirely.

and then, you felt it.

his hands sliding up, fingers threading into your hair, gripping tight.

and then for a second. just a second. he kisses you back.

it’s desperate, reckless, a collision of everything you’ve been holding back. his lips taste like beer, and you don’t care. your fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer.

his lips crashed against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

a quiet moan escaped you, swallowed by the heat of him, by the way his hands moved down, gripping, pulling, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

then, he tore himself away from you. friends.

tepping back so fast it felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. the warmth of his mouth, his hands, his presence, gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the sharp contrast of cold in his absence.

your eyes snapped open, breath uneven, pulse hammering as you stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. caleb stood right in front of you, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his disheveled hair messier than before, his lips still swollen from the kiss. his amethyst eyes were dark, unreadable, but something about them made your stomach twist.

because he knew.

he knew what this kiss meant. he knew what you felt, what you had been too afraid to say. he knew you had shattered whatever fragile barrier had been keeping this moment at bay. he knew.

and yet, he smiled.

not the kind that comforted, not the kind that softened his sharp edges. this one was different. it was hollow, something cold curling at the edges, something sharp enough to cut through you with ease.

‘had enough practice?’

his voice was light, almost amused, as if the kiss had been nothing at all, as if it hadn’t just unraveled you completely. you could only stare, frozen in place, his words slicing through you before you even had the chance to process them.

and you took it for what it was, a dagger to the heart.

then, with careful, deliberate movements, he stepped back, putting more space between you, widening a distance that already felt impossible to cross. his hand raked through his hair, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no real amusement in it.

‘if you just wanted to get your first kiss over with, you could’ve told me.’ the words were effortless, thrown out like they meant nothing, but there was something in the way his voice faltered at the end that made your stomach drop. his gaze flickered over you for a second, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite anything at all. ‘guess now you’re ready for the real thing with whoever you actually want.’

your mouth opened, but no words came out.

it didn’t matter. caleb didn’t wait for a response. he exhaled sharply, his eyes lingering for a beat too long before he turned away. there was no hesitation in his steps, no second glance, nothing to suggest that this moment had shaken him the way it had shaken you.

and then, just like that, he was gone.

he doesn't think, doesn't wait, doesn't want.

he just leaves.

disappearing into the dark, leaving you standing there, cold, alone, and regretting everything.

and maybe that was the moment you lost him.

y/n and caleb, and it's hard to tell where one end and the other begins. there probably isn't a difference, and trying to draw the line would doom the both of you.

this time, caleb starts avoiding you.

and this time, you know exactly why.

it’s different now. worse. because he doesn’t just disappear at school. he disappears at home, too.

you hear him tell gran he has practice when you know he doesn’t. you catch glimpses of him slipping out late at night, hood up, car keys dangling from his fingers. when he comes back, it’s always late, long after the house has gone quiet.

you pretend not to hear the front door creak open, the careful shuffle of his footsteps down the hall, the way he pauses outside your door for just a second before moving on.

he doesn’t look at you.

not in the morning when you pass each other in the kitchen, not when you sit at opposite ends of the dinner table, not when gran asks him a question and he answers without ever acknowledging the weight of your silence. the air between you is thick, heavy with everything unspoken, but neither of you say a word.

at school, it’s even worse.

you used to know exactly where to find him: leaning against his locker, sprawled across the lunch table, laughing too loudly, always moving, always there. but now, he’s everywhere except near you.

and when you do see him, it’s only for a second. a glance across the hallway before he looks away. a flicker of amethyst eyes lost in a crowd. an almost-moment before he disappears again, slipping into someone else’s world, somewhere you don’t belong.

you should’ve expected this. you should’ve known that kiss, your first kiss, would wreck everything.

but somehow, it still hurts.

and what’s worse, what makes your stomach twist, what makes your skin feel too tight and your throat close up, is that you hate yourself for it.

you hate yourself for wanting it.

for wanting him.

you feel disgusted when you think about it, about how easily you caved, about how much you liked it, about the way his hands felt on your skin, his lips against yours. you hate that even now, when you close your eyes, you can still feel it, still want it, still crave the weight of him against you like a sickness you don’t know how to cure.

so you do what you can. you push forward. you stop waiting.

and that was when you met him.

it started with a name, called out in class like it meant nothing.

‘zayne and y/n.’

your biology teacher paired you together for a semester-long project, and you hadn’t expected anything from it. zayne wasn’t someone you had paid much attention to before, and when he pulled out the chair beside you, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance.

‘looks like we’re partners.’ his tone was even, uninterested, like he was already calculating how much effort this would require.

‘looks like it.’you mirrored his indifference, expecting nothing more than a few study sessions and a forgettable final grade.

but it wasn’t just another assignment.

zayne wasn’t like caleb.

he didn’t overthink his place beside you, didn’t steal glances to gauge what others might think. he wasn’t loud, wasn’t overbearing, didn’t fill the silence with pointless conversation just to make his presence known. he was steady, self-contained, comfortable in the quiet. after weeks of feeling like you were walking on eggshells, that steadiness ws a relief.

at first, your time together was purely academic.

library meetings that were structured and efficient, an easy rhythm of work that never strayed beyond the boundaries of your project. but then, something changed. lunches became routine, neither of you discussing it but always sitting at the same table. walks to class happened naturally, steps falling in sync without effort. conversations stretched beyond assignments and deadlines, carrying into late-night messages about things that had nothing to do with school.

zayne told you about his love for the winter, and how he would sneak out during the first snow fall. you told him about the time you and caleb got caught sneaking out, how caleb had talked his way out of trouble while you stood there panicking.

unlike caleb, zayne didn’t tease, didn’t turn your stories into jokes at your expense. he just listened, nodded like he was actually picturing it.

too kind, too understanding, too much of exactly what you needed.

somewhere along the way, you became friends. and soon, you were always together.

dinners with gran started to change. it used to be the three of you. gran, caleb, and you.

but caleb started skipping them, claiming he was busy, always finding somewhere else to be, never home long enough for it to feel like anything but an excuse.

zayne, on the other hand, filled the space caleb left behind.

it started as a casual invitation.

gran insisting he stay after studying, reassuring him there was more than enough food. he had accepted without fuss, without hesitation, and from that night on, his place at the table never felt out of place. gran told stories you had heard a thousand times before, and zayne listened to every one of them, nodding along, asking questions like he hadn’t already picked up on the details from you.

he wasn’t a replacement for caleb.

but he was something constant.

then one afternoon, you and zayne crossed paths with caleb in the hallway.

there was no tension, no hesitation, no moment of discomfort where zayne second-guessed himself. he just looked at caleb, gave a simple nod in acknowledgment, and kept walking, like it was nothing.

like caleb was no one special.

like he wasn’t even worth a second thought.

caleb didn’t say anything. he just stood there, watching.

but you knew that wasn’t the end of it.

and you were right.

the moment the wrong boy fell in love with you. and you wished he could pull out your heart, and make him see that you fell in love with the wrong boy too.

that was why you were here, standing in the biting cold, surrounded by barren fields of frost, with zayne’s rare laughter curling into the air like something warm, something that was meant to feel safe. that was why you let him get close, why you let yourself believe, even for a moment, that this could be enough.

you shouldn’t have been thinking about caleb.

so you focused on the wrong boy instead.

on the way his voice carried in the quiet, on how he walked beside you without hesitation, how his presence didn’t ask for anything more than what you were willing to give. he wasn’t waiting for you to figure things out, wasn’t demanding answers you didn’t have. he was just there. steady. certain.

maybe that was what love was supposed to feel like when you didn’t want it. something easy, something quiet, something that didn’t threaten to tear you apart.

but it still didn’t fit right in your chest.

‘we’re here.’

zayne’s voice pulled you back, his excitement evident in his eyes as he gestured toward the sled he had set up.

you blinked at it, then at him. ‘are you serious?’

he grinned, brushing the snow off the seat before tossing his scarf around your shoulders, adjusting it with careful hands. the fabric was thick and slightly uneven, the pattern something you wouldn’t have picked for yourself, but it was warm, and it smelled like him.

you raised an eyebrow, eyeing the details.

‘gran taught me how to knit,’ he admitted, a flicker of amusement in his expression.

your fingers traced the edges of the scarf as you exhaled. ‘it’s nice.’

and it was.

you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over how endearing it was, how easily he gave things to you, how much he seemed to mean it. he could have handed you anything, and you would have taken it, because this. this moment, this feeling. was already too much.

then, without a word, he just looked at you.

not a passing glance. not a fleeting moment of consideration.

zayne never did things halfway.

when he looked at you, he made sure you knew.

his hazel eyes were bright despite the winter gray, his expression unreadable but not indifferent. there was something certain about the way he watched you, something steady in the way his gaze settled, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

like he took in every detail.

the way the cold had flushed your cheeks, the way your breath curled into the air, the way the weight of the moment made your fingers tremble against the scarf.

‘is there something on my face?’ you asked, startled by the intensity in his stare.

he shook his head, his gaze flickering slightly before settling again. ‘i wish i had more time with you.’

the words were quiet, simple, but the weight of them landed hard.

you swallowed, pulse stuttering, because there was something in the way he said it that made your chest ache. he didn’t say it like a passing thought, didn’t say it like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. he said it like he knew.

like he already understood that whatever this was, whatever you were, had an expiration date.

his eyes dropped, just for a second, barely noticeable, but enough.

enough to know what he was thinking.

enough to know that if you leaned in, he wouldn’t stop you.

and for a fleeting moment, you wanted to.

not because it was right. not because it was real.

but because you needed to forget.

you needed something to press over the ache in your chest, something to drown out the weight of caleb’s absence, the sound of his voice in your head, the way he had always, always been there. until he wasn’t.

but you didn’t.

because it would have been a lie.

‘gran, we’ve talked about this—‘

caleb’s voice cut through the air, sharp with frustration, breaking the moment before it had the chance to solidify into something real.

‘no, you talked. an aviation school halfway across the country? when there are good ones right here? what’s wrong with being close to home?’

the front door creaked open, and as if time couldn’t be any crueler, gran and caleb stepped outside.

his presence was immediate, impossible to ignore.

caleb had always carried himself like he belonged in any space he occupied, but now, standing in the cold with the weight of an argument still lingering between him and gran, he felt like something distant. something storming just beneath the surface, unreadable and untouchable.

zayne sighed, shifting beside you, but you barely noticed.

because while he was looking at you, you were looking at caleb.

your stomach twisted, the weight in your chest pressing down harder, suffocating in a way you didn’t understand.

‘and i know it’s far. i know it’s hard. but it’s not about running away.’ caleb’s voice was firm, steady, like he had already made up his mind. he barely hesitated before adding, ‘this is what’s best for me. for all of us.’

and just like that, it was over.

he turned before anyone could argue, before you could even process what he had said, stepping back into the warmth of the house.

the door clicked shut behind him, and somehow, that sound felt louder than anything else.

you don't know what's love and what's hate now. if there is a difference between the two of you, y/n and caleb, here.

later that evening, you fell.

it was late, exhaustion pulling at your limbs as you trudged up the stairs, arms full of books. zayne followed a few steps behind, his pace unhurried, hands tucked into his pockets as he listened to you yap.

you were mid-sentence, distracted by the conversation, too focused on the warmth of another presence at your side to notice the uneven step beneath your feet.

your toe caught the edge, and before you could react, your balance shifted forward. books tilted dangerously in your grasp before slipping from your fingers as gravity pulled you down. your stomach lurched, breath catching in your throat—

but you never hit the ground.

zayne’s hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, his other pressing against your waist with steady ease. his grip was strong, grounding, keeping you upright before you even had the chance to panic. your breathing was uneven, heart hammering from the sudden shock, your body tensed from the lingering adrenaline.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

his fingers still pressed against your skin, his touch neither hurried or hesitant. . he had caught you, steadied you, and yet he didn’t let go.

you became painfully aware of the way his chest hovered just inches from yours, the warmth of his palm burning through your shirt.

when you looked up at him, his expression was unreadable. calm, composed, but something else lingered beneath the surface. he wasn’t just looking at you. he was waiting.

waiting for you to move. waiting for you to step back. waiting for your permission.

and that was what made your pulse stutter.

it’s too much and it’s never enough.

you should have pulled away. should have created space. should have let the moment pass as nothing more than a near fall. but you didn’t.

because then, his gaze flickered. just slightly, just for a second. before his eyes dropped to your lips.

your breath hitched, and before you could process what was happening, a voice shattered the moment.

‘y/n? zayne?’

gran’s voice, light, amused, pulling you back to reality.

and then—

‘what the fuck?’

caleb.

your entire body locked up, tension snapping through your muscles as your head turned toward the sound.

he stood at the end of the hall, unmoving, his eyes dark, expression unreadable. his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

he wasn’t just watching. he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

zayne, still close, exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, as if this was nothing, as if caleb wasn’t standing there barely a few feet away. gran smirked, clearly entertained by whatever she thought was happening.

caleb did not.

he didn’t speak, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t so much as glance in your direction. he just turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down the hall without another word.

and somehow, that was worse.

dinner was slow, thick with something unspoken, the weight of the evening settling over the table like a fog.

gran, as oblivious as ever, carried the conversation, her voice the only thing filling the silence. ‘he’s going to be a doctor, y/n,’ she said, beaming like it was something worth celebrating.

zayne gave a polite shake of his head, still eating, still composed, his presence unwavering despite the obvious tension in the room. ‘still got a long way to go.’

but the real shift came when caleb sat down.

for the first time in weeks, he joined dinner.

he didn’t make an excuse, didn’t disappear before the plates hit the table, didn’t claim to have somewhere else to be.

he was here. silent, stiff, but here.

his fork scraped against his plate, but he barely ate. his shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the edge of the table just a little too tightly. he answered when spoken to, voice clipped, his eyes fixed on his food, refusing to meet yours.

zayne, on the other hand, didn’t react. he carried himself with the same quiet steadiness as always, like nothing had changed, like caleb’s presence, or his anger, meant nothing to him. he didn’t fidget, didn’t acknowledge the storm brewing across the table, didn’t shift under the weight of caleb’s unspoken frustration.

and that made it worse.

but you noticed.

caleb was stiff, his usual relaxed posture replaced with something rigid, something tense. his grip on his fork was just a little too tight, his knuckles flexing under the strain. he barely touched his food, answering gran’s questions with clipped responses, his voice measured, controlled.

through it all, he never once looked at you.

your stomach twisted, the weight of his silence pressing down on you more than any harsh words ever could. it wasn’t like caleb to hold back, it wasn't like him to sit in the same room as you and act as if you didn’t exist. but tonight, he was locked in his own storm, letting it brew under the surface, making sure you felt it, even if he refused to acknowledge you.

then, after zayne left, gran turned to caleb, her gaze slow and assessing, studying him the way only she could. she took a sip of her tea, setting the cup down with a quiet clink before speaking, her tone light but deliberate.

‘zayne is a good boy, but whether he’s good enough for you...’ she let the words linger just long enough to make them feel heavier before tilting her head toward caleb, watching for a reaction. ‘what do you think, caleb?’

the shift in him was subtle.

a slight tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, the barely-there twitch of his fingers against the table. you barely had time to process it before he moved, smooth and purposefully, his arm slipping around your shoulders like it belonged there.

his grip was warm, steady, and possessive.

‘i think,’ he said, his voice softer than usual, the perfect balance of ease and sincerity, ‘as long as pipsqueak’s happy, then i’m happy too.’

the words were convincing.

to anyone else, they would have sounded effortless, genuine even. but you knew him. you knew the calm in his voice when he was anything but. you knew the way he smiled when he wanted to bite back something sharper. you knew the restraint in his touch, the tension running just beneath the surface.

and right now, caleb wasn’t just mad.

he was furious.

furious that you had kept something from him. furious that you had let someone else too close. furious that, for the first time, there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

later that night, when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he had been waiting.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling from his room, casting sharp shadows across his face. the space between you feels suffocating, thick with something unspoken, something heavy you aren’t ready to name.

his expression is unreadable, his face carefully blank, but you see it anyway.

the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens around the doorknob, the barely restrained control in the way he stands, like he’s holding himself back.

your pulse thrums in your throat as you force the words out. ‘did you mean it?’

caleb doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, his silence stretching unbearably between you.

you swallow hard, pushing forward even as your stomach twists. ‘as long as i’m happy?’

a second passes, then another. his jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he finally answers.

‘no.’

the word lands between you like a blow. it should make things clearer, should make it easier to understand, but instead, it only makes everything worse.

you shift on your feet, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs, but caleb just watches you, his amethyst eyes locked onto yours in a way that makes it impossible to breathe.

‘then why are you acting like this?’

there's a crack in his surface, his electric electric eyes gleaming in undetectable, hidden message. his expression was a clear indication to what he felt.he wasn't ready to hear that.

his exhale is slow, controlled, measured, but there’s something beneath it, somehing restrained. and then, just as carefully, he says it.

‘get rid of him.’

the command slices through the air, sharp and undeniable, like a final puzzle piece snapping into place. your stomach drops at the certainty in his voice, at the quiet weight behind his words.

‘i-i can’t.’ the response comes out weak, barely more than a whisper, but it’s the only thing you can give him.

something in caleb shifts instantly. his body tenses, his expression sharpening as his focus narrows completely onto you. his movements are deliberate, controlled, like he’s making a conscious effort not to move too fast, not to let whatever he’s feeling slip past the careful edges of his restraint.

‘what do you mean you can’t?’ his voice is low, steady, but there’s an edge to it, a dangerous thread of something unraveling just beneath the surface.

you look away, knowing that whatever comes next will change everything. ‘i don’t want to hurt him.’

the silence that follows is heavier than anything he could have said.

his lips press into a thin line, his shoulders squaring as the warmth in his eyes fades into something colder, something unreadable. his posture doesn’t change, but the shift in the air between you is unmistakable.

‘so you’d rather hurt me?’

the words hit you harder than they should. you weren’t prepared for them, weren’t expecting the weight they carried, the way they landed with a finality that made your chest ache.

your throat tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix whatever just cracked open between you. but caleb doesn’t look away, doesn’t take it back, doesn’t even flinch as the meaning behind his own words settles over him.

his gaze flickers, the muscle in his jaw tightening before he exhales sharply, like he’s regretting letting you see this part of him.

‘are you saying… you’re jealous?’ the words feel too fragile, too uncertain, but they leave your lips before you can stop them.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

doesn’t breathe.

you expect him to deny it, to roll his eyes, to throw some dismissive remark at you like he always does. you expect him to do what he’s best at, pretend it doesn’t matter.

but he doesn’t.

he just watches you, his silence heavier than any answer he could have given. and then—slowly, carefully—he smirks.

‘if you want me to say i’m jealous, i will.’

his voice is smooth, effortless, light in a way that only makes your stomach twist. it should be reassuring, should make this moment feel less like a breaking point, but it doesn’t.

because it’s too easy. too casual.

like he’s still pretending.

like he’s still keeping you at a distance.

your fingers curl into fists at your sides as the frustration rises, your voice barely more than a murmur. ‘you could have just lied.’

caleb exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly, and then he moves.

too close. you're too close together for just friends.

your back presses against the wall before you even realize you’ve stepped back. his presence is everywhere, surrounding you, his warmth pulling you in even when you know you should push him away.

and then his hands are on your face, fingers cupping your jaw, steady and warm, grounding in a way that makes it impossible to think.

your pulse jumps, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as his amethyst eyes lock onto yours, the distance between you disappearing entirely. there’s no teasing in his gaze this time, no smirk, no sarcasm.

just heat.

just certainty.

his thumb brushes against your cheek, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he needs to. and then, his voice drops lower, softer, barely above a whisper.

‘i am jealous, baby.’

a pause.

a beat of silence so heavy you can feel it in your ribs.

his fingers tighten just slightly, his grip firm but careful, like he’s making sure you don’t move, like he doesn’t want you to look away.

you're trying to not cry now but you missed everything you never had.

and then—

‘more than you think possible.’

[murderofravens]

POLICEMAN INSTINCT

pairing: hwang inho x fem reader

summary: after moving into a new apartment, you realize you're being stalked. thankfully, the older neighbour you've developed a tiny crush on just so happened to be a retired police officer who is determined to protect you.

warnings: age gap (reader is early twenties, he's late forties) slow burn, strangers to lovers, dry humping, masturbation, attempted sa (not by him) really mid smut, face slapping, scent kink, oral fixation, him being fatherly, reader is a bit of a perv, stalking, yander-ish vibes, touch starved reader, masochism, fluff, angst

word count: 13.4k

[feedback and reblogs are a writer's biggest motivation.]

MASTERLIST

it was the cheapest apartment you could find online. while it looked a little shady on the outside, the inside looked comparatively pleasant and clean. the hallway was narrow, and the shoes were placed outside the respective rooms. you just hoped you would have your privacy, and the walls aren't too thin. you've watched enough thrillers to know nothing good comes out of thin walls.

"is this all the luggage you got?" the landlady asks you, eyeing your bag and a suitcase. you hadn't packed much— you'd figured you'd just buy things from stores instead of bringing them from home. you nod, and she hums before offering you the keys.

"pay rent on time, and don't make too much noise." she tells you kindly, and you give her a polite smile. honestly speaking, she was loud enough herself.

as you fumble with the lock, she turns to leave. faint footsteps can be heard before a man appears, and the landlady steps to the side to allow him room to move.

"oh, inho!" she announces albeit too cheerily— making you almost jump. you turn around to peek over her shoulder as she continues. "you haven't paid your rent yet, just wanted to remind you."

you spot him then— the handsome older man with soft, fluffy looking hair who happened to be carrying a plastic bag with two goldfish in it. the sight makes you smile, and he clenches his jaw as he ensures the landlady that he'll pay the rent soon enough.

she nods before gesturing towards you, "and this is your new neighbour! she came here to study, isn't that nice? don't be grumpy with her like you were with your last neighbours!"

ah. a beautiful older man as your neighbour. perhaps, life is worth living.

he looks up at you, and you freeze slightly, suddenly feeling self conscious that she put you on the spot. you give him a light wave, and he nods in acknowledgement before turning back to her. the lady pats his shoulder and leaves, and you go back to fumbling with the lock. he walks slowly to his own door, before turning to you— his expression slightly blank as he says something.

his voice is so quiet that you don't hear it at first. your eyebrows rise in question and you look at him, blinking.

"push the key in a little and then twist." he repeats, showing you the gesture with his own key. you look at him, a little confused before letting out an 'oh!' and following his steps— and as expected, the door opens. you turn to him and give him a sheepish smile, "thank you."

he doesn't return the smile but nods nonetheless. he opens his own door and steps inside, and then slams the door behind him, leaving you a little baffled.

you shrug the behaviour off and carry your bag to the bed. the room is clean, but you know exactly how you're going to personalize it so it looks more like you. you got your favourite bedsheets with you and everything, and the idea of decorating gives you a light sense of excitement.

it's when you decide to go to the bathroom that you realize you haven't gotten one of the most important things needed— hand soap. you wince to yourself as you look through your luggage, finding nothing. hesitantly, you look to the door, wondering if you should go out and buy some, or borrow some from your new neighbour, who although being incredibly handsome, also intimidates you slightly. you don't want to disturb him, but it's already late enough— you are too tired to go out.

you knock on his door, biting your lower lip in anticipation. you hope he's not asleep, you'd hate to be the one who wakes him up. he opens the door soon enough, looking you up and down, "can i help you?"

"i'm sorry, i hope you weren't asleep," you give him a polite smile, "i was wondering if i could borrow some handsoap? i forgot to buy some."

he frowns before nodding, closing the door. you fidget with your fingers while you wait, and he opens the door again before handing you a bottle.

you thank him, and he closes the door before you get to say goodnight. you don't allow yourself to think he's rude— you were the one disturbing him, afterall.

the next morning, you're up early. it's a new day of your independence and you want to explore the library before attending classes. you recheck if you have everything before exiting the room— only to be met with your neighbour.

"good morning!" you greet him cheerily, and he nods and replies with a quiet 'morning, kid.'

you figure he's just woken up, judging by the light rasp in his voice. it makes you feel flustered.

"wait— sir, hold on." you say quickly, and rush back inside your apartment. you deliver his handsoap back to him, and he rubs his eyes.

"thank you for this."

"going to college?" he asks, blinking a few times, and you nod. "is it far?"

"half an hour ride from the bus stop," you shift your weight on your feet. "not that far."

"that's good," he frowns, scratching his chin, "study well, kid."

you grin at him, perking up. you introduce yourself to him, and give a light bow. the corner of his mouth curls up slightly.

"i'm inho," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, "get going now, you don't wanna be late."

"oh yes, inho sir." you bow again and quickly rush down the stairs. you're pretty sure you hear him call out something like, 'drop the sir!' but you ignore it with a smile— your day already feeling brighter with the positive interaction, even if it was just polite small talk.

no matter how exhausting classes were, you were insistent on having a pleasant day. you knew the best way to survive any place was by making friends— and for now you didn't have many options other than your older neighbour.

at the bakery, as you eyed all the delicacies— you didn't know what to choose. you didn't know his preferences. does he like sweets? but what if he has diabetes? you immediately push the thought away, and simply stick to some nice bread that you could have with tea. and then while walking back to the bus stop, you buy some fishfood. a google search also lets you know that goldfish quite like frozen peas— so you buy a little of that too.

back in the apartment, you feel a little nervous as you knock on his door. there is no response, and you almost turn around and leave before a voice coming from behind you makes you jump.

"oh my god!" you shriek, twisting around, holding a hand to your chest. inho is standing behind you, looking tired as he gestures you to lower your voice. you immediately clasp a hand over your mouth and bow in apology before straightening up.

"you scared me!"

"forgive me," he blinks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, "did you need something?"

a little distracted by his face, you almost forget what you had to say. but before you could embarrass yourself further, your mind brings you back to earth, "oh! yes— sorry."

"i wasn't sure if you liked sweets so i just got you bread. you know, as a thank you for helping me last night," you awkwardly push the bag towards him, "and uh— i saw you had goldfish so i got some fishfood for them. i also read they liked peas, so."

he looks down at the bag, then at you. you swallow hard, "i didn't poison it, i swear."

that elicits a chuckle out of him, and he gently takes the bag. your fingers brush together, and you try not to chase the warmth of his hand. perhaps, you're a little touch starved.

"there was no need for this," he says kindly. you step to the side to allow him to access his door. "but thank you."

"do you wanna eat together?" you blurt without thinking. "i mean, if you're not busy. no pressure, i'm sure you have things to do but—"

"relax," he gives you a light smile— it makes the cute little crinkles by his eyes more prominent. it's contagious and you smile back. he clears his throat, "there's a park not far from here. would you like to walk with me?"

"yes!" you say a little too excitedly before lowering your voice. "yes— absolutely. hold on."

you recklessly open your door and toss your bag inside. with a glance over your shoulder to ensure he's not looking, you quickly reapply your lipgloss before turning to him and locking the door behind you.

"ready?" he asks, a hint of a smile on his face. his voice is teasing, and you can't help but grin in return.

as the sun set, pink and orange hues danced across your skin like glitter. you could see people walking, chatting; couples holding hands and feeding each other cotton candy. it made your heart pang a little, so you redirected your attention to the sky, where birds seemed to be flocking back to their homes. you would've taken a picture, but you decided against it.

"have you been here long?" inho asks, and you turn to see his eyes looking at you intently. "liking it so far?"

"just a few months," you answer politely, walking with a skip in your step. he doesn't realize how grateful you are that he's talking to you— you've felt rather lonely these past few weeks. "i got a scholarship and the opportunity was too good to miss. it's really nice, much better than my hometown, i'd say. i'm relieved to be here, even though it's taking some time to adjust."

"you can come to me if you need anything," he says softly, and you give him a grateful nod, gaze full of barely disguised admiration.

"thank you, i appreciate it."

"and your family?" he asks again, his hands clasped behind his back. he looks so authoritative this way, you think, he's actually adorable. and kind.

"they're back home," you twist around and walk backwards, facing him as you mimic his stance. hands behind your back. he smiles at your antics and it makes your heart skip a beat. "i talk to them regularly."

"that's good." he hums, nodding, a glint in his eyes. "kids don't realize how much parents worry. make sure you don't mix with the wrong crowd."

"noted, sir." you tease, and he snorts.

"drop the 'sir,' will ya?"

"only if you drop the 'kid,' sir."

that makes him laugh, and you feel a strange sense of pride at your little achievement. the park is pleasant, and you're more amazed by how well maintained it is. he mindlessly guides you to a bench with a light touch on your waist, and your stomach feels tingly at the action.

he brings out the bag, tears the bread in half and gives you the bigger one, despite your protests.

"those flowers are so pretty," you point towards a flower bed, and he hums nonchalantly.

"never met a girl who doesn't like flowers."

"what's not to like?" you shift to face him properly, "they maintain this park really well. it's very clean."

"i suppose we do value cleanliness a lot," he looks around, his cheeks puffing up like a squirrel as he eats. it looks so utterly cute, you would have cooed if you had no social cues. "i remember seeing them plant those last year. some kids accidentally skated over the left side and had to pay a fine."

"ouch," you wince, eyebrows furrowing. "say, sir, what do you do for work, if you don't mind me asking?"

he stiffens slightly and stops chewing. you contemplate killing yourself right there out of sheer dramatics— you don't want to make him uncomfortable because this is your only chance at developing a relationship with someone that is not your pillow or your phone.

"i was a police officer," he answers, swallowing his food. he claps the dust off, wipes his hand on his pants after, "retired."

"retired?!" you gasp unintentionally, "you don't look that old."

he throws his head back and laughs— his eyes crinkling. you're mesmerized, the mere sound of it making your heart feel warm. which, you think, is not normal. not after interacting with someone who is still a stranger.

"how old do you think i am?" he asks between chuckles.

you give him a sheepish smile, delaying your response by choosing to finish the bread first. "i'd say.. late thirties or early forties."

he winces with a groan, dramatically clutching his heart, "try late forties. almost fifty."

it makes you fucking giggle— like some lovesick fool. a schoolgirl with a crush. it's so embarrassing, but you decide to let yourself have this one thing— to enjoy a conversation without thinking about how stupid or obvious you might look to the outsider.

"you don't look that old!" you protest, "seriously! plus, you're pretty fit for your age!"

the last comment was not something you had decided to say, but you're bad at thinking before speaking. you prefer to be just as shocked at your responses as the other person.

"you think i'm fit?" he asks a little teasingly— there's a smug smile on his face, and you feel idiotic. of course, a man like him would know he's fit. he's handsome, he must hear it everyday. he must be so amused that you decided to state the obvious. and you clear your throat, your cheeks suddenly feeling hot. you're sure you can hear your ears ringing— and you swallow the embarrassment.

"you know you're fit." you huff softly, and he shakes his head. his smile only grows bigger as he looks away, instead choosing to watch the sky darken.

you're glad he doesn't say much after, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. you hope it is comfortable for him, atleast, because there's a storm brewing in your head— berating you for being so obvious. perhaps, you need to find a boyfriend soon, or your little impulsive comments would get you in trouble. you don't even know if the man is single, for god's sake. your eyes drift down to his hands— no ring.

"you live alone?" you blurt out again, despite your better judgement. it's such a stupid question— the apartment rooms are tiny, of course he lives alone. are you stupid?!

he turns to look at you, eyebrow quirked. the air feels heavy now, because he looks tense again, almost thoughtful.

"yes," he nods, frowning slightly. his lips quirk down, and he swallows hard. "my wife passed away a few years back."

"oh." shit, you think to yourself. way to go, idiot. "i'm so sorry."

"it's fine," he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

you straighten up, "if there's anything i can do—"

he stands up abruptly, adjusts his pants. your eyes drift down a little before you physically force them to look up at him again.

"we should get going." he says, rolling his shoulders back. he gives you a hand, "it's getting late. you must have class tomorrow."

'it's sunday,' you almost mumble, but thankfully your mouth keeps shut this time. you shyly take his palm and stand up, and he pulls his hand back to run it through his hair almost awkwardly. you try not to miss the way it felt— which is insane. you shouldn't be thinking this way.

the walk back is relatively silent, and you internally beat yourself up about ruining the mood. you might be overthinking this, but this man genuinely seems nice, and you don't really have anyone else to rely on outside of university.

'if there's anything i can do,' you were saying. what could you have done, you idiot? what were you offering to a widowed man twice your age? fucking dummy.

lost in thoughts as you walk up the stairs, your foot misses a step and you trip. before you can fall, inho is stabilizing you with a swift grab, and you yelp as you crash into him, squeezing your eyes shut. instinctively, you grab his arms as tightly as you can.

"oh god," you take a sharp breath, your head falling forward onto his chest more out of shame than relief. "am i dead?"

"clumsy girl." he chuckles, and you open your eyes, hoping that once you do you'll wake up to your room; concluding this mess as a nightmare.

but no, your vision adjusts and is met with his beautiful face. and he looks amused. you can feel his arm wrapped around your waist— very respectfully even though you wouldn't mind it the opposite way. you feel warm all over and the way you've been acting since you met this man is driving you crazy. perhaps you might have to sleep the bad luck off. he gently lets go of you, and you pull away quickly, cheeks flushed. you lean against the wall, groaning.

"still alive," he remarks playfully. you tiredly run a hand down your face.

"i'll just take a nap." you mumble defeatedly, and he nods. you gesture towards the stairs. "thanks for that."

he steps aside and puts his hands in his pockets, and you fumble with your lock and go into your room as fast as possible— ready to bury your head in pillows and avoid this man as much as possible.

ᥫ᭡.

the first weird instance happened during work. you'd signed up for an internship after college hours— it was more of volunteer work. no actual pay other than some incentives based upon performance, which you were okay with. you just needed some experience for your portfolio. most of it included you getting your seniors coffee, designing posters and promoting new events for college.

you were giving some finishing touch ups for the newest poster for a debate competition when a package was placed before you. you looked up at your classmate, confused.

"these are for you." she said.

you frowned, looking at the package — a bouquet, to be specific. it was nothing too extravagant— but flowers all the same. white jasmines paired with some baby breaths, finished with a little bow.

"who sent these?" you asked, visibly baffled. she shrugged, took one look at your work before walking off. you sat straighter, checking the bouquet for any card— there was nothing.

you were confused as you walked back to the apartment. the flowers were a nice surprise— but they also had you worried. you couldn't help but wonder if it was some guy from work, but you don't remember getting close with anyone, atleast not enough for gifts. your confusion was evident on your face as you reached your door. holding the bouquet in one hand, you fumbled with the lock.

"those are nice," you heard a voice behind you. you turned, a smile appearing on your face at the sight of inho.

"hello!" you greeted, facing him. he glanced at the flowers, gaze unreadable, before turning to you.

"you came later than usual." he remarked casually.

"yeah, i've taken up this internship thing for college." you replied politely, leaning against your door. he nodded in understanding, tilting his head towards the bouquet.

"it's going well, i see."

you chuckled awkwardly, "i don't know where they came from." you glanced at the flowers, leaning in to inhale the scent. "my classmate said these were for me but there was no card. it's weird."

"perhaps it's a secret admirer," he joked dryly, unlocking his own door, "stay safe, kid."

you frowned at his words, nodding, before entering your own room.

the flowers didn't stop after. almost every two days, a new bouquet would appear. it was ridiculous. one day it would be just pretty tulips, the other it would be white clovers. it was driving you absolutely insane. and the worst part was, you had no idea who it was from.

you'd go to class, do your work, take the flowers, and go home. inho would make a joke about you being popular, and you would shrug it off and offer him some tea, and you'd pretend you didn't secretly hope he was the one sending them to you.

"maybe a guy has a crush on you," he'd said once. you were sitting at the stairs, analyzing the flowers as if your stare would prompt them to magically start speaking— these were camellias, as the google search suggested. pink. you'd glared at him tiredly, eyes begging for some answers. from anyone.

he'd raised his hands in defence, chuckling a little. he had taken a seat on the stairs beside you, looking at the flowers himself, eyebrows furrowed in focus and lips drawn into a thoughtful pout.

"did you know camellias express longing?" he stated casually.

you'd looked at him, quirking an eyebrow, "how'd you know that?"

he gave the flowers a somber smile, a dejected look in his eyes. "you learn certain things when you get married."

your curiosity had faded into sadness then. immense melancholy for the kind man sitting beside you.

and because of course, he was thinking of his wife. he'd probably given his wife flowers, adored her with everything he had. kissed her and made love to her, and then life took her from him.

you don't stand a chance. not even in your fantasies.

ᥫ᭡.

you were being watched.

you realized this not long after receiving your first bouquet. few days later, you'd seen a man wearing the same jacket everywhere you went. it was making you feel uneasy. you could never see his face— he would disappear almost instantly after you turned around.

first, you recognised the feeling while shopping for groceries. it made you feel so terrified, you ditched the milk and went straight home.

you'd had to borrow some milk from inho that day, and thankfully he had extra which he generously gave to you. even offered to make you some tea. you didn't know if he noticed your distress, but if he did, you were thankful he didn't ask you about it.

the next, it was during daytime. you were waiting for your bus when you saw the glimpse of that jacket— and once again, it disappeared almost as soon as you recognised it.

it was after the fourth day that you had decided that you'd had enough. you were violently knocking on inho's door— teary eyed and scared out of your mind.

he opened the door, his agitation blending into worry at the sight of your face. he utters your name so softly, and you hold back the urge to scream. "what's wrong?"

"you were a police officer, right?" you look at him, panic stricken. "i think i'm being watched. i don't think— i know i'm being watched. i swear, someone is stalking me, first the flowers—"

"hold on, take deep breaths," he puts his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to breathe along with him. you follow, and feel your heart rate calm down. he looks out into the hallway before stepping aside. "come inside."

reluctantly, you walk into his room. you realize then that it's the first time you've been in his apartment— and the idea, even in your moment of suffering, makes you feel warm. excited, even. there's a few books on his bed, and he puts them aside on his table and makes room for you to sit. you can see the goldfish in the tank, and the packet of fish food you bought for them sits by it.

"i like van gogh too." you mumble shakily, pointing at the book on his desk. he hums, guiding you to sit.

you take a seat on his bed, gaze lowered as you fidget with your hands. he grabs a chair and sits on it, facing you. he spreads his legs, and you have to take a deep breath to focus on the actual problem at hand.

"tell me everything," he says softly, crossing his arms over his chest. his shirt is folded up to his elbows, and you physically force yourself not to stare at the veins mapped across his arms.

"the flowers," you start, "they've gotten more frequent. i don't know who's sending them to me. i've asked everyone at work. i don't even talk to guys that much for any of them to be doing all that. and i've been seeing this guy follow me everywhere—"

"you've seen his face?" he asks, expression serious and focused. he looks even more handsome like this.

you pause, before shaking your head no.

"it's stupid, i know." you protest, leaning forward for emphasis, "it's like— a shadow. i haven't seen his face but i know he's following me. i think he might be behind the flowers too. but i'm just scared— i know i'm being stalked, you have to believe me."

"i do believe you," he shakes his head, leaning forward. his hand reaches out and grabs your own, "but you haven't seen his face, so it'll be hard to catch him. but trust me, i will not let anyone hurt you. do you understand?"

"i'm scared." you admit, voice small. you're a woman and you live alone— you don't have many friends and absolutely no family right now. you don't want to talk to your mother and worry her. you're terrified.

"hey, no tears," he whispers, thumb brushing across your cheek. you almost feel hypnotized at the action— you try not to lean into the comfort of his touch. "you'll be okay, i promise. you're safe with me."

you sniffle as you look at him, your hand limp in his hold. you tear your gaze away and nod, his words making you feel oddly at ease. you fidget with his hand before mindlessly holding his finger, and he smiles softly at that. with his free hand, he pats your head, "i have an idea."

you perk up slightly as you blink at him.

"why don't i pick you up from college?" he says softly, "it's not that far. it's hard to do anything during daytime, but in the evening i can come pick you up if you're scared. he'll see a man with you and back off himself."

you freeze, eyes widening. you can't ask him to do that. you chuckle awkwardly, face flushing as you look at your lap.

"i can't ask you to do that, it's fine."

"are you sure?" he asks, leaning down to make eye contact with you. it makes your heart flutter. "it's no issue for me. i think a walk everyday will keep me even more fit."

you can't help but giggle at that— and he smiles too. he grabs your chin and lifts your head up; and your breath hitches.

"come on, give me a real smile." he urges softly. it's so silly coming from him, that you can't help but grin— your fears temporarily forgotten. he pinches your cheek at that and nods in approval, "there she is."

"stop," you huff half heartedly, playfully slapping his hand away. you wish you could hide in your pillows— or dig a hole for yourself because of how flustered you feel. you can't believe how he could do this to you— it's strange how happy he can make you with just a few words. he tucks your hair behind your ear.

"why don't you have dinner and get some sleep? you must be tired."

you nod, blinking tiredly as you stand up. reluctantly, you let go of his finger, and he stands up as well as he guides you to the door. you look back at him, and he meets your gaze.

"thank you," you whisper softly, "you really made me feel so much better, you have no idea."

"i'm glad." he whispers back, and you just stare at him— at his sweet face and his kind eyes. you swallow hard, and you wonder if you hallucinated his eyes dart to your lips. either way, you push your thoughts aside.

he clears his throat and looks away, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze. "off you go."

"goodnight," you call back, and he nods with a smile before closing the door.

the next day after college— a miracle happened. a rather good looking classmate of yours approached you and praised you on your work. je-hyun, he introduced himself. he shared a few classes with you, and you remember him asking you for a pencil once. you two ended up bonding over liking the same shows, and he'd asked you if you were single. you two shared numbers, and you gave yourself an imaginary pat on the back.

apparently, the flowers had become a bit of a man repellent. he'd been wary of approaching you because he assumed you had a boyfriend, but you cleared the misunderstanding with a convincing explanation. you didn't want to take any chances.

this time, there were no flowers.

after work, the two of you walk out of the building. he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm, and you turn to him. he opens his mouth to speak before his gaze falls on something over your shoulder, and he freezes.

you frown, looking over your shoulder in return.

inho greets you, getting off the wall he was leaning against with a cheery smile. you look at him, baffled.

"hey! uh—" you look at your— date? coworker? before turning to inho, "inho sir! what are you doing here?"

inho glances at je-hyun as well, eyes darting up and down indifferently before he turns to you. he smiles, patting your shoulder. "i had some work nearby so i thought i'd pick you up. especially seeing how scared you were last night. is that okay?"

he was so considerate— it immediately made your heart melt. you almost forgot about your date by your side, and you turned to him apologetically. you could always meet with je-hyun, but you cannot ask inho to go home after he took some time out for you. your decision is immediate. "i'm sorry, i should get going. see you tomorrow?"

je-hyun gave you a tight lipped smile, nodding. "see you, goodnight." he looked at inho warily, giving him a slight bow out of respect. you didn't get to see inho's response before he was wrapping an arm around your shoulder and dragging you away.

"i'm assuming that's the flower kid," he remarked casually, a small grin on his face as he walked straight ahead. you stumbled a little with his pace, but shook your head.

"no, i don't think that's him. he assumed i had a boyfriend because of the flowers," you smile slightly, thinking back to the conversation.

"you can't be sure with boys like him," he muttered, putting his hands in his pockets. you immediately started missing the feeling of his arm wrapped around you. you feel insane for even thinking this way. especially considering you have a potential? love interest— someone your age.

"i can't believe you really came to pick me up," you change the topic, looking up at him. he doesn't know if the stars in your eyes are a reflection of the lights or your admiration. "you didn't have to."

"i know i didn't have to," he smirked slightly, looking around. "but like i said, i was in the area. and i didn't feel right leaving you by yourself. who knows what could happen to a little girl like you?"

the last line was teasing, and you gave him a little push for that. of course, he was unphased. but for the sheer dramatics, he pretended to be hurt— clutching his side and groaning like he had been shot. it makes you giggle, and you hide your mouth behind your hand, internally berating yourself for acting like a fool again. he chuckles before stopping you and dragging you back, "let's have dinner before we get back. you must be hungry."

you blink, your heartbeat suddenly rising. like a date? you wanted to ask, but decided against it. of course it's not a date. he could be your father, for god's sake. he's old enough. and his heart belongs to someone else. you doubt he'd ever think about dating someone like you. it sounds like a far fetched dream.

you nodded, shaking your thoughts off. "yeah, that sounds good."

and that entire night, you didn't feel the eyes of the stalker, nor the fear, even once.

ᥫ᭡.

you got the flowers again. yellow hyacinths paired with deep red roses— the colors creating a striking contrast against each other. so bright, it almost blinded your eyes. salient as the emotions the flowers represent— you feel like whoever is sending you these, is not happy with you.

"who keeps sending these?" the voice makes you jump, and you turn to see je-hyun standing over you. he narrows his eyes playfully. "is there an obsessed ex i should be worried about?"

you wave his concerns off, chuckling awkwardly, "none." you bite your lower lip, looking at the object of your torment placed on the table. you bite down on the end of your pen, thinking. "i'm actually worried. i haven't even met anyone who would do this."

"what about that strange man who came to pick you up?" he remarks offhandedly— and you almost take offense to his words.

"that's inho-sir. and he's not strange," you say a little too sharply, surprising even yourself, "he's my neighbour and he used to be a police officer. he came to pick me up because i was scared. he's very kind and would never do something like this."

"got it." je-hyun could sense your sudden hostility, and he tries to lighten up. "so he's like your dad?" he jokes, and you chuckle at that, giving him a shove with a huffed 'shut up.'

he asks you out to a party after, and you tell him to pick you up at nine.

the journey back home was tantalizing once again— there was a seed of dread brewing inside you. you felt increasingly scared as you travelled, so you picked crowds in hopes of blending in. you wished you had inho with you right now.

you took a nap after work and immediately got ready. you didn't have a lot of party wear with you, you don't like the overwhelming crowds or noises. you're easy to overstimulate, so you tend to stay away from parties. they're always much more bearable with people you know better, anyway. but you make do with what you have, and your lip gloss saves the day as always. there's a knock on your door and you open it to je-hyun looking cute as ever— with his boyish, dimpled smile.

"i wanted to bring you flowers," he says innocently, holding out a box, "but i feel like you're traumatized by them so i got chocolate inst—"

he doesn't get to finish his sentence before you're letting out the most ridiculous laugh ever. he's adorable, and this alone has made you like him so much. you compose yourself, stand straighter and place a kiss upon his cheek— leaving an imprint of your lipgloss on his skin. he blushes, and you grin. "thank you—"

"date night?"

you both turn around to the voice— inho has stepped out of his room, looking cozy and fresh. wearing a sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, finishing with a large black coat. he looks so... soft and gentle. it almost distracts you.

you bite your lower lip, suddenly feeling flustered. his gaze is unreadable as it drags down your body— and out of respect, you adjust your dress a little.

"i'm je-hyun," your date takes the initiative to introduce himself, bowing deeply. there's slight humour in his voice, "you must be her father—"

you elbow him in the ribs, and he doubles over. inho lets out a snort, looking down. you notice he doesn't introduce himself in return. he clenches his jaw, tongues his cheek before looking at you with a glint in his eyes. you wonder if he looks angry, but you can't really tell. it wouldn't make sense anyway.

"going somewhere?" you ask, voice a little high pitched out of sheer nervousness. you don't know why, but you feel rather awkward. you don't understand why you feel like you're betraying him, in a way. perhaps it's because inho has quite literally been the only man you've been regularly interacting and engaging with so far. that's why standing with another guy in front of him feels so... strange. no other reason.

he clears his throat and nods, "out for drinks with an old colleague." he frowns after, cocks his head towards your legs. your dress is not really short, it comes to your knees. but you still feel exposed in front of him.

"don't you feel cold?"

"i'll wear a coat," you tell him, snatching your coat off from where it was hanging behind your door. "well— um. see you."

inho is the first to leave— after giving your date an up and down look of what you can only consider disgust or disapproval. je-hyun pouts a little as he straightens up, before grabbing your hand and dragging you down the stairs.

the party fucking sucks. the noises are too loud, the lights are too flashy, and everyone is drunk. you don't understand their drunken rambles, and you almost tripped twice. you've stumbled into atleast three couples making out, and you don't know how to dance without looking stupid.

je-hyun had kissed your cheek before going off to get drinks. a sprite for you, as you'd demanded. except he never returned. you know life isn't a movie, but at this moment, you'd rate yours a solid 1.5 stars.

a girl accidentally steps on your foot and you wince, hopping on one leg as you go out the back door. there, you put on your coat tighter around yourself, shaking as you glare at the wall in front of you.

you could really use a cigarette. and you don't even smoke.

you bring out your phone and shoot je-hyun a text. it is left on delivered, and you grunt in irritation before looking to the side.

defeated, angry and hurt at being abandoned, you immediately choose to leave. you hold back the urge to send je-hyun a text calling him an absolute dick, and try not to make eye contact with anyone as you walk down the road. it's late, the sky is dark and you have another fear on your mind right now. you look out for a taxi— but none come to your rescue. your luck has run out.

you mutter all sorts of curses to yourself on the way back— until you hear footsteps. you pause, suddenly feeling that same dread seize you again.

you're being followed.

you start walking quickly, and the prickling sensation of being watched doesn't leave. you turn around abruptly — and there's no one there, except from a few friend groups walking out of the club. you pick up your pace and start jogging back, looking around for taxis. you can see the park near your apartment in the distance — and you let out a breath of relief.

you hear a little 'meow,' and you immediately turn around. you love cats— you've been dying to have one. despite your better judgement, you walk closer to the dark alley the voice came from. a kitten is there, meowing at you. your heart melts into a puddle and you coo, instantly following it. you look around, there's no stores nearby, or you would've bought it some food. you gently pick it up, scratching it's ears.

"its my cat."

there's a shabby man standing in front of you— reeking of alcohol and trash. you freeze, looking at him awkwardly as you let go of the cat. his eyes trail down, settle on the silver of your skin peeking out from under the coat. instinctively, you wrap it tighter around yourself, and he steps forward, grinning.

"i have more! do you want to see?"

you give him an awkward, polite smile. in situations like these, its best to subtly pull yourself away. you take a step back and shake your head, "no, thank you."

"it won't take long," he convinces, a hand reaching out. "you could even take one with you—"

you're turning around to run, but his hand grabs your arm and drags you closer. you scream, but he shushes you, pinning you to the wall. you feel like throwing up. you raise your knee and kick him in the shin, and he lets go of you. you quickly start dashing off, but your heel oh so conveniently breaks and you trip. you fall face first onto the floor and his hand grabs your leg and starts dragging down.

you let out a shriek and kick at his arm, but he's lunging at you, trying to grab your face with his dirty hands. you take that moment to release your frustrations of the day upon him— with all the strength you can muster, you pull your head back before crashing it against his face.

"you bitch!" he screams and so do you— and he falls back, clutching his bleeding nose. he tries to lunge at you again, but you scream as loud as you can, trying to crawl away from him.

someone grabs you and starts pulling you up, and out of reflex you thrash and try to hit the other person. your wrist is clasped firmly in a bigger hand, and the sight of inho's face immediately fills you with relief. he helps you up, and before you can express gratitude, he's pushing you back and moving forward.

you flinch at the sound of the first kick. it happens so fast that you don't even realize it— your eyes widen as inho kicks the man over and over again. the sound of his bones cracking fills your ears, and you almost gag at the sight of the blood mixing with the dirty ground. inho looks unphased for the most part— except he's panting, and his hair is falling across his forehead. sweat runs down the side of his face, and he wordlessly turns around, eyes cold in a way that is foreign to you.

perhaps it's the shock of the sudden turn of events, but you can't speak. all you can think about is the rage that is so prominently etched onto his beautiful face, and how easily he stomped on that man like he was nothing. and how thankful you are that he showed up somehow when you needed him. after your date abandoned you. like magic.

he walks up to you, and you let out a shaky breath before allowing your head to fall onto his chest. he squeezes his eyes shut and pats your back, before cupping your cheeks and lifting your head up. he analyzes your face, gently caresses the new scratches on your chin before his gaze drops to your shoes— a broken heel and multiple scratches on your knees.

"are you okay?" he asks softly, and you hold his palm, ensuring it stays pressed against your cheek. you look at him like he's your only saviour— and you feel that way too. your lips wobble and he looks away.

"tired." you mumble— throat feeling dry. you feel dizzy, and your legs hurt. you're pretty sure you feel like throwing up too.

wordlessly, he bends down slightly, gestures towards his back with a tilt of his head. "come on."

you hesitate, looking at him with shock, before gently allowing your front to splay across his back. you link your arms around his shoulders, and he wraps his hands around your legs. he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you lean your weight into him, resting your head along his shoulder. he shifts slightly so you're more comfortable, his hold on you steady and confident. one of your shoes drop, and you don't look back at it. you don't care anyway.

you hear another faint meow before the kitten is out of earshot.

you resist the urge to cry as he carries you up the stairs. you sniffle, burying your head in his back, deeply inhaling the comforting smell of the man you've started associating with home. your legs dangle off his sides and your heart feels heavy. his silence makes you feel so eternally grateful.

you don't know how you got lucky enough to have someone like him by your side.

he doesn't even put you down when you reach your apartment— merely mumbles a soft, "keys?" and you straighten up slightly, shuffling in your coat pocket before leaning forward to open the lock— unable to resist the urge to chuckle just slightly at how endearing this whole situation is, despite everything.

he takes you inside, and your cheeks flush slightly. your clothes are all over the bed— thanks to your indecisiveness while getting ready for the date. he gently places you down on the floor, and you sniffle, quickly covering the clothes with a blanket— eliciting a snort out of him.

"why were you coming home alone?" is the first question he asks. "what happened to the kid you were with?"

"I don't know," you whisper, looking away. you suddenly feel embarrassed— how immature, how careless je-hyun looks in front of a man like inho. you never should've went on that date. "he just.. he disappeared at the party."

he clenches his jaw, his hands resting on his hips as he looks to the side. there's another vein popping in his neck— and if you had the guts, you'd lean up and kiss it.

"that little boy—" he spits with vitriol, the words coming from a deep place of resentment. he takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, "he never should've left you alone. you should've never decided to walk home alone. why didn't you take a taxi?"

you swallow hard— he certainly doesn't make you miss your father. he's doing his job for him.

"there were no taxis."

"why didn't you just call me?" he asked again, stepping forward, eyebrows raising. "i could've come picked you up."

you pause. you didn't know that was an option. you really didn't think of it.

"I don't know." you replied lamely.

"didn't you say you have a stalker?" he snaps, "how can you be so careless?"

"i really don't want a lecture right now," you reply dejectedly, looking away. your voice lowers to a mumble as you rub your arm. "tonight has been harsh enough."

his face softens and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. he throws his head back and looks at the ceiling, squeezes his eyes shut before looking at you again.

"forgive me." he says earnestly, tilting his head, "i worry about you."

you nod, fidgeting with your coat. he watches you silently before stepping back.

"you should take a warm shower. i'll grab the first aid and take care of that." he gestures towards his chin, and the sting on your own chin starts to settle in.

this time, you don't argue. you toss your coat to the side, grab your toiletries, don't even bother asking him to leave before you go into the bathroom and wipe the memories of this night off you.

inho is waiting on your bed when you return. you hope he didn't hear the sound of you crying— it was rather pathetic. your skin is flushed with how much you scratched it, and worst of all, you ended up gently banging your forehead against the cold wall over how badly your date went. your fault for thinking you could have a positive experience with a man.

you clutch your bathrobe tightly, the water from your hair soaking through the towel. you put it down, and he gets up from the bed and pats down the empty space, telling you to sit down.

you notice your bed looks a little neater than you left it. your clothes are folded nicely by the corner and your bedsheet is straightened properly. it makes you blush, and you give him a sheepish look. he doesn't acknowledge it as he kneels before you.

"you don't have to—" you start, half heartedly.

"let me."

his voice is soft yet so firm, you end up following through. there is nothing wrong with wanting to be taken care of by a man like him. you shift slightly, hoping that he takes the flush of your cheeks as an effect of your warm shower.

he settles your leg on his thigh, and shifts your bathrobe just slightly so your knee is exposed. he examines it before applying some ointment on it. the touch of his gentle fingers almost has you whimpering— but you clear your throat and fidget nervously with your fingers. he grabs hold of your ankle, looking thoughtful as his thumb brushes across your skin.

the silence between you two feels heavy and suffocating. the tension could be cut with a knife— and the way he touches you is so intimate, it makes you want to climb into his arms and just cling to him till you fall asleep.

thankfully, he makes the decision for you. he places your feet back down and straightens slightly, wordlessly applies some cream on your chin too. it stings a little but it's bearable. he hums, closes the box and puts it aside.

as you open your mouth to speak, you can hear multiple notifications coming through your phone. his eyes snap up, and so do yours— you reach out and grab it out of your coat pocket, and he glares at it as you check.

"is it the boy?" he asks.

you bite your lip, glancing at the multiple texts of je-hyun apologizing through the notification panel. you're bitter, and you don't want to respond, not right now. inho grabs your hand, takes your phone away and places it by your side.

"you shouldn't go back to him," he advices quietly. there's an intensity in his eyes, an emotion that is hard to read. "after tonight, he's proven he's not worth your time. he abandoned you."

you bite your lower lip. he's right— but then again, a part of you wants to ask. so who should i go to? who is worth my time?

you clear your throat and shift on the bed.

"thank you for tonight," you whisper instead, allowing yourself more time to think about how to deal with je-hyun.

"thank you?" he chuckles, amused, "you'd taken care of that guy pretty well yourself. i just finished the job."

"but still," you protest, feeling a sense of pride at his comment. "he would've grabbed me again if you hadn't come."

he snorts, looking down at his lap. and your words remind you of an important question.

"how'd you know i needed help?"

he tenses, his eyes snapping up to yours again. you can't tell what he's thinking, but he merely chuckles, "i was walking in the park when you screamed. immediately alerted me." he raises a finger to his ear. "policeman instinct."

you laugh at that. his explanation makes sense. of course he has a policeman instinct. you wouldn't expect anything else.

he stands up, groaning as he stretches a little. the action makes his sweater rise up, revealing a silver of his tummy— and your eyes dazedly drop down, glancing at it with barely disguised hunger, until he's relaxing again. you snap yourself out of your trance and cough, looking away.

he looks down at you, all tired eyes and soft hair. in moments like these, you think of how sweet he looks. so gentle, and kind, and caring. sweet mister inho, who has been so generous, protecting you, caring for you, wanting nothing in return. who gave you a piggyback ride home when you felt like you would pass out from terror, who put cream on your wounds with the tenderness of a parent or a lover.

perhaps it's that sentiment, your touch starved nature, or your horrible day that prompted you to do it. or lust from that little glimpse of his skin. either way, you're fucked. you lean forward and wrap your arms around his waist, immediately burying your head in his stomach as you whisper thank yous to him— clinging to him like a lifeline.

he stumbles back in shock, stiffens slightly before relaxing— awkwardly shifting to accommodate you. he laughs slightly, and the rumble sends happy vibrations through your whole body. his hand settles on your head, gently playing with your hair.

"i told ya," he said gently, an amused smile on his face. "i won't let anyone hurt you."

a little embarrassed, you let go of him, pulling away and tucking your hair behind your ear.

"sorry," you mumble sheepishly.

"it's fine," he nods, taking a deep breath. he adjusts his sweater, looks around before giving you another smile. he pats your head. "get some sleep, okay? it's late. i'll check on you tomorrow."

you nod, and he leaves. you bite your lower lip as you replay the hug, and don't find the effort to get up and dress yourself before you're squealing into your pillow— all thoughts of je-hyun forgotten temporarily.

you don't see je-hyun in classes the next day, but he comes to work after college. the first thing he does is approach you, even when you push your head into your tablet while trying to imply how you absolutely do not want to talk to him.

"i can explain," he says with worry, "someone drugged me. i didn't want to leave you alone. i swear, i woke up in the toilet hours after. first thing i did was text you."

you sigh, rolling your eyes as you looked at him boredly, "drugged? that's the excuse you're going with?"

"why would i ditch you on purpose!" he hisses, leaning down. your argument gathers the attention of a few of your coworkers, and your senior warns you to get back to work. you sigh and look away from him.

"whatever it is—" you begin as politely as you can, "I don't think i'm ready to date. so maybe you should just—"

he sighs your name in agitation, and you quirk your eyebrow at him.

"you're really giving up on me after one fuck up?" he asks, frowning, "which wasn't even my fault? i was drugged—"

"i almost got assaulted on the way back," you hiss, standing up abruptly. your noses press together, and you pull back the moment his eyes drift to your lips. you pinch the bridge of your nose, before tilting your chin up and pointing at the bandage. he blinks, gaze filled with guilt. you sigh.

"maybe we could give it a go after some time if you're still interested, but i don't think i have the patience for this right now. last night was really hard on me. can you respect that?"

he looks like a kicked puppy at your words, but he steps back nonetheless. he clenches his jaw as he nods— before leaving you alone for the rest of the day.

the feeling of being watched has numbed you. you try not to care on your way back home— you have too much to do to care about that anyway. your dress from last night and your coat got dirty, so it seems like the perfect time to have a laundry day.

it's only when you're gathering all your clothes that you realize what's wrong.

your clothes are missing.

a pair of panties and your favourite camisole top. it's pink and has a little bow in the middle and you remember bringing it very clearly because you have taken a billion pictures in it. you wore them two days back— and tossed them carelessly in the laundry basket. you check once, and twice.

they're missing.

your first thought immediately goes to the stalker. is there any way he found your home? came into your room? stole your undergarments like a fucking sicko?

your second thought feels a little.. illegal to say the least. but.. inho wouldn't do something like that, would he? no, he's a good guy. a kind, rule following member of society. he used to be a police officer, for fuck's sake. he wouldn't do something like that, would he?

you can't lie, the idea that he could makes something in your stomach flip.

you can't go and straight up ask him, 'hey mister, did you take my panties?' so you do the next best thing. you devise a plan to be alone in his room.

you put on your best panic stricken expression as you knock on his door, and he opens almost immediately. his face falls into one of concern as he looks you up and down, "what's wrong—"

"i need pads," you say sheepishly, biting your lower lip as you step into his room. he doesn't protest as he looks at you. "i got my period and i don't have any and it hurts to go to the store. inho sir, could you please go buy me some? please?"

for added effect you let out a groan, holding your stomach as you fall onto his bed. you lie in a fetus position, and the worry etched onto his face almost makes you laugh.

"do you need anything else?" he asks, grabbing his wallet. you shake your head no, release another groan before he's slamming the door behind him as he leaves.

you wait for a few minutes— until you can hear the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs and fading away. you get up quickly then, look around his room with your heart pounding against your chest.

the first place you look is his cupboards— only his clothes to be found. you rip off his blanket and look under the pillows, searching desperately. you almost feel bad— he seems like such a good man, and you're taking advantage of his kindness by doubting him like this. you almost stop and leave, before the sight of his laundry basket has you pausing.

you look at the door before turning back and approaching it. you sit on the floor and shuffle through it, but you can't find a glimpse of your undergarments anywhere. you can find his though— and it makes you blush slightly.

you find his shirt then— white and plain and you remember him wearing it under his sweater last night. with shaky hands, you bring it out. biting your lower lip, against your morals, you clutch it and bring it up to your nose, inhaling the scent of his collar. it smells of him— of sweat and his cologne and it almost makes you moan.

like the fucking sicko you were worried about, you bury your face in it, your legs shaking as you lean further into it. another whimper escapes you. your eyes squeeze shut, and your mind starts flashing images of him, of his arms, of the vein in his neck, of his hair, of his smile—

it's been established already that your luck is horrible. that's why you don't realize it when the door opens and inho stands there, frozen, watching you sniff his clothes like a junkie. he drops the bag, and you freeze, your eyes immediately snapping open.

the way dread settles in your stomach is comical. you don't want to turn around, more so because it would mean acknowledging what you've been doing. he takes your name, and you turn ever so slowly, his shirt still clutched in your hands, pressed against your nose. as reality sets in, you're quickly tossing it back in the laundry basket and standing up like you've been electrocuted.

"i-it's not what it looks like—"

he doesn't say a word as he slams the door shut, very pointedly locking it. it sends a shiver of thrill up your spine, and he closes in on you ever so slowly as you try to explain yourself.

"i was just—" you're stuttering, voice breathless out of shame. you take a step back. "i was looking for something and i thought you had it and—"

he's just nodding patiently as you speak, eyebrows furrowed with mock sympathy. his hand suddenly shoots up to grab your neck, and your breath hitches as he pushes you against the wall.

"i thought you took my panties," you explain quickly, visibly panicking. "i couldn't find them and you were the only one who came into my room—"

"that's why you were sniffing my shirt like a little pervert?" he asks calmly, voice hushed, his mouth curling into an amused smirk. "because you couldn't find your panties?"

"sir—" you gasp, eyes fluttering as his hand squeezes slightly. your legs tremble, and you grab his wrist. "i didn't mean to—"

"dirty girl," he chuckles. before you can speak further, he's grabbing your waist, twirling you around and shoving you onto his bed. you fall upon it with a surprised gasp, and he climbs onto you effortlessly, caging you between his arms. "you think i don't understand the way you look at me with those pretty little eyes? like you're begging me to fuck you into the mattress?"

"oh fuck," you moan, your back arching off the bed. his mere voice has you feeling stupid. your lips wobble as you look at him pleadingly— licking your lips. "please—"

"yeah— like this," he chuckles, giving your cheek a little slap. it barely registers. doesn't hurt at all, feels like a little tap. but the action enough elicits the most desperate moan out of you, and he squeezes your cheeks, leaning down dangerously. "like a little slut."

you whine, biting your lower lip as you try to catch his lips. he merely laughs mockingly, shakes his head as he pouts playfully, "what? you want a kiss?"

you try to nod as best as you can, and he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth teasingly before letting go. you whine again, your hands holding onto his back— clutching the material of his sweatshirt with a desperation you didn't know you could feel.

"i knew you were a little messed up," he grunts, prying your thighs apart with his knees, before settling his hips upon yours. you can feel the bulge in his pants so evidently, and it makes you moan. with a warning glare, he squeezes your cheeks harder, making your lips pucker up. it makes him chuckle, and he gives your head a little shake. "giving your little 'fuck me' eyes to a man my age. do you act like this with everyone? with that fucking boy from college?"

his voice gets louder, harsher with his words and you shake your head desperately. his hips press against yours, and he starts grinding them against your clothed pussy— making you whine.

"j-just you—" you mumble, but he doesn't let you finish. his mouth is crashing onto yours, one hand grabbing your neck again and the other going under your waist, holding you in place.

the kiss leaves you breathless. teeth and tongue slam together, and you moan needily as he grinds against you, the action making a damp patch appear on the front of your pyjamas. your legs wrap around his waist and he grunts, his hips faltering slightly from shock before he continues, cocking his head to the side to access your mouth better.

your hand comes up to his hair, feeling the softness of it. he grabs it, brings your other one up too and holds both of your wrists in a massive palm— before raising them over your head and keeping them in place. he rises over you, his hips thrusting against yours, and you look at him dazedly. strings of your combined saliva separate and drip down your chin, and you blink.

"please inho sir—" you whimper, your hands twisting in his hold. "slap me again, please."

there's a glimpse of shock in his eyes but it goes away just as quickly. you don't even get to expect how fast his hand pulls back and strikes against your face— but you moan at the contact. it's harder than before and it stings, and it leaves the most delicious pain in it's wake. you almost hope it leaves a little print for you to wake up to tomorrow.

"god, you're a mess," he laughs breathlessly, grabbing your hair. you give him an almost drunken smile— your lips puffy and swollen, hips rising up to press needily against his bulge.

"my little mess—" he groans before gently slapping you again, and you whine, chasing his mouth with your own. he leans forward and silences you with the kiss you were so desperately begging for.

he's pulling back suddenly, a hand digging into his pockets. your eyes flutter open and before you know what's happening— he's stuffing your missing panties in your mouth. it baffles you— and he laughs at the way your eyes widen. he doesn't allow you to move as his hand slips inside your pyjama, immediately rubbing your clit.

the sudden stimulation doesn't allow you to dwell on the matter for long. so he did steal your panties— and you cannot question him, because you quite literally did the same thing. how can you call him out, when you were sniffing his worn shirt like a fucking pervert, yourself? he knows that too, judging by the glint in his eyes— as if he's daring you to attack him. you barely get to protest as you writhe under him, and he rubs your clit till you cum all over his hand— your loud moans muffled by your panties.

he pulls his hand out and licks your juices off with the nastiest slurp, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. you tremble in his hold, before he's hovering over your chest, his thighs caging you in. he looks down at you smugly, pulling his leaking cock out of his pants. your mouth immediately waters— it's thick and darker than the rest of him, and the tip is flushed red. he doesn't allow you to sit up, keeps it conveniently out of your reach as he begins stroking it, hand moving up and down with a soft, wet shlick.

your pleading is silenced by your panties. you desperately try to push them out of your mouth, to reach up and touch him, but he's restrained you too efficiently. he throws his head back, lets out a soft, raspy moan. drops of his precum land on your face as he furiously jerks off over you, his movements getting faster. your eyes flutter, and he cums with a throaty groan, his entire body tensing— splatters of his cum falling upon your mess of a face.

there's tears in your eyes as you look up at him, and he chuckles. he lets go of your hands, and you immediately toss your panties out and cough. you glance at his softening cock with devastation etched onto your features— before glaring up at him, lips drawn into a sad pout. he laughs at your misery, holds his wet hand out, "come on."

like a fucking puppy, you grab his hand. you don't even understand where this degeneracy is coming from— you don't wish to. you don't care. all you know is you need this man carnally, and you're not going to say no when he's offering himself on a silver platter. with sheer enthusiasm, you start licking his palm, eyes fluttering closed. you lick between his fingers, take two of them in your mouth, making him moan; before he's physically pulling you off him.

you whine in protest, and he pats your cheek while tucking himself back into his pants. you pant heavily as you come down from your high, allowing yourself a moment to think about everything that just happened. your cheek still stings, and you've just experienced what you can only classify as the horniest, hottest moment of your life.

you're so lost in thought that you don't register the moment he pulls you into his bed with him, placing your limp body atop his chest. you were given twin beds in your tiny apartments, but you realize you fit in here pretty well. like a puzzle. he pats your hair and places a soft kiss to your temple. you have many questions, but you don't know where to start.

"so i'm guessing you weren't on your period," he jokes, and you groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as you recall your little excuse. "i think that was smart. you'd make a pretty good investigator. as long as you don't go around sniffing their clothes—"

"shut up." you whine, glaring at him. he chuckles heartily, and your body feels warm. his hand goes down, slaps your ass teasingly.

"so you think i smell nice?"

"i said shut up."

"it's a yes or no question." he cooes, pinching your cheek. you whine, rubbing your cheek against his chest like a cat. yes, asshole. you wanted to say. you smell amazing.

in retaliation, you decide to ask your own question.

"were you jealous of je-hyun?"

he stiffens slightly, and you smirk. gotcha.

"that's a brave accusation." he retorts smoothly.

"it's a yes or no question," you shoot back teasingly, and he looks into your eyes.

"yes."

you pause then, a small smile appearing on your face. "yes? is that why you kept calling him a boy?"

he shrugs, looking up at the ceiling as his fingers run through your hair. "he is a boy. he couldn't take care of you like i could. and you already liked me before you started going out with him."

that punches the breath out of you.

"was i that obvious?" you ask dryly. he smiles, eyes darting down to you. he grabs your chin and tilts your head down, places a soft kiss upon your lips.

"policeman instinct."

ᥫ᭡.

it's a few weeks later that your entire world slips off it's axis. everything was fine with inho— he had taken you out multiple times. bought you cotton candy, kissed the remnants of it off your chin, and you two had walked hand in hand down the streets of seoul, much like the couples you envied on your first walk with him. you remember mostly going to eat spicy food with him because he was lactose intolerant and not a big fan of sweets. he'd even won you a plushie at an arcade that you now cuddle whenever you go to sleep without him. you remember not being scared anymore because you no longer felt the eyes of your stalker, and the only flowers you got were the ones inho would buy for you.

inho hadn't come home for two days and thirteen hours.

you know because you've been counting each hour. there's an unbearable itch in your stomach, and every door opening or closing in the hallway has you jumping and leaving to check. you'd met up with the landlady, insisted that she get someone to go look for him, but she'd merely brushed you off.

your days at work became gloomy and your classmates started to notice. je-hyun got a girlfriend too— one of your seniors. you were happy for him, honestly. but still fucking jealous. you missed your boyfriend, and worst of all, you were worried. he just went away without saying anything, and it filled you with a sense of betrayal.

you were in your own state of denial. no way he could do this to you— give you love and then snatch it away out of nowhere, leaving you empty and cold. you didn't want to believe it. absolutely not.

you were trying to sleep when you heard his name again. you sit up, quickly turning on the lights and jumping to the door.

"—he was supposed to pay his rent a week ago," your landlady says. you open the door and peek out, watch as she guides another man to his door. you wonder if he knows your inho. "i've stopped by everyday since then, but he hasn't come in or picked up his phone. by the way... about his rent... otherwise you'd have to move his stuff out right away—"

the younger guy ensures he'd pay the rent, and you watch curiously as she opens the door for him. "take your time!" she says.

so he definitely knows inho, you think.

you watch with bated breath, only his back being visible to you. you're not sure if you should approach him. suddenly, he's moving, turning around and leaving the apartment as if something came up. you open the door and watch him go— your voice stuck in your throat.

you don't see that guy again. you don't hear from inho again. you don't receive flowers, but the feeling of being watched still remains, although it's less frequent.

three days pass. you're gathering your belongings to leave when je-hyun places a bouquet in front of you. you look up at him, frowning.

"someone left this at the door," he says casually, rubbing the back of his neck. "for you. guess it didn't stop."

he leaves and you frown as you look at the flowers. you hadn't received these in a while. you analyse them— pink carnations paired with some white lilies and forget-me-nots. wrapped up in a white ribbon. you know carnations because they're infamous and can be seen in almost every flower shop. you also know carnations are usually used in weddings. they're a symbol of love and devotion. and forget me nots— there is no need for an explanation. the answer lies in its name. you're pulling your phone out to go through that website— the one that speaks the language of flowers.

perhaps it's your own stupidity for not having realized it before. you're quickly pulling the bouquet forward. no card. there are a myriad of emotions going through you— anger, hurt, and most of all— yearning. your heart yearns for him. it longs for him. your hands tremble as you clutch the edge of the table.

you look at the flowers almost bitterly. you grit your teeth, glaring down at your phone, the website open and displaying words that only evoke feelings of distress out of you. of course, it had to be him. there was no other explanation. flowers symbolizing jealousy right after je-hyun asked you out, you had mentioned how much you liked flowers the day you two went on a walk. them suddenly stopping the day you two started openly dating. you just feel stupid you didn't realize it sooner.

that manipulative prick.

you huff bitterly, your eye twitching as you read the damning text over and over again.

pink carnations — 'ill never forget you.'

inho watches your face through the screen with a glass of whiskey in hand; smiling slightly at the way you glare at him. him as in, the bouquet. he's testing a new thing, trying to see if you've figured it out yet. he's very conveniently placed a camera in this one. if you understand it's him who has been sending you flowers, he's a hundred percent sure you'll take it home and keep it. if you decide to throw it out, that's okay too. the teddy bear he won for you was easy to install a camera in. he gets to see you whenever he wants, even when he's away. watching your sleeping face is rather therapeutic amidst the brutal killings of the players in the games. whenever he starts to miss you, your face is a button away from him. he can't really keep an eye on you at work, but that's alright. he's paid someone to keep watch and make sure you don't find someone else.

it was fun to see the fear etched onto your face whenever you mentioned being stalked— he was the one carrying out the stalking himself, until other duties called. he had to take these measures to ensure he was the only source of your comfort, the only one to rely on. scaring you just a little so it would bring you closer to him. how else would you come to him? you needed a little push. and now he's got you wrapped around his finger, much like you've got him wrapped around yours.

the flowers were just fun. he liked messing with you. a little inside joke with himself— different flowers to express how he felt about you. he wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out. the way they worked to keep most men away was simply an added bonus.

you almost actually getting assaulted was not part of the plan. he'd spiked the kid's drink to make sure he could conveniently step in to save the day— to find you and bring you home. except that disgusting freak of nature decided to lay his dirty hands on you. you don't have to know that he went back to finish the job, that the man is six feet under the ground. much like your dear je-hyun would've been if he hadn't respectfully backed off and gotten himself a girlfriend.

he doesn't think he has anger or jealousy issues, no. he simply does not think that he can live without you anymore. anyone who comes between the two of you, has to go. you're a little naive and easy to manipulate, but it worked in his favour. you trusted him too easily, and he's gotten addicted to the way you make him feel like some hero. he gets to protect you and hold you and forget about everything that he's had to go through. it's a win.

he's seen how miserable you've been without him— the plushie he got you has been spending more time in your arms than your phone, which he thinks is a good development.

you miss him, and he misses you too.

he can judge by the clench of your jaw that you've figured out he was the one behind the flowers. the thought makes him snort slightly. he tilts the glass, glancing down at the clear fluid, before looking up at your face.

you've pulled back. you're picking the bouquet up, and carrying it out. you cross the trash can— and you don't throw it out.

you're taking it home.

a pleased smirk curls upon his face and he nods to himself, taking the remote and turning on his music box.

the notes of 'fly me to the moon' wraps around him like a comforting blanket. he's gonna take this as a hint. if you're taking this bouquet home even after realizing he's the one behind the flowers, it must mean you accept him. and he can make do with that.

you're young and impressionable, and you follow what he says. he could share his ideas with you, see how you react.

and perhaps the next time he sees you, he'll bring you to the games with him.

A/N: this was sooo fun to write!! it took me a few days to finish this and i got so unmotivated because i accidentally deleted a draft at first, but now it turned out so much better than before! i truly hope it doesn't feel rushed or bad, and i know the smut is mid at best but i really tried :( as always feedback is always appreciated, and thank you so much for the support on my fics so far! i love you guys!

tags: @movienerd3000 @testdrivethv @leebyunghunswifey @nerdybarbariancupcake @neganhore @k1ra-park3r @vivdolls @wab-i @stantwicr @creativerambling @yasmim-1007 @makethemgirlsgoloco @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @captaincarmel416 @warlabels @ferrarifinnick @smlbch @izzyyann @meheheasasa @poooopy @endlessfl4mes @selfishlittlebeing @pillowtalk6 @antiromanticbaby

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Yandere batfamily x neglected reader

In the cold, towering shadows of Wayne Manor, you existed as a flicker of something forgotten, something unseen. To the family, you were a presence, but never a person—a thing that was always there, never quite needed, but always expected to be. It was a strange kind of loneliness, one that settled deep within your bones. It wasn’t hate, not outright. But it was neglect, a neglect that twisted and shaped itself into something far more sinister.

Bruce, with all his focus on Gotham’s endless darkness, had never known how to be a father in the way you needed. He loved you, he cared for you in his own way, but it was a cold, distant love, one born out of obligation. He made sure you had everything you needed: food, clothes, shelter. But that was all it was. There was no warmth in his touch, no kindness in his words. Every time he passed by, his gaze barely brushed over you, and you would hold your breath, hoping for just a second of acknowledgment, a second of care that never came. But you learned quickly—Bruce didn’t have time to see you. His world was bigger than you, and in his eyes, you were just a small piece of the puzzle. You weren’t a person to be loved and cherished. You were a responsibility. A duty. He never once sat down with you to hear how your day went, or how you felt. If you wanted attention, you had to earn it. If you needed comfort, you had to wait for him to decide you were worthy of it.

Dick, who was always smiling, always so eager to please, had a different kind of neglect. He wasn’t cold like Bruce, but he wasn’t present either. Dick was always somewhere else, wrapped up in his own world. He’d sweep into the room with his wide grin, maybe a pat on the head, maybe a quick word here or there. But his affection never reached past the surface. It was the kind of love that only showed up when it was convenient, when it didn’t get in the way of his own life. He would hug you, but it was quick, fleeting, as though his attention was already elsewhere. Sometimes you would stand there for minutes, waiting for him to notice you, to actually see you, but the longer you waited, the more you realized it wasn’t going to happen. Dick wasn’t truly there, not in the way you needed him to be. He never asked you how you were doing, never checked on you when you were quiet for too long. You weren’t worth his time unless it was easy, unless it was convenient. And as time passed, you learned that his love was always on his terms, and you were always left waiting for the moments that never came.

Tim, who was so intelligent and sharp, didn’t understand you at all. He looked at you like a problem to solve. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness in his voice when he spoke to you. His way of showing care was to ask you if you’d eaten, or if you were okay, but there was always a sense that he was doing it out of routine rather than genuine concern. If you showed signs of needing more than the bare minimum, he’d get frustrated, annoyed even, as if your needs were an inconvenience. You weren’t allowed to be a bother. You weren’t allowed to be human. Tim loved you, yes, but it was the love of someone who didn’t know how to love. He saw you as an extension of his world, not a person in your own right. Your silence was met with frustration, your sadness met with impatience. He didn’t have time to comfort you; he had cases to solve, problems to fix. You were a task to him, a thing to be checked off and moved on from.

Jason’s love was the most painful of all. It wasn’t outright cruel, but it was laced with a sharpness that cut deep. Jason would pull you close when you needed him the least, but when you needed him the most, he would turn away. His love came in flashes, in moments of brief connection that would burn brightly before fading into coldness. He wasn’t able to offer you the consistency you craved, the stability that your heart so desperately needed. When he did notice you, it was often in a sharp, harsh way—his anger spilling out, his guilt over his own brokenness feeding into his care for you, but it was a broken care. It was as if he wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t figure out how without making you feel like a burden. His love was suffocating, overbearing, because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But that was his problem, wasn’t it? His love was for himself, his need to fix something broken, and not for you. He loved you with the intensity of a man trying to fix his own past mistakes, but never once did he pause to think if you needed that love, or if it was too much to carry.

Damian’s neglect came in the form of indifference. You didn’t exist in his world. His eyes would slide over you like you were nothing more than a fixture in the background. He had no patience for anything that wasn’t him, no time to stop and listen to your needs. When he did interact with you, it was always with an air of superiority. He would demand your attention, but when you needed his, he was too proud to offer it. His love wasn’t love at all—it was control. He wanted you to fit into his world, to mold yourself into his idea of what you should be. He never bothered to learn who you truly were, who you were beyond the title of "his sibling." To him, you were just an extension of his father's empire, not a person in your own right. His love came with expectations, and if you didn’t meet them, he would ignore you, push you further away. His neglect was harsh and unapologetic. It wasn’t even something he noticed, because in his eyes, he was right. And you were just supposed to be there.

Cassandra and Stephanie, who had seen pain in their own lives, understood loneliness, but they couldn’t reach you in the way you needed. Cassandra, though she understood the language of silence, was too quiet herself to break the walls you had built. She couldn’t reach into your soul the way you needed, couldn’t make you feel like you were more than just a shadow. Stephanie tried, she really did. She was always the bright one, the one who pulled you into her light, who tried to make you laugh, tried to be the friend you didn’t have. But it wasn’t enough. Her love was more like a mask, something to keep up appearances, something to show that she cared—but deep down, you knew it wasn’t the kind of love you needed. It was temporary. It was the kind of love that lasted only as long as it was convenient, and when the days became long, when the nights became cold, Stephanie’s love faded into the background like everything else.

Duke, the newest addition to the family, wanted to be the one to fix things, but he was just too late. He saw the cracks in the family, the way you were pushed aside, but he wasn’t strong enough to fight against the currents that had already shaped you into something else. His love was genuine, but it was too new, too fragile to make a difference in the sea of neglect that had already swallowed you whole. He wanted to protect you, wanted to be the person you could rely on, but he couldn’t find a way to break through the walls of hurt that had built themselves around you.

They all loved you, in their own way. But love, when it’s cold, distant, and inconsistent, becomes a weapon. Love, when it’s mixed with neglect, becomes emotional abuse. It isn’t always harsh or violent. It’s quiet, hidden in the silences, in the moments where your needs go unrecognized. It’s in the way they forget you, in the way they act as though your pain is just a passing inconvenience. It’s in the way they only notice you when it suits them, when they remember that you’re there, when it’s time to check off the box of “care.”

You weren’t hated. But you were forgotten. And in the shadows of Wayne Manor, where the world’s greatest heroes lived, that silence was the loudest thing you could ever hear.

[beloveds-embrace]

🕸️ anon

ok but omegaveese au…being placed with graves and shadow company after brass rolls out an initiative that requires omegas to be fully integrated into pack life (not just on paper to get by the red tape), everything seems fine but there’s always an undercurrent of false niceties and lack of trust and connection with anyone, tensions rising because no one is successful in trying to have a breakthrough with you, being thrown out with barely any warning, the ink on the paperwork still drying, brass scrambling to fix the fuck up and preventing the potential shitstorm that would occur if people hear about an omega in the ranks without a pack attached, (all of this, however, happens at the expense of your emotional, physical, and mental well-being) getting filtered from pack to pack with nothing lasting long enough to stick, filtering from place to place, having no stability or solid ground beneath your feet, and as much an those around you try, it’s just not enough to even start to put yourself back together, and everything just feels wrong, withering away under the scrutiny and stares, doing your job because you’d be damned to let all the years go to waste and it’s the only thing keeping you sane, and still every other aspect of you is just shy of shattering under the stress. being put with a pack that has to work in proximity to the 141, the boys just observing how shit everyone treats you, how they don’t care enough to see this hollow thing you’ve become. they don’t understand how anyone can watch you waste away, prominent bruising showing during sparring practice, never taking food from the mess, not initiating or accepting much physical contact with anyone, spending time holed up in nigh impossible places to get away from everything even after grueling mission, in their eyes that just won’t do, and they’ll do anything to make you see how worth it you are

This is sooo good omfg?? Bless you 🕸️ anon you are a godsend 😩😩💕

They noticed you immediately.

Not because you demanded attention- no, you did the opposite. You wove through the world like smoke, curling into the cracks, slipping beneath notice, existing on the fringes of your so-called pack without ever being part of it.

But they had sharp eyes. And what they saw made something cold settle in their bones.

At first glance, you were exactly what the brass wanted- an Omega fully integrated into a pack. You wore their insignia, stood in formation, obeyed orders with the quiet efficiency of someone who had long since stopped expecting praise. But beneath the surface, nothing was right.

Because packs were supposed to be loud. Not specifically in sound, but in presence. In the way they hovered, protected, scent-marked, ensured their Omega never felt alone. Yet there you were- untouched, unscented, unclaimed. A specter in your own unit, barely acknowledged unless duty required it.

Ghost noticed first; he was trained to see the details others missed, a sniper even off-field: the way your movements were a fraction too slow after a hard hit, how your bruises lingered longer than they should, how no one ever came to your side to check in, to scent-mark, to ensure you healed. The way you picked yourself up every time, shoulders squared, face blank, moving forward as if pain was just another part of your uniform. As if it was something you’d long since grown to accept.

Soap noticed next.

It was the mess hall that gave you away. Not once did you take a tray. Not once did you join your packmates at a table, and not once did they bother checking on you. Instead, you lingered at the edges, offering nods in place of conversation, taking a seat only when necessary. And when you thought no one was looking? You left, empty-handed, disappearing before anyone could call attention to it.

Not like anyone in your supposed pack would have called attention to it, even if they’d seen it.

Gaz noticed in the downtime next.

You never relaxed, even after grueling missions. The others settled into easy camaraderie, laughing, scent-marking, reinforcing bonds that had been built over time. But you? You vanished, slipping away like an afterthought, retreating to places no Omega should have to seek out for comfort- storage rooms, dark corners, anywhere that allowed you to fold in on yourself, away from the world.

He hated how no one even put a sliver of attempt to pull you close.

Price, thus, saw everything.

He saw the way your scent never settled- how it wavered, thin and diluted, as if your body refused to attach itself to a place that was never home. He saw the careful neutrality in your expression, the polite, distant way you spoke to your packmates, as if keeping them at arm’s length was the only thing keeping you safe.

It doesn’t take long to dig up the truth.

Brass fucked up.

This was supposed to be a new era. One where Omegas weren’t just names on a roster, weren’t just passed around for paperwork’s sake. They were supposed to be integrated, bonded, wanted. But no one had accounted for what happened when it didn’t work.

What happened when an Omega never fit; when a pack saw them as an obligation rather than a need.

When the brass, in their infinite wisdom, decided to solve the problem by shuffling you around like spare parts. Filtered from unit to unit, never long enough to settle, never given the chance to belong.

And worst of all? You’d adapted.

Not by fighting, not by demanding more. But by shrinking, folding in on yourself until you were nothing but the quiet echo of what an Omega in a safe, happy pack was supposed to be.

Just there.

The pack that surrounded you now- they didn’t even see it. Didn’t even try to see it. Didn’t see the way you moved like something brittle, your frame wiry with stress, dark circles permanent beneath your eyes. Didn’t notice how you flinched away from casual touches, how you never leaned into their space, never initiated anything that would suggest you trusted them.

And the worst part?

They didn’t care enough to fix it.

They let you waste away in silence, let you wither under scrutiny, let you fight battles alone that no one was meant to fight.

But they saw you.

They saw the way your fingers trembled during sparring when you thought no one was looking. They saw the way you curled into yourself at night, scent so faint it barely registered, as if your body had long since given up trying to find something familiar. They saw the bruises you never spoke about, the exhaustion you never complained about, the way you never asked for anything.

And in their eyes, that just wouldn’t do; you weren’t meant to be hollow, nor were you meant to be discarded.

You were meant to be held.

So if no one else was going to fix this- if no one else was going to remind you of what it meant to be wanted- then they damn well would.

Before the mission with your current pack was nearing an end, Brass receives a request from John to have you transferred to them.

[solelifauna]

Yandere Batfam & Neglected Reader Prt. 3

Finally getting a tiny bit of Bruce's monologue!! And uh oh, looks like you've gotta clock in!

As the car began to move, you couldn't help but feel a growing sense of panic. The tension in the air was palpable, and you could feel the weight of everyone's gaze on you. You tried your best to focus on anything but the Waynes, your mind desperately attempting to process what just happened in the parking lot. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. It was then that Damian decided to break the awkward silence.

“Father, what is the meaning of bringing her along with us?” Damian spoke curtly, disdain marring his voice when mentioning you.

As much as you disliked him as well, he had a point. Why the hell are you sitting here with them?

Bruce glanced at Damian. Truth be told, he didn't quite know why. While you were his child, one out of the only two biological children he had, he had never really had the time or care to acknowledge you. You coming into his life abruptly disturbed everything, so he paid you no mind. He’ll admit, it wasn't fair of him to do so, but he had bigger things to worry about. He was tired, and a child that wasn't involved with his night business, who did not understand what his life of vigilantism took out of him, would never understand the sacrifices that he's had to make. It wasn't until seeing you on the football field, happy, talking to your friends and acting in a way he'd never seen you do, he'd begun to realize what he missed. 

When did you get so tall? He could have sworn you were no taller than his waist. And when did you join the cheerleading team? And who was that girl throwing her arm around you? Who was that boy? Gods, just how much has he missed? 

But he couldn't say all of that. So instead he just replied, “She's a part of this family, Damian and she needed a ride back home.”

He could feel Cassandra’s knowing stare, she could read him better than anybody and she knew the inner turmoil brewing in his heart. That's coupled with Stephanie’s smirk and Dick’s predatory grin. Jason grunted in response, clearly not pleased with the arrangement. Lastly, he could see the disbelief on your face, as if you couldn't believe you'd even be considered part of this family. And he’s mostly to blame. 

He internally sighed. He'd have to work on that. You were his daughter. His. It was his job to keep you safe and happy. It was his job to make sure you felt loved. And right now? He was no better than Jannet and Jack Drake leaving poor Tim to fend for himself. But that would all soon change, starting with himself and his children.

You on the other hand were still reeling from Bruce’s words. “Family”? Is he fucking kidding or what?

Dick, always the one to break the tension with his charm, spoke up next. "Hey, (Y/n), when did you become a cheerleader? I didn't know you were into that sort of stuff." Dick said with that condescending tone.

Your eyes twitched. You did not like his tone.

“That's none of your business Dick.” You shot back before you could even think.

Everyone looked your way. Whoops, that was your bad. 

It was Jasons turn to get upset, “Watch your fucking mouth.” He growled, ever possessive over his older brother.

You immediately froze up, offering a quick and quiet apology before retreating into your own head. Jason–Jason scared you more than any of the others. You knew about his pit rage, you knew about the bloody and beaten bodies he's left in the wake of his rage. You knew he’d never dream of hurting his family, the pit often aiding in his possessive tendencies over the rest of the bats but– you weren't family. And you'd hate to be on the receiving end of Jason’s wrath.

If anyone had continued talking to you, you wouldn’t know. The sound around you was muffled like your head was filled with cotton and you could feel yourself shaking. You wanted out. Now. Thankfully, the rest of the ride was mostly quiet. Sure, everyone would occasionally turn their eyes towards you, making you shrink further in on yourself, but you were almost at the manor. The vehicle barely came to a stop before you were throwing yourself out the door and into the manor. You bid Alfred a quick “goodbye” and “thank you” before bolting up the stairs and into your room. 

You locked the door, not that anyone would bother coming up to your room, but still it gave you security nonetheless. You stripped and hopped into the shower, the soreness in your body now making itself known. God it was gonna suck tomorrow. Why? Because it was Friday today, that meant tomorrow would be Saturday, and that meant that you'd have to go to work at the ass crack of dawn, 5 am. Plus, you didn't even have your bike, so you’d have to rely on Alfred to take you and bring you back. Great.

So with a heavy heart and heavy limbs, you tucked yourself into bed ready for the worst sleep of your life. 

You wake up to the grating sound of your iphone alarm, as you groggily get up to brush your teeth, shower and get ready for the long day ahead. Making your way down for a cup of coffee, sleep still in your eyes, you fail to notice the looming figure of Tim Drake already sipping his own coffee. It was dark downstairs and you were still fighting off exhaustion from the day before, so who could blame you for not seeing the corner of the cabinet. Before you knew it, you were hunched over on the floor grabbing your pinkie toe in pain. 

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, that hurt! Holy shit, kill yourself, kill yourself! Who the fuck puts a cabinet there, oh my god.” You wailed in pain, cursing at the damn cabinet. You’d blame it on delirium and exhaustion. Honestly, it was an expected crashout.

You laid pathetically on the floor for a couple of more seconds before you heard a monotone, disinterested voice make itself known.

“Are you done now?” Tim says from behind you.

You yelp in surprise, before clumsily scrambling up and turning around. And there he was, sitting at the counter, coffee in hand and an almost (dare you say) amused look on his face. You blanche. Shit, how long has he been sitting there? Oh god, please don't say he’s witnessed the entirety of your embarrassing crashout? 

And as if reading your mind, he cryptically answers, “Yes, I've been here this entire time.” All while sipping his coffee as his calculating eyes scarily bore into your figure.

You don't know what to say, embarrassed out of your mind, so you just apologize. 

“Right–um, sorry about that. I’m just tryna get some coffee. I'll be out your way.” You hastily say before turning, tail tucked back towards the coffee pot. 

You could still feel the weight of Tim’s stare on you but you're too tired and embarrassed to care. You pour yourself a big cup of straight up black coffee and proceed to chug it while walking towards the sink. After finishing it, you proceeded to gag for a few seconds, the bitter taste still permeating your mouth. God you hated the taste of black coffee, but you’d do whatever it takes to not fall asleep on the job. You discard your cup into the sink before you decide to find Alfred, it was 4:37 am and you needed to clock in by 5:00 am or else your ass was grass. You conveniently ignore Tim who has watched all of your misfortune happen this morning. He doesn't say anything when you leave the dining/kitchen area, just eerily watches. 

God, he made you nervous.

Anyways, your quest to find Alfred was short lived as he seemingly appeared out of nowhere, Damian in tow (you could feel the scar on your face burning). Great, was everyone up at this ungodly hour or was it just them two? You avoided the heat of Damian’s glare as you relayed to Alfred your predicament, apologizing profusely since you did ask him last minute. He simply smiled at you, letting you know that “it is never a hindrance when you need something Master (Y/n).” You smiled back in relief, thanking him once more as Alfred got ready to drop you off.

But of course, Damian just had to break the silence. 

“What could you possibly need to do at this hour? Alfred has better things to do other than encouraging your galavanting.” Damian spoke sharply.

You just sighed, “Not that it's any of your business, but I have work.”You don't offer any more information as your hand unknowingly caresses the scarred tissue on your face. 

Damian’s eyes draw to your face at the movement, seemingly fixated on the scar he left on you. He doesn’t think much of it, but sometimes, something green and dangerous purrs inside of him. Yes, his mark. It was his mark on your face. As much as he hated you, you were his only other blood-sibling no matter how weak and useless you were. He had bested you, and usually would pay you no mind, you knew your place and would typically remain docile. But recently you’ve been showing a new abrasive side, one he is not particularly fond of.

He’d have to talk to father about it.

Silence permeates the air as he doesnt bother to dignify your disrespect with a response. You’re saved when Alfred comes back with keys, both you and him rushing to whatever vehicle he's pulled out from the large, large selection of coveted cars Bruce owns. Looks like it's a BMW today. You practically throw yourself in, as Alfred speeds away to the cafe you work at. You arrive at work in record speed, bidding Alfred a “goodbye” before rushing to throw your apron on and clock in. 

You’re greeted by the one other person working your shift, Matheo. He’s a sweet boy, very soft-spoken and mostly sticks in the back near the kitchen to bake the pastries while you work the register. Of course he comes and helps with drink orders when it's particularly busy, he’s too kind to leave you to fend for yourself. Regardless, you have a pretty straight forward agreement, which is what spells your doom. It was a regular Saturday shift, with the pilate moms coming in, middle schoolers loitering, and the occasional customer with an attitude. Everything was fine and dandy till three familiar faces walk in.

You were ever the busy body, finishing one last drink before yelling out a quick “I’ll help y’all shortly!”, to whoever just walked in. You quickly rush over to the register, not even bothering to look up from the register.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait! Now what can I get you?” You said in your regular customer service voice.

“Well, well, well, turns out you were right Dami, she does work here.” A chillingly familiar voice jests.

You freeze, slowly looking up only to be met with Dick smiling at you. It was not a kind smile, no, there was something dangerous about it. Behind him, you could see the familiar figures of Cassandra and Damian. What the hell are they doing here? God, you should have never mentioned anything to Damian, now you had to deal with this.

“R–right, what can I get you?” You shakily say, putting back on your customer service persona. 

Dick’s smile grows, his teeth now visible, almost as if he was baring his teeth. Danger. Something inside you screamed.

“I’ll just have a vanilla cold brew, extra cold foam. Dami, Cass, what do you want?” Dick grinns.

“Tch, I don't want anything from this place.” Damian says, uninterested.

“Cass?” Dick asks, looking at her.

She comes up to the register, giving Dick a one-off-glance. Worryingly, her eyes seem to be fixated on you. She doesn't say anything for a few seconds, holding immensely uncomfortable eye contact with you before relaying her order.

“Just a caramel latte.” Cass says, still looking down at you.

You frantically fill in their orders on the register.

“Will that be all?” You ask. You hoped that was all, you didn't want them spending another minute talking to you.

Dick says a quick cheerful “no” before you ring them up and get started with the two drinks. It doesn't take too much time before you’re calling out their names to come get their drinks. You hope they leave right after. But of course, nothing goes according to your wishes as they grab their drinks and seat themselves at a table. Great.

The minutes after result in further disaster. After a couple of more customers, a lady comes up to you, face already molded into a scowl with a half empty drink in her hand. Oh great, a “karen”.

“Hello ma’am, how can I help you?” You kindly say.

“You! I need a refund. Right. Now!” The lady booms, wagging her finger in your face.

“A refund, right, is there a reason you’re requesting a refund?” 

“A reason!? You made my drink wrong and I want my money back!”

“Please correct me if i'm wrong, but I believe you ordered a double mocha cappuccino, correct?” You ask slowly.

“Yes, that's what I ordered! Why are you asking me all these questions?!”

“Sorry ma’am, but that is the drink I gave you. Is there something specifically wrong with the drink?”

“The drink that you gave me is wrong, you made it wrong! It doesn't taste anything like regular coffee!”

“Oh, well sometimes different cafes use different recipes for the same drink, i think maybe that's why–”

“–Well I don't care! I want a refund!”

You could feel eyes on you as the other patrons start to notice the commotion brewing.

“Ma’am, i'm so sorry but i can't give you a refund, you’ve already drank half the drink. If you would have let me know sooner, I could've remade it for you, but–I'm sorry ma’am I can't give you that refund.”

“Are you serious! Why I never!? It's always bitches like you who try scamming people out of their money!”

“Ma'am, I'm really sorry, it's the company policy. I just work here–” You gently say, trying to calm her down.

“–Go to hell you bitch!” Is all you hear before you’re doused in the face with warm coffee. 

You just stand there is shock, blinking through the coffee. There's no way that just happened. Theo, comes out having heard the commotion (albeit a little too late), only to be met with the sight of you covered in coffee.

“Oh my gosh (Y/n)! I should have come sooner, are you okay?”

“Peachy.” You say, voice audibly watery and cracking.

“I'll take care of everything up here, you go take some time in the back. Clean up or honestly if you don't feel like it, just rest in the back–”

“–It's okay Theo, I–I just need a couple of minutes. I'm fine.”

He gives you a quizzical stare.

“I'm fine. I promise.” You smile, although you could feel your eyes starting to water. 

You hastily walk off to the break room and proceed to cry for a good 2 minutes before deciding to start cleaning yourself up. You do your best to get the coffee that's dried into hair out while wiping down your now sicky arms and face. Changing your apron gets rid of most of the mess, but your shirt underneath still has a couple of large patches of coffee. Sighing, you tidy yourself up as much as possible before heading back to the counter, Theo worriedly waiting for you. You just shoot him a thumbs up and let him know that it’s okay for him to retreat back to the kitchen; he lingers for a moment, hesitant to leave you alone, but drudges back regardless.

There are eyes on you. You look up perturbed, only to find Dick, Cass, and Damian still sitting at their table, sharp stares pinned on your figure. They saw all that happen, didn't they? You mentally cringed. 

Checking your watch, you realize that there are still four more hours left on your shift. Great, that's great–just another four more hours, which is technically thirty minutes eight times, which is technically fifteen minutes sixteen times–and you’ve lost it. Jesus you were losing your mind, which was understandable (honestly you're surprised it hasn't happened sooner) during one of the worst shifts of your life.

It’s fine. You got this. Just four more hours, and you can have your “Mental Breakdown Part Ⅱ™”.

Tag-list!!:

@sitepathos @ferakillia @uknowimdumb @shycreatorreview @niggrrooo @dhanyasri @cantfindmelol @space1crow @earth-to-mee @rosecentury @yuyuzi-ling @simpingfor-wakasa @bat1212 @sheepintherain @person-from-daaaa-voidddd @resident-cryptid @cupids-pretty-boy @danni1323 @couldeatthatgirlforlunch @erikasurfer @toast-on-dandelioms @hazbinlove @h0neysiba @shycreatorreview @ch1cky-093 @kore-of-the-underworld @krazy-kattzz @ceramic-raven @randomlyappearingartist @bleep-bloops-world @hasty-desert @bellethesleepypotato @lilyalone @delias-stuff @amisupposedtomakesenserightnow @soriansick @vanilliona @thoughtfulbelieverstrawberry @vanessa-boo @kitsutsugikuni @mottysith @beeaskewwrites @starsdotalk @yandere-fetish @mybones537 @mochien0tfound @black-swan-blog27 @phoenixgurl030 @meowmeeps @tatsuri-zomushiki @sereinitysmind @l0g0phobe @alias-sam @fairygardenprincesss @chocolatesweetsdestiny @lunaastars

[winterlico]

TOOTHBRUSH — SJY

ᯓ★ pairing : roommates!Jake x fem!reader / fluff , makeout ᝰ.ᐟ

1.432 ｡ after months of living together, the distinction between "just roommates" and something more begins to haze due to late-night movie marathons, sharing food, and Jake's toothbrush's inexplicable permanent presence in your bathroom.

feedbacks 𖹭 reblogs / O2 edition

It started with a toothbrush. A small, seemingly insignificant thing that should have meant nothing—except, somehow, it did. You weren’t sure when, exactly, the little blue toothbrush became a permanent fixture in your bathroom, but the moment you noticed it, the realization settled in like an itch at the back of your mind, something you couldn’t quite scratch away. It wasn’t yours. And yet, there it was, standing tall beside your own, as if it had always belonged there.

The first time you saw it, it was early morning, and the world still felt like it was moving in slow motion. Your body was sluggish, your brain foggy, the remnants of last night's horror movie marathon lingering like a shadow behind your eyes.

Your feet shuffled across the cold tiles, your fingers automatically reaching for your toothbrush when—pause. There. Right next to yours, a blue toothbrush, its bristles slightly damp, freshly used. It wasn’t an accident. You blinked at it for a long moment, then shook your head, deciding you were too tired to care.

Except, the next morning, it was still there. And the morning after that.

Days turned into weeks, and the toothbrush never moved. It became a staple of your bathroom, sitting innocently beside yours as if daring you to acknowledge what it meant. But acknowledging it meant admitting something you weren’t ready to—because it wasn’t just about the toothbrush. It was about the way Jake had, somehow, started blending into your life in ways you never quite expected.

"Jake," you called from the couch one evening, your voice breaking the easy silence between you. The two of you had fallen into a rhythm over time, existing in shared spaces without the weight of expectations. It was comfortable, effortless even, the kind of companionship that felt like second nature.

Your laptop rested against your thighs, your eyes half-focused on the screen, but your mind was elsewhere—on the toothbrush, on Jake, on the quiet shift that had taken place between you.

Jake, sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, lifted his head lazily, his hair mussed from where he had been lying on it. "Mmm?" he hummed around a handful of popcorn, his expression amused but uninterested.

"Your toothbrush. It’s still in my bathroom."

That got his attention. He turned his head slightly, one brow arching in amusement as a slow smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "Yeah?"

You frowned. "Yeah? That’s all you have to say?"

Jake shrugged, his shoulders lifting in a nonchalant manner as he popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. "I mean, I left it there on purpose."

You sat up straighter, narrowing your eyes at him. "Why?"

"Because it’s convenient?" He shot you a grin, the kind that made your stomach do that stupid little flip you tried to ignore.

You scoffed. "Jake, you have a bathroom in your room."

"Yeah, but I like using yours."

You groaned, rubbing a hand down your face. "That’s not how this works!"

Jake just stretched his arms above his head, completely unbothered. "Well, you haven’t moved it."

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—only to realize you had no real argument. Because he was right. You hadn’t moved it. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t really want to.

Things started shifting after that.

It wasn’t anything drastic—no grand declarations, no sudden confessions—but there was something undeniably different in the way you and Jake existed together. It was in the way he started making you coffee in the mornings, always just how you liked it, before you even had the chance to ask. It was in the way you found yourself picking up his favorite snacks at the grocery store, even though he never requested them.

His hoodies, once something that belonged to him, started ending up in your laundry pile, and at some point, you stopped returning them. He never asked for them back, anyway.

The boundaries that once felt so clearly defined between you blurred, softening into something neither of you seemed willing to name. And yet, it was there—in the way he looked at you, in the way your bodies gravitated toward each other, like some invisible force kept pulling you closer and closer together.

It was dangerous, this thing between you. Because roommates weren’t supposed to fall asleep tangled together on the couch. They weren’t supposed to wake up with his arm draped over your waist like a silent claim. They weren’t supposed to feel like this.

One particularly lazy Sunday morning, you stumbled into the kitchen, your limbs still heavy with sleep, to find Jake standing at the stove. The smell of butter and syrup filled the air, warm and inviting, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps, his lips curling into that lopsided grin that always made your chest feel too tight.

"Morning, sunshine."

You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you dropped onto a stool at the counter. "Why are you like this?"

Jake just chuckled, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "Like what?"

"Annoyingly perfect at being a functioning human this early in the morning."

He placed a plate of pancakes in front of you, leaning against the counter with an unreadable expression. "You like having me around."

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was, you did. More than you should.

It all came to a head one night. You walked into your room after a long day, expecting nothing more than quiet solitude—only to find Jake sprawled across your bed, half-buried under your blankets, scrolling through his phone like he belonged there.

You stopped in the doorway, crossing your arms. "Jake."

He looked up lazily. "Yeah?"

"That’s my bed."

"Mmm-hmm." He patted the empty space beside him. "And?"

You exhaled sharply. "You have your own bed."

"Yours is comfier."

Your lips pressed together. "So what, you’re just permanently moving in now?"

He pouts, his gaze fixated at you. something softer flickering behind his eyes. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Your heart stilled. Because no. No, it wouldn’t.

Jake must have seen something in your face because his voice softened, teasing yet careful. "You know, if you really wanted me to stop using your bathroom, you would’ve moved my toothbrush by now."

You hesitated, then exhaled a quiet laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—one of yours, the one he stole ages ago.

"No," you murmured. "I guess."

And when Jake grinned, pulling you down onto the bed and kissing you like he’d been waiting forever, you knew.

His lips met yours softly at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of something neither of you had dared to speak aloud. But then something in you shattered—maybe it was the weight of unspoken feelings, or the quiet ache of wanting—and the kiss deepened. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your face up to his, and a quiet sound escaped you, something between a sigh and a gasp, as Jake pulled you impossibly closer.

It wasn’t rushed, but it was desperate, a slow burn that built and built until it felt like the world had shrunk down to just this—just him. The warmth of his hands, the press of his body against yours, the way his lips moved against yours like he was memorizing every inch.

He kissed you like he had been waiting forever, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he let go. And you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands fisting into his hoodie, refusing to let him pull away.

When he finally did, both of you breathless, his forehead pressed against yours, he exhaled a shaky laugh. "I guess I’m staying, then."

You laughed too, still dazed, still caught in the lingering heat of his touch. "Yeah. Leave the toothbrush."

And when he kissed you again, you knew—somewhere between stolen hoodies, shared coffee, and the toothbrush that never moved, Jake had become something more.

And you? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — one

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 22.2k words

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

synopsis — mark lee goes from being the quiet kid at the river court to the star basketball player on campus, reigniting old tensions with his brother, jeno. as jeno’s girlfriend, you’re pulled into the rivalry, but it’s mark who captivates you. his touch, his presence—he stirs something deep inside you that you can’t shake. as the tension between the brothers grows, so does your forbidden connection with mark, forcing you to confront where your heart—and body—truly belong.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree hill, reader is in a relationship with jeno but it’s far from healthy or loving, depictions of lust and physical connection rather than emotional intimacy, slow burn with emotional (and sexual) tension between reader and mark, basketball is a heavy theme, mark being a key player, reader uses drugs and drinks to avoid facing her emotions, struggles with communication and vulnerability, messy dynamics with themes of abandonment and insecurity, escapism, toxic sibling rivalry between jeno and mark, oooh guys jeno is a jerk! bad boyfriend jeno, explicit sexual content involving rough and emotionally detached interactions with jeno, reader makes out with mark, soft mark, emo boy mark, confident mark, understated and hot mark, references to drug and alcohol use as coping mechanisms, swearing, explicit language and competitive sports tension.

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

───────────────────────────────

The air in the room is thick and hazy, the low-hanging smoke curling in lazy spirals above your heads, seeping into the fabric of your clothes and the sheets. The bedside table is cluttered with half-empty bottles—beers, vodka mixers—and a vape pen with a fading light. The faint scent of weed lingers, clinging to the mess of discarded clothes on the floor. It should feel comforting, familiar, but it doesn’t. Everything feels muted, dulled, like you’re watching your life from a distance, the numbness settling deeper with each passing second.

Jeno lies beside you, shirtless, his body warm against yours. Your head rests on his chest, where his heartbeat thuds unevenly, just as it always has—never steady enough to soothe you, never grounding like you wanted it to be. Tonight, it feels even more erratic, like something inside him is pulling further away. Your fingers trace lazy circles over his skin, the motion slow, almost mechanical. It’s a routine now—this closeness that never truly feels close.

He’s quiet, too quiet, and it irritates you more than it should. You inhale sharply, the vape pen slipping between your lips before you exhale through your nose. Shifting closer, you press a kiss against his neck, letting your lips linger longer than usual, hoping he’ll respond. But there’s nothing—not a sigh, not a flicker of acknowledgment. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest, his mind somewhere far beyond the room. You pull away, frustrated, the weight of the past hour pressing down on you.

“Jeno,” you murmur, your voice catching slightly, as if the words are stuck in your throat. Your lips linger near his jaw, hoping for a reaction, for something to pull him back to you. But all you feel is the faint twitch of his hand on your waist, a gesture that once held desire but now feels empty, mechanical. It’s not what you’re looking for, not tonight.

You move again, this time more insistent, straddling his waist, your hands pressing against his chest, trying to ground yourself—or maybe trying to ground him. You tilt his chin toward you, forcing his eyes to meet yours, but they’re glassy, distant, reflecting the dull light of the lamp more than any real emotion. “Are you even here?” you ask, half-joking, but the frustration behind your words cuts through the haze in the air.

“Yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction in his voice. His eyes flicker to the ceiling again, avoiding yours, like he’s searching for an answer there that he can’t find in you.

You let out a sharp breath, your fingers tightening on his chest as you lean down, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that’s supposed to feel familiar, intimate. But even then, his response is slow, almost hesitant, like he’s going through the motions, doing what’s expected but feeling none of it.

Your heart sinks a little, and you pull back just enough to study his face, the way his jaw tenses and his gaze remains distant. The dim light casts long shadows across his features, making him look older, more worn down than he should. Something is eating at him, gnawing at the edges of whatever you have left between you.

“What’s wrong with you?” The words come out more accusatory than you intend, but the irritation bubbling inside you won’t let it rest. You both know what this is—it’s been like this for months now. Physical, surface-level. No connection. No real emotion. But tonight, it feels worse. Heavier.

He finally shifts beneath you, his fingers brushing against your hip, but there’s no spark in the touch, no warmth. “It’s nothing,” he says, his voice thin, barely more than a whisper.

“You always say that,” you mutter, the words bitter as they leave your mouth. You push yourself off of him, sitting at the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap as you glance over at the cluttered mess around you. Bottles, smoke, scattered clothes. It’s all a blur. “Is this really what we are now? Me trying, and you always somewhere else?”

You run a hand through your hair, glancing over your shoulder at him. Jeno doesn’t answer right away. He just rubs his face with his hand, his other arm falling limp beside him, like even the effort of responding is too much. “It’s just the game tomorrow,” he mumbles, but his words lack conviction.

“The game?” You repeat, incredulous. You turn to face him fully now, your frustration spilling over. “You’re thinking about basketball right now? We’re here, and all you care about is some stupid game?”

Jeno sits up, finally breaking the contact between you. His hands are tight, clenched in the sheets as he avoids your gaze. “It’s not just the game,” he snaps, his voice sharper now, the edge of something deeper cutting through. “It’s Mark.”

The name lands heavier than you expect. Mark Lee. Jeno’s half-brother. The one he rarely mentions, the one who has always been at the edges of your awareness but you’ve never had a reason to think about him. You’ve seen him around but only from a distance. He was never at the parties, never a part of the crowd Jeno ran with, always separate. always… distant. Mark’s never really mattered to you. Until now.

“What about him?” You ask, your voice slower, more careful.

Jeno lets out a short, bitter laugh. “He’s back,” he says, the frustration creeping into his voice.

“Back how?” You mumble, feeling the tension building. Mark had been around since you and Jeno were children but he had always been a part of the background, you never expected that to change. 

Jeno shifts beside you, you watch his jaw clench, his fists tightening on the sheets. “Back into my life. Out of nowhere. He’s on the team now—just showed up like he had something to prove, and Coach didn’t waste a second. Benched me, gave him my spot.” The words are clipped, tight with barely concealed anger.

You sit there, trying to process it. You’ve seen him before, alone at the river court after hours, earbuds in, completely disconnected from the world you and Jeno are a part of. Calm, composed, like nothing touches him. It strikes you how different he is — how he’s always stood apart from Jeno’s chaos. 

He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can feel the anger bubbling underneath, the years of resentment suddenly in the open. “My dad’s losing it. He never wanted Mark around. Hated him from the beginning—he’s always seen him as the mistake, the one thing he can’t stand to face. But now Mark’s back, and it’s like this unspoken challenge. Like Mark’s here to prove he’s better, or he can take everything that’s mine.”

You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to the intensity of his words. “Jeno… I’m sure it’s not that deep. It’s literally just basketball.”

His gaze snaps to you, deadpan. Anger flickers in his expression, a tightness in his jaw that hadn’t been there moments before. You’ve said the wrong thing. You can feel it. He looks at you like you don’t get it—like you don’t understand him at all.

There’s something wild in his eyes now, something untamed. “It’s never just been basketball,” he says, voice sharp, frustration lacing every word. “He’s always wanted everything I have. He’s always been there, lurking. And now he’s coming for everything—my spot, my life.” He pauses, his voice dropping lower, quieter, almost as if he’s afraid to say it out loud. “And you.”

The words hang heavy in the air, sinking into the silence that stretches between you. You stare at him, stunned, trying to process what he’s just said. And you. A chill runs through you. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond, how to make sense of what he’s implying.

───────────────────────────────

Jeno pulls up to the river court erratically, tires skidding on the gravel as he parks. The way he moves—quick, aggressive—mirrors the tension that’s been building between him and Mark for days. You’d rather be anywhere but here, surrounded by the weight of this impending showdown, but for Jeno, this is his element. He thrives in moments like these, where all eyes are on him, where the crowd fuels his need for attention and validation. Every glance, every whispered conversation from the sidelines—Jeno drinks it all in, the girls batting their eyes at him only adding to his confidence.

You feel the stares too. You and Jeno aren’t just well-known—you’re desired. The kind of couple everyone talks about, whispers about behind your backs. People want to be you or be with you. You’ve seen the way their eyes follow you both, lingering a little too long, filled with envy and something darker. It’s intoxicating, usually. But tonight, the attention feels heavier, more suffocating, like it’s pressing down on you, trapping you in this moment where everything feels like it’s about to break.

The river court itself is buzzing, the atmosphere charged with anticipation. The sky is a muted purple as dusk settles in, casting a hazy glow over the court. The river runs just beyond, the sound of water rushing in the background, a soft but constant reminder of the tension flowing through this moment. The court is cracked, worn from years of use, but it has a certain rawness to it—gritty, real. The streetlights flicker to life as people gather along the edges, their shadows long and looming over the pavement. There’s a strange energy in the air, a mix of excitement and unease, as more people file in. Jeno’s supporters are far bigger, louder, their voices filling the space. They want a show, and Jeno is ready to give it to them.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Lee Donghyuck’s voice cuts through the murmurs, playful and dramatic as he addresses the growing crowd. You don’t know him well—he’s Mark’s best friend, always lingering in the background. His narration carries a light-hearted tone, but the way his eyes flick between Mark and Jeno makes it clear: this is personal. “Ladies and gentlemen, the stakes are high, and you can feel the intensity in the air. We’ve got a battle of the brothers tonight. Mark Lee, our underdog, taking on the one and only Jeno Lee.”

Your gaze shifts to Jeno as he steps onto the court, confidence radiating from him as he bounces the basketball in his hands, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator surveying his territory. Across from him, Mark stands still, calm. He doesn’t thrive on the attention like Jeno does—he doesn’t even seem to notice the crowd. His focus is entirely on the game, his eyes sharp, determined.

Donghyuck’s voice carries on, “In one corner, we have Jeno—star player, campus legend. And in the other, Mark—cool, calm, and collected, with everything to lose.” There’s a hint of admiration in his tone when he talks about Mark, and you catch yourself paying closer attention to him too. You’ve never really noticed Mark before, but now, as he steps forward, there’s something about the way he carries himself that draws you in. The quiet confidence, the determination in his eyes… it’s hard not to watch him.

The game starts fast. Jeno wastes no time, dribbling aggressively, his body coiled with energy, every movement sharp, intentional. Mark, on the other hand, is methodical, almost serene in the way he moves, his eyes never leaving the ball. Jeno talks trash as they play, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. “You don’t belong here, Mark. This isn’t your world.”

Mark doesn’t respond, his focus unwavering. You can see it—the way his eyes track the ball, his calm under pressure. He’s not here to prove anything to Jeno; he’s here for himself. Every shot Mark takes is calculated, precise. He moves with a fluidity that surprises you, and you catch yourself watching more intently than you expected, noticing the subtle shift in his posture, the way his eyes sharpen when he finds an opening. There’s something intimate in the way he plays, an art to his determination that makes it impossible not to be drawn in.

“And Mark with the shot—boom! Nothing but net!” Donghyuck’s voice is filled with excitement, and the crowd reacts with gasps. You can hear the surprise rippling through them. Jeno wasn’t expecting this, and neither were they. “He’s got game, ladies and gentlemen. Jeno might have his work cut out for him.”

Jeno’s frustration grows with each point Mark scores. You can see it in the way his movements become more frantic, more desperate to overpower Mark. But Mark doesn’t falter. He doesn’t need to respond to Jeno’s taunts, and doesn't need to engage in the mind games. His eyes are always on the prize, his determination unshakable.

As the game continues, it’s clear that Jeno underestimated his brother. Mark isn’t just holding his own—he’s thriving. Each basket he makes feels like a step out of the shadow Jeno has cast over him for so long. For Jeno, this is about dominance, about keeping Mark out of his world. But for Mark, it’s about more than that. It’s about carving out his own place, about proving he can hold his own.

Jeno dribbles back, eyes narrowing as he pulls up from way beyond the three-point line, his body coiling with the kind of confidence that comes from years of dominance on the court. His movements are fluid, almost graceful as he rises to take the shot, the ball leaving his fingertips in a perfect arc. For a second, it looks like it’s going in—like he’s about to remind everyone why he’s the best. But just as the ball reaches its peak, Mark appears out of nowhere, launching himself into the air, his arm extending at just the right angle to block it. 

Donghyuck's voice bursts out in excitement, “Jeno shoots… and misses!” he pauses, eyes wide with amazement, “holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

The sound of the ball slapping against his hand echoes through the court, followed by the stunned gasps from the crowd. Jeno stumbles back, shock and disbelief flickering across his face as the ball ricochets away, the confidence he’d had only moments ago shattered.

“Mark with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Donghyuck’s playful tone turns serious as the game nears its end. The tension in the crowd is palpable, and you can’t help but feel it too. But more than that, you’re watching Mark now—really watching him. The way he doesn’t let anything distract him, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he takes his final shot. There’s something about him in this moment that feels… different. It’s not an attraction, not yet, but a subtle curiosity. The way he moves, the determination etched into every step—it draws you in, and you can’t help but wonder what else lies beneath that calm exterior.

“And that’s it! Mark Lee wins!” Donghyuck shouts as the crowd erupts, the shock clear on everyone’s faces. Mark’s friends swarm the court, cheering loudly, their celebration unrestrained. You watch them from the sidelines, a small, subtle smile pulling at your lips. You don’t know why, but seeing Mark win… it makes you happy. There’s something about it that feels right, like you’ve been waiting for this moment without even realising it. You haven’t smiled like this in so long.

Jeno walks toward you, his face twisted in frustration and defeat. “It’s not a big deal,” you say quietly, trying to diffuse the tension. 

Jeno laughs, though it’s not a sound filled with humour. “He’s not gonna quit the team now. I lost the bet.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You bet on it?”

Jeno’s face hardens, and the way he looks at you makes your heart skip a beat, but not in a good way. His silence is unsettling, and you can feel the shift in the air between you. “What did he bet if he won?” you ask, your voice quieter now, a sinking feeling creeping into your chest.

Jeno looks at you, his jaw tight. “You. He bet that he gets you.”

The words hit you like a slap, the weight of them sinking in slowly. You’re stunned, unsure how to feel. Part of you is angry at Jeno, furious that he would treat you like an object in some stupid rivalry. But another part of you—the part that watched Mark play tonight, the part that saw something different in him—can’t shake the way you felt watching him on that court.

───────────────────────────────

The drive back to Jeno’s house is suffocating, the silence hanging heavy in the air like a storm about to break. You’ve tried speaking, tried breaking through the wall he’s built around himself, but he just stares straight out of the window, his jaw clenched tight as if he’s grinding through every word he doesn’t want to say. His silence grates on you, each passing second tightening the coil of frustration in your chest.

Finally, you snap, your voice cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade. “Why the fuck would you agree to let me get involved in any type of bet? Aren’t you my boyfriend? Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”

Jeno doesn’t answer, doesn’t even turn to look at you. His expression remains stony, detached, like you’re not even there. It’s as if every emotion between you is locked behind that clenched jaw. The frustration inside you bubbles over, boiling under your skin as he pulls up to his apartment, the car jerking to a stop. Before you can say anything more, he throws the door open, slams it shut, and storms toward the house, leaving you sitting there, stunned.

You follow him, heart pounding, already knowing what you’re about to walk into. But it still hits harder than you expect when you push through the front door: another one of his fucking parties.

The bass from the music vibrates through the floor, the walls practically shaking from the force of it. The air inside is thick—sweat, alcohol, smoke—all mingling into a nauseating fog that clings to everything. Half the campus seems to be packed into the house, bodies pressed together, laughing, shouting, grinding. It’s chaos. It’s chaotic, a celebration party that was meant to mark Jeno’s victory but he lost. He didn’t expect to lose so now he’s throwing himself into this mess, trying to forget how Mark beat him.

Jeno doesn’t even glance your way as he strides straight into the centre of the party. The second he steps inside, the energy shifts. All eyes are on him. Girls bat their eyelashes, offering coy smiles and glances, waiting for him to notice. The guys are quick to slap him on the back, giving him their usual praise, eager to bask in the glow of his attention. He soaks it up, drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

Without a second thought, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd. You stand there, invisible, feeling like an afterthought. You watch as Jeno gravitates toward a group of girls, the kind you’ve seen around before—the ones who always seem to be in his orbit, looking for a chance to get close. They laugh at something he says, their hands grazing his arm, their gazes hungry. And Jeno, your supposed boyfriend, leans into it.

You watch as one of the girls, dressed in a tight, glittering dress, dances close to him, her body pressed against his as they move to the beat. Jeno’s hands rest on her waist for just a second—nothing more than a passing touch, but it’s enough to sting. Enough to make your stomach twist. She leans in to whisper something in his ear, and he smirks. It’s a look you’ve seen before—not necessarily malicious, just confident, like he’s always known how to handle this kind of attention. His eyes are a bit hazy, a mix of alcohol and the mood of the night, and he doesn’t even glance in your direction.

The other girls join in, dancing around him, their bodies brushing against his as the music pulses through the room. Jeno doesn’t move away, doesn’t stop them, but he’s not exactly encouraging it either. He lets it happen, lets them touch him, lets the night sweep him up. You know it’s not about forgetting you, not about pushing boundaries—Jeno’s always had this natural pull, the kind that draws people in without him even trying. But tonight, it feels different, harder to shake off, like he’s just letting the moment take him, unaware of how much it’s affecting you.

Your chest tightens, and you stand there, rooted in place. It’s not like this is the first time—Jeno’s always been the guy who draws attention effortlessly, always the one people gravitate toward. But tonight, there’s something sharper about it, something that feels a little too close. You know he loves you, but watching him in the middle of it all, surrounded by all these girls, it feels like you’re invisible for a moment. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s forgotten how much he means to you. But deep down, you know it’s just him getting caught up in the night, not in them.

You make your way upstairs, needing space, needing to breathe. The noise below feels like a weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating you. Jeno’s room is as much of a mess as the party downstairs, but it’s quieter at least. You go straight to his drawers, pulling out bottles of whatever alcohol you can find, downing shots without caring about the burn in your throat. Then it’s the drugs—whatever pills and powders he’s stashed away. You don’t think, you just take them. Anything to numb the anger, the frustration, the feeling of being trapped and ignored.

You grab your laptop from the desk and plug your phone into the speaker, blasting your own music. The party music below is lame, anyway. With the alcohol and drugs starting to take effect, you focus on your screen, your fingers flying across the keys as you work on your art assignment. You pull up the digital image you’ve been editing for days, your eyes scanning the lines and colours as you tweak the lighting, adjust the shadows—anything to keep your mind off Jeno, off the party, off everything.

An hour passes before Jeno stumbles into the room, high out of his mind. He’s still reeking of sweat and alcohol, his shirt half-untucked, his eyes bloodshot. He glances at your screen, scoffing.

“What are you wasting your time on now?”

You bite your tongue, not wanting to start another fight, but the irritation flares up anyway. You keep your eyes on the screen, editing a tiny detail on the photo, hoping he’ll leave. But he doesn’t. Instead, he walks over and turns off the speaker, his smirk testing you.

“You know nobody listens to this crap,” he says, challenging you with his gaze.

“Why the fuck did you allow me to be bet on?” you snap, unable to hold back any longer. The question is sharp, bitter.

Jeno rolls his eyes and shrugs, as if it’s not worth discussing, as if it doesn’t matter. His casual dismissal makes your blood boil.

“Don’t fucking roll your eyes at me,” you seethe, standing up from the bed. “Don’t give me attitude. You’re the one throwing your lame parties and celebrating what? That your brother beat your lame ass today?”

Jeno shakes his head, irritated. “That’s why I came here now,” he mutters, his words slurring slightly. “To ask you if you wanna come party with us.”

“‘Us’?” you ask, folding your arms. “So that means the guys and the girls you’re fucking around with? The ones you let grind all over you like you don’t have a girlfriend standing right there?”

Jeno’s expression tightens, his jaw clenching as the accusation hits him. His eyes flash with frustration, but for a moment, you catch a flicker of guilt before he quickly masks it. His lips press into a thin line, his nostrils flaring slightly, as if he’s holding back from snapping. He sighs, exasperated. “And me.”

“And the guys,” you repeat, rolling your eyes.

“You know what, Y/N,” he says, his tone shifting to frustration. “I’m getting really tired of this. I came here to spend time with you.” He points at you accusingly, his words biting.

“Yeah, me and half the campus,” you shoot back, referring to the party downstairs.

He throws his hands up in defeat. “Whatever. You wanna be a bitch, that’s cool. Just sit here and listen to your loser rock and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you glare at him, your voice sharp as a knife. “How about you don’t see me tomorrow?”

Jeno’s face falters for a moment, and he looks at you, something softer trying to break through the haze of alcohol and frustration. “Look… I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice low. It’s an apology, but it feels half-hearted, like he’s saying it because he knows he should, not because he means it.

You shake your head, ignoring him as you push past. The anger burns too hot, and his apology barely registers. You brush yourself past him, the touch brief but cold, leaving him standing there in the doorway, stunned and alone.

You breathe heavily, trying to calm the anger still simmering in your chest. Each inhale feels shaky, your body betraying just how rattled you are. Jeno’s words, his actions downstairs, the careless way he allowed those girls to hang on to him like you didn’t matter—it all echoes in your mind. You need to escape, to get away from the suffocating weight of it all. With nothing else to do, you make your way downstairs, the pounding bass and shrill laughter filling the space like a cloud of smoke you can’t shake.

You’re halfway to the kitchen when a few of your friends spot you. Their faces light up, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. They pull you into a conversation, their voices high-pitched and bubbly as they compliment your dress, touching your arm and admiring the way the tight black fabric clings to your curves.

“Oh my god, that dress is insane on you!” one of them gushes, her eyes wide with admiration. “Jeno is so lucky…” 

You smile, the kind of smile you’ve perfected—wide and warm, just enough to convince them you’re engaged. “Thanks,” you reply, your voice light, pretending to match their energy. It’s easy to slip into this act, to fake the excitement, the warmth. You’ve done it before. But inside, everything feels hollow, like there’s a wall between you and the rest of the world.

As they chatter on about the party, about boys, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror. The dress is tight, black, hugging every inch of your body. The neckline plunges just enough to catch attention, the fabric pulling at all the right places. Your makeup is flawless—lips painted a deep, sultry red, eyeshadow smoked out in a way that makes your eyes pop. To everyone else, you look like the life of the party, someone who belongs here. But looking at your own reflection, you feel detached, like you’re watching yourself from outside your body.

You’re about to respond to one of your friends when something catches your eye—someone. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice Mark Lee standing across the room. You freeze. Your friends’ voices fade into the background, the party around you slipping away as your focus zeroes in on him. What the hell is he doing here?

Mark doesn’t belong at parties like this. It’s obvious in the way he stands, surrounded by people yet somehow separate, distant. He’s smiling, his lips curved upward, but there’s a casual awkwardness in the way he holds himself. His shoulders are tense, and he fidgets with his hands as if he’s not entirely comfortable with the attention.

You watch as a few girls, practically draped over him, giggle and bat their eyelashes, clearly trying to catch his eye. Mark’s friends are laughing, slapping him on the back like they’re celebrating something. You can tell his status is rising after his win today, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at how quickly people are flocking to him. It’s almost comical. Yet, unlike Jeno, Mark doesn’t seem to bask in it. He’s not soaking up the attention or feeding off it. Instead, he shifts awkwardly under their gazes, like the weight of it all makes him uneasy.

There’s something… different about him.

You find yourself studying the way his body language contrasts with the energy around him. Where Jeno would be centre stage, loving every second of the spotlight, Mark seems almost out of place, as if he’s trying to navigate a world that doesn’t quite fit him. It’s… endearing. His discomfort, the way he’s clearly not used to being the centre of attention—it draws you in, makes you curious in a way you hadn’t expected.

A small, quiet laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. You can’t help but find it amusing, how different he is from everyone else in the room. And just as quickly as you let yourself slip into that moment, his eyes meet yours.

For a split second, your heart stutters, and your breath catches. His gaze holds yours, steady and intense. You can’t look away, even though every part of you wants to. It’s as if the rest of the room melts away, the noise, the people, the party—it all blurs into the background. There’s only him.

Mark’s eyes are dark, deeper than you’d expect, and the tension between you feels thick, almost suffocating. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something behind his stare—something that sends a jolt through you. It’s unsettling how deep it cuts, like he’s seeing straight through you, into a place you didn’t want anyone to go.

Your stomach twists, the feeling both terrifying and magnetic. You should look away, but you don’t. You hold his gaze for longer than you should, and the tension between you builds with every second that passes. His stare is steady, unblinking, as if he’s waiting for something, as if he’s testing you. And the longer it goes on, the more you feel like something has shifted—something subtle, something dangerous.

Finally, you tear your eyes away, your heart racing in your chest. You turn, your movements quick and sharp, almost desperate to break the connection. But the weight of his gaze lingers on you, even after you walk away, the tension hanging in the air long after the moment has passed. Something has shifted, and you can feel it deep in your bones.

You don’t know what it is, but you’re certain of one thing: you’re not ready to face it yet.

You storm off, your heart pounding with a mix of frustration and betrayal, the thoughts of Jeno’s reckless behaviour and the bet swirling in your mind. Every step feels heavier, like the weight of everything that’s happened is pressing down on your chest. The muffled noise of the party below fades into the background as you climb the stairs, heading straight for Jeno’s room. The air feels thick, the kind of tension that wraps around you and makes it hard to breathe.

He bet on you.

The thought keeps ringing in your mind, making your stomach churn. It’s a hollow realisation, but one you can’t shake—like every guy in your life somehow views you as a prize, something to win or lose. Your chest tightens with anger, but it’s not just aimed at Jeno. It’s aimed at Mark too. He was part of it. Part of the game, the manipulation. 

You reach Jeno’s room and shove the door open, needing the space, needing to breathe. The familiar smell of his cologne mixed with weed hits you. The room is a mess, clothes and empty bottles scattered everywhere, a chaotic reflection of everything wrong between you and him. You step inside, your hands trembling slightly as you try to make sense of everything swirling in your mind.

But before you can take a breath, you hear footsteps behind you.

Your heart skips, the sudden sound catching you off guard. You whip around, expecting Jeno, but instead, it’s Mark standing in the doorway. His expression unreadable, his hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Hey,” Mark says, his voice soft but carrying through the tension in the room.

You stand in shock, your eyes narrowing in on him. The last person you want to see right now is Mark Lee, of all people. “What do you want? Why are you following me?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intend, but you don’t care. The anger flares up, twisting in your chest. “Why are you even in Jeno’s room? Do you want me to call him?”

Mark’s expression shifts, his lips curling into a half-smirk that makes your blood boil. “Yeah, you won’t do that.” he says, voice calm but biting. “Bit of a weird relationship you guys have, huh? You’re his girlfriend, but he spends the night flirting and touching other girls?”

His words hit harder than you expect, cutting deep. You swallow, trying to hold back the frustration bubbling inside you, but it spills over anyway. “You’re not allowed to talk about my relationship,” you snap, stepping closer, the distance between you narrowing. “How dare you… how dare you tell Jeno that you wanted me if you won the game earlier?”

Mark chuckles, the sound low and dry. “Just when I think Jeno couldn’t be more of a jerk,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I changed my mind, alright? I agreed that if I won, I’d quit the team. Did he bother telling you that, or did he just let you believe the worst?” 

You freeze, stunned. The weight of his words hangs heavy between you. “Why would you… why would you want to quit the team?”

Mark’s expression softens for a moment, the tension easing slightly from his posture. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I’m tired of this,” he says, his voice quieter now, more genuine. “I don’t want to be in Jeno’s world anymore, competing with him over every little thing. Basketball used to be fun for me, but not when it’s all about one-upping him. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at him, processing the weight of what he’s just said. He’s not just tired of the rivalry—he’s tired of everything that comes with it, the constant competition, the games, the need to prove something. It’s so different from the way Jeno sees things.

You truthfully had no idea how intertwined Mark and Jeno’s lives had become recently. It feels strange, realising you’ve been standing on the outside of something so tangled. You’re meant to be Jeno’s girlfriend, yet you’ve never seen this side of his life—not until today when he mentioned Mark while getting ready for their showdown at the river court. That was the first time he had ever really talked about his half-brother with you, and even then, it was brief, distant, like he was giving you only the surface.

And now here you are, standing with Mark, getting a glimpse into the mess that you’ve somehow been pulled into without fully understanding it. It’s like you’ve been involved in their rivalry without even realising it, and yet you can see the toll it’s taken on Mark. The weariness in his voice, the way he talks about Jeno—it’s clear he’s already fed up. He’s exhausted, but from your perspective, you’ve only been witnessing it from the outside, catching pieces of a story you were never let into.

You’re confused, not truly understanding the dynamics between Mark and Jeno or the tension in their family. You’ve met Jeno’s dad before, and it didn’t take long to realise he’s an asshole. Controlling, dismissive, and always pushing Jeno toward something—whether it’s basketball or his own toxic expectations. Now, hearing Mark’s side of things, it makes sense why he wouldn’t want to be associated with their dad or get sucked into Jeno’s world. You’re not surprised Mark is tired of it all.

You notice the sadness lingering in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his features, and it makes something twist in your chest. It’s clear he’s been carrying the weight of this rivalry far longer than you realised. You don’t fully understand the complexities between them, and a part of you wonders if you ever will.

You change the subject, not wanting to push him further into a conversation that clearly brings up so much for him.

“So… you did bet on me at first,” you murmur, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. “Why?”

Mark steps closer, and suddenly the air in the room feels different, heavier with a tension that has nothing to do with anger. His eyes lock on yours, and for a moment, you feel like he’s seeing right through you. “Because I’ve always noticed you,” he says, his voice lower, more intimate. “The way you laugh when you think no one’s watching. The way you bite your lip when you’re lost in your own thoughts. The way you don’t let anyone in, but you have so much more to give than what people see.”

The words send a jolt through you, leaving you speechless, flushed. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The room feels smaller, the tension between you thick and suffocating.

Just as quickly as he’s drawn you in, Mark shifts the conversation, breaking the intensity of the moment. His gaze drifts to the bedside table, where a stack of vinyl records sits. He curled an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. “No way Jeno listens to music this good,” he comments, his fingers brushing over the edge of a record. “Oasis?”

You blink, the sudden change in tone catching you off guard. “He doesn’t,” you mumble, glancing at the records. “They’re mine.”

Mark’s smile widens, genuine and warm. “Didn’t think Jeno had that kind of taste. But you… this makes sense. You’ve got good taste.”

You shake your head slightly, still processing the shift in the conversation. Jeno always made fun of your music, always complained about how outdated and boring it was. But Mark… Mark seems to appreciate it.

He looks around the room again and spots your laptop, the digital art project you’ve been working on still open on the screen. He steps closer, leaning over to get a better look. “This… this is good,” he says, sounding almost impressed. “Really good.”

You brush off the compliment, shrugging. “It’s nothing, just something I mess around with.”

“No,” Mark says firmly, turning to face you, his eyes serious. “You’re talented. You need to take this seriously. Be proud of yourself for once.”

You blink, the unexpected praise catching you off guard. Jeno never really cared about your art. Whenever you’d show him a new project, he’d glance at it, offer a half-hearted “cool,” and move on to whatever was on his mind. But hearing it from Mark—someone who’s not even in your life—feels different. It feels real.

You turn away slightly, suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s not a big deal,” you mumble, trying to dismiss it, but Mark doesn’t let it go.

“It is a big deal,” he insists, his voice soft but firm. “Look, I know I’m a complete nobody to you, and I don’t know everything about you, but I can tell that this… this is something you care about. You’re good, really good, and you shouldn’t brush that off.”

You swallow hard, his words sinking deeper than you expected. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, like he sees more than what you’re used to showing people. Like he’s seeing the side of you that even Jeno never bothered to notice.

The tension between you shifts again, but this time it’s softer, quieter. You feel yourself calming down, the anger that had burned so hot before now fading into something else—something you can’t quite put your finger on. It feels like Mark is seeing you, really seeing you, and that makes your chest tighten in a way that’s hard to ignore.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The question slips out before you can stop it, and you feel vulnerable, like you’re revealing more than you want to.

Mark’s gaze softens, and he steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe because someone should be,” he says quietly. “Someone should tell you how good you are. How much you matter. How much you deserve more than what you’re settling for.”

The words hit you hard, and you find yourself struggling to breathe. Mark’s standing so close now, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, and for a moment, you forget everything else. You forget about the party downstairs, the chaos with Jeno, the bet. All you can focus on is the way Mark is looking at you, the sincerity in his eyes.

You want to say something, anything, but the words are stuck in your throat. There’s a strange electricity in the air between you, like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous and exciting all at once. Your mind is telling you to stop, to pull back, but your body doesn’t move.

And then, before you can fully process what’s happening, Mark reaches out, his fingers gently brushing against your arm. The touch is soft, tentative, but it sends a jolt through you.

“Mark…” you murmur, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he’s already pulling his hand back, stepping away just enough to give you space, the intensity of the moment easing. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a small laugh, but it’s not out of amusement—it’s out of the tension that’s still lingering between you both.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to make things weird. I just… I don’t know, I felt like you needed to hear that.”

You stand there, your heart racing, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond. Everything feels charged, like you’re balancing on a knife’s edge. You know you shouldn’t feel anything like this. He’s Jeno’s brother, after all, and this is already messy enough. But the way Mark looks at you, the way he speaks to you—it feels different. Different from Jeno. Different from anyone.

“I should go,” you finally say, the words shaky and unconvincing.

But before you can make a move, Mark stops you again, his voice soft but commanding. “Wait.”

You turn back, meeting his eyes again, and the tension that had briefly eased floods back, stronger than ever. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes are full of something you can’t quite place.

“Why are you with him?” Mark asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

The question catches you off guard. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Because deep down, you’re not sure you know the answer anymore. The connection you once had with Jeno feels distant, hollow, like it’s slipping through your fingers the more you try to hold on.

Mark takes a step closer, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. His presence is overwhelming, and for the first time tonight, you feel truly seen. Not as Jeno’s girlfriend, not as someone who’s part of the chaos—but as yourself.

“Because,” you start, your voice shaky. “It’s easier than admitting that maybe we’re not right for each other. It’s easier than dealing with everything that’s falling apart.”

Mark’s eyes soften, and for a moment, he looks like he understands you in a way no one else has. He doesn’t push you for more, doesn’t make you feel guilty for your honesty. He just listens, and that feels like something you’ve been missing for a long time.

There’s a long silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy, charged with all the things you’re both not saying, but also filled with a strange sense of calm.

And then, Mark’s voice breaks through the quiet.

“You deserve better than ‘easy,’” he says softly, and his words sink deep into your chest, stirring something you’ve been trying to ignore for too long.

The room feels smaller, the air between you buzzing with something electric. For the first time, you wonder if maybe Mark’s right. Maybe you do deserve better. Maybe ‘easy’ isn’t enough anymore.

And just like that, everything between you shifts again.

───────────────────────────────

The next morning is a blur of regret and a pounding headache, the hangover hitting you harder than usual. You drag yourself out of bed, thoughts of last night swirling in your mind. Mark. You can’t stop thinking about him, the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you. It’s unsettling how much it affected you, how easily he got under your skin. You’d never noticed him before, never cared to, but now… now it’s different.

He looked right into you, saw things no one else had ever bothered to. That scared you. How could he do that in just one conversation? It’s unsettling how easily he got under your skin. You’d always been in control of how people saw you—polished, popular, the girl everyone wanted to be. But Mark… he saw past all of that. And you hated that. You couldn’t allow it.

As you walk through campus, your usual routine kicks in. The stares, the whispers—they follow you like they always do. You’re well-known, well-liked, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. You slip back into that role easily, the confident girl everyone looks up to, the one they envy or want to be. But today, it feels different, like something’s off. Like you are off. The mask you wear is starting to slip. 

You push open the heavy doors to the stadium, the noise of squeaking sneakers and the thud of basketballs filling the air. The gym is mostly empty except for the cheer squad and the basketball team, both deep into practice for the big away game this weekend. The space is vast, the polished wood floor stretching out in front of you, the high ceilings making the place feel both overwhelming and hollow.

Karina, your best friend, is standing in the middle of the court, already in full drill-sergeant mode. She’s wearing the same cheer outfit as you—tiny, sultry, and sexy. The short skirt clings to her hips, barely covering her thighs, and the tight top shows off just enough skin to turn heads. Her long black hair is tied back into a sleek ponytail, and her dark eyes flash with intensity as she barks orders at the other girls. Karina’s passionate, sometimes too much so, running practices like boot camp. You’ve known her forever, and while she thrives on drama, partying, and popularity, she’s a good person underneath all that chaos. She’s just someone who loves living on the edge and always ends up in trouble.

“You’re late,” Karina snaps when she sees you, her voice sharp. She rolls her eyes dramatically and gestures for you to start warming up. “If you’re not gonna take this seriously, don’t even bother showing up.”

You give her a half-hearted shrug, too hungover and distracted to care. “I overslept,” you mutter, pulling your hair into a ponytail and adjusting the skirt of your cheer uniform. The fabric clings to your skin, the skirt short enough to leave little to the imagination. You stretch, trying to ignore the lingering headache and the thoughts of Mark that refuse to leave your mind.

Karina goes back to yelling at the other girls, demanding perfection in the routine, and you start practising alongside them. The others around you are gossiping, their voices filled with excitement as they gush over the basketball players—how hot they look in their uniforms, who hooked up with who, and which guy is the best in bed. You block them out, going through the motions of the routine as if on autopilot.

But then, you feel it again. That familiar, heavy gaze. You lift your head, and your heart skips when you see him.

Mark.

He’s across the court, dribbling a basketball with effortless ease, but his eyes are on you. He’s wearing the team’s uniform tank top, his last name, ‘Lee,’ boldly printed on the back. The sleeveless jersey hugs his broad shoulders, showing off his muscular arms, the definition of his biceps catching your eye. It fits him well—too well. The fabric clings to his torso, outlining the muscles beneath, and you curse yourself for noticing.

What a fucking liar. Didn’t he say he was quitting the team? So why was he here now, practising like nothing had changed?

Mark dribbles closer, and as he moves past you, you can’t stop yourself from striking up the question that’s been bugging you. “I thought you quit,” you say, your voice sharp with accusation.

He pauses, turning to you, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I did,” he replies smoothly. “But I realised something this morning—this court is where I belong. No one’s gonna stop me from being here. Not Jeno. Not anyone.”

His words are like a challenge, and it makes something in your chest tighten. He stands there, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to say something more. You narrow your gaze, trying to keep the frustration from bubbling over. His presence was throwing you off balance, making you question things you didn’t want to face.

Mark doesn’t seem fazed by your silence. In fact, he starts talking again, asking about cheer practice, making small talk like nothing’s wrong. But you can’t let yourself engage. You give him blunt, clipped responses, barely meeting his gaze. You can’t afford to let him break through your walls again. Not in front of Karina and the other girls.

He huffs, his voice carrying a teasing edge. “Why the hell are you a cheerleader anyway? You’re the least cheery person I know.”

Before you can answer, you notice the other cheerleaders staring, their eyes flicking between you and Mark. Some of them—the same girls who were flirting with him at the party—are watching closely, whispering to each other, their expressions curious. You feel exposed under their gaze, like they can see right through you, like they know something’s happened between you and Mark even though that was far from the reality. 

You force yourself to act indifferent, cold. You put up the walls you’re so good at building, the ones that keep people from seeing the real you. But Mark’s not fooled. He sees through it, and it only makes him more determined. His gaze lingers, and you can feel the weight of it even as you turn away, trying to focus on the routine.

The tension between you is subtle, a quiet current that hums beneath the surface. You don’t know him well enough for it to be anything more, but there’s something about the way Mark watches you—calm, measured, like he’s trying to figure you out. It’s unsettling how easily he manages to chip away at the front you’ve put up, the one you use to keep everyone at a distance. He doesn’t push, doesn’t challenge you outright, but his presence is enough to make you feel exposed in a way you’re not used to.

What bothers you the most is how Mark seems to notice things others don’t, like he’s already picking up on pieces of you that you barely acknowledge yourself. He doesn’t say much, but the way he looks at you—steady, unflinching—feels like he’s seeing past the version of you that everyone else accepts without question. It’s not that he’s right, exactly, but the fact that he might be makes you uneasy.

Mark catches you stealing small glances at him as the practice goes on. You falter in your movements just enough for him to notice, and each time you feel his eyes on you, your skin prickles with awareness. It’s infuriating, really—the way he’s always watching, like he’s waiting for you to crack. And what’s worse, you can’t stop yourself from glancing back.

You refocus, forcing your attention on Karina, who’s still barking orders at the squad, her long black hair swaying with every step. She’s relentless, her intensity dialled up to eleven. “Come on, Y/N,” she snaps, clapping her hands. “You’re half-assing it today. Get your head in the game!”

Karina’s passion for cheer is unmatched. She runs these practices like military drills, pushing everyone to their limits. It’s part of why she’s cheer captain, part of why the girls respect her, but it’s also why they gossip about how extra she is behind her back. But you know that her heart is in the right place. She loves this life. The drama, the popularity, the excitement of being at the centre of it all.

The cheer team lines up for the final drill, a complicated pyramid. As you climb into position, you catch Mark watching again, this time closer than before. He’s dribbling lazily nearby, as if he’s waiting for an excuse to talk to you. Your stomach twists, frustration and something else swirling in your gut. You turn away, focusing on the balance, ignoring him.

But as practice winds down, and you’re stretching by the edge of the court, you feel his shadow fall over you. He’s closer now, leaning against the wall, the basketball spinning lazily in his hand. You can’t ignore him any longer.

“I thought you were serious about quitting,” you mutter, not looking at him, your fingers digging into your muscles as you stretch.

Mark doesn’t answer right away, his silence speaking volumes. When he finally does, his voice is low, laced with that teasing tone he always seems to have around you. “I was. But sometimes plans change.” His eyes are locked on yours, and you hate how steady his gaze is, how it makes you feel like he’s peeling away your defences one layer at a time.

You scoff, rolling your shoulders back as you stand. “You and Jeno are going to kill each other. What’s the point?”

Mark’s eyes flicker, his jaw tightening for a brief second before his usual calm mask returns. “Maybe. Or maybe this is the only way to settle things between us.”

You’re taken aback by the intensity in his voice, but you don’t show it. Instead, you shrug, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long drink. “Whatever. Just don’t drag me into it.”

Mark steps closer, and you freeze, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. “You’re already in it,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Whether you want to be or not.”

You blink, trying to process what Mark means. Of course, you’re involved—you’re Jeno’s girlfriend, after all. But there’s something in the way Mark says it, something that feels deeper than just the rivalry between him and his brother. He’s looking at you like he knows something you don’t, like he sees the storm brewing before you even realise it’s there.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can say anything, the doors to the court open with a loud bang, the sound echoing across the gym.

All eyes instinctively glance toward the entrance as Jeno strides in, exuding the kind of confidence that makes it seem like he owns the place. There’s an effortless swagger in his step, the kind that turns heads, drawing attention without even trying.

He’s late, but he doesn’t look like someone who’s been through a rough night. His hair, though slightly tousled, is styled in that perfect, careless way that still manages to look deliberate. His basketball jersey clings to his broad shoulders, the material showcasing the lean muscles of his arms as it moves with every step he takes. His name ‘Lee,’ is plastered boldly across his back. His skin glows with a faint sheen, his body radiating a kind of heat that makes you—despite everything—take notice.

Coach Suh’s voice booms across the court, cutting through the tension. “Lee Jeno! You’re late! Get your ass over here—this isn’t a damn joke.”

Jeno just shakes his head, a smirk pulling at his lips as he runs a hand through his messy hair. The sound of his laugh echoes through the gym, but it’s empty, lacking its usual charm. Instead of walking toward the rest of the team, he strides toward you and Mark, his gaze flicking between the two of you.

His expression is tight, frustration radiating off him, but it’s not just about being late. The way his eyes fix on Mark makes your stomach clench—this wouldn’t end well.

“So,” Jeno drawls, his voice low and laced with bitterness, “not only do you want my life, my spot on the team, but you also want my girl?”

The words hang heavy in the air, his accusation sharp. Mark doesn’t move, his eyes narrowing as he watches Jeno, his calm exterior refusing to crack.

Your heart pounds in your chest, panic rising as you feel the tension between them ramping up like a ticking time bomb about to explode. You can see it in Jeno’s posture—the way his fists clench, the way he’s getting ready to square up and the way his jaw tightens—he’s not going to let this go easily.

You step in quickly, hoping to defuse the situation before it spirals out of control. “Jeno, let’s just go, yeah?” you say softly, stepping closer to him. You put your arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer to you, hoping your touch will calm him down. “We’ll skip practice and hang out like we used to before. Please, let’s just leave.”

For a moment, Jeno doesn’t move, his gaze still locked on Mark, but then he turns to you, his features softening just slightly. He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Baby, I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have done that.”

You swallow, the tension in the air heavy, but you nod, wanting to end this. “It’s okay,” you whisper back. “Let’s just move on, okay?”

Jeno pulls back, his smirk returning as he glances at Mark one last time before turning fully to you. He speaks loud enough for Mark to hear, completely ignoring his brother’s presence. “I’ll pick you up later, yeah? We haven’t fucked in so long. I’ll make sure you have a better time than last night.”

You freeze, his words making your skin prickle. It’s meant to sound playful, teasing, but there’s an edge to it—something bitter and insecure. You can sense it in the way he’s trying too hard, covering his unease with cocky charm.

But you’re horny, above everything else, you really want cock. His cock.

“Okay,” you smile, leaning up to kiss Jeno softly, the warmth of his lips against yours a temporary distraction. Still, you can’t shake the feeling of Mark’s eyes burning into you from across the court, watching the whole interaction unfold.

───────────────────────────────

The gym was alive with the roaring of the crowd, the heavy pounding of feet against the polished hardwood echoing through the space. It was the big away game, the one everyone had been talking about for weeks. You stood with the rest of the cheer team, pom-poms in hand, cheering and supporting the boys. The energy was electric, the entire stadium buzzing with anticipation. You could feel the excitement coursing through the air, a mix of tension and adrenaline that had everyone on edge.

The crowd was packed, faces blurred together, and their cheers were deafening. The thud of basketballs against the court, the squeak of sneakers, You glanced around, spotting Karina, who was already screaming her head off, hyping up the team and the crowd, her long black hair bouncing with every movement. She was intense, as always. The bright cheer uniforms only added to the energy, and despite the tension in the air, you couldn’t deny how it all came together. You loved being part of the noise, even if you felt disconnected at times.

Your eyes were naturally drawn to the court, where the basketball players were in full motion. Mark was everywhere—sprinting down the court, dribbling the ball, his focus intense. He was confident, fully immersed in the game, his movements fluid and controlled. It was hard not to notice how good he was, how easily he fit into the rhythm of the team despite everything that had happened. He belonged there, and it was becoming more obvious with every passing second. The crowd roared when he made another shot, and you could see the respect from his teammates growing, even from the coach, who’d been unsure about Mark’s return at first.

You’ve crossed paths with Mark more than ever lately. Now that he’s back on the team, it’s like you can’t escape him. Every practice, every game, he’s there. At first, you tried not to think much of it. You were with Jeno, after all. But there’s something about Mark that draws your attention, whether you want to admit it or not. Something in the way he moves on the court, the quiet confidence he carries with him, a calmness that contrasts with Jeno’s intensity.

The tension between them is palpable. Jeno had always been the star of the team, the one everyone looked to. But ever since Mark returned, that’s been changing. Mark was gaining attention—not just from the coach but from the teammates too. He was good. Really good. And every time Mark made a clean shot, a perfect pass, it only seemed to stoke the frustration in Jeno’s eyes.

Jeno was playing tonight, just not in his usual position. And it was clear that something was off. Every time he had the ball, he hesitated, glancing toward Mark before passing to someone else. He was purposefully ignoring his brother, and you could see the frustration building. Mark was calling for the ball, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Come on, man! Pass the ball!” Mark shouted, motioning for the pass.

Jeno ignores him, pushing forward and taking the shot himself. It’s a miss, and the other team grabs the rebound. Mark’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes locked on Jeno, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

The tension keeps building, and you feel it, feel it in the way Jeno glares at Mark during the timeout, feel it in the way Mark brushes past him, his shoulders stiff with barely contained anger. It’s only a matter of time before something snaps.

And then it does.

In the final quarter, with the clock winding down, Jeno gets the ball again. He dribbles down the court, and Mark is wide open, calling for it. The crowd yells for Jeno to pass, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes for a three-pointer, and the ball bounces off the rim. Mark’s face tightens in frustration, and as soon as the play stops, he storms over to Jeno.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mark demands, shoving Jeno’s shoulder. “You had to prove something by missing a shot you knew you couldn’t make?”

Jeno’s eyes flash with anger as he pushes Mark back, his jaw clenched tight. “You think I’m gonna let you take my place? You don’t get it, Mark. This was my team before you showed up, and it’ll be my team long after you leave.”

Mark doesn’t back down. He steps closer, his voice calm but cold. “You don’t own this team, Jeno. Stop acting like I’m here to take everything from you.”

Jeno scoffs, his voice rising, the frustration boiling over. “That’s exactly what you’re doing! You want everything I have—my spot on the court, my life, my girl—” He stops short, his eyes darting to you for a split second before he looks back at Mark. “You want what’s mine, and you’re not getting it.”

Mark’s jaw clenches, and before anyone can react, Jeno takes a swing. The punch catches Mark in the chest, but Mark doesn’t fall back. Instead, he lunges forward, shoving Jeno hard enough to send him stumbling back. The crowd gasps as the tension explodes, and the game halts as the two brothers start throwing punches.

It’s chaos. They’re grappling, shoving each other, fists flying as they tumble to the ground. Teammates rush in to pull them apart, but the damage is done. The anger, the resentment—it’s all out in the open now.

“Is that what this is about?” Mark growls, his voice low as he’s dragged back by a teammate. “You’re scared I’ll take everything you think is yours?”

Jeno spits, his eyes burning with rage as he shrugs off the hands holding him back. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Just because you walked back into my life and everyone suddenly loves you. But you’re nothing, Mark. You’ve always been nothing.”

The words sting, and you can see it in Mark’s eyes. There’s hurt beneath the anger, hurt that Jeno’s words have dug up, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he straightens, his chest heaving with effort as he holds Jeno’s gaze. “I never wanted to take anything from you, Jeno,” Mark says quietly, but the weight behind his words hits hard. “I just wanted a chance to be something without having to live in your shadow.”

Jeno doesn’t respond. He just glares, his fists still clenched, and it’s clear that, despite everything, he’s not ready to let go of his anger.

You watch from the sidelines, your heart racing. The fight, the words they’re throwing at each other—it’s like you’re watching years of tension unfold right in front of you. And though you know you should be on Jeno’s side, your heart twists when you see the way Mark looks, the way he’s trying to hold himself together while everything falls apart around him.

Jeno looks at you, expecting you to come to his side, to back him up like you always have. But you can’t. Not this time. Not when you can see the pain in Mark’s eyes, the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to hide. You hesitate, your mind racing with everything that’s happened, torn between the loyalty you owe to Jeno and the empathy you feel for Mark.

Before you can think too much, you find yourself stepping forward, your voice soft but clear. “Jeno… maybe it’s time to let this go.”

Jeno’s eyes snap to you, his expression shifting from anger to disbelief. “What? You’re taking his side now?”

“I’m not taking sides,” you say quietly, but the look in Jeno’s eyes tells you he doesn’t believe that. “I just think this has gone too far. Both of you need to stop before it gets worse.”

Mark stands there, silent but watching you, his gaze steady, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next. And for a moment, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, maybe, or understanding. It’s brief, but it’s there.

Jeno lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Of course. Of course, you’d side with him.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of Jeno’s words, but before you can respond, the coach steps in, finally ending the fight and calling off the game.

As the crowd disperses and the players start to leave the court, you find yourself standing in the middle of it all, your heart heavy with everything that’s happened. Jeno storms off without another word, and Mark lingers for a moment, his eyes meeting yours once more before he turns and walks away. Jeno’s jaw was clenched, fists still balled as he stormed off the court. He didn’t look at you, not even once. Not after the fight started and not when he walked away, the tension radiating off him in waves.

You waited outside the locker room, hoping things would cool off, but Jeno was waiting for you. The moment your eyes met his, you knew this wasn’t going to be just another argument. There was something different in his gaze—something deeper, angrier.

“You let him get to you,” you said, your voice tinged with frustration as you stood before him, trying to keep your own emotions in check.

Jeno’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “You think this is just about him getting on my nerves?” His voice was sharp, filled with a bitterness that made your stomach twist. “It’s never been that simple. He keeps trying to edge me out. First, he steps onto the court, taking my place there, and now…”

He paused, the weight of his words heavy in the air. When his eyes finally met yours, there was something raw in his gaze, something that made your chest tighten.

“And now it feels like he’s trying to take you too,” Jeno muttered, the accusation hanging between you like a loaded gun.

The shock hit you like a wave, leaving you speechless for a moment. “What? What are you even saying?” you stammered, though the crack in your voice betrayed the strength you were trying to summon. Your heart raced, and your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Jeno’s frustration boiled over as he stepped closer, the intensity in his eyes almost too much to bear. “I’m not blind, Y/N. I see it. The way things have changed between us… The way you look at him when you think no one’s watching. You’ve been different, distant. You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was laced with something that felt like betrayal, something that cut deep even before you could fully process what he was accusing you of.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, but even as the words left your mouth, they felt hollow.

“Am I?” He scoffed, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you. 

The lump in your throat made it hard to speak, the tears already threatening to spill over. “I’ve been trying, Jeno. I—”

“Trying?” he cut you off, his voice harsh and biting. “This is you trying? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re slipping away from me. You’re slipping away, Y/N, and it’s because of him. Admit it.”

The tears finally broke free, sliding down your cheeks before you could stop them. It was too much—the accusations, the anger, the way he looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore. “I can’t do this,” you murmured, shaking your head, your voice barely holding together. “I’m trying, but you—”

Without waiting for his response, you turned and bolted, your feet moving before your mind could catch up. The sounds of the gym—shouts, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, the dull thud of the basketball—faded behind you as you disappeared into the dimly lit hallways. The air was colder here, the emptiness wrapping around you like a shroud. But it couldn’t stop the sobs from rising in your throat, harsh and relentless, each one cutting deeper than the last.

You couldn’t remember the last time you cried. Not like this. Not the kind of tears that felt like they were tearing you apart from the inside out, like they’d been building for years, waiting for this very moment to break free.

Your chest heaved, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stumbled into a dark corner, sliding down against the cool wall. The hallway was silent, save for the sound of your sobs echoing back at you. You felt so raw, so exposed, like every layer of protection you’d built over the years had been stripped away in an instant. Vulnerability wasn’t something you allowed yourself to feel often—maybe ever—but here you were, unable to stop it.

Tears blurred your vision, and you pressed your hands to your face, trying to muffle the sound of your cries. But it was no use. The emotions had taken hold, refusing to let go. The anger, the hurt, the fear of everything unraveling—it was too much.

For so long, you had kept it all together, every crack patched up with a smile or a dismissive shrug. But this time… this time you couldn’t. You couldn’t stop the flood. And it terrified you because you didn’t know what came next. What was left when all the masks came off, when the facade you’d worked so hard to maintain finally crumbled?

You don’t know how long you’d been sitting there, curled up on the cold bench in one of the quieter hallways, your face buried in your hands as sobs wracked your body. Time felt like it had lost meaning, and you were too exhausted to care.

But when you heard soft footsteps approaching, you didn’t move. You didn’t have the energy. A familiar presence settled next to you. You felt it before you saw him, the warmth of his body close to yours, the quiet concern that radiated from him.

“Y/N,” Mark’s voice was soft, almost tentative. He crouched in front of you, his face level with yours, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

The question felt absurd, considering the mess you were in, but something about the way he asked it—so gently, so genuinely—caught you off guard. He wasn’t demanding answers, wasn’t prying. He just wanted to be there.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to brush him off, but your voice cracked, betraying you. Your hands trembled as you wiped at your eyes, trying to pull yourself together, but it was no use. You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Mark didn’t push. Instead, he quietly sat beside you, the weight of his presence comforting in its simplicity. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. He just stayed there, his quiet strength offering more support than you’d realized you needed.

And then, before you knew it, you were crying again. Harder this time. The tears came in waves, overwhelming and unstoppable, and you felt yourself crumbling under the weight of everything you’d been holding in.

Without a word, Mark wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest in a gesture so simple, yet so needed. He held you close, one hand gently rubbing your back as the other rested on your shoulder. It wasn’t forceful or overwhelming—it was soft, steady, like he was offering you a safe space to break down.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soothing, steady. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

His words were like a lifeline, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to let go. To stop pretending, stop fighting. You buried your face in his shoulder, your sobs muffled against his chest as the tears flowed freely.

Mark held you through it all, his presence grounding you, making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in this. He didn’t say much—just whispered reassurances when the sobs became too much, his hand continuing its slow, comforting motion on your back.

When your sobs finally began to subside, you pulled back slightly, your eyes puffy and red, your breath still shaky. You met his gaze, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to hide.

He wasn’t judging you. He wasn’t expecting you to be strong or put together. He just… saw you. The real you. The vulnerable, broken, messy you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, thick with emotion.

Mark’s gaze softened, his hand still resting gently on your back. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to go through anything alone. You deserve better”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. There was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at you, that made you believe him. Made you feel like, for the first time in a long time, someone saw you for who you really were—and didn’t turn away.

You nodded, your throat tight, and Mark gave you a small, understanding smile, his hand lingering for just a moment longer before he pulled back, giving you space to breathe.

───────────────────────────────

The next few weeks passed in a blur of practices, games, and strained silence. You and Jeno had settled into a routine of avoidance—every fight left more scars, and neither of you seemed to know how to bridge the growing gap. Every interaction felt heavy, filled with unspoken words and bubbling frustration that neither of you could release. Even the once-effortless sexual connection between you had started to lose its spark, leaving behind a dull ache in its place.

But the only constant, ironically, was Mark.

But you tried to hide it because Jeno was beginning to suspect something. You denied all accusations. Maybe you were just acting petty, trying to make a point and prove Jeno that he was wrong even though you knew he was right. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because you were scared—scared to open up to Mark, scared to admit that the feelings stirring inside you weren’t as simple as you wanted them to be.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything—that your stolen glances, the way you lingered a bit longer than you should during practices, was just harmless. But deep down, you knew better. Something was growing between you two, an unspoken pull that had you circling each other in quiet tension.

Today, it all came to a head during practice.

You moved through the stretches with fluid precision, your body bending and arching with every calculated motion. The gym lights flickered overhead, casting a golden hue on your skin as you twisted and turned, giving the cheerleaders around you a preview of the sultry moves you had perfected. Each stretch felt like a deliberate invitation, especially when you bent low, ass pushing out, skirt rising just high enough to leave little to the imagination. The hem of your cheerleading skirt barely brushed the tops of your thighs, teasing the smooth expanse of your skin as you moved.

Your body felt alive, the beat of the music in the background fueling the slow, rhythmic sway of your hips. You could feel the stretch in your thighs, the way the muscles tensed and released as you shifted your weight from one leg to the other, the fabric of your skirt rising dangerously high with each movement. Your arms lifted above your head, drawing attention to the curve of your waist, the way the tight cheer top clung to your chest, accentuating every dip and curve.

You knew eyes were on you. You felt it.

But one set of eyes burned hotter than the rest.

Mark’s gaze was a constant, heavy presence, dragging over every inch of your body as you moved. He wasn’t trying to hide it. No, he wasn’t even subtle. Every time you bent low or did a quick flip of your hair, his eyes were right there, drinking in the sight of your ass, the bare stretch of your thighs. His gaze was intense, following the rise and fall of your body as though he was committing every detail to memory.

Your skirt rose a little higher as you shifted into a new move, a slut drop, your thighs tightening as you lowered your body, giving him an even better view. You felt the air against your skin, the way the heat of the gym mingled with the cool brush of fabric as it rode up higher with each deliberate movement. It made you feel powerful. Sexy. You were showing off, and you knew it.

Mark’s reaction was immediate. His jaw tightened as he watched, his fingers gripping the basketball tighter than necessary, veins bulging along his forearm. The way his eyes roamed over you, dark with want, made a shiver run down your spine. He didn’t blink, didn’t even bother pretending to focus on the practice drills.

Instead, he was laser-focused on you.

You caught his gaze as you straightened up, standing tall with a cocky smirk tugging at your lips. His eyes stayed glued to you, a hungry look darkening his features. You felt a thrill rush through you, knowing you had his full attention, knowing he was checking you out in front of everyone. Your body burned under the weight of his stare, heat pooling low in your belly. It was addictive, the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you right there in the middle of the gym.

You could feel Jeno’s eyes on you too, burning with barely concealed jealousy as he watched the unspoken tension pass between you and Mark. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t care. The power you felt from knowing Mark couldn’t keep his eyes off you only fueled you more. The harder Jeno stared, the deeper you sank into your movements, stretching further, leaning into the seductive rhythm of the routine.

And then it happened—Mark, distracted, let the basketball slip from his grip. The sound of it bouncing toward you pulled you from your trance just in time to see it come flying in your direction. You barely had time to react, the ball missing you by mere inches, the whoosh of air sending your hair flying.

The entire gym fell silent.

All eyes were on you now, the attention turning from curious whispers to outright gawking. The cheerleaders stopped mid-practice, their gazes shifting from you to Mark, wondering what the hell was going on. The basketball team paused, a few muttered chuckles floating through the air as the ball rolled to a stop at your feet.

Mark was still staring, his eyes now filled with something darker, more heated than before. The moment felt charged, the tension between you two palpable, hanging thick in the air. You could feel the weight of everyone’s gaze, their confusion, their curiosity. But none of that mattered. All you could think about was the way Mark was looking at you—like he was undressing you with his eyes, like he couldn’t get enough.

You huffed, breaking the silence with a sarcastic snort. “Nice arms,” you quipped, crossing your arms over your chest as you tried to shake off the tension.

Mark didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear it, his gaze burning into yours with a quiet intensity. “Nice ass,” he murmured, his voice dripping with something dangerous, something that sent a pulse of heat straight to your core.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the air between you two thickening with a different kind of tension. You could feel the flush rising in your cheeks, the way your body responded to the boldness of his statement, to the low rasp of his voice. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you forgot where you were, forgot that the entire gym was watching, that Jeno’s eyes were on you, burning with fury.

You opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, you stood there, locked in Mark’s gaze, the heat between you almost suffocating. It was subtle, so subtle that no one else in the gym could pick up on the charged moment passing between you two. But you felt it. You knew it. And from the way Mark’s eyes stayed on yours, dark and hungry, you knew he felt it too.

The whispers around you grew louder, and you could feel the cheerleaders and basketball players glancing at each other, sensing the tension but not quite understanding it. But the look on Jeno’s face said it all. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and suspicion as he watched the two of you, his body tense with barely concealed rage.

You could feel the weight of Jeno’s stare as he marched toward you, his presence heavy and commanding. “Let’s go,” he snapped, grabbing your arm, his grip firm as he pulled you toward him, his frustration barely hidden beneath the surface. He didn’t even glance at Mark, but you could feel the seething anger radiating off him in waves.

Mark’s eyes didn’t waver. He watched as Jeno led you away, his gaze steady, like he was daring you to say something, to do something. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The air between you and Mark was thick with tension, the kind that lingered even as you walked away, Jeno’s grip tightening on your arm as if to remind you of where you were supposed to be.

──────────────────────────────

It’s late, and your apartment smells faintly of the popcorn Karina had insisted on making. Your legs are lazily draped across her lap as she scrolls through her phone. A few of the other girls are scattered around the room—Winter, Ryujin, and Ningning—chatting animatedly, their voices buzzing like static. You’re not particularly invested in the conversation, but you’re here anyway. You couldn’t avoid it. It’s part of the routine.

The girls gossip about the usual—boys, parties, and who’s been hooking up with whom. But tonight, there’s a different energy in the room. They all have questions about what had happened earlier, and you can feel their curious stares burning into you.

“What was that about?” Winter is the first to ask, raising an eyebrow in your direction.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. You know exactly what she’s referring to, but you don’t really know how to answer. To you, it was nothing. Of course, Mark would make a comment like that. You looked hot today, and he’d noticed. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Winter presses on, unwilling to let it go. “You can’t tell me it was nothing, especially after seeing how Jeno dragged you out? I wonder what happened after that.”

You glance at her and sigh, deciding to give her the raw, unfiltered truth. “Nothing,” you start, watching their eyes light up in anticipation. “At first, Jeno was mad, pissed even. But then I sucked his cock, and he fucked me against one of the lockers in the guys’ changing rooms.” You pause for effect, wiggling your eyebrows as you finish, “He’s definitely forgiven me.”

The girls burst into giggles, some of them clapping like you’ve just given them a piece of juicy gossip they’d been dying to hear. They choose to ignore the toxicity of it all, the fact that you and Jeno had been using sex as a band-aid for your issues for weeks now. You and Jeno barely talked anymore. Every argument, every moment of tension, was resolved with a quick fuck rather than any real conversation. But you don’t say that part. You leave that truth buried beneath the surface.

“So… Y/N, would it annoy you if I made a move on Mark?” Karina’s voice cuts through the laughter, sharp and filled with a hint of vindication as she looks at you from the corner of her eye.

You can’t help the way your face tightens, annoyance flashing across your expression before you can force it back down. You plaster on a smile, lying through gritted teeth. “No, why would it?”

Karina leans back, raising a perfectly arched brow as if she doesn’t believe you for a second. “Just seems like there’s something going on between you and Mark. He’s been staring at you non-stop lately.”

“Just seems like you and Mark have nothing in common,” you bite back, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly interested in him now. Is it because he’s gotten more popular?”

Karina doesn’t flinch at your retort. Instead, she gives you a slow, deliberate smile. “Maybe,” she says, her voice cool, like she’s playing a game she knows she’ll win. “Or maybe it’s because I think he’s cute. And honestly? I’d love to take his virginity.”

Your chest tightens, a wave of something uncomfortable rippling through you. You weren’t expecting that. “Take his virginity?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady, but you can’t hide the slight edge in your tone.

Karina doesn’t miss it. She leans in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. You know, how fun it’d be to corrupt him. Break him in a little. He’s so… quiet. I bet he’s just waiting for someone to show him how it’s done.” Her voice dips lower, more seductive. “Imagine his hands on you, not knowing what to do at first, but learning… fast.”

The other girls are eating it up, hanging onto every word Karina says. They laugh and nod along, and Winter even adds a low whistle.

“Girls…” Winter chimes in, her tone playful. “I don’t think he’s a virgin. It’s always the quiet ones with the big cocks who know exactly what they’re doing.” She sighs dramatically, leaning back into the couch, adding a moan for effect. “I bet he knows how to use it too.”

You roll your eyes. “No, he’s definitely a virgin. I can tell.”

The room fills with chatter as the girls go back and forth, arguing over whether Mark is as inexperienced as you claim or secretly a sex god in disguise. The conversation takes on a life of its own, filled with explicit fantasies and wild speculation.

“Honestly, there’s a rumor going around that he’s fucking Giselle,” Ryujin adds, her tone more serious, like she’s spilling some kind of secret.

“Giselle?” Ningning scoffs. “Please. She’ll fuck anyone with a cock.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s been so chill lately,” Winter says, laughing. “He’s getting laid!”

The conversation feels like it’s spiraling, the air heavy with innuendo and teasing, and you can’t help but feel a flicker of irritation beneath the surface. You’re trying to laugh along with them, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists at the thought of Mark with someone else.

But the truth is, you don’t really know what to feel. You’ve been keeping your distance from Mark, trying to navigate your mess of a relationship with Jeno, but there’s something undeniable growing between you and Mark. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Karina leans in closer, her voice low. “Come on, Y/N,” she says, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. About what it’d be like with him.”

You glance around the room, the girls all watching you expectantly, and for a moment, you feel cornered. The weight of their expectations pressing down on you.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Like I said, he’s probably a virgin. Nothing to think about.”

“Virgin or not,” she says, her lips curling into a smirk, “he’s still hot. And honestly, I think the quiet ones are always the best in bed. All that pent-up energy…” She trails off, her voice laced with suggestion as she winks at Winter, who giggles.

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden heat rising in your chest. The last thing you want is to picture Mark like that—especially not with Karina talking about him like he’s some kind of conquest. But the image creeps in, unbidden, and you quickly push it away.

“Anyways, I heard Jeno’s gonna invite him to his party this weekend,” Karina continues, her voice light and casual, but you can hear the underlying excitement. “I think I’ll make my move then.”

You groan, slapping your hand against your forehead. “Why is he inviting him?” you mutter under your breath. This wouldn’t end well—you could already see it.

Karina shrugs, her smirk widening as she leans back against the couch. “Shouldn’t you know? Aren’t you his girlfriend?” There’s a teasing edge to her voice, and it grates on your nerves, making your blood simmer just beneath the surface.

You clench your jaw, shaking your head as you try to ignore her, but the annoyance is creeping in, settling deep in your bones. You don’t want to think about Jeno, about Mark, about whatever mess you were tangled up in between them. And you definitely don’t want to think about Karina making a move on Mark at Jeno’s party.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, standing up from the couch, “I’ve got bigger things to worry about than your little plan.” You cross the room and grab your phone from the coffee table, feeling the girls’ eyes on you the entire time.

Winter giggles softly behind you, her voice sing-song as she chimes in, “Come on, Y/N. We’re just messing with you. No need to get all worked up.”

You turn, giving them a forced smile, but the tension in your body refuses to dissipate. “I’m not worked up. Just… tired.”

Karina’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer, her smirk still in place. “Sure,” she says slowly, like she knows more than she’s letting on. “Tired. Right.”

You let out a small sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing with her. She thrives on this—the drama, the teasing, the tension. She always has. But right now, all you want is some space to clear your head.

You head toward the door, your phone clutched tightly in your hand. “I’ll catch you guys later,” you call over your shoulder, already halfway out the door.

──────────────────────────────

The music thumped through the walls of the house as you stood at the front door, adjusting your mini black skirt that barely covered anything. It was tight, short, and see-through, leaving little to the imagination. The lace thong you wore underneath was clearly visible if someone looked hard enough, and you had no doubt that people would be looking tonight. Paired with heels, your favorite jewelry, and a form-fitting top that highlighted every curve, you were dressed to kill.

Jeno opened the door, his expression softening into a smile as he took you in. His eyes roamed over your body, lingering on the skirt, and you felt the heat already building between you two. He pulled you in for a kiss, his lips warm against yours as his hand slid down to rest on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin. The promise of what would happen later was clear in his touch.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured against your lips before pulling away to greet Karina and Winter behind you with a hug and a quick nod.

His eyes were back on you immediately, dark and filled with lust as they traced the lines of your daring outfit. You smiled giddily at him, excited for the night ahead. You already knew how the night would end—tangled in sheets with his body on top of yours, all heat and passion. It was the one thing you both were still good at, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart.

The party was already in full swing, the bass vibrating through the floors as the scent of alcohol and smoke filled the air. The lights were low, casting the room in a warm, golden glow, with people sprawled across the couches and dancing in the center of the living room. Laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses created a chaotic but comfortable atmosphere. You could feel the buzz of energy around you as you stepped further into the house, bodies pressed together as the night unfolded. You were already excited for the night, already anticipating the way things would go later with Jeno. The fire in his eyes told you everything you needed to know—tonight would be intense.

But then you noticed Mark.

He was across the room, dressed casually in jeans and a simple white t-shirt, but somehow he stood out more than anyone else. His presence seemed to fill the space around him, and your eyes found his before you even realized it. He wasn’t hiding the way he was looking at you either. His gaze trailed over your body, lingering on your legs, your hips, the tight skirt that hugged your every curve. There was something deliberate in the way he looked at you, and it made your heart skip a beat.

You huffed, quickly looking away, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. What were you doing? You were here with Jeno, after all. But when you turned back, you saw Jeno walking toward Mark, and your heart sank. You were ready for things to blow up, expecting another confrontation, but to your surprise, Jeno greeted him with a nod and an indifferent expression. At least they weren’t killing each other.

Just as you were about to relax, you saw that Mark wasn’t alone. A girl stood beside him—someone you didn’t recognize. She was quiet, her eyes wide as she glanced nervously around the room, like she wasn’t used to this kind of environment. There was something shy about her, something that made you uneasy for reasons you couldn’t explain.

Jeno greeted her too, his smile a bit too bright as he introduced himself. “I’m Jeno, nice to meet you.”

The girl smiled shyly and introduced herself, but there was something else—a quick, knowing look exchanged between her and Jeno. It was subtle, but you caught it, and it sent a strange jolt of unease through you. What was that about?

Shaking your head, you turned toward the kitchen, needing a drink to calm your nerves. You grabbed a bottle of vodka, pouring yourself a shot and knocking it back quickly. Then another. You didn’t stop until the burn settled into your veins, dulling the edge of whatever was eating away at you.

Just as you set the bottle down, you felt the air shift—the unmistakable presence of Mark sliding in beside you, close enough that the warmth of his body brushed against yours. His voice cut through the noise, low and teasing, carrying that familiar edge that always seemed to pull your attention. 

“Taking it a bit far tonight, aren’t we?” You turned your head slightly, catching the smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His eyes, dark and sharp, flickered between the empty shot glasses and then back to your face.

You rolled your eyes, feeling a familiar mix of irritation and something else—something that made your heart beat a little faster. “What do you care?” you shot back, but there was no bite in your voice. The warmth from the alcohol was already settling into your veins, and maybe that was why you felt more relaxed around him. Or maybe it was just him.

Mark leaned in closer, his arm brushing against yours as he rested his hand on the counter beside you. His scent—clean, warm, with a hint of something that made you want to lean in—filled the small space between you. “Just looking out for you,” he said, his voice casual, but the glint in his eyes told you there was more to it, lingering for a beat longer than necessary before returning to your eyes. It was subtle, but enough to send a small shiver down your spine. You swallowed, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as you glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Looking out for me?” you echoed, your voice carrying a hint of sarcasm, masking the way his presence was making you feel things you weren’t ready to admit. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Why don’t you look out for your date?” you shot back, your voice betraying more jealousy than you intended.

Mark chuckled, the sound low and smooth, his attention fully on you. “She’s not my date,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by how disarming he could be. “Who is she, anyway?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though the question lodged itself in your throat.

Mark glanced over his shoulder, nodding toward the girl he’d walked in with. “My best friend.”

You blinked, surprised by how easily he said it. You had assumed… well, something else entirely. “Oh,” you murmured, unsure how to respond.

Mark grinned, clearly enjoying your reaction. “What? Did you think I’d bring a date to a party knowing you’d be here?”

You felt the heat creeping up your neck, but you quickly masked it with a small smile. “I didn’t think about it that much.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Mark said, his voice dipping lower as his gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, sending a shiver through you.

The air between you felt charged, every unspoken word and lingering glance thick with an intensity neither of you was willing to name. The tension simmered quietly beneath the surface, weaving itself into the playful banter, the stolen glances. You both danced around it, staying in this delicate balance, where each smile, each teasing remark was a way to keep things light—yet everything about the moment felt intimate, personal. Neither of you dared to break the fragile line between what was said and what was truly felt.

But before you could say anything else, you felt a hand on your waist—Jeno.

You gasped softly, your mouth widening in surprise as you realized he had been watching you and Mark the whole time. His eyes were calm, surprisingly calm, but there was something underneath it—something you couldn’t quite place. You smiled brightly at Jeno, hoping to diffuse whatever tension was building. “Hey, baby. Do you want to dance?” you asked, your voice laced with forced cheer.

He shook his head, his expression soft yet serious. “Y/N, can we talk?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how gentle he was being. Jeno wasn’t usually like this—calm, collected. This was new. Maybe this was it, the turning point you’d been waiting for. 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, following him as he led you upstairs to his room. Your heart pounded in your chest as Mark watched you go, his gaze heavy, but you didn’t turn back. You couldn’t.

Once inside Jeno’s room, you wasted no time, slipping your top over your head, your mind already racing toward what usually came next. You turned to him, expecting to see him ready to go, but instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, head lowered, fingers gripping his knees. His expression wasn’t what you were used to—stormy, tense. He wasn’t undressing. He wasn’t even looking at you.

Confused, you moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands reached for his belt instinctively, trying to pull him out of his mood the way you always did. “Jeno, come on,” you murmured softly. “Let me suck you off. I’ll make you forget whatever’s on your mind.”

But instead of the usual eager response, his hand gently covered yours, stopping you. He shook his head, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Y/N, not tonight.”

You paused, your hands frozen mid-movement. “Jeno?”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite decipher. “Sit down, Y/N.” His voice was soft, but firm as he gently pushed your hands away, motioning for you to sit beside him. “We need to talk.”

Jeno ran his hand through his hair again, the tension in his posture evident. His gaze softened as he looked at you, the weight of his words settling between you both. “We need to stop, Y/N. Stop pretending we’re a compatible couple.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. “What are you talking about?” you whispered, though deep down, you knew exactly what he meant.

Jeno sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “You know it’s not working anymore. You feel it just as much as I do.” His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the depth of his sadness. “We’ve been together for so long, but it’s not enough. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Tears immediately welled in your eyes as you shook your head, refusing to accept it. “But we’ve been together forever. We’re supposed to be together, Jeno. What do you mean it’s not enough?”

Jeno’s expression was full of regret, but his resolve didn’t waver. “I know it feels that way, but think about it. How many days have we really been happy lately? It’s just fights, making up through sex, and pretending everything’s fine. But it’s not. We both know that.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. You didn’t want to admit he was right. “I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I can’t. I don’t know how to… I don’t know how to be without you.”

Jeno leaned forward, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re not going to lose me,” he said softly. “You still have me, okay? I still love you, and I always will. But we both deserve more than this. We deserve to be with someone who makes us happy, not just someone we’ve been with because it’s comfortable.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening. You hated how much his words resonated with you. You hated that he was right. But what scared you more was facing the truth, admitting that your relationship with Jeno was broken, that it had been for a while.

“I can’t do this,” you choked out, your voice thick with emotion. “I’d rather just… I’d rather keep pretending. I can’t face the truth, Jeno. I don’t know how.”

His eyes softened even more, filled with understanding. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. You don’t have to lie to yourself, Y/N. It’s okay to admit that things are messed up. It’s okay to be scared.”

But that was the problem. You weren’t good at facing the truth, at being vulnerable. Emotional intimacy terrified you, and you’d spent so long hiding behind the idea that everything was fine, that you could just patch things up with sex and avoid the hard conversations. Being honest, being real—that was something you’d never been good at. You’d rather live in the illusion than face the mess underneath.

Jeno seemed to sense your hesitation, your fear. He gently pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you as the sobs finally wracked your body. “I’m here,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m not leaving you. You’ll always have me, but this… this relationship, it’s not good for either of us. And it hasn’t been for a long time.”

You clung to him, your fingers gripping his shirt as if he was the only thing keeping you afloat. The thought of not being with him terrified you more than you could admit. “I don’t want to be alone,” you whispered, the words broken between sobs. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’re not alone,” he murmured into your hair. “I’ll always be here for you. But we can’t keep doing this, pretending we’re happy when we’re not. It’s not fair to either of us.”

His words were like a dagger to your heart, twisting painfully because deep down, you knew he was right. But the truth was too heavy, too overwhelming. You’d spent so long avoiding it, pretending that everything was okay, that hearing it now felt like your world was crumbling.

“I still love you,” Jeno said, his voice steady despite the emotion in it. “I love you, but we need to stop hurting each other like this.”

You pulled back slightly, your tear-filled eyes meeting his. The sincerity in his gaze made it hurt even more. “But what do I do without you?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t know who I am without you, Jeno.”

He reached up, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. “You’ll figure it out. And I’ll still be here, even if we’re not together like we used to be. You’re stronger than you think.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you leaned back into him, unable to fully let go. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to admit that everything was falling apart. But Jeno was right—you were holding on to something that had died a long time ago, and the thought of letting go felt like losing a part of yourself.

For a long time, he just held you as you cried, his arms the only comfort you had left. But eventually, even that had to end. Jeno stood up, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

“I’m gonna go,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Take some time for yourself. You’ll be okay, Y/N.”

You didn’t say anything, your throat too tight with the weight of everything. You just nodded, tears still falling as you watched him leave the room, his presence fading with each step. And as the door closed behind him, you felt the crushing weight of reality settle in, the silence echoing in your chest where your heart had been breaking all along.

You were alone. And for the first time, you couldn’t hide from the truth anymore.

Later that night, Mark finds you huddled on the ground, your knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying to hold it all in, but you’re failing. Your body shakes with sobs that you can’t control, and when you hear footsteps approaching, you tense up.

“Mark, now is not the time, please go away.” Your voice cracks as you cry out, lips trembling. You cover your face with your hands, not wanting him to see you like this, broken and vulnerable.

But Mark doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even hesitate. He gets closer, kneeling down beside you. The quiet rustle of fabric is the only sound, and you shiver as he drapes his jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm, and it smells like him—fresh and clean, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect.

“Jeno told me to come,” he explains softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up, confusion flooding your tear-streaked face. “What?” The question falls out, barely coherent, as you swipe at your face, painfully aware of how horrible you must look—mascara smudged, makeup streaked, and eyes puffy.

Mark doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he moves even closer, and before you know it, he’s pulling you into him, gently guiding you onto his lap. You don’t resist. His arms wrap around you, and you straddle him, your body sinking into his warmth as if it’s the only safe place you can find.

The sobs come harder now, uncontrollable, and you bury your face in his shoulder, clutching onto him like a lifeline. He holds you tight, one hand smoothing down your back, the other resting against your hair, cradling you like something fragile. His soft whispers, the way he gently hushes you, the quiet “it’s okay, I’m here,” all create this bubble around the two of you, making the world fade away for a moment.

Mark’s presence doesn’t fix anything, but it makes you feel less alone. There’s no judgment in his touch, no expectation. He lets you cry, lets you fall apart in his arms, and that’s what breaks you even more. You’ve been holding it in for so long, pretending everything was fine, pretending you were fine.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this, pressed close to him, when he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “What happened?”

You suck in a breath, pulling back just slightly, though your forehead still rests against his. Your voice is small, fragile. “He broke up with me.”

Mark’s expression softens, his lips parting as he lets out a quiet “Oh.” There’s no surprise in his voice, only understanding, only compassion. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless words. Instead, his hand finds its way into your hair, gently smoothing it down, his touch so careful, as if he’s afraid to hurt you more than you already are.

He doesn’t ask for details, doesn’t push you to talk more. He just holds you, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath you, offering you a calm in the midst of your storm. His fingers stroke through your hair, and his other arm is firm around your waist, keeping you anchored to him as you cry quietly into his neck.

And somehow, in the quiet of his embrace, with his soft breaths brushing against your skin, the weight of everything doesn’t feel quite as suffocating. The pain is still there, sharp and unrelenting, but Mark’s presence makes it bearable. He makes you feel seen, heard, like it’s okay to not have it all together.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself feel. You let yourself break. And Mark is there to catch every piece of you, holding you together when you can’t do it yourself.

The silence between you feels intimate, not awkward. It’s comforting, the kind of silence that says more than words ever could. His arms stay wrapped around you, and for now, that’s all you need. You just let him hold you.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice shaky, barely audible as you shift closer to him. Your thighs press against his, caging him in. You bite your bottom lip, feeling the tension crackle between you, and notice his subtle groan as his hips press up slightly.

“Yeah?” he responds casually, though his voice is rougher, his restraint evident.

“You’re hard,” you mumble, your tone matching his, casual, as though stating a simple fact. The firmness presses against you, unyielding, hot even through the layers of fabric between you. The heat of him radiates into your skin, the outline unmistakable as it pushes against your thigh. Your words hang in the air, blending with the warmth that rises between you, making the closeness more intimate than it should be, despite the simplicity of the moment. The feeling is undeniable, solid and real, as though the space between you is shrinking with every breath.

Mark shifts slightly under you, groaning low in his throat. He doesn’t try to deny it. “Yeah, I am,” he says, his voice deeper now, gravelly. He lets out a slow breath before adding, “It’s because you’re—”

But before he can finish, you crash your lips against his, silencing him with a kiss so intense it feels like you’ve both been waiting for this moment forever. Already straddling his lap, you press yourself closer, your thighs locking around him tighter, your body molding against his. Your fingers curl into his hair, pulling him into you as if you’re afraid to let go.

Mark responds instantly, his mouth moving against yours with a passion that catches you off guard. His hands slide down to your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer. The kiss is messy, intense—tongues tangling, soft moans escaping between your lips as the heat between you grows unbearable.

Your hips move of their own accord, grinding down on him, and you feel the hardness pressing against your core, making your breath hitch. His hands roam up your thighs, sliding under your skirt, pushing the flimsy fabric up higher until it’s barely covering you. He grabs your ass, squeezing hard as you rock your hips, the friction between you igniting every nerve in your body.

You moan softly into his mouth, the heat between you both growing unbearable. When Mark’s hand moves down to smack your ass, the sound is sharp and commanding, making your body jolt in response. “Mark,” you gasp, the name slipping out in a breathless moan. His name was a broken plea on your lips as his hands continue to roam, guiding your movements as you grind harder against him, feeling the friction build between your bodies.

His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, guiding your movements, pressing you harder against him as you grind down. The heat, the friction, the way he kisses you with an intensity and desperation—it all sends your mind spinning. You feel his desire in every touch, every grip on your skin, and you want more.

You arch your back, pressing your chest against his, the kiss growing even more desperate, your tongues tangling, breaths mingling as soft moans escape between your lips. His hands pull you closer, as if he can’t get enough of you, the tension building with every second, every movement.

Mark stands, lifting you effortlessly, his strong hands gripping your thighs as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. You can feel the heat of his body through his clothes, every hard muscle pressing against you. Before you even register what’s happening, he tosses you onto the bed, Jeno’s bed—and the realization of where you are only adds to the illicit thrill running through you. 

You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the chiseled muscles beneath. His chest is broad, his arms flexing with every movement, each line of his body carved like stone. Your gaze traces over the defined ridges of his abs, the muscles contracting with every deep breath he takes, and your heart races, pulse pounding in your ears.

Then your eyes drop lower, and you can’t help but stare at the bulge straining against his jeans. The thick, undeniable outline is impossible to ignore, and the sight makes your breath hitch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your anticipation skyrockets. The raw need between your legs intensifies, and you press your thighs together instinctively, biting your lip as you imagine what’s coming next.

Mark moves closer, his hands reaching down to undo his belt, the metal clinking as he loosens it. But just as his fingers graze the zipper, you catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes. It’s subtle, just a brief hesitation, but it’s enough to shift the atmosphere. The dangerous, primal intensity in his gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks at you—not with the hunger you’ve seen, but with something deeper, more conflicted.

You don’t say anything, but you feel the weight of the moment hanging between you. His hand pauses at his waistband, and he swallows hard, his jaw clenching. The air thickens with the tension of everything unspoken, and for the first time, you both hesitate, the thrill of the moment colliding with the reality of where you are—of who you are.

Mark leans over you, his hand brushing against your cheek, the gentleness of his touch a stark contrast to the heat that had been building just moments before. His thumb runs over your lower lip, lingering there as if he’s warring with himself, battling between desire and restraint.

“We can’t,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost regretful.

You blink, still lost in the heat of the moment, your body screaming for more even as his words register in your mind. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice breathless. You reach for him again, your fingers already working on the button of his jeans. “Come on, Mark… we don’t need to stop. I’m on the pill so you can cum inside of me, I don’t mind.”

His groan is deep, almost pained, as he steps back. One hand drags down his face, his frustration clear as he shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he mutters, his gaze conflicted. “You just broke up with Jeno—he’s my brother. And we’re in his room. You really want this to happen here? You want me to fuck you on his bed?”

Your response is immediate, unwavering. “Yes.”

He stares at you, huffing out a breath of disbelief. “Y/N…” he starts, voice softer now, laced with something between guilt and restraint. “No. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Not like this.”

For a moment, everything pauses. The weight of his words crashes over you, bringing with it a wave of reality you’ve been avoiding. The intensity of what almost happened—the way you nearly crossed a line that, once crossed, couldn’t be undone. Embarrassment starts to creep in, settling in your chest like a heavy stone.

You sit up, hurriedly pulling your clothes back on, avoiding his eyes as the thrill of the moment fades, replaced by a deep ache you didn’t expect. The tension between you feels different now—charged, yes, but laced with something more painful. Something you can’t quite name.

Mark doesn’t say anything as he watches you, his chest still rising and falling heavily, the conflict clear in his eyes. You know he wants you, you felt it, but there’s a line he won’t cross. Not like this. And you hate that it makes sense. You hate that he’s right.

As you stand, buttoning your skirt, you bite your lip, fighting the urge to cry. You weren’t ready for all of this to stop so abruptly. You didn’t want to face the truth of the situation or the complicated mess your feelings had become. And more than anything, you didn’t want to be alone tonight.

“Do you want to come to mine?” you ask, the words shaky, but you force them out. There’s a part of you that fears he’ll refuse, that this will be the moment everything falls apart completely. But you can’t help but hope he’ll still want you, even if not here. Not like this.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His expression is unreadable, his eyes searching yours for something you’re not sure you can give. The silence stretches, your heart pounding in your chest, the fear of rejection threatening to overwhelm you.

Then, finally, he nods, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand reaches out, offering to help you up, and for the first time since this whole mess started, there’s a flicker of tenderness in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice soft, yet sure. “Let’s go.”

Relief washes over you as you take his hand, the touch of his fingers grounding you, soothing the frayed edges of your emotions. As he helps you stand, the tension between you shifts again—not gone, but different. The heat is still there, simmering under the surface, but it’s mixed with something softer now, something that feels more real.

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Back at your apartment, the quiet felt almost surreal after the chaos of the night. The familiar warmth of your space wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, a stark contrast to the lingering tension still buzzing between you and Mark. You felt the shift in the air the moment you stepped through the door—the atmosphere was softer, quieter, more intimate, and the reality that it was just the two of you sank in.

Mark followed you inside, his eyes taking in your surroundings with quiet interest. The apartment was all yours for the night, a small comfort in itself, and you were already beginning to sober up. Mark, as if reading your mind, immediately took care of you, handing you a bottle of water. “You need this,” he said softly, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of care in his voice that made your chest tighten.

You took small sips, the cool water refreshing as it slid down your throat, grounding you back to the present. Meanwhile, Mark wandered around your room, and you couldn’t help but watch him, feeling something shift between the two of you.

Your space was a reflection of you—a safe haven filled with little pieces of your world. The fairy lights you’d strung up glowed softly, casting a warm, golden hue over everything. The air smelled faintly of lavender, the scent of your candles lingering in the air. Your walls were lined with your art, pieces of yourself you rarely shared with anyone else. There were posters of abstract designs, dreamy landscapes, and sketches that felt like fragments of your soul on display.

Unique and delicate things decorated your shelves—a crystal lamp you had found at a flea market, a few small plants in pots you had painted yourself, and a collection of books you loved but hadn’t read in ages. The room felt like a mix of creativity and chaos, an organized mess that somehow made sense only to you.

Mark’s eyes moved from one corner to the next, a small smile tugging at his lips as he took everything in. He seemed fascinated by the art on your walls, lingering over certain pieces as if trying to figure out the stories behind them. You could see the admiration in his gaze, the way he appreciated your space without needing to say much.

“You really made this place your own,” he commented softly, running a hand over one of the posters, careful not to disturb it. “It’s beautiful..”

A warm flush crept up your neck at his words. You weren’t used to someone appreciating your space like this, not in such a genuine, heartfelt way. Mark wasn’t just complimenting the decor—he was complimenting you, the person who had created this world.

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling shy all of a sudden. “It’s nothing special.”

Mark shook his head, still gazing around. “It’s special because it’s yours.” His voice was soft, sincere, and it made your heart do a strange, fluttery thing in your chest.

“Can you help me get my necklace off?” You ask, smiling as he’s already making his way over to you. 

Mark’s fingers worked gently at the clasp of your necklace, his touch soft and deliberate. You tilted your head slightly, giving him better access as he carefully unhooked the delicate chain from around your neck. The warmth of his fingers brushing against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t from the cold—it was the softness of the moment.

He moved slowly, taking the necklace and walking over to your jewellery stand. You watched as he placed it neatly on one of the hooks, his movements calm and precise, as if he had done this a hundred times before. There was something almost tender in the way he handled your things, treating them with care, as if they were an extension of you.

Mark turned back to you, his eyes soft as he reached for your earrings next. His fingers grazed your earlobe, and you held your breath, feeling the closeness between you both. The quiet of the room wrapped around the two of you, making the moment feel even more intimate. One by one, he removed each earring, placing them in their designated spot, never once rushing or making you feel hurried.

The silence was filled with unspoken words, a shared understanding that neither of you dared to voice. When he was done, he looked back at you with a small, almost shy smile. “There,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You needed to clear your head, to shake off the growing feelings you had for him, so you excused yourself to take a shower. As you stood under the warm spray, washing away the remnants of the night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way Mark had looked at you. The way his presence had shifted from something casual and playful to something deeper, more intimate. The thought scared you, but it also made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

When you finally stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a soft bathrobe, you found Mark sitting on your bed, strumming a gentle tune on a guitar. You paused, tilting your head in confusion. Where did he get that from? You didn’t remember him carrying a guitar around at the party or on the way home. Had you really been that out of it?

“Where did you get a guitar from?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you watched him hum and play a melody, his fingers dancing over the strings with ease.

He looked up at you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I always carry it around.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms as you leaned against the doorframe. “I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed if you brought a guitar with you to the party.”

Mark chuckled, his laughter soft and infectious. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit beside him on the bed. “So, you play basketball and the guitar?” you teased, feeling more relaxed now, the tension easing into something more playful.

He nodded, plucking a few more notes before setting the guitar down. “My major is music.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, Troy Bolton.”

He chuckled along with you, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “It’s way past midnight,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, more serious. “You should get some sleep. Don’t you have lectures tomorrow?”

You shrugged, already feeling the weight of the day catching up to you. “I’m not going.”

Mark gave you a pointed look. “Don’t say that. Yes, you are.”

You sighed dramatically but didn’t argue. Instead, you moved to the other side of the bed, pulling back the covers and sinking into the soft sheets. The warmth of the bed, combined with the softness of the moment, made your eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

As you began to drift off, you noticed Mark standing up, throwing a blanket onto the chair in the corner. You frowned, sitting up slightly. “You don’t need to sleep there,” you whispered, your voice soft and almost shy. “Come here. There’s so much space in my bed.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a small smile. “It’s literally a single bed.”

You rolled your eyes, patting the space beside you. “I just want someone to hold me so I can sleep.”

For a moment, Mark hesitated, his eyes searching yours. But then he sighed, his expression softening as he crossed the room and slipped under the covers beside you. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close in a way that made your heart race, but also made you feel safe.

Mark held you tightly, his arms pulling you closer, enveloping you in his warmth. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the soothing rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a sense of comfort you hadn’t felt in so long. His breath was warm against your forehead, gentle, almost protective, as he leaned in and whispered, “Sleep well, Y/N.”

The sound of his voice, low and intimate, sent a soft shiver down your spine. His words weren’t just a wish; they felt like a promise, like he was going to hold you through the night and keep you safe. 

His hand, large and warm, rested softly on your waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin under your shirt with the lightest of touches. It was a subtle, almost unconscious gesture, but the intimacy of it sent your heart fluttering. He didn’t pull away; he stayed close, his body pressed gently against yours, grounding you in the moment. Every small shift of his body, every breath he took, seemed to ease the tension that had been weighing on you for so long.

You let your hand rest on top of his, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. His fingers instinctively intertwined with yours, the touch delicate yet reassuring. It was more than just physical contact—it was the silent understanding that you weren’t alone anymore, that he was here, holding you through it all.

His lips brushed lightly against your forehead, a featherlight kiss that made your heart swell. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in his tone wrapped around you like a blanket.

With a soft sigh, you let yourself relax completely, your body melting into his. You could feel the last remnants of stress slipping away, replaced by the steady, calming presence of Mark beside you. His embrace was warm, solid, and it made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t in what felt like forever.

As your eyes fluttered closed, you let yourself fall into a deep, peaceful sleep, your mind finally quiet, the weight of the world finally slipping away, knowing he would be there when you woke.

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authors note — surprise!! i’ve been teasing this one for a while and just wanted to drop it without any prior warning :) this is gonna be a long ride and have many more parts so comment if you want to be on the tag list :) send an ask through telling me what you thought or interact !! thank you