#because its kind of just. dark. and angsty | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lassiie · 23 days ago

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HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG - TRAPPED.

The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.

BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.

WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)

Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w

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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.

Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.

He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.

You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.

Let’s try not to forget it…

He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.

You—

You were different. And Heeseung noticed.

Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.

You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…

But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.

You?

You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.

And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.

You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.

“You coded that game on your own?”

“You really won a national contest?”

“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”

He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.

You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.

“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.

Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.

You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.

And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.

But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.

You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.

And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.

And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.

And the worst part?

Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.

But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.

So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.

He hacked your devices.

He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.

It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.

But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.

Seriously. “Bookworm123”?

Please.

After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.

And he peeked. Just a little…

Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”

Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.

like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.

Then, it got worse.

Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.

On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.

That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.

The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.

That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.

That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.

And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.

He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.

And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.

Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.

You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.

What a goddamn lie.

But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.

Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.

It wasn’t about lust.

Or even protection.

It was about you.

And how you made him feel real again.

How you gave him a purpose.

You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.

Not a project. Not a problem.

Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.

Not some mistake his father regretted.

And that… made you dangerous.

Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.

He did want to protect you.

But he also wanted to own you.

To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.

You weren’t supposed to get close.

You weren’t supposed to care.

And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.

Fall for you?

...

But now what ?

You were the virus in his system.

The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.

But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.

And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.

Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.

Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.

Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?

Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.

His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.

“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”

Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.

So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…

You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.

You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.

But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.

And him ?

Heeseung…

He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.

So innocent. So mine.

Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.

God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.

You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.

“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.

Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.

Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.

“You really made all this?”

He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.

“Wanna see something fun?”

A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.

He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.

You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.

But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.

Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.

“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.

Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.

Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.

You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.

You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”

He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.

Like you always knew.

You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.

His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.

But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.

Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.

You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.

You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.

You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.

“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”

Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”

You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”

He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.

He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.

Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.

He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.

Library.

“Checkmate. You’re here.”

“Wow! So you really can!”

West Wing.

“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”

“Fuck…”

Wine Cellar.

“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”

You laughed.

The pool.

He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.

You texted: “find me now.”

His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.

Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.

Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.

Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.

But you, where—

“Got you!” You leapt.

Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.

You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.

Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.

“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”

He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.

“Are you okay?”

He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.

Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…

You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.

But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.

And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.

“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”

“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”

“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.

He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.

Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.

After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…

A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…

Until he did.

And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.

I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.

That guy needed to be out of your life.

Now.

He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.

I’ll protect you.

First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.

“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”

“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.

You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.

Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.

You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.

The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.

And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.

Almost.

Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.

“Heeseung?”

He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

“... Don’t you have a bf?”

Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.

“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”

Like he didn’t know.

But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.

“He cheated…”

“Then leave him…”

“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”

He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.

When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”

You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.

You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.

Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.

And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.

So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.

You know.

Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.

So he started to undress. Until—

“Heeseung?”

His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.

“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”

He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.

You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.

God. You made it so easy for him.

You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—

“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”

Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.

He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.

“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”

You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.

You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.

By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.

Iconic.

The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.

You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.

Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.

But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.

You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.

“I’ll always protect you.”

Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.

You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:

“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”

The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.

“I protect what’s mine.”

Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.

“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.

“Maybe?”

Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.

Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.

Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.

“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”

He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.

And for a long, heavy moment, silence.

Then, a new line in your notes:

“Anything?”

You nodded, lips parting.

Another line.

“Touch yourself.”

“For me.”

You rose, heading for your bed.

Then:

“No. Here.”

You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.

You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.

Then your screen flickered.

A video opened.

Porn.

But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.

You blinked. The message was loud and clear.

Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.

Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.

Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.

A message appeared:

“Slower.”

You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.

Another message:

“Fuck, you’re shaking.”

You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.

You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.

Then:

“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”

You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.

Another message:

“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”

You moaned, fingers freezing.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“Say it again,” he typed.

“I’m yours, Heeseung.”

The pressure built—right at the edge—

Then:

“Stop.”

“Don’t cum.”

Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.

Another line:

“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”

Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.

But you stopped.

Because his word mattered more than your desire now.

Your screen blinked.

“Get your toy.”

You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.

The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.

Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.

You gasped—he was controlling it.

Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.

“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”

You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.

Heeseung’s fingers typed again.

“Grip the chair.”

You obeyed.

The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.

“Look at the camera.”

Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—

He knew.

He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.

Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.

If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.

You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.

The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:

“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”

You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.

Unknown Caller.

You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.

Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.

You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.

“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”

You cut in softly.

“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”

Silence.

You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.

“You think this makes me yours?”

He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.

“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”

You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”

Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”

You tilt your head.

“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”

A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:

“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”

His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.

Click.

You hang up.

Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.

“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.

Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.

Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours of silence.

No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.

Nothing.

He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.

But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.

Because in real life, you were still her.

Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.

Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.

Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.

And worst of all? You liked it.

He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.

You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.

He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.

So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.

You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.

He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.

Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.

Only for him.

You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.

Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.

You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.

He texted :

He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.

Now.

Please.

You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.

Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.

Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.

He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.

She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.

Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.

She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?

You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.

The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.

Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.

“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.

He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.

“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”

The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”

Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.

“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”

His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.

When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.

Not once did you reply to his messages.

You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.

You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.

You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.

Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.

Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.

So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.

That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.

You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.

“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”

And then—

You logged off. Just like that.

Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.

He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.

Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.

Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.

Then, it changed.

He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.

You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.

And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.

He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.

Then he locked you in a hug.

And kissed your neck.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.

“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”

“You said I should, so...”

You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.

"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.

You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”

His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”

You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.

“You like it?” you teased.

He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.

His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.

“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”

“Say it,” he growled.

“What?”

His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.

“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”

You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”

“Say it right.”

You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”

His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.

Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.

And just before you came—he pulled away.

“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”

“Home?”

“No. My room.”

His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—

Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.

Recording. Your name as the file.

“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”

He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”

On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.

He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.

“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.

He started humping you, slow and heavy.

“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”

Thrust.

“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”

You choked on a gasp.

“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”

His hand curled lightly around your throat.

“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”

He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.

And when you moaned his name?

He broke.

“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”

Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.

“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”

He laughed.

“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”

You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.

He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.

Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.

You stopped him.

“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”

His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.

He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.

“Heeseung. Please.”

He nodded—and slid in all at once.

You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.

He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.

Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.

“You like this position, huh?”

You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.

Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.

“Hee—”

“Like that, yeah?”

You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.

He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.

“Like that?”

“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”

He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

And then—he lost it.

He didn’t slow.

Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.

He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.

The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.

You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.

“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were already too far gone.

You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.

Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.

“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”

You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.

“Fucking take it.”

He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.

“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”

You moaned helplessly.

“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”

His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.

Then—

He came.

Hard.

Buried deep.

His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.

And still—he didn't pull out.

He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.

The screen behind him kept glowing.

Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.

He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.

The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”

He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”

You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.

“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”

You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”

“…Yeah.”

He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”

Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”

“I know.”

Silence. He got back typing.

“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”

Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.

“Heeseung...”

He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.

“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”

You froze. “Why?”

“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”

His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.

“...With me.”

You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.

“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”

“I know why you applied, just like me.”

His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”

Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.

Author’s Note:

Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).

I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺

I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀

This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?

I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).

Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons

XOXO

Reblogs and thirsty little thoughts are always appreciated don’t be shy~© Lassiie

@heejunluvr @choeryyxyz @hoonprksung @schniti-is-in-the-house @ii2sanrio @woniedoyouloveme @saeris-world @gonorrheaisme @soobiverse

#lassiie's #enhypen smut #enha hard hours #enhypen imagines #enhypen x female reader #enhypen x reader #heeseung x you #heeseung smut #heeseung drabbles #desire unleash #bad desire #heeseung #heeseung hard hours #heeseung x yn #heeseung x reader #stepbro!heeseung #stalking fantasy

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clare-875 · 7 months ago

Note

Hi, I was wondering if you could do Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, and Law (separately) X Reader, and it's of them already in a relationship, and kind of based on the trend on TikTok, Reader calls them "Buddy, Pal, etc." to see their reaction?

New Names (Luffy, Sanji, Zoro, Ace, Law)

_____ Pairings: Luffy x Reader; Sanji x Reader; Zoro x Reader; Ace x Reader; Law x Reader Summary: His reaction when you call him buddy, pal, etc. Warnings: Very little angst, mostly fluff, Female Reader A/N: I hope you like it! <3 [One Piece Masterlist] [Part 2: Shanks, Sabo, Crocodile] [Part 3: Corazon, Killer, Mihawk, Penguin] [Part 4: Kid, Katakuri, Smoker] _____

- Luffy -

You faintly wonder if Luffy will even pick up on the difference in the name you call him, but after losing a bet with Ussop, you know you couldn't back out. You watch as said sniper discreetly looks at you encouragingly from a short distance away and you sigh, rolling your eyes. Why did you agree to this? When you turn your gaze once more, it is because your boyfriend is calling for you.

"Hey [y/n]!" He grins wide and you suddenly feel a slight tug in your heartstrings, hoping he either wouldn't notice or wouldn't be too hurt by this small prank. "Nami says we're good to go the island now! So let's go!" His eyes shine in his excitement for the prospect of new adventures and you give him a smile.

"Sure buddy, just give me a second."

You turn to reach for the small bag you had packed and try to play off your words as nothing major, but the sudden silence you hear makes you realise he must've noticed.

"Buddy?"

You turn around and you are met with Luffy looking at you blankly, a pout on his face as he tilts his head to the side. "That's what you call your friends, am I not your boyfriend anymore?" You see him utterly confused as his eyebrows pull together in objection. You try to stifle the smile that fights to make its way onto your face. He looks like he's in deep contemplation and trying to restrain his gloom.

"What do you mean, Luffy? I always call you that."

You shrug your shoulders as you walk by him, readying to leave the ship, but Luffy is quick on your heels, a frown deepening on his face. "No! You always call me baby, or Lu, or babe, or-" Luffy starts to list the reasons why you don't and shouldn't call him buddy, and he doesn't stop. You slowly start to feel yourself relent when his rambled words invade your ears. You observe the way his brain works hard to figure out what is going on, to the point where darkness looms over his head.

"Luffy," you say, finally cutting him off, lingering amusement in your tone. However, Luffy instantly pouts again, crossing his arms against his chest in denial. "No! Call me like you always do!" You sigh, seeing that his initial confusion has turned into dismay. "Okay, baby." Instantly, his features turn bright as you continue. "It was a prank, I didn't mean anything by it." Luffy stares blankly at you for a second, before a smile reaches his face, gaze churning in understanding.

"Oh! Why didn't you just say so!"

Luffy lets out a short laugh as he catches up to your side. Instantly his hand reaches for yours, and you let him envelop it. He grins wide at the contact. "You should really work on your pranks though [y/n]. Choose a funnier one next time!" You sigh at Luffys words and put a hand to your head; he truly was so simple and pure minded. Maybe he wouldn't understand the prank you just played on him fully, but you couldn't trade him for anything in the world.

- Sanji -

(A/N: This was kind of angsty for some reason?)

You knew going in, that this might end badly, but you didn't really register the depth of what would happen until you did. Nami had convinced you to play a small prank on your boyfriend, Sanji. "Come on [y/n], it'll be fun!" You faintly remember her murmured words and sigh as you find yourself going through with it. Honestly, it was more to get her off your back about it, but you would be lying to say you weren't a bit intrigued about the chef's reaction.

Sanji is in the kitchen when you decide to do it. He is tossing something in a pan, but his eyes enlighten immediately when he sees you enter. "Love! You're just in time, here, try this!" Sanji holds out a fork to you, and on it is a fragment of the dish he prepared for the crew's dinner. You walk over and smile up at him, letting him feed you the meal. Sanji's face flushes red at the action, and what fills your mouth is utter divinity. It was delicious, of course it was. However, you seem to break the wide smile on your boyfriend's face as you let your next words slip.

"Thanks, bro, that was so good!"

There is a prompt silence. What takes place in front of you then, is what can only be described as a hundred emotions flashing across your boyfriend's face, followed by his blank stare. "B-b-bro?" Sanji's hold on the fork he just held out for you goes limp, and the utensil clatters loudly on the ground. "Sanji?" You look on curiously at the utter dismay that clouds the cook's face, as he falls to his knees. Suddenly your boyfriend is grabbing your arms and looking up at you pleadingly. Tears are pouring comically from his eyes.

"My love, did I do something wrong?"

"Are you leaving me?"

"Have you found someone better?"

"Did I make a mistake?"

His words are uttered quickly to you and his hold on your hands only tightens in his sudden dismay. It breaks your heart. You have to stop his rambling before he falls into the cycle his mind seems to revolve in now. "Sanji!" He pauses as he looks at you like your next words could break him, and you smile gently realising that maybe this prank was too much for his kind heart. "I'm sorry, it was a prank. I could never leave you, I love you."

You don't know what to expect but Sanji suddenly relaxes his hold on you and his face morphs into one of utter relief. "Oh." He then suddenly moves, still on his knees as he envelops you in an embrace, and looks up at you. "I'm glad." You fight the frown on your face as sudden guilt fills you. You shuffle from his arms until you're on your knees too, and you engulf him in a warm hug that he instantly returns. "Sorry Love."

Of course, Sanji forgives you instantly, but you make sure to smother him with a bit more love for the rest of the afternoon.

- Zoro -

You grin as you see your boyfriend finally enter your shared bedroom after a rare shower. Water droplets still cling to his hair and his muscles glow under the low lights. He looks good, but you have to stop yourself and think clearly. Now's not the time. No, you had been planning to play a small prank on your boyfriend all day. It was mostly to get back at him for spending so much time in the crow's nest, but you would be lying to say you weren't a little curious about his reaction.

Zoro makes his way onto his side of the bed, before lying next to you and pecking your lips briefly. You smile at his soft gaze on yours, full of unusual vulnerability in the absence of prying eyes. "Hey, Babe." His words are softly murmured to you as you cuddle up to his side, pulling an arm into your embrace. You relish his warmth. But of course, you had to break the moment, because now was the perfect time.

"Hey dude, I missed you."

You have to force yourself not to laugh when you see how quickly Zoro's face goes from content to confused to bleak irritation. There is silence for a moment, and you think that he might let it go until he speaks up once more. "Babe?" His words are spoken low and in question but you try to play dumb. Looking up at him through your eyelashes you keep up a sleepy facade and hum in acknowledgement. But Zoro can see right through you.

"What was that?"

You tilt your head to the side briefly. "What do you mean?" Zoro looks deep into your gaze, eyebrows twitching in annoyance. "You called me dude." His face is dead serious as he looks at you but you only find amusement in his words. It was kind of sweet how the stoic swordsman cared so deeply about what you called him. "Hmm, did I?" You try playing it off, but Zoro hears clearly the teasing tone placed beneath your words.

"So you wanna play that game, huh?"

Zoro suddenly moves, making you have to release your hold on him; he turns so that his back is facing you. Despite the action, you can't help but stop a smile from reaching your face at his unusual pettiness. "Come on Zoro, you know it was a joke." However, Zoro doesn't give way and silence lingers on his behalf. Your amusement slowly turns to a pout as you start to miss his warmth. Maybe this wasn't the best time to try out this little prank.

"Babeee," Unbeknownst to you, Zoro smirks at the familiar nickname and the whine in your voice. He can feel your hands try to pry him back to you and into your embrace again. "I want my cuddles." He lets you whine and murmur to him and try to get him to budge. He remains still until he finally has enough of his fun and so relents. You grin wide when finally Zoro turns so that he is facing you, opening his arms despite the irritated frown on his face. "Don't call me that again." You grin, basically flinging yourself into him and he wraps his arms around you.

"Sure, pal."

He freezes and sighs. You are going to drive him insane.

- Ace -

"Just do it [y/n], otherwise he won't shut up about it-yoi." Marco flies in, landing by you and Thatch. He had been listening to your conversation about pranking Ace. Your crewmates had been trying to get back at him for ages, and finally realised the best way to do so is through you. You roll your eyes at the men that surround you nodding their heads in agreement. "Fine. But if something goes wrong, I'm blaming you." The two commanders and other division members grin as you sigh and go to approach your boyfriend who had finally made his way back to the ship.

He glances up as you approach, gaze instantly brightening and smile instantly widening at the sight of you. He immediately calls for you and gathers you in his arms, spinning you around and placing a kiss on your lips briefly. You giggle at his actions and relish his warmth, he looks at you fondly. "Missed you baby." He noses the skin on your neck and you smile wide as he breaks contact and looks to you again. It makes you want to back out, but you know you have to break the moment with the stupid prank.

"Really pal? It's only been like an hour."

What follows your words is an instant silence, and you feel Ace's arms freeze against your skin. Surprisingly, it is like his warmth that always lingers starts to fade, as he looks to you blankly.

"Ace?"

You call his name tentatively and wave a hand in front of his face when he doesn't seem to move for a while. "Earth to Ace?" You can hear your crewmates try to stifle their snickering in the background as they observe Ace's dumbfoundedness, all because you called him pal. You had such influence over him, it was unbelievable to them. You sneak a glare at them before turning to your boyfriend once more.

"Ace?"

When you call him once more, he finally moves, and he seems to shake himself free of his absent-minded thoughts.

"Babe," he says tentatively, "who's pal?"

You have to stop yourself from smiling at the sight of his hesitation, he was just too cute. But you know your crewmembers are yet to be satisfied, despite hearing their muffled laughs brim louder. "You." You reply, and his expression morphs into a pout as his eyebrows pull together.

"But I'm not pal, I'm supposed to be your baby."

You can hear your crewmate's laughter even louder now, but his crestfallen expression, and the way he tries to convince you to go back to calling him his pet name enamour you.

So, obviously, you break.

You smile, as you caress his hair gently and sigh. "Yeah... sorry baby, it was a prank." Instantly, Ace straightens but his gaze also wanders behind you to the crew that now mocks him lightheartedly. "But I'm supposed to be your baby~" "Babe, who's pal?" It is followed by their laughter.

Ace's form suddenly blazes and fire licks his skin.

"Did they-" He begins, and you follow his gaze, knowing he's figured it out. You sigh, but smile, looking into his eyes that crave revenge.

"Yep."

You grin when he instantly runs from you to your crewmates shouting absurdities as he chases them, all the while they still mock his prior words. You shake your head in amusement. Just what will you do with them?

- Law -

(A/N: The tiniest bit suggestive at the end)

You thought it would be a harmless prank, and in all honestly, it was. You would simply change the name you call him. What could possibly go wrong? Your crewmates had gathered in your boredom as all your tasks had been completed and time in the Polar Tang dragged on. It led to you all playing a game of truth or dare. A childish game, but it was something to do to pass the time. You had been given the task of seeking out your boyfriend who was supposedly in the kitchen and executing the dare you were given.

To your luck, you find him almost instantly, eating an onigiri while flicking through something; probably some sort of medical research, he never really knew how to rest. He looks up and you watch his gaze soften as you make your way to his side. "[y/n]-ya," he says as you grin and you peck his cheek lightly in greeting, leaning against the counter which he stood by. He observes your timidness curiously. Usually, you would start rambling on about your day or anything that caught your interest, so, he took your silence as being off. "What's wrong?" He asks, eying you in suspicion. You take the opportunity to carry out your dare.

"Nothing, I just missed you man. What are you up to?"

Law almost has to do a double take, but ultimately looks to you with a deadpan expression, clearly not amused. There is a tentative silence, as you try to act dumb, but of course, Law has none of it.

"Okay, what was that?"

You meet his dead-pan stare with your own blank stare, but you know you suck at acting and he sees right through you.

"What was what?"

"Don't play dumb [y/n]-ya. You just called me man." He grimaces as though disgusted by that fact. You stifle a grin.

"So? Aren't you my man?"

Law has to stop himself from smacking his head against the wall. He was wondering what the crew had been getting up to, but he sees now that as usual, you guys were up to no good. He almost instantly puts the dots together.

"This is a dare, isn't it, [y/n]-ya?"

You look up in wide surprise as he figures you out so quick, and his lips upturn at the expression on your face. You never really could get anything past him. Your surprise turns to a pout as you realise that of course he knows; of course, he noticed.

"No fair babe, you figure these things out too quickly."

A smirk grows on his face, as he observes your cute, pouting lips. Suddenly and before Law can stop himself, he reaches for your face and pulls you into a kiss. Your eyes widen in shock at his sudden movements. He usually wasn't so bold in places that people may see his outward affections. He places a teasing tone in his next words, as you feel yourself getting riled up by his proximity.

"You're just too easy to read, love."

Let's just say you soon forget about your failed dare, in fact, you don't return to your crewmates for a while after that.

1K notes · View notes

millersfinest · 6 months ago

Text

untethered⁵ | e.w

00s!ellie williams & 00s!miller!reader

wc: 10.6k

series: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five (you're here!)

blurb: it’s been awhile since you’ve been back home; in upstate new york where you’ve spent most of your life waking up early and tending to the animals that moo’d and meh’d. after graduation high school, and then college, the city life has stolen most of your attention. enabling you to visit only a handful of times through the years. when your lovely adoptive parents (tommy and maria miller) invite you back for a thanksgiving dinner—a troubled old flame from your childhood manages to get your attention, despite its explosive ending.

cw: lmao flip phones, r and ellie NOT beating the cheating allegations, more use of y/n then i would prefer, she/her pronouns, vulgar language, some angst (not on ellie’s watch tho), fuckgirl!ellie (kind of), the millers, r is a writer (she doesn’t write much in this ch wink wink 3.0), using fuck as a conjunction word, ellie needs the reader bad, a few arguments sprinkled in, elements of longing, ellie is #1 lesbian yearner in the world, some early 2000s references, thanksgiving, r is very anxious, hella angst, the CAT may be out the bag (can mean many things), some adoption related turmoil, emotional cheating (from ellie), cute mother daughter moment, repressed emotions, lots of angst in this chapter, ellie is mean when she don't fw you, not a lot of reader x ellie in this ngl.

note: finally the 5th installment, hope it's worth the wait my lovely readers!!! i'm gonna be honest tho... this wasn't the most fun chapter to write (maybe cause the reader and ellie aren't as horny as i would prefer lmao), but the narrative shall prosper regardless of my feelings. this may or may not be the second to last chapter of this series. idk yet, i'm still planning right nowwww. i might post a poll soon to help decide. anyway, thank you guys for being super patient while i wrote this chapter, so without further ado... thousands of bisous ofc <3 and please enjoy this angsty ass chapter!!

Stood before you was a very disappointed looking Joel. His deep brown eyes squinted with fatigue and restlessness; arms crossed over his chest. At the alert of his presence, you shut your eyes trying to come up with some way to save yourself—even though there was none. It was laugh worthy, really.

I don’t wanna assume nothin'… So, I suggest you start explainin’ what in the hell’s bell’s is goin’ on here.

You were unsure if his southern accent was stronger because of his disappointment, or if he just sounded like that when he was tired. But, either way, the question was valid. What the hell was going on?

He called your name, snapping you from the rushing thoughts in your head. “Huh?” Those words came out of you more like a sound than words and letters. you were a child all over again, struggling under the fist of authority. Followed by a deep sigh, walking toward the counter, leaning your hands on the cool, smooth marble top. “Ellie and I are… Just catching up. S’all there is to it, Joel.”

He echoed a sigh, running his hand over his dark, graying hair and beard—he didn’t believe you. Not that you even tried to come up with a good enough lie that would be believable. “Now, Bug…” Joel began, shaking his head. “I know you’re not a liar; Tommy and Maria sure as hell didn’t raise you to be one—“

“Joel, please—“

“If I heard what I think I heard… In that bedroom of yours. You and Ellie were doin’ a lot more than just catching up!” He whisper-yelled, careful not to disturb your parents upstairs. The man could barely keep eye contact with you, pointing his finger, accusingly. “She has a girlfriend who is in that guesthouse—“

“I know, I know—“

“Then, what the hell were you thinkin’?”

You solemnly sigh, having your actions thrown back in your face. It sucked because he was right. “We… We have unfinished history. It just happened.”

Joel scoffed, averting his brown eyes. “Things like that don’t just happen…”

He was right—sex doesn’t just happen. There are steps that lead to that pleasurable event; it doesn’t just happen, and you knew that. But it was easier to say it that way. As if the two of you sleeping together, kissing each other was all acts of fate and prophecy. Something you had no control over. Even though, control was never stricken from you. If anything, you were always grasping for it.

You chose to invite Ellie into your room, into your body, into your mind—you wanted her more than anything.

That was something you couldn’t be sorry about.

“Please, don’t tell my parents.” You almost squeaked out, looking up at him like a child charged with punishment. If Maria and Tommy found out about this, she’d have your head! And Tommy will be trying to talk her down—it would be a mess. At twenty-five, it wasn’t that you were afraid of your parents; you just didn’t want to disappoint them. “We need some time to figure this out…” The fear that they would regret bringing you into their life weighed heavy on you.

With a raised eyebrow, he pursed his lips in thought. “Does Ellie plan on breaking things off with Cat?”

“Yeah, not right away, but yeah.”

“Not right away?”

“Thanksgiving— she doesn’t wanna do it today with everything goin’ on. And they live together, so she has to arrange a few things…” You trail off, deepening your eyebrows with worry. “Oh, my God… Is she two-timing me? Is Ellie two-timing me?” Slapping your hands to your forehead, you squeezed your eyes shut. What the fuck. What the fuck. You repeated curses in your mind. You were spiraling yourself into a stupor.

Joel walked around the corner, stabilizing you by placing his hands on your shoulders. “Ellie is many things, but she’s not a two-timer… All I’m saying is to handle this with caution. You’re hurting another person doing this—“

“Fuck, Joel, I know… I don’t need the reminder.”

“I’m gonna talk to her about this… About resolving this.”

You look at him with a pointed glare. “Resolving— there’s nothing to resolve. If everything goes according to plan—“

He grunted, rolling his eyes. “Things like this never go to plan. Come on, Bug, you’re smarter than this… You know better.” Joel told, narrowing his eyes. He walked around the counter to you, to squeeze your shoulder. But that didn’t change the fact that his words stung.

You know better.

You did know better, but you acted anyway. Perhaps, it was a mistake; it was a mistake you were willing to ride on until it met its end. Which could be one of two things: complete and utter destruction, or… Happiness. Why was there such a large gap between those two endings?

“Ellie,” He began, shaking his head, filling you with insecurity. “You know how she can be… Impulsive at times.” Joel pressed his lips into a line, looking past you, in thought. “I’m not even sure if she realizes the gravity of what she’s doing to her or you— not until it blows up in her face, which it will if you two keep it up.”

So, the both of you just had to work harder at hiding it. For now, at least.

He rubbed his hand together, glancing his eyes up the stairs. “I won’t say anything to your parents… Just do a better job of keeping this to yourselves, please.” The older man prepared to head back up, but he looked at you one last time. “This isn’t me agreeing with what y’all are doin’— because I don’t. I don’t agree nor do I support cheating.” He exhaled, shaking his head, disappointingly. Feet nearing the steps to ascend back to his bedroom. “Just get it together.”

Joel left you to gather your thoughts—but there was nothing to gather. Your mind was already made; you’ve already dug a hole for yourself. Seeing it through was the only option. Perhaps, the two of you had to shape up, though. Tommy even gave a side glance before you’d hopped off the porch to grab the wine; Ellie needs to be more careful. And so do you.

Shutting out the lights, you heavily creeped back up the stairs to your bedroom. The dim bedroom that had the remnants of your lover minced in the air… And under your pillow. Grabbing your laptop from the charger, you arranged your pillows to support your back—that’s when you noticed the red and white striped boxer shorts Ellie left behind. Even though, you purposely threw them at her to put on before you parted from one another.

Holding out the underwear that was marked with arousal, you threatened to smell it. Truly. But, before you could, your conscience got the best of you. Wasn’t it creepy to smell someone’s underwear? Let alone, a woman's... Instead, you stuffed it in the box you kept under your bed—which, very well, could’ve been worse.

Feeling the need to tell Ellie of their pending situation with Joel, you logged onto MySpace. There was a small green circle that appeared on her icon. She was already online.

BugsWritersRoom: Hey… Just ran into Joel. Not great.

There wasn’t a much of a long wait before she responded.

StarlightWilliams: duck what happened?

StarlightWilliams: fuck*

Her correction made you chuckle.

BugsWritersRoom: He heard us. That’s what happened.

BugsWritersRoom: We have to do better. Stop making everything so obvious…

BugsWritersRoom: At least, until you break up with Cat.

There was a long pause in her responses. Longer than you’d anticipate her response would take.

StarlightWilliams: noted.

Ellie’s response was dryer than you expected it to be, but the fatigue washing over you forbid you from investigating it.

Shutting your laptop, you nuzzled into your pillows with the auburn-haired artist on your mind. It was only right that you gave the relationship another chance; if it inevitably ends, you just hope it would be less explosive than last time. Amicable. Where the two of you could actually stand to be around each other after the fact.

If you had it your way, though, you’d never want to part from her again. It was easy to believe that Ellie was your person. Somebody who was only perfect for you. In a world of feeling nothing, she made you feel something more than lust or forced romanticism.

When morning came, you were exhausted as fuck, to say the least. Awakened by your programmed alarm, and a blaring rooster that didn’t know how to shut the hell up after his first few yodels.

Meandering down the stairs, you were told to speed through the morning chores, to begin help with the cooking, which you didn’t mind. However, Ellie wasn’t there for the spiel. Joel had appeared, saying that she was going to be little late. At the sight of him, you couldn’t help but be struck with anxiety. Although, he looked and acted the same as he always did.

Either way, you fed the chickens, groomed, and fed the horses—and that’s when she found you. Brushing Tokyo and feeding fresh carrots to keep him entertained and focused. He was a horse who only responded to pleasantries; Tokyo was a man of high honor. “Someone’s bein’ a good horse.” Ellie cooed, approaching you and Tokyo with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans.

There was something off about her demeanor. Her shoulders were stiffened, cheeks flushed enough to insinuate an altercation. In addition to that pinched line between her thick eyebrows.

There definitely was one, but she wasn’t going to admit that to you. Joel and Ellie were officially on bad terms—but she said nothing about that because she doesn’t want to alarm you.

“Where were you this earlier? I thought I was helping you get in routine for your new farmhand position…” You tossed the brush aside, crossing your arms over your chest. Ellie didn’t stop walking until her body collided with yours. Hand finding a comfortable place along your jaw, preparing to pull you in toward her lips. Placing two fingers over her lips, you pull back. “What the hell are you doing?” You chuckle, looking around for any unwanted eyes.

Her hands slid down you arms, shoulder slumping. “What part of we need to do better do you not understand?” You questioned, looking intently into her dilated eyes.

Ellie ran a hand over her hair, sighing, tiredly. “What is wrong with you?” You press, deepening her eyebrows. Suddenly feeling the need to comfort her.

The truth was, she was stressed. Joel had stressed her out. He found out about them and was pressing Ellie to tell Cat about it—or break up with her because she deserves to know the truth. But, today, Cat woke up like the happiest person alive, which was off brand for her. She showered Ellie with kisses she didn’t want and hopped up to make breakfast for them. It was weird, but she was happy; Ellie doesn’t want to ruin that. She just wanted to linger in the happiness that was the memory of your lips on hers.

“I just woke up feelin’ funky— it’s nothing…” She looked down, twisting her foot into the sprawled hay over the ground. “A kiss could help my condition, though…” Ellie raised a scarred brow, lips curling at the end.

Pressing your lips into a line, you look over her shoulder than yours—making sure there aren’t any prying or peeving eyes. “Just one…” You mutter, pulling her close by the material of her unzipped jacket. She smirked against your lips, moving them in sync with yours.

The tenseness in her muscles loosened and relaxed under your touch, as she released a breath of fresh air against your face through her nose. Placing her soft, yet calloused hand at the curve of your jaw. Ellie made the kiss deeper by dragging her tongue against your bottom lip, begging for more—but you pulled away. She chased your lips, causing you to giggle as you turned your face. “I have a full plate this morning… I could use your help— as long as you stay focused!” You prodded your index finger at her chest. “Plus, it’ll help for when it’s just you on the farm.”

“Oh, I can stay focused.” She crossed her arms, overzealously.

“Okay,” You snicker. “Well, why don’t we split up to cover more ground?”

Her features fell. “Split up? Hey, I didn’t agree to splitting up.” Ellie pouted, taking a step closer to you. Playing with the frayed hem of the flannel sticking out from under your jacket.

Splitting up was the best course of action, so you could begin helping your mother in the kitchen—because you know she needs it. Unless Cat’s planning to take your place on that front. Anyway, them splitting up could help their developing case with Joel. You want to prove to him that you’re as smart as he think you are. That you’re not blindly love struck by a destructive idea—that the words he told you meant something. And, in a way, helping Ellie with her impulsivity.

“It’s for the best, Els. You get to put to work what you learned these past few mornings— so it’ll really stick.” You spoke, positively. “And there’s another half of the farm that you’re inexperienced with�� So, it’s better if I just run through it alone.” You nod with a friendly smile on your lips. Almost too friendly.

“Hm…” Ellie hummed, peering around the horse barn.

“I already did half the work; the chicken’s and horses are already fed. I’m, basically, done with grooming Tokyo— just detangle his mane and tail, and do that same process with Sarah, which should be easy because she’s still a baby and barely has any hair.” You rambled like a professional farmer. It truly was muscle memory getting back into the chores.

“Wait, what’s the process…?”

“There’s a bucket of soap and water,” You point to the bucket at door of the horses’ space. “Use that to help with the brushing and detangling. That’s the process. Don’t worry about the horse shoes— my dad does all that.” You waved your hand, then reached into your coat to grab the notepad. Ripping the thin paper from the rings, you hand it over. “After this, all you have left is the garden. So, whenever you’re done, come find me.”

Ellie took the note paper from your hands, plucking it with her fingers. “Uhm, if I have any questions…? What if I do something wrong?”

You sighed, snatching the paper back from her. “Trust yourself. You’ve done this before, Ellie. But if you have any questions… Here’s my cell. I have it on me.” You scribble down your phone number, handing it back to her.

She giggled, taking the paper back. “You just gave me your digits…” Ellie teased, dangling the page in front of you.

“For professional purposes only.” You winked, before leaving her to finish the horse grooming.

When you skipped away, Ellie didn’t quite know how to take your place. After finishing up Tokyo, walking him to his open space to grift along with the other horses, Sarah was next. And you failed to mention that she was a bit of runner when it came to retrieving her.

It’s been made clear that she was already fucking up—said by Joel Miller—so, she didn’t want to fuck up the only job she had. The job you gave her.

So, instead of moping and overthinking the words of her adoptive father, she looked to that lined notebook paper as if it were the Bible. Ellie couldn’t let you down over something as specific as farming chores. These were living beings. If she failed to do this correctly, you may never fall into her how she hoped

Meanwhile, you hustled cows and goats, hastily. Rain boots splashing into mud and manure, leaving marks along its battered rubber soles. Tucked into your back pocket, your phone began to vibrate, sounding off the ringtone of your choosing. Without glancing at the caller ID—assuming it was Ellie. You pressed the phone button.

“Calling already?” You raised an eyebrow, while monitoring the chaotic goats around you. They were competitive eaters who’d rather trample over one another to eat their food, than stand by for their own servings. You scold them under your breath, pushing them off each other.

“You want me to come to dinner tonight, or not?” She snickered on the other side of the line.

“Oh, Abby, hey… Sorry that was meant for someone else— it’s been a long morning.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. “Yeah, I still want you to come. What’s up?”

Abby laughed, yawning. Did she just wake up? “When’s your family having dinner tonight— wanna make sure I’m planning accordingly.” There was raspiness to her voice that was soothing to your ears.

Rubbing a hand over your forehead, you thought. It was basically undetermined, but you had dinner around the same time every year. Six-ish. Seven-ish. “Sometime around six, I think. What? You plannin’ on makin’ a good impression?” Pinching the phone between the side of your face and shoulder, you pulled one of the goats back from the trough by her back legs.

“Stop it, Frankie!” She bleated in response.

“Was that a goat I just heard?”

“No, it was Frankie— she’s worse than a goat. She’s, like, goat-fucking-three thousand— fuck! Hold on.” She placed the phone on a bucket, to stalk over to the problematic goat trying to fight her own sibling. “You’re pushing it. You are pushing it, Francine Miller!” Gripping the antlers that rose from her skull, you forced her to look at you. “This isn’t your food— that’s your food. Over there.”

Picking her up, wrapping your arms around her stomach, you lifted her toward her own trough. That a few other goats huddled at to feast on their breakfast. “If I see you over there bothering your brothers again, I’m gon’ put you right back in that barn— don’t mess with me.”

You walked back to that bucket, picking up the small silver flip phone placed sloppily in the middle. “Sorry about that… But, yeah, sometime around six.” A tired sigh fell from your lips.

“That southern drawl of yours… Getting stronger by the day.” She chuckled, in amusement. You heard her shuffling against cloth—perhaps, blankets and pillows.

“The price of being around my family for too long.” You match her brief chuckle, twisting your toe into the dirt.

“I’m certainly not complaining.” Abby commented, inhaling deeply. “Well, I’ll be there for six— unless you tell me otherwise…”

“All right, sounds good, Abby.”

“All right, bye, babe.”

Babe.

The pet name made you freeze, but before you could say anything, she hung up the phone. You clenched you phone in your hand, gripping it tight enough for the blood to drain from your knuckles. Babe—since fucking when?

A snicker caught your attention, causing you to swivel around on your toes. Her shiny, obsidian hair was tucked under a knit beanie. The medium-length blunt ends sticking out from the bottom, hanging over the shoulders of her jacket. A jacket that was sickeningly similar to one of Ellie’s—it most likely was.

“Who’s this lucky girl… Abby?” She perked a slender eyebrow, brown eyes boring through you. Slightly squinting with taut features.

You waved your hand before placing them on your hips. “A girl I met in the city. She’s up here with some friends— thought I’d invite her to dinner. She's the one who dropped me off the other night.” You explained, shrugging at your last word. After sleeping with her girlfriend, the least you could do was open with her.

Cat leaned over the wooden fence, instead of coming inside. Her hands balling together in front of her body to keep her exposed skin warm. “Oh, really? What’s the status between the two of you? Since you’re… Inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner ‘n all?” She questioned, lips pressing together.

There was something bitter in her speech that rubbed you the wrong way. But, nonetheless, you answered. “It’s complicated…” A laugh falls from your lips—fake and deceiving. “It’s been off and on for about a year— believe it or not.”

“I believe it.” Cat chortled behind a fist. “Dating in New York is hard. People just don’t take relationships seriously anymore— I totally get it.” Her eyes rolled as she spoke, shiny lips curling at the corners.

Awkwardly, you nod. Her tone alarming you once more. “Yeah… Well, I need to get back to this— the quicker this is over the better.”

“Right…”

“Are you planning on helping the parents cook, or…”

She crossed her arms, lips frowning, slightly. “Yeah. Later, I’m helping Joel and Tommy with the steak. I’ve never really cooked steak before so… Wish me luck.” Cat chuckled, stepping back from the fence. “I’ll let you get back to work, though…” She began to walk off, after you waved, halfheartedly. Pausing in the well-kept grass, she looked over her shoulder. “Could you point me in the direction of my girlfriend? I’m sure you know where she is.”

Hm.

“Uh, yeah, sure— She’s either in the horse barn or the greenhouse… I would check the horse barn first.” You point towards the wooden paneled barn some meters away. My girlfriend. Did that not sound harsh? There was such diction in her proclamation for Ellie. It was an iron bar being burned into your chest, over your heart like a branding.

She didn’t say much of a thank you, only a head nod and a wave. Leaving you standing in the same patch of mud you were standing in when she arrived. That interaction felt oddly tangy, rather than sweet—like usual. Of course, you had your doubts about Cat, but this time it felt different. So much different.

For another thirty minutes, you monitored Frankie and the other goats. Giving her a bunch of kisses to make up for your irate behavior—after all, she was behaving better; she deserved them!

Finishing your work, you didn’t realize until your stepped into the house—leaving your shoes on the porch—that Ellie didn’t call or text you about anything. She was supposed to meet you when she finished her side of the chores, but she never showed. It was too cold to wait around for her, so you trotted back to the house. And it’s not like you had her number; she had yours.

In the back of your mind, you worried about the interaction she had with Cat. Why wouldn’t you? As the days went by, you were growing in possessiveness of someone that wasn’t even yours. She used to be, but that wouldn’t hold up in court.

You noticed Maria working in the kitchen, working on small side dishes. Before you jogged up the stairs, you let her know that you’d be back after a warm shower. Cooking food while smelling like actual animal shit wasn’t a great mix.

Tommy had already put the television on the channel where the game was playing. The direct speech of sports anchors playing as background noise on the first floor--bouncing off the walls.

When you walked up the stairs, you heard the soft tune of Joel strumming and tuning his new guitar from his bedroom. It soothed your ears—his playing always did. There was a song he used to play for you, and sometimes Ellie, when you were teenagers. Then, after while, she began to play it for you. Sat in the corner of your reading nook, in a t-shirt and plaid boxers (or whatever underwear she was wearing), strumming at the tough strings of her guitar. Looking into your eyes like you were unreal.

Everyone seemed to be doing something on this busy morning. And you were soon to jump right in.

Steam opened your pores as you cleansed the dirt and grime off your skin. You attempted not to drown within your own thoughts while the showering. Echoes of your parents’ voices bounced around your mind, along with Joel’s. It was overwhelming. You feared they’d never forgive you if they found out what you and Ellie were doing—or had done. Then, there was Cat; a part of you felt bad for her. That she was getting caught in the middle of unfinished business… Clearly, your attempt at clearing your head didn’t work.

Shutting off the shower, smelling like a happy mixture of vanilla and coconut, you wrapped yourself in a towel to walk to your bedroom. When you entered, you didn’t notice the frame of your estranged lover sitting on your bed—until you pivoted on damp feet. “Shit, Ellie… What the hell are you doing?” You gasp, clenching onto the material of the old beach towel you were using to dry off.

Her back was facing you, eyes cast toward the paneled window of your reading nook. The auburn strands of her hair were damp, leaving marks on the shoulders and back of her grey sweatshirt.

“She fucking knows…”

Your eyebrows stitched together, trying to take in what the woman before you had said. Shutting your door with a sigh, you turn back around slowly. “What do you mean…?” Your voice trembled, wanting clarification even though you already knew what she meant. That hole that you dug was only getting deeper. Or, perhaps, not. It’s already reached max depth.

Ellie peered over her shoulder, the whites of her eyes unnerved. Freckled cheeks flushed to oblivion. “You PM’d me last night on MySpace…”

“Yeah…?” You slowly approached her, shrugging your shoulders. Although, your heart was racing—beating throughout your entire body. If that was even possible.

“When I got back to the guesthouse last night, I basically conked out, y/n.” Ellie told, finally shifting her body to see your stunned frame in its entirety. Water droplets dripping down your arms and legs; muscles tightening in anticipation.

A hand shot over your mouth, eyebrows furrowing in remorse. If she went right to sleep, then someone else had been responding to you—and you don’t believe in ghosts. “Please, tell me you’re fucking with me.”

She placed her head in her hands. “I wish I was…” Ellie bounced her leg, nervously. “Why the fuck would you mention anything that happened over the internet?” Her tone shifted, scolding you with the same pair of eyes that once caressed your skin with adoration.

“I had no other way to tell you about Joel. I was trying to warn you—“

“Yeah, what a warning that was.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Okay, hold on… How do you know about this? D— Did she confront you— or what?”

She sighed. “She came and talked to me while I was grooming Sarah— Also, you forgot to mention that she doesn’t like to be brushed…!” Her round features were pulled taut, glaring at you.

“I met her, like, once, Ellie. How would I know that she doesn’t like to be brushed?” You retorted, kicking out a leg, narrowing your eyes. “And… She’s a fucking baby. You should’ve expected that.”

“She said if I don’t admit what I did by tonight… She’s gonna fucking do it.”

You bunched your eyebrows, shaking your head—utterly confused. “She’s gonna fucking do what? Wh— What is this, Ellie— fucking One Tree Hill?!” It was incredulous for Cat to make such a threat. Theatricals were never your choice of handling things. Hence the last time an explosive episode happened on the farm. You shut down and close off—it’s always too much!

The auburn-haired woman’s feature slightly softened, looking up at you from her seated position.

Noticing the tensing in your body—seeing that face she swore she never wanted to see again. “Uhm, what did you say…?” You questioned, carefully with pinched lips and drifting eyes.

“I said that I would…”

Record scratch. Again. How many of those were you going to experience in a single week?

“Ellie—!”

“To alleviate some of her frustration—!” She tried.

“I don’t give a fuck why you agreed to her stupid threat, Ellie— it’s the fact that you did!” You paced, squeezing the bridge of your nose. Thinking. Hard. Your voice had boomed, forgetting that the walls weren’t thick. “I will not have this random emo chick ruin the relationship I have with my parents… Because she wants to get back at you.”

She leaned back on her hands, shrugging. “And you… She’s getting back at you, too.”

“Seriously.” You snapped your head toward her, blinking with blossoming anger.

“Dead serious.” Ellie held your eyes, courageously. She never liked seeing you angry, but boy, did it set her skin on fire. You were always so concerned with how people perceived you, that you avoided acting within your nature. Even though, in your truest nature, you were the most beautiful thing.

You pointed a finger at her, strolling toward her. “Is this funny to you?”

“Is there a smile on my face?” She retorted, looking up at you through her thick, batting lashes.

“You look amused—“

“I am.” She simply stated, causing you to raise an eyebrow. “Because you’ve never changed, y/n. It’s always appearances with you— for everything.” You rolled your eyes at that, scoffing under your breath. What did she know? “Little-miss-perfect… Always has to do the right thing— not because she wants to, but because she wants others to notice that she does.”

Her words sounded familiar. More put together, but familiar.

“It’s fucking pathetic, babe—“

“Get hell the out of my room.” The words came from you like a whisper with pinched lips, clenching your fists at your sides. Her and her name-calling.

Ellie stood up, chest nearly touching the towel that wrapped around you. Chest to chest. “Can you think about us for one second?” Her fingers tethered to your bare skin, dancing up your arms. “Cat’s makin’ our karma come quick— embarrassing us in front of our family. And, yeah, we did a fucked-up thing. I can admit and make peace with that because I wanna be with you.” She squeezed your shoulders, examining your tight features. Ellie reached her hand to grace your cheek, but you turned away.

A sigh fell from her lips, pulling away from your body. “And all you can think about is your parents… What they would think?” Ellie scoffed, running her hand through her damp strands. “You’re an adult—! And you, certainly, made an adult decision to fuck me the other night— so this is your fault as much as it is mine.” She lectured. Ellie Williams was lecturing you. Oh, how the tables turn.

“Fucking stand in it.” The artist grit, pointing her finger to the ground. “That’s you’re fuckin’ problem. Always wanting to be perfect— but you’re not! Not even close.”

Tears began to build in the corner of your eyes, lips quivering at her words. Heart wrenching at her stern tone. “And I fucking love you for it…” Ellie appeared dejected, gliding toward your door. Adhering to the command you gave her: Get out. “But if your parents’ opinion weigh heavier… Fine.”

A beat meandered through the room, while Ellie’s hand hovered over the handle.

“I realized… After Cat found me in the barn that…” She chewed on her lip. “I’m not ashamed of what we did— which is why I don’t mind telling the truth. It may be a threat for her but… it’s a release for me.”

A sob shockingly came from your throat, plopping onto your reading nook. The strength of your neck unable to hold up your head—it dropped into your hands to cover your face. “Please,” Your breath hitched, peeking through your fingers. “Ellie, please, don’t say anything. Don’t ruin tonight over something…Something fickle.”

Fickle?

She deepened her eyebrows in offense before pulling open the door. “I’m telling them whether you like it or not. Shape up or ship the fuck out.” Ellie pushed through the door, making sure to shut it light enough not to cause a stir, but heavy enough to unsettle you further.

To Ellie’s core, she was a pusher; a person who liked to push others—for better or for worse. Just depended on the day, and the person. Now, in her past, she’s made the mistake of pushing you into a worser version of yourself. And she almost did it again, but she revised her actions efficiently. She corrected it. Switched it around like a puzzle-piece placed in the wrong spot.

You needed to learn how to stand in your decision—good or bad—and not cowering within them. There’s no point in begging for a person’s forgiveness once you’ve done something wrong. Accountability and apologies are all a person has. And your parents—pssh; you shouldn’t be worrying about that so much.

Tommy and Maria loved you more than life itself, and Ellie understood why because she did, too.

There was nothing you could do to scarlet letter your persona. Absolutely nothing.

Even after titling the love you and Ellie embraced fickle; she could never turn her face from you— not for long anyway.

Dragging her feet down the hall, old converse sliding against the wood, eyes watering with warm tears in the corner of her eyes; a door creaked open. An aged pair of brown eyes, pushing though the slot. “Everything all right, kiddo…?”

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Olive eyes attempting to blink back tears at the sound of his softened, gravelly voice. Sniffling, her legs carried her toward him, wrapping her arms around his soft abdomen, tucking her head into his chest.

Nothing came from her but soft, stressed cries. Fingers clenching onto the fabric of his flannel behind his back.

As much as this situation was a lot for you, it was a lot for her as well—just in a different way, for a different reason.

In your room, you were still on that reading nook in your towel. Your body was was dry, so the old cloth scratched and tickled your skin. It was deserving for you to be uncomfortable. Ellie was right; you were a little pathetic—for lack of better word.

You spent so much time wanting to fix yourself. Be the best version of yourself. And that wasn’t Tommy or Maria’s fault, it was your own. When you were first adopted, sent to a new school, you had a full out meltdown. Some kid had been picking on you for being quiet, and you escalated the situation to a place that it didn’t need to go. As in: using your fists to defend yourself. From then, you were thrown into therapy and had to relearn that fighting wasn’t the answer. Maria aided that by drilling into your head that violence was something that could get you into trouble.

So, how did the way people perceived you become such a focus? Well, Maria’s scoldings of your behavior translated in your head—along with trauma of past foster homes and neglectful parents—that what people saw of you mattered more than your own conclusions. They thought, therefore you were.

You failed to fact-check. You failed to have a personal understanding of your own behavior. It was rare for you to make peace with your own actions—good or bad. You were always stuck on what a person would think of you; especially, your parent’s. Perhaps, there was still a part of you that felt you needed to prove that you worth caring for. Worth supporting.

That pressure continues and continues and continues to shove your head underwater no matter how many times your flail and beg for air.

It was obnoxious. It is obnoxious. You’re obnoxious.

Love isn’t conditional. It’s a feeling that tethers people to one another despite anything. Despite flaws and self-guilts—it perseveres. That concept shouldn’t be difficult to grasp because, after all Ellie had said on that one unfaithful afternoon, you still loved her. You loved her at seventeen, and you love her at twenty-five. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.

And the same applied for your parents to you.

It was fucking physics and you were a prodigal humanities student who looked at STEM in contempt.

Solemnly, you dressed into a pair of comfy clothes. Attempting to replace the frown that stuck to your lips, although your body was already weakened from your emotions. Surprisingly, a cigarette couldn’t cure your overthinking mind—not this time. There was no point in pulling from one.

After squeezing eye drops into your eyes to eliminate the irritated veins in your sclera’s, you stomped down the wooden stairs. When your mother noticed you, she smiled. Her sparkling white teeth glimmering in your eyes—warm and kind. “Ellie and Joel are gonna be baking the pie at the guesthouse… So, the kitchen is ours.” Maria chuckled to herself, kneading the dough for her legendary biscuits.

“I know how much you hate overcrowded kitchens…” You respond, grabbing the apron with your nickname stitched on the front—Bug. She did a double take, looking from the dough in her hands. Noticing that unfortunate look on your face, and that blandness in your tone.

Maria sighed, setting the dough aside, leaning her flour covered hands against the counter. “Not you, too… What the hell is in the air today?” She shook her head, averting her eyes to you with intensity. “What’s goin’ on with you— Ellie had just come down here with that same look on her face.”

“What look?”

“That look.”

You pressed your lips into a line, looking around in thought. It was easier to lie and say something unrelated but that was fruitless idea. So, you said nothing, walking over to the cornbread she left out to begin working on the stuffing.

Raising an eyebrow, she followed you with her icy irises. She then called you your full name, which sent chills down you spine.

You sucked your teeth, meeting her stern eyes. “Ellie and I had sex…” You mutter, peering down to your shaking hands.

“What…?”

It was difficult to say aloud to your mother, but that the rest came behind swiftly. “And Cat found out because I had a run-in with Joel— he heard, and I wanted to let Ellie know… So, I private messaged her on MySpace, but turns out, she wasn’t the one responding to me; Cat was.” You puffed air from your lips. “This morning, she came by to ask where Ellie was, so I told her she was in the horse barn. Come to find out, she confronted her, threatening to air all of our shit out to you and dad and Joel as a consequence.”

“Tommy, get in here.” She asserted to her husband focused on the television, keeping her wide eyes on you.

Another sigh came from you, watching as your father navigated into the kitchen. “After my shower, Ellie was in my room and that’s when she told me. We got into it a little bit… Uhm, because she told me that she was gonna tell y’all that we slept together and that pissed me off— because why would she do that?” You scoff, not noticing the glances your father was making to your mother as you unloaded this heavily detailed bundle of information. “How could she be so quick to admit that we had sex to our family that has known us since we were children? That we committed fucking adultery while her girlfriend was only, like, ten meters away—“

“Honey,” Tommy tried, but you held up a finger.

“Let me finish.” Your eyes welled with tears, looking at your fathers aging features. “I couldn’t understand how she was so okay with it, but, now, I do. I think I do…” You glance between the two people hovering around you. “The only reason why I came up with the idea— yeah, I’m the one who came up with it… To hookup. Sue me— was because I wanted to see if what was happening between us was real. And it fucking was!”

“I know what we did was wrong. I knew it was wrong when I decided to go through with it… I begged Ellie not to say anything— which is ironic considering I’m the one talkin’.” You chuckled, wiping a warm tear that slipped from your eyes. “I was afraid of what you guys would think of me. That you wouldn’t love me anymore because of what I did— because you didn’t raise a liar…” Pausing, you released a shaky breath. “Verbatim: she told me to shape up… Or ship the fuck out. I chose the latter because… You didn’t raise a coward either.”

They blinked at you.

“I love Ellie. I really do, and yeah, we should’ve gone about this differently— but we didn’t. And I’m sorry.” Curtly, you nodded your head, adjusting your shoulder to stand up straighter. “I’m so grateful that you guys are my parents— you chose to be here and support me. The least I can do is be honest with you. Even if that results in your disappointment.”

The tears had dried up in your eyes sometime amid your ramble of humility. Confidence growing with every word that you spoke. Ellie’s words rang through your skull about your consistent jig of morality. Fuckup’s don’t make you nor should they break you.

Shit happens!

Their quietness made you tremble out of that shell of confidence you manifested, making you breathe a little heavier and feel a little more uncomfortable within your skin. You watched as they looked at each other. Maria sporting a mixture of concern and disappointment on her features—more disappointment than concern. And, Tommy, the complete opposite.

“You know, what? I’ll let you two… Sit on this.” You walk past them, toward the fridge. In the door, there was both glass bottles and cans of beer—Miller Lite and Heineken. You grabbed the green glass bottle by the neck, “I’m gonna have a beer…” Walking toward the back door with horse barn on your mind.

It was like a weight lifted off your shoulders after you confessed. Being honest with your thoughts about the whole situation made you feel lighter—feather allowing the wind to guide her, type of light. It was freeing to stand in her truth.

The cool breeze of autumn bit at your exposed arms, and the sliver of skin between the hem of your top and the hip line of your sweats. But because you were riding on the high of your confession, you didn’t feel the chill. You never were much of a beer person—it never made sense for you to drink. Yeast was never your thing, but after your confession, you had a craving for it. The beer, not so much the yeast. You overcame something big—you cried yourself into a new you. A better you.

And not that surface-better person you were trying or pretending to be.

When you arrived at the barn, you didn’t forget to pet the grazing horses near you before entering. Remnants of Ellie’s work lingered around, but there was no sight of her. Perhaps, it was for the best. Reaching for one of the bridles hanging on an iron hook, you used the belt to pluck off the tin cap that topped the bottle.

Settling in scattered hay, you plopped onto the ground, taking a large sip. Gritting your teeth at the flavor—still, wasn’t much of a fan. Although, she lingered close to her mother, Sarah began to drift toward you. Curiosity ruling her developing brain. You reached out to her, scratching the short tufts of her blonde hair.

She leaned into your hand, huffing air from her nostrils. It made you smile, her comfortability with you after knowing her for such a short time. “Oh, Sarah…” You sighed, wistfully.

From behind her, in the distance, you see your mother’s figure approaching you. You take in a nervous breath, preparing for her, potentially, harsh words.

Maria’s boots crunched along the sprawled hay, taking her time to sit beside you. Leaning her against the same wooden wall you did. She ran her hand through her short blonde hair, sighing as her shorter pieces of her hair fell right back into place. “If…” She began, thoughtfully. “I’ve ever given you a reason to think that I— we could ever stop loving you, y/n; that was my mistake. I wanna start there. Out of everything that you said in there… That’s what disappointed me most.”

Your eyes flicker to hers, briefly. Sarah had retreated back towards her mother. “Yeah, I must admit… I don’t wanna see my daughter, my kid, doing something worth regretting— no parent wants to see that.” She shook her head, glancing back at the horses. “And, yes, I am disappointed that you did something of this nature… But I know your heart, honey.” Maria reached her hand to your bent knee, caressing with her thumb.

The heat in your cheeks and eyes increased with emotion. “I’ll never forget that look on your face when we surprised you with those papers.” She smiled at the memory, and you leaned into her as if it were muscle memory. “You were… Relieved. And, from that day forward, Tommy and I promised to do right by you. To love you how you deserved to be loved— to prove that you deserved to be loved despite what the world had already managed to convince you.”

You wrapped your hand around the one on your knee while tears dripped from the corners of your eyes. “You think something like this would change my mind?” She looked down at you leaning her shoulder.

“Yeah… I guess…” You insecurely blinked at her. Feeling like the very thirteen-year-old she was referencing.

The blonde woman shook her head, placing a hand on your cooling cheek. “Well, that’s the farthest from the truth, Bug.” Her lips plotted against your forehead, comfortingly. “Your father and I will love you until we’re cold in the ground—“

“Mom, don’t say that.” You whined, sniffling.

“Probably, beyond that—“

“Mom!”

She snickered, peeling the beer from your fingers, and taking a sip for herself. “I don’t know how they tolerate this stuff.” Maria grimaced, shaking her head, setting it aside. “So… What’s the course of action now that everybody knows this big secret?”

You pull from her, leaning your head against the wall. “I don’t know…” You sighed, shutting your eyes. “Ellie is pissed at me—“

“For…?” She perked a slender eyebrow.

“Because… I called our situation fickle to get her to not say anything, but clearly, that didn’t work.” You shook your head. “I guess, I’m the impulsive one now.”

Maria hummed. “Looks like you have a lot to clear up.”

You inhaled, peering at her. “Looks like it.” With another breathy sigh, you shook your head.

“Fuck, and Cat.” You slapped your hand against your forehead.

“Ah. You know, she has every right to be upset?”

“Of course, I do. But, to be fair…”

“Nope—“

“Ellie came up here to get away from her— that’s what she told me!”

Your mother scolded you, calling you by your full name—because that was her super power. But, you ignored her, sitting up straight to prove your point. “She was living in the biggest, most creative city in the world and felt crowded? How does that make sense?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Maybe… Maybe this is what they needed.” You shrugged.

Maria stood to her feet, offering you a hand. “Let’s not get caught up in the little details— you have some apologizing to do.”

“Ugh! I know, I know…” You took her hand, hopping to your feet. She bent down, picking up the beer bottle by the throat.

“But before that, you need to cover up those arms, and get to work in that kitchen— because, we have guests.” As your mother ushered you back into the house, you dragged your slippers against the ground, finding your way back inside the house with a newfound comfort.

Almost an hour earlier, the guesthouse was bluntly silent. Nothing but the slight huffing of Joel kneading dough and the crunching of breadcrumbs from Ellie. There wasn’t much conversation; only the actions of their priorities fr dinner. Cat had locked herself in the bedroom, probably, plotting her next attack.

Joel made a point to keep his eyes on Ellie—and Cat—to make sure nothing crazy happened. Cheating situations made people a little tense at times.

“So… Ellie, what song are you planning on playin’ tonight?” He tried, beginning to roll out the dough; flat to place in the round tin pan.

She sighed, glancing at him with a dismissive glare. “I’m not playin’ tonight…”

“Come on, it’s tradition—“

“Fuck, tradition! I’m not doing it. Can we move on?”

He huffed, placing the wooden roller on the floured counter. “I think you need to cut her some slack, kiddo. She didn’t mean to—“

“I don’t care what she meant—“

“Can you let me finish?” He raised an eyebrow, pointing an index finger that was caked with white flour. Ellie bunched her lips together, rolling her eyes. “Now, Ellie, I know you’re upset with y/n, with how the situation panned out— I get it. But don’t let your frustration cloud your judgement.” He told. “I spoke to her long before you did. I don’t believe for a second that she truly thinks that your relationship is fickle.”

He inhaled, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes we say things that we don’t mean— I’m sure you know about that.”

She ran her tongue over her lips, tapping her foot against the floor. Thinking back to a few years ago when she exploded on Joel and you. Ellie was good for that—saying things she didn’t mean. “I mean, I’ve said a few things to Tommy in my day.”

“Joel…” She shook her head. “I don’t even know if it’s that alone— I…” Ellie struggled to verbalize, gesticulating with her hands and fingers as words attempted to materialize behind her teeth. “She’s always choosing her parents over me— over everything and everyone. Really, it’s doing her a disservice—“

The artist began to rant like her life depended on it. Of course, in a low enough tone where her girlfriend in the other room couldn’t hear. Joel just watched a listened, as her features contorted with annoyance. But, within her big, earthy eyes, Ellie told on herself. Her claims didn’t come from hatred, or even contempt—it came from her adoration of you.

In the corner of the room, relied the piece she’s been working on since the day of her arrival, or rather, the night of. It was no longer covered with a white, paint-stained sheet. Her work had been exposed to the light due to a quick argument between her and Cat before Joel came to save the day. It was a colored-in image of you in front of that old shed. A joint rested between your index and middle finger with a look of relaxation was on your smoothly stroked features. Ellie made sure to depict you in your most comfortable state.

If only he could see her sketch book.

“Ellie, you have to break up with her.”

She paused, mid-sentence. “What?”

“Matter of fact, you need to break up with Cat— now.”

Uncomfortably, she shifted on her bare feet. “But… The pie…”

He chortled, averting his eyes to the art piece at the corner of the room. “Priorities, Ellie. Priorities.” Joel leaned his hip against the marble counter. “Go in there, break up with her— as kindly as you can. Then, offer to drive her to the train station. If she declines, insist. If you go now, you should make it back before dinner. You know Maria will have a cow if you’re late.”

Briefly, she thought to herself. Ellie was never the type to be afraid of confrontation—she may have hesitated a few times… But she was never afraid. She never expected her actions to be thrown into her face so quickly, though. The memory of Cat approaching Ellie in that barn sent chills down her spine, because she had an inkling that something was wrong the minute she had appeared. Her dark brown eyes were squinty and boring through her as she approached. At first, Ellie didn’t notice Cat’s slender frame walking up to her—as she were hyper-focused on tending to the small, blonde-haired foal.

They have been together for nearly a year, so of course, the freckled artist knew when she was truly upset. Cat was a woman of subtly, despite her tattoos and silver piercings. Her anger pressed through with an even tone, and a stiff posture; rather than, expression through loud voices and firm fist curls. They are polar opposites in that way. That is what originally attracted Ellie to her—but in that moment, she shivered.

It was like whiplash, comparing how she woke up to how she appeared in front of Ellie in that moment. Making her wonder, if that happy act was all lie? It most certainly was.

Cat somehow surpassed a level of straightforwardness that Ellie was comfortable with, telling her exactly how it was: Why she made breakfast for her this morning, the MySpace conversation (why she pretended to be her), her certainty of her infidelity, and the official threat that set everything off the rails. Easily, her intention was to embarrass Ellie and you. She sensed the timidness that you hid behind and wanted to use it against you. She assumed, based off the history between you and Ellie, that the only way for Ellie to be affected is to make an example of you. However, she imagined that it would be more difficult for her girlfriend to confess her actions first.

You weren’t particularly obvious with what happened between the two of you, but she would have to be stupid to not assume that it was a sexual thing. But when Cat approached Ellie with the statement: You told me you were going on a run. She didn’t expect to be met with immediate truth. Her olive eyes had grown wide for only a second, before words began to just flood from her like an open dam. Ellie couldn’t stop herself.

Perhaps, it was the complaints of you echoing in her head. Your fervent concerns about going back to Cat—it made her feel guilty; so, she confessed as if she were bribed to tell the truth and was content with the consequences. All the while, brushing the soft, blunt hairs of Sarah.

Ellie assumed that was why Cat made a threat to support her dominance. That made her hesitate a bit—admitting to her family that her and an old flame, that ended horribly in their teenagerhood, had secret sex in the middle of the night? Despite having a girlfriend—who could ever do such a thing?

Apparently, Ellie.

Straightening her shoulders, she didn’t back down, though. She took full accountability for her behavior, claiming that she would be the one to tell them what she did—although, she did find that to be dramatic. It wasn’t until Ellie was checking off the chores list in the garden, when she realized her fate had a drastic connection to you.

You weren’t the type to stand tall in defeat or mistake. When the things you did wrong were brought to you, you quivered and coward away because it made you feel more than you preferred. Faulty. It made you want to sequester—the total opposite of Ellie.

She could never forget how you hid away after the fight on her seventeenth birthday. You didn’t go to school for a week. Ellie offered to bring you schoolwork, like the waving of a white flag, but you declined—or, rather, your parents declined. One of your academic friends made visits to the farm every day to give you the missing work. For a moment, after not hearing from you, Ellie thought you moved abroad or something. You were the closest thing to a true hermit.

That worried her because this is the last thing you’d ever want to admit, and it was Ellie’s fault. She may not have felt a lick of regret for loving on you like she used to, but she felt bad for putting you in a situation you couldn’t seamlessly get out of. It was a nightmare to see you flail, but the only way out is through. Ellie learned that a long time ago. Maybe, it was your turn to reassess that motto.

The only way out is through.

So, Ellie made her way to the bedroom they shared, knocking before she entered.

Cat had her back propped up against the wooden headboard; a pair of headphones covering her pierced ears as she typed on her own computer. Her bags were packed and ready in the corner of the room—that’s what she spent her time doing this morning… Packing her bags. When she wasn’t issuing theatrical threats. That’s already one concern out the window. She was ready to ship out. When she noticed Ellie, her soft features fell.

“You’re already packed…” She acknowledged, rocking on her bare feet. Cat removed her headphones with a sigh. “Let me take you to the train station—”

“Before you tell your family that you boldly cheated on your girlfriend? I don’t think so.” She dismissed, tilting her head to the side. “If this is your way of getting out of—”

Ellie groaned, slapping her hands against her thighs. “I’m not trying to get out of anything, Cat. I just don’t want you paying a fucking grand to get back into the city.”

“What do you care?” Cat challenged, setting her laptop aside. “Hm? You told me that I had nothing to worry about. That’s what you said… Turns out that was a stupid fucking lie.” She ground out, pressing her lips into a disappointed line. A cruel laugh came from her, while she shook her head in disbelief. “And now, you’re saying you care about how much I’m spending to get back home? Are you fucking with me?”

“I’m not. It’s the least I could do—”

“No… The least you could’ve done was not fuck y/n—that’s the least you could’ve done.” The scorned woman argued, meeting her eyes with intensity. “I’m not going anywhere until I see the looks on Mr. and Mrs. Miller’s faces when they find out what the two of you did— I have a feeling it’ll be memorable.”

The freckled artist found her attitude to be draining, even if it was sensical for her side of things. Her fingers rubbed between her eyebrows. A raspy sigh fleeing from her throat. “Look, I get you’re upset, Cat. But dontcha’ think you’re doing, I don’t know, too much?”

“You think this is too much?”

“Uh, yeah, I do. I said I’d tell ‘em what happened— that should be enough for you.”

Scoffing, she threw her legs over the mattress. “You expect me to believe the woman who cheated on me? How didn’t I know you were this idiotic before?” Cat scoffed, dryly.

She deepened her eyebrows at the insult, gritting her teeth. “You know, what? I’ve been really struggling to keep my mouth shut… But, clearly, there’s no point.” Ellie huffed, blinking her eyes. Perhaps, it was time for her to know the truth on why Ellie wanted to go home for a while. Her stiff words got Cat’s attention, causing her to narrow her dark eyes. “That whole thing about me having a hard time in the city with my art— yeah, that was because of you, not because of fucking Brooklyn.” The woman admitted, releasing the tension in her shoulders. “Truth is, your endless support did nothing but drag out my lack of inspiration—you made it worse! What I needed was to get out of that goddamn apartment, not get out of the city.” She continued, pacing around the room. “From the moment I saw her… Inspiration fucking flooded my psyche— all I could see was her. Her face. Her voice. Her body. She did more for me in second than you ever did for me in the year we’ve been together.”

She ran a hand through her hair, scoffing. A boyish smirk spreading onto her plush lips. “Who’s the fuckin’ idiot now?” Ellie muttered, flickering her earthy eyes toward her shocked expression.

A beat plotted in the environment, feasting on the spreading tension in the room.

That was mean; she matched her cruelty and then some. Ellie shouldn’t have, but she was only human. A human who just made her girlfriend—sorry, ex-girlfriend—cry. Her thin eyebrows pushed into a harsh furrow, tears streaming shown her flushed, hot cheeks. Her fingers danced in front of lips, trying to keep her sorrowful whines from being heard. It wasn’t working. Cat cried like a hurt dog, stuffing her face in her hands at Ellie’s restriction of consolation.

With crossed arms, Ellie looked down at from across the room. Family was one of the most important things to her. Despite her youthful, abrasive attitude, Joel decided to contractually tie himself to her—her adoption. But, even before then, she’s been a divine part of the Miller family. They meant a whole lot to her, you, more so. The fact that she was so willing to draw a wedge between the lot of you… Frankly, it disgusted her. It was repulsive.

“You have every right to be upset. I can’t take that from you.” She let up, lifting her eyebrows. “If anything… What I do regret is pulling you along this far out of convenience. To be honest—”

“Haven’t you been honest enough? Fuck, Ellie.” Cat blurted, peeking over her shoulder.

Her feelings might have been hurt; a simmering flame awaiting the impulsive pressure of Ellie’s old converse. The auburn-haired woman sighed, taking a seat on the bed. Away from Cat, not only to convey her sincerity in her processing words, but to respect Cat’s wired emotions. “I’ve kept enough from you, kitty Cat. My honesty is my apology…” Ellie casted her down-to-earth irises to the side of Cat’s face. When she turned to meet Ellie’s eyes, her smudged eyeliner and mascara became a spectacle. “And my good-bye…”

Cat scoffed in pure offense. “You do not get to break-up with me when you’re the one who fucked up.”

“Well, if you wanna be the one to call it… Then, feel free.”

“No!” She grit her teeth, more tears dripping from the corners of her eyes. “I don’t want to break up with you…” Her lips quivered.

Ellie chortled, leaning her palm into the mattress. “Uhm, one of us is gonna have to do the breaking, Cat.”

They apparently have walked themselves into an impasse. To make a decision, or to not make a decision—that was the question. The response, the answer, was far simpler than Cat was making it, though.

Sighing, the freckled artist looked to the side. Ellie could use this to her advantage—getting her on that train back to the city. “You don’t have to right now…” She began to offer. “How about you mull it over on the way to the train station? I still don’t mind driving you there.” Her fingers fiddled with themselves, hoping she’d finally accept her invitation to leave.

She looked at her frowning, blinking away her tears. “Fine…” Cat stood to her feet, wiping her makeup-stained cheeks with the backs of her hand. “Why don’t you be a doll and bring my bags to the truck. It’s the least you could do.” Before Ellie could respond, she walked into bathroom and locked herself behind the door.

Releasing a long breath of relief, Ellie got up from the bed. As silently as possible, she pumped her fists into the air. Cat was leaving with only a little bit of resistance. That whole dramatic scene she was hoping for wasn’t happening—thank God!

Ellie stuffed her feet into her sneakers, before grabbing her rolling luggage and bag, hoisting the large purse over her shoulder. She left the bedroom, eyeing Joel on her way out. He was covered in flour and sugar, like the chef that he aspired to be. She gave him a thumbs up on the way out the door, snickering to herself.

Joel clapped his hands, forgetting about the flour stuck to his hands. It puffed into the air and down his throat, causing him to obnoxiously cough—away from the food developing in front of him. “Goddamn,”

Ellie peeked her head inside, pushing the luggage to the side on the small wooden porch. “Please, survive until I get back. Wouldn’t want another tragedy on Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, shut it, Ellie.”

She snickered again; her mood instantly heightened. However, as she maneuvered off the porch, her eyes caught sight of you and your mother. Maria’s arms were around you, guiding you toward the house. You didn’t have a jacket on and sported a pair of slippers—you weren’t dressed for the brisk afternoon air, dragging your feet against the ground. Ellie had stopped in her tracks. Shoes crunching on bumpy gravel. She couldn’t help but wonder what led you out the house. Was it her? Did she unnerve you so bad that you ran away from the warmth of the house?

Also, did you mean what you said when you used fickle as a description of your relationship with Ellie? Boy, did she have so many questions. This ball was filled with kinetic energy, rolling as it should have. She was just going to have to keep the momentum of its roll. For how long? The inspired artist didn’t know—but what she did know, was that she had a woman to make hers again.

This time, in a sustainable way, instead of a chaotic one.

taglist: @autisticintr0vert , @liasxeatt , @hopingforgoodblogs , @lia-winther , @macaroni676 , @tobiotruther , @anewkindofloove , @fatbootymuncher , @maiaska , @culuvr , @0phantom0 , @onlinelesbo , @bbnbhm , @lovelaymedown , @lamorenita , @scatapple , @elliewilliamsblunt , @goddessofchaosss , @mikellie , @emmanetalias , @sevyscoven , @lluvbk

#🪅#millersfinest #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams smut #ellie williams series #lesbian #muheheheh everything is falling into place

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sceletaflores · 3 months ago

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GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

꩜ masterlists ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels.

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift.

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused.

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence.

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane.

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants.

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.”

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him.

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world.

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him.

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back.

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman.

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them.

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne.

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly.

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

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bambooswordwielder · 6 months ago

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Obsessed with the fact that Shen Yuan only transmigrates when all the Peaklords have settled into their positions for a few years because the idea of Shang Qinghua being stuck watching Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge arguing for nth time about some budget detail that is DEFINITELY getting overblown now and just being stuck thinking

"Damn this would've been such a good enemies to lovers plot line... Imagine how much I could've made off of them..." and regretting not monetising their rivalry more before he killed off Liu Qingge ( "Oh and the angst Shen Qingqiu would've faced after his secret lover died and everyone blamed him for it! Fans would've been begging for more extras!" 🐹💔)

Like all the peaklords are desperately trying to mediate and fix the situation and Shang Qinghua is just imagining his one hundredth Fix-It Fic/AU where Shen Jiu is the King's trusted scholar and Liu Qingge is the King's personal bodyguard

Everyone thinks when a single tear falls from Shang Qinghua's eyes its because during Liu Qingge and Shen Jiu's fight they destroyed both his newly drafted budget (for the fifth time that month) and the fact they also destroyed the table (for the third time that week and the week just started)

Reality is Shang Qinghua is crying because he thought of an angsty death scene for the two Romeo and Juliet style because both their families couldn't accept them being together

Years of this pass and at some point he even picks up writing again (specifically about characters clearly based on Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge) and he gets really popular, popular enough his novels start to flood all of Cang Qiong and even Liu Mingyan takes some inspiration from them

Everyone knows damn well that the characters are clearly meant to be Peaklord Shen and Peaklord Liu, but no one tells because they all are legitimately waiting for the next volume of "Battle-to-your-poisonous-heart-and-peaches"

Does everyone know it's Shang Qinghua... Noooo.. Would anyone admit if they did know.... No.

Then all the sudden on day Shen Qingqiu suddenly looked in the dictionary and discovered what the word 'nice' is and now he doesn't abuse his students 🐹🤯

He even let himself get poisoned and potentially ruined his cultivation for life for Luo Binghe of all people!? Um excuse Airplane Logic, but the MC is supposed to only get all the good stuff AFTER he falls into the abyss!

And what's this about Liu Qingge helping to 'clear' his meridians so he has to personally visit Qing Jing peak every week?? Def something is off, an author knows fishy when he sees it

For how many years Shang Qinghua is stuck watching these two do their whole "You're my precious Shidi" and "I'll always be here for you" act and he's just stuck eating dogfood wondering when exactly is the marriage extra coming in and why the System won't tell me why Shen Qingqiu is acting all happy go lucky now

Shang Qinghua notices Shen Qingqiu talking to Yue Qingyuan more, he notices Qing Jing disciples running straight to Shen Qingqiu with joy and excitement rather than the reserved fear they had before, he notices how Shen Qingqiu only glares at him twice every meeting than before!

Maybe this isn't his version of PIDW, maybe it's a fan made version where Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu fall in love and with the power of love and friendship Shen Qingqiu learns to be kind and to care and isn't going to cause Luo Binghe to go down his dark path and maybe they can all have a happyily ever after—

*Endless Abyss Arc*

"Oh fuck–"

[Before Endless Abyss Arc]

*Shang Qinghua watching from a distance as Luo Binghe is practically clinging to Shen Qingqiu's side. Shen Qingqiu pats Luo Binghe's head and Luo Binghe does THAT smile he only does for his wives*

"Well this is an interesting fanfic..."

[After Airplane Reveal]

"Wait... So you're actually a transmigrater as well, Cucumber-Bro?"

"Yeah, and?"

"..."

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Do you hate, or have you at least at some point hated, Liu Qingge?"

"I– No–Wait what???"

"Let me reword it. Have you ever considered murdering him at one point?"

"WHYAREYOUASKINGMETHESEQUESTIONS!? YOUKNOWWHATHAPPENEDTOSHENJIU! IMNOTRISKINGHISFATE!"

"... So I'll take that as a no."

"OBVIOUSLY!?"

"So it's just a normal Friends to lovers 😮‍💨 No flavour 🙄"

Shang Qinghua was then brutally attacked.

[During the Five Years SY was dead]

*Shang Qinghua watching Liu Qingge go every single day to fight Luo Binghe for Shen Qingqiu's body*

"Oh my Airplane.... It's not a enemies-to-lovers... It's not Teacher X Disciple... It's a bloody love triangle with both! Oh how much money this plot would've made me 💔 I would've been able to pay for four months worth of rent and groceries!"

Random Disciple visiting An Ding: "Um.... Is Shang-Shibo okay? He fell on the ground?"

An Ding Disciple: "Leave him. He does that sometimes. Now about your budget request..."

*Shang Qinghua screaming in the background*

Random Disciple: "..."

An Ding Disciple: "..."

Random Disciple: "Should we check on–"

An Ding Disciple, now dragging other disciple away: "Let's settle this at your peak."

Years later when Bingqiu have already had their wedding and everyone has become somewhat tolerant of their relationship, Shang Qinghua just sighs loudly and Shen Yuan asks him what's up. Shang Qinghua looks him in the eyes and just shakes his head.

"My ship...💔"

"..."

"OW– Why did you have go hit me on the head!?"

"Because I don't want to know what's going on in there and I need to make sure what's in there stays in there."

#svsss #shang qinghua #shen jiu #liu qingge #shen yuan #liujiu #liushen #broke shang qinghua days 💔#imagine what was going through Shang Qinghua's mind when he started seeing his scum villain being nice to everyone #“You're not allowed to do that! That's against Protocol!”#Shang qinghua really thought they were in a enemies-to-lovers hurt/comfort fix it fic #Turns out he's stuck in Luo Binghe's self insert fanfic 💔#Yue Qingyuan: “Shang-Shidi we have to prepare a budget for Qingqiu-Shidi's wedding”#Shang Qinghua: “Oh? Really! Oh wow I thought Liu Qingge was never going to get his act together—”#Yue Qingyuan: “Oh no it's for Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe.”#Shang Qinghua: “...” *Incoherent screaming*#“MY ENEMIES TO LOVERS ARC 💔!”#ooc I know but canon is a recommendation we ignore #I based this mostly off me writing some scenes for ocs and realising I liked a ship other than my 'canon' one more #shen qingqiu #bingqiu

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beastyeastfreak · 20 days ago

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Ancients / GN! Shape shifting reader

Well yall wanted me to write for ancients too, so i figured why not return to my roots and rewrite the first post i did on this blog but for the ancients now that im writing for them!

Ill be prioritising beast asks though, sorry this is a beast fan account lolll

Cw and tags: collection of oneshits, takes place before beast yeast episodes, definitely not vague lots of defined reader lore for each oneshot, romantic, implied depression, reader has some connection to the beasts, angsty

Dark Cacao

⚔️ - Your appearances were few but each strike was enough to cause ripples across the kingdoms nearby. It wasn’t often you attacked. You weren’t exactly hostile, just a being that pillaged a town then moved onto the next, surprisingly no fatalities just survivors with injuries both mental and physical. Dark Cacao’s kingdom was not the first to meet you. You traveled all along the cold areas of crispia before trailing closer and closer.

⚔️ - Dark Cacao had heard incessant gossiping from the aristocrats. A horrendous creature, they said. One day they spoke of it being a bulky armored covered monster, the next a cookie who looked just a little off… Another would whisper that their cousin had faced it head on, it had no specific form but to scare them it had taken the form of a great dragon. His interest had peaked, and the sword at his side resonated with the same interest. If this shifter decided to show its face, he would handle it personally. He assigned more guards at the borders, tension grew. A town just shy of the kingdom had been torn up in the night, help arrived in the morning. No fatalities still.

⚔️ - Your arrival had fanfare, not loud but it was announced. The birds stopped chirping and the animals hid all day in burrows. Even some larger predators seem to shy from the open areas. The day dragged, everyone seemed on edge, everyone now assigned to civilisation of any kind, the being only attacked small towns so as threat loomed he ensured citizens would be protected.

⚔️ - Dusk settled on pristine snow, he began to patrol the castle walls. Below, against the snow he saw a lone cake hound, he watched quietly as it innocently trotted up to the wall of the citadel, looked around and suddenly turned into a robed cookie. Ah, it intended on stealing from him, and here he was preparing all the weaker points. He did not move, he stood still, then when you climbed to the top he grabbed you by the arm. Standing without a word while you began to claw, and change, and scratch, regardless he held on staring coldly. Eventually you loosen up, his grip does not waver. You’re no dragon, you actually seem quite frail for a cookie. “You would have been wise to steer away from this kingdom,” his brows knit. “Fine! I’ll go, put me down.” You hiss and kick at his chest, its like kicking a brick wall. “No, you must answer for what you’ve done,” he says and places you down so you can walk but still holding your arm. “What?! Seriously! I didn’t do anything!” You yell out as he drags you into the fortress.

⚔️ - You’re placed in a cell impossible to escape from no matter how small or large you make yourself, apparently its mercy by their standards. You gain the affection of whoever’s bringing you food in the beginning. If fact new guards have to constantly be appointed because of how you continue to win their hearts over. Finally, he decides to just bring you your food every day, and unfortunately he falls victim to it too. The first instance of resolution slowly cracking was pity, you scarfed down food like you hadn’t been fed in years. He occasionally spotted you looking longingly out a window or the sound of your form shifting.

⚔️ - He cracked, one day he delivered food and asked, “why did you harm those beneath you?” He says, you’re throwing a ball up at the ceiling and back down again, except the ball also seemed apart of your body. “We all gotta eat, not that it really matters i guess since we’re all going to die anyway,” you respond nonchalantly. “So you’d hurt the innocent to feed yourself?” He said incredulously. “I didn’t hurt anyone, just stole… and broke some stuff,” you say. He stares for a moment then leaves.

⚔️ - He comes back the next day and opens the door, “you will join my kingdom, i will keep you fed and you will listen to me.” He says, ecstatically you agree.

⚔️ - The next few months were hard work, you had to regain the trust of cookies you once saw as stepping stones. Many of those who you now had to stand beside at meetings you would have had to scare off. Your talents were indispensable, a jack of all trades one could say.

⚔️ - Once you were fed, out of a crummy cell and out and about you were flourishing. Obviously Dark Cacao kept a close eye on you for his own interest, to train you, and course you not getting away. That allowed you to become close with him, there were many times you found yourself in his cloak, or sleeping on his shoulder in the form of a small animal. Though in many cookies eyes you were an outcast, when you two were by yourself you were close. He had never been this close with anyone, you had little chance to be.

⚔️ - As you adjusted to the snow, dapples of white or a snowy coat would become frequent on your body. At first thats where he thought it’s end, just a new shade of camouflage. Then the closer you two seemed to get and the longer you stayed, he noticed occasionally within the black were small sharp diamond shaped specs. Any time he’d run his hand over your bare back as you slept or hold your cheek before a kiss, those specks seemed to temporarily grow in size. He finds it amusing, he wishes he had something he could keep on himself that reminded him of you.

⚔️ - He found himself more and more fond of you by the day. He was a mighty king, unmoving in the face of danger. He showed nothing, just stalwart silence. Yet you didn’t do that, you proudly displayed colors. You were always changing, even in deep sleep where your best dreams were black and purple. There was always a new pattern, a little change but even then, some part of him remained there. You were one of his subjects now, he’d protect you as such.

Golden Cheese

☀️ - The golden city was a perfect, pristine paradise she had carefully planned and constructed for her citizens and only her citizens. So it irked her to no and that pesky bugs would dare try inflitrate and harm what was hers! Of course her assistants would always do an impeccable job in maintaining the city, keeping everything in order and above all prevent it from happening again. Yet one day, something unfamiliar wormed its way into the city.

☀️ - Mozzarella cookie had spotted a rather hefty glitch one day, quite large for a beetle but took care of it regardless. Well, the very next day another bug popped up in the same place, the ritual would be repeated again, and again and again until Golden Cheese herself took notice. “It’s almost like the same entity is trying to break in under different forms.. i haven’t seen anything like this.” Mozzarella cookie would say. Insulted was the first emotion, some one was desperately clawing their way in to harm her subjects?! Her treasure?! But then it became sharp fear, a pit in her stomach. Someone was getting in. She of course did not let this fear show, she told Mozzarella cookie to let this entity in and track them down so she could have a word with them.

☀️ - Things are quiet for a while, no bugs, no issues, no mention of some terrible cookie rampaging about. The relative silence only makes her more anxious. At some point she does find you though, although not realizing its you. She visits her room filled with treasure, coins stacked to the roof, golden chalices filled with never ending ambrosia and shiny rare trinkets litter the shelves. Her treasure, just the mere sight of it, calms her down. She gazes upon art while idly swirling a shiny cup. Somewhere down another room she hears movement. With haste she walks over, “is someone there? This room is off limits,” she called out and heard scrambling. She opens the door to find…

A cat?

☀️ - She watches as this feline jumps onto a pile of gold and tries to escape out a window with a scroll in its mouth. She quickly flies over and grabs it, “what a greedy little creature you are! Stealing from my treasures are you?” She pulls the scroll from the cat’s mouth, it was a map of the old kingdom. She had it in a tightly closed box on the wall, how this cat managed to pull it out was beyond her. It began to try and pull away, swatting and hissing. She just laughed, finding it cute. “I think i will keep you, very few have the ability to trespass into my abode.” She says, your disappointment is plentiful.

☀️ - You tried to escape the first night she captured you, but that very night Smoked Cheese caught you and placed an irremovable collar that would track your position on you. You were stuck, beginning to wish you had chosen a different kingdom to hide in. As for how you’re treated? In the beginning it was degrading, stupid outfits, horrible name ideas, being petted. Then it began to work a little, you hinted at whatever your name actually was and she took it, she began to give you more regal attire and you got your own servant strangely. You felt, weirdly enough, worshipped which even being given a place to stay was more than you usually had. She seemed like she needed a companion especially after all she went through, it made it harder to leave.

☀️ - You knew you couldn’t stay though, you were a whole cookie hiding as a cat, you couldn’t abuse her trust like this (besides her assistants were becoming suspicious). So you plotted your escape, after a month of lounging around in luxury, cared for by Golden Cheese, you snuck out in your actual form. You assumed that in a different form, the tracking wouldn’t work. You were wrong. You got about 20 feet within the glitch you escaped from before you were caught and dragged back to golden cheese.

☀️ - At first, it seemed as though she would be angry, but she wasn’t. Standing tall like a judge with the face of someone who found this all amusing if anything. Through conversation she understood your motives and why you decided to leave despite the fact you could have just lied and stayed a cat the rest of your life. To your surprise, she offers to let you stay. You accept obviously, you didn’t want to go back to a place of battle and hardship.

☀️ - She stays close to you even after you aren’t a cat anymore. She does find interest in your ability to become other animals and even more mythical beings. She seems to slowly get closer to you again over time, still lavishing you in gifts, still talking about her day to you, making sure you’re well fed. She still refers to you as ‘pet’ or ‘treasure’ as a nickname, but she still sees you as a cookie of course. Once you begin to return the affection it only multiplies, she practically pulls you into her lap sometimes without much of a warning. She’ll string a necklace of pure gold around your neck and tell you its yours without asking if you wanted it. She feeds every greedy desire of yours.

☀️ - Eventually you start to realize how in place you were here, as in you were changing to mold against her. Any markings on your face slowly began to shimmer before completely changing to accentuate whatever she gave you. The animals you changed into were more often naturally occurring in the area. Whenever she was close to you, you seemed to naturally glow. She notices this, makes sure you’re constantly near her. Kissing along your neck watching pulses of color matching hers appear. Where once you were rough and unpolished she had undone that and revealed new colors you thought incapable.

Hollyberry

🍻 - Your skills as a shape shifting warrior were well known during the Dark Flour War resonated loudly among your kingdom. You defended the Hollyberry kingdom with such intensity and ferocity, even the ancients took notice of it, more specifically your queen Hollyberry. As battles raged with no clear end, when you had everyone’s back she was there to provide her shield and her encouragement.

🍻 - Everything was looking up for you, at least you thought it was. After the Dark Flour war she left the kingdom, she left you. You were given your titles worthy of your fighting, but Hollyberry was not there. In her absence, her son Royalberry had taken over who often invited you to the palace. You shared war stories at a dinner table, you uplifted as many cookies as you could. All the while searching for any sign of Hollyberry returning, and every search you came back with less hope. All the things you wanted to say to her, all the cups you could have shared before she left…

🍻 - You would always be there to protect anyone and everyone, even if Hollyberry was missing. The feeling of constant impending attack always loomed over you. On lonely nights you wonder if thats why she left, among other reasons. To try and fight this constant dread and fear, you shift less, take on less responsibilities in defense, you lose passion and color. Slowly, you faded into just another cookie, your transformation only quickened when the dragon came. Invasive was the beast, it made its home sipping juice and eating jelly’s and all were powerless to stop it, including you. It felt hopeless, you couldn’t even return the looks at you when they stared at you for help.

🍻 - Pitaya Dragon knew of your battle prowess, but when you hid away it only angered them. They became rowdy and impatient for someone to fight, some questioned why you weren’t fighting back. Finally the dam broke and you weren’t sure why. What sounded like buildings falling echoed through the entire palace, followed by roars and people running. What seemed like a great day had turned into a disaster in minutes.

🍻 - You stood in the crowd of nobles running away, your eyes catch onto a tall figure standing still. That pink hair, those eyes.. could it be? She sees you and walks over, “Y/N! i barely recognized you! Come on, let’s give this dragon a piece of our mind!” She says patting your back and beginning to walk ahead with great confidence. She hadn’t changed, you walked behind her. You exclaimed, “i can’t!” She stopped and turned to you, “come on! You have me, we can take them on!” You stared up at her, scared of what she’d think. “I cant shape shift anymore,” you blurted.

🍻 - “Im sure you can!” She says but you cannot respond before her hands come to your shoulders. “I know you can, if you can’t for the sake of fighting this dragon, then do it for me! I need your help, will you fight beside me one more time, friend?” She speaks, and a fire that had long been extinguished arose in your heart. What were you saying, of course you could fight with her, you were a shape shifting, Hollyberrian, enemy wiping machine! Valiantly, you both ran into battle, and for the first time in many years you changed, you fought and you won.

🍻 - It seemed like once all the damage was repaired, the first thing she did was drag you to the juice cellar and down a barrel or two with you. You both recalled your tales and got close as you did all those years ago. A couple good sparring matches got you back in fighting order, and it made you realize how good it felt to move around in a different body! She seems to encourage your shifting, when it starts to get monotonous she’ll pat your back and tell you “you tapping out already?” She understands breaks though, and she helps you readjust to the way things used to be.

🍻 - Unsaid feelings seem to come out quicker when they’ve been hidden away for so long, thankfully (to no ones surprise) it’s reciprocated. You’re spending practically every day with her to make up for lost time. She holds you so close you swear you hear your dough cracking, her gaze always lingers on you like its the last time she’ll get the chance. She relishes each form, relating it to past forms you’ve taken mostly. You’ve both grown, gain scars, you compare them often.

🍻 - Theres never a dull moment, always a promise of excitement with her. Even at night within sleep it’s a battlefield of blanket hogging and kicking, or attempting to smother the other in their sleep. She ensures you that come what may, whatever beasts she faces and battles you fight she’ll always make sure you’re behind her shield when you need it or in her arms when you’re in too deep.

Pure Vanilla

🍦 - The mysterious and frankly horribly uncharted woods around the floating vanilla kingdom was festered with dangerous creatures. Cookies were a great target, monsters loved to sink their teeth into crunchy dough, which meant as king (and a healer) he needed to limit who ventures into rough lands and their exact travels. Of course, where there was danger there was reward, and someone had found something particularly significant. One of the explorers had came up to him and handed him a scroll, holding it up to his staffs eye to read it. It was a map to a seemingly mythical structure holding scrolls of knowledge dating back to long ago, guarded by a massive shape shifting being.

🍦 - At first, Pure Vanilla shut it down, war was on the horizon and the kingdom needed to prepare. Though, for a few nights as he drifted to sleep he was kept awake by the fact he would never know what was in there. If it was real then someone else could find it, someone like Dark Enchantress cookie. Finally he caved, he assembled a team and someone to watch the kingdom in his absence. They set out in the morning, after a day of walking they arrived at an overgrown stone gate, the letters worn off. Within the walls was a once beautiful garden, many places to read and write. The building was still intact, teeming with ancient magic.

🍦 - He began to walk the path to the entrance ahead of the others, a statue stood of a cookie but it was so overgrown he could only see the worn down base. He took a step forward and the statue began to crack and move and soon the vines fell of revealing a great monster wound in sharp vines. “Begone, travelers, I will not repeat myself,” It bellowed shaking the earth. As it moved, it roared and began to swipe and attack. With each new form it took on came an unexpected challenge. The team began to fight back, but Pure Vanilla noticed something. The way it moved, although frightening and certainly dangerous it’s stance felt uncomfortable. It took on another shape, he began to realize the thorny vines it wrapped itself in were digging into it, and no matter what size they changed to it was the same.

🍦 - The only reason that would be is unkept magic, this being was left behind by its creator but the magic binding it to its duty had to be maintained like the garden. The being was in pain, and there was no defeating it at this rate, he commanded his team to stop. The soldiers stepped back, the guardian did too, assuming they were leaving. Pure Vanilla came forward with all the respect he could give for this ancient being. “If you do not want us inside, we will go, but please allow me to help you.” He says and the monstrous form they were taking becomes small, they were now a cookie still wound in thorns. “I do not need help,” you say. “Leave.”

🍦 - “Your fighting begs to differ, tell me, does defending a building full of paper merit suffering for a thousand more years?” Pure Vanilla steps forward again, still calm. “I have defended this place for many years, when my master returns he will fix this.” You respond. “Do you know when that is?” He asks, your silence is loud. You speak again, “the vines were once.. not thorn ridden, but what was once a proud colorful display of loyalty is now my chains.” You explain, he nods. “If this place is so special, i can help you keep it safe, but these vines will grow, and soon you will be unable to defend your home.” He steps forward again but you do not react so he continues. “Even if if means you are not bound to this building, please, let me remove your chains.”

🍦 - Unable to say no, you nod and offer your arms to him. With his own magic, he runs his hands over them and they slowly unravel as light passes within. For a moment you’re completely glowing, and then you are free. Weight has been lifted off your shoulders though it does not appear like that on the outside. While Pure Vanilla tends to the deep cuts in your flesh and tells you about the Vanilla kingdom and who he was, the others scout inside. When they return they speak, “the scrolls are.. all blank.” Then what have you been defending?! You desperately explain this place used to be lively with scholars and even after your master stopped coming here this place was full of cookies. Pure Vanilla investigates and tells you that they were replaced a long time ago, you were defending blank scrolls and dilapidated walls. Without purpose and little dignity, you decide to part with the building and try life in the Vanilla kingdom.

🍦 - Most would call the expedition a failure, but Pure Vanilla saw it as an astounding success. While they gained no knowledge or material they saved you from much more unnecessary pain and toiling. You didn’t know how cookies worked to be frank, any time you tried to talk to someone you came off odd. You had made a habit of clinging to Pure Vanilla, he taught you the new languages and etiquettes, all the new kingdoms that arose. It was almost embarrassing that a mighty guardian was hiding behind such a gentle cookie.

🍦 - Your fondness for nature connects you two, throughout your years waiting, nature was your friend. You watched the world around you become infested and weeded but in a way you couldn’t help but admire. He often allows you to accompany him while gardening which is where most of your bonding happens. It takes a while for you to choose a form that matches this new modern style, he’s extremely patient with each change. He has nothing but love and admiration for you, you wanted to change and he wanted you to be comfortable.

🍦 - At some point close friendship delves into something romantic. Kneeling in dirt surrounded by flowers during sunset, you cant tell if he was noticing the changes you made to yourself or the way you were looking at him. His free hand off his staff comes to your arm like he wanted you to be closer while he told you how amazing you were. His words cloud your mind, you’re lost in the features of his face slowly approaching. Soon, you’re kissing tenderly, trying to hold onto this form and keep it from spontaneously changing from the emotions. When he leans away he thinks it’s cute, your entire body now mismatched except your face.

White Lily

🪻 - It was a particularly calm day out, birds were singing their unique songs and flowers blooming out and about. White Lily would have to depart today though, she needed to go to beast yeast to find answers on why cookies were made and there she would find it. She had let her friends know, it was hard to leave but she knew it was the right choice. Her thirst to know and enlighten had been discouraged by her teachers and friends. She did not leave without a gift, with a gentle tap of her staff the ground around her began to glow and become full of lilies winding around trees and sprouting deep within the woods. They curled around her feet like a goodbye hug. She broke free and began to walk, slowly the field of flowers became more scarce.

🪻 - It had not been more than a few minutes when she heard movement within the trees along the path. She turned her head to see another cookie on a parallel path who quickly noticed her. She expected them to wave or something but to her surprise they suddenly turned into a bird and flew over to her, flying over her head. “Well hi there! Are you the one who made that big pretty field back there?”

🪻 - She smiles and nods, they drop back down now a cookie again. “Why’d you do it? I mean.. no one anyone randomly creates a bunch of flowers,” they say walking backwards to face her. “It’s a goodbye gift for my friends, i have to leave for beast yeast and i wanted to give something to be remembered by.” She says quietly, the other cookie seems to perk up. “Im from beast yeast! Im heading there right now, what are the odds!” They exclaim and she seems more interested now. “Really?” She says and you nod quickly. “This is actually the third time ive tried to go back, i.. keep getting lost before i even get to the border,” you admit slightly embarrassed. She laughs softly, “it seems you should probably stay with me.” She suggests and you quickly replied “it seems you’re right, My name is (Y/N) cookie by the way,” you say now walking beside her. “White Lily cookie,” she returns the introduction.

🪻 - The trek to beast yeast would take a month on foot, thankfully you both had each other’s company. She talked about her friends and their kingdoms, her burning desire to know why cookies were made and asked a lot of questions about beast yeast. You answered those queries and talked about yourself. That or sharing tales beside a campfire of strange tales of powerful cookies gone bad and a kingdom of silver and faeries. You turned into various exotic animals from around the world or kept watch while she rested. It seemed when you spend every day and night with someone you get close quickly.

🪻 - One cold night she sits beside a fire unable to sleep when she hears odd snoring coming from your tent. Hesitantly, and with a little inner fighting, she peers in to see a fluffy cream lynx lying inside and nearly jumps out of her dough at the sight. You, in the form of a cold weather creature to stay warm jumps awake thinking there was danger. You halfhazardly turn back to a cookie to reassure her you were just cold. Then the thought occurs, was she cold too? She says she hasn’t been able to sleep and has been staying by the fire, you offer to let her sleep in your tent. She agrees, needing the rest. For the rest of the trip, even though it got warmer she spent every night in your embrace.

🪻 - Then you cross the border into beast yeast, it becomes harder to protect eachother. In a moment of peace one day, she says that they should head towards the faerie kingdom. You seem like you dislike the idea but go anyway. It takes a few days to find the kingdom. When she finally comes to the entrance, suddenly you’re gone. It doesn’t matter though, the faeries needed her help so she’d have to find you later. When she sealed up the tree and was celebrated by the Faeries, she began to try and find you. Elder Faerie, confused why she wasn’t at the feast in her honor, approaches her. She explains who you are and their journey. Elder faerie recognizes you and explains your story to her. Long ago, you were once a faerie, a beast of silence, once of solidarity, saw you and despised how you were constantly surrounded by friends and helping your people without reward. So the beast approached you alone, offered to take you in, you declined with disgust. The beast, angered by the response, placed a curse on you. Never would you rejoin your kingdom and never would you be in your body again. Forever, a silent outcast.

🪻 - When he is done, he says you will likely be found somewhere close outside of the kingdom. If she cannot find you, he’ll send scouts. She leaves immediately, its hard to find a shape shifter but she knows she’ll find you. She spends all afternoon but soon she spots you beside a still pond. She says nothing, sits down and holds your hand. You tell her, “you have celebrations in your name, you should go to them. You wont find any enlightenment with me, only loneliness.” You seemed to know that he told her. She doesn’t go though, “maybe theres a way to reverse this,” she tells you. “It’s too powerful, no cookie can fix this,” you sigh. “Maybe.. a witch?” She responds with a small smile, you look at her like she was insane.

🪻 - “I am going to the witches.. and i want you to come with me. There i will find answers and maybe you will become un-cursed.” She says hopefully, a little surprised you aren’t sure what to say. Moonlight shining down on the both of you by a mirror like pond, it all felt perfect. “What if they can’t reverse this?..” you say trying to pull away but she keeps you there. “Then we can be alone together, no matter what happens there i’ll stay with you,” she smiles quietly, pink tinting her cheeks. It feels impossible to say no, so you don’t. You smile back and speak “ok, i’ll go with you.” You clasp a hand over hers. You weren’t sure when you got so close but it’s awfully convenient. Your intentions are pretty clear, hers are too. Both of you now flustered, nervous and unsure what to do, you stare at each other before she leans in and kisses you. Even after it ended you were fairly certain your heart didn’t stop pounding all night long.

#eternal sugar cookie and y/n fighting over hollyberry when they meet like dogs fight over a toy #i havent finished cookie odyssey or the dragon side story yet srry if this is in accurate #trans allegory WHO SAID THAT #i went fluttershy and manticore inspo for pvc #yall ever notice how pure vanilla cookies abbreviation is pvc #like the pipe #im not going to continue this joke #sugarfly and reader in the ‘beasts cursed us for some reason’ club #wlc like i got a whole life ahead of me no u dont the Dark Enchantress is coming #crk #crk x reader #x reader #crk x you #white lily cookie x reader #pure vanilla cookie x reader #dark cacao cookie x reader #golden cheese cookie x reader #hollyberry cookie x reader

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crepezinhos · 17 days ago

Text

Happy Never After

POV: Even if he Sunday has finally succeeded in his mission of creating a dreamland for all people in Penacony, becoming a semi-Aeon in the way and surrounding himself with nothing but hope and peace, he still can’t fulfill his own one and only dream. You.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is an Angsty and Yandere work

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Aeon!Yandere!Sunday x Reader

— AU is In-Game

— Contains: Mind control and manipulation, time manipulation, emotional manipulation, obsessive, violent and abusive behavior (and denial about it) and suggestions to masturbation.

— This might have lore mistakes because I’m not a Honkai expert, so I apologize in advance.

“I’m really glad you brought me here tonight, Sunday.” Your confession was genuine and emotional, which caused a little grin appear on Sunday’s lips even if you couldn’t find courage to look at him.

You were too distracted staring down at the beautiful dark sea reflecting the bright moonlight of this starry night in its every curve and edge below you, and also too… embarrassed.

It made you feel a bit guilty to have such a marvelous man like Sunday so eager to entertain and spoil you out of all women that desire him and not know the reason why.

Almost every weekend Sunday insists to take you out on dates and hangouts and you always accept his invitations. He either brings you to the fanciest restaurants to eat the most delicious meals of your favorite kind of food, or to walk and talk in the most beautiful natural landscapes of Penacony, or to watch the most brilliant performances of theatre or opera with the most talented artists… It’s truly an unending list of date ideas. And most importantly, he always gifts you jewelry worth millions as ‘souvenirs’ in these dates.

Tonight was no different. He brought you to another restaurant that served your favorite kind of food and walked with you to Penacony’s biggest bridge while hearing you talk about many sorts of things, giving you a golden and pearly necklace in the way. Now, you two were standing close to each other, side-by-side, in the middle edge of the bridge, staring at the same direction, either the sea or the hypnotic view of the sky above it with a bright, full moon in the middle of you two. A truly romantic moment if you could say.

It was making you wonder why once again and it bothered you how you can’t ever seem to find an answer to it, not even the slightest hint. Sunday wasn’t helpful either, acting oblivious all time, as if he has no idea how overwhelming he was by doing this much effort for you. Is this all really just because you and him have always been great friends and he’s merely just showing his gratitude to you? You don’t even see yourself as such an amazing friend… much less when you were a dumb kid.

“Seriously, this… has been one of the greatest nights of my life.” You could feel butterflies tickling your stomach as you finally gained courage to confess more feelings to him and look at his eyes.

“I’m glad.” Sunday looked back at you immediately and spoke shortly, but genuinely reciprocative, which made you feel even more embarrassed about yourself and your choice of words.

Unnecessarily long phrases… silly and unserious vocabulary… struggling to not stutter… It must be a joke to someone with such a wide and formal vocabulary like Sunday…

“Seriously… why do you do so much effort to please me?” You asked a bit embarrassed again, but it felt good having that tension released from the back of your brain.

Sunday’s little grin disappeared when you said that, thoughtful about your question. He looked away, staring at the dark horizon for a considerable moment as he built an answer. But then, Sunday suddenly smiled again, chuckling very lightly.

“May I ask you something, Y/N?” His body turned to you again, a bit more direct this time, as if he was trying to call your full attention and presence to him.

“Of course! How could I say ‘no’ to you after this date?!” You immediately complied to him, abruptly turning your whole body to him and crossing your arms to focus on him for as long as he needed your attention. After all, you wanted to show him the most gratitude you could for tonight’s date, even if you’d never reach his level of care on your own.

“I need to give you a little context before actually making my question, so… prepare.” Sunday decided to turn his whole body to you too, taking his hand from behind his back to rearrange his tie and clear his throat at the same time.

You patiently waited, wondering what could it be that he wanted to talk to you about that he felt like he needed to ask you to do so, or what did it have to have with your question.

“Y/N… I’m in love with you.” His words immediately hit you hard, making your eyes widen in shock.

But you kept quiet, letting him take the pause he needed to prepare for his next words.

“Ever since we were kids, still growing our wings and halos, I’ve been head over heels for you.” He paused once again, gently stepping closer to you to grab your right hand, holding and look at it as if it was a fresh new bar of gold. “This… beautiful, independent and wonderful woman who always accepted and adapted herself to my shy, boring and distant personality and supported me in my every bad moment like my own right arm.” He decided to look at your eyes again, making very intimate and real eye contact with you. “This woman who… is worth every penny of my pocket, every second of my time, every other planet in this universe, every Aeon that lives above us…” He paused one last time, becoming too embarrassed to look at you anymore. “This woman who… I want to spend the rest of my life with.” His cheeks flushed darkly, finding courage to look at your eyes yet again so his message could be clearly heard, seen and understood. “That’s why I take you to these dates, Y/N. It’s because this is how I want to express my gratitude and love to you while trying to… make you love me too… That’s the answer for your question.” Sunday smiled, giggling to cool off from the tension of sharing such a dark secret with you.

He is so visibly confident about this, looking at you with so much happiness and believing your stare was reciprocating underneath the shock… He is so ready to have you say ‘Yes’ to the question ahead and then lean in to kiss your lips.

“So, Y/N, now that I’ve answered your question, I’d like to share mine too. Would you like to be my girlfriend?” Sunday let one of his hands go of yours and rose it your eye level, quietly summoning a rose using a bit of his Harmony powers simply to offer it to you.

…

“Sunday…” You finally realized his little monologue was over and that it was your turn to speak.

Meanwhile, his smile slightly widened as he heard your voice speaking his name so gently, believing that you were losing your shame to accept his love confession.

…

“I…” You struggled to let the words come out of your mouth, voice chords stuck in a purely psychological knot due to how horrible you felt about how you’d just acted so considerate to him… only to break his heart next. “I’m sorry.” You finally broke eye contact, not handling the useless excitement in his eyes.

But despite your eyes looking at the concrete floor, you could feel Sunday’s pink cheeks, bright grin and pupils immediately all dying when he heard your initial response, but he remained stable and ready to hear your thoughts… hiding his disappointment.

“I’m… genuinely really glad that you brought me here tonight, Sunday, but… it would be cruel of me to say ‘Yes’ to you.” You paused, glancing up again just to see if he’d gotten any better, but his expression only seemed more disappointed, which made you lower your gaze again. “I adore you, Sunday. You’re my best friend. But I… don’t adore you… this way.” You awkwardly smiled at him for a quick moment, trying to lighten the mood, but it obviously didn’t make a single muscle of his face move. “So… I really don’t want to be cruel to you and… lie to you and fool your feelings… After all, the best friendships are built upon honesty, right..?” You moved your other hand to place it on top of your intertwined hands and caressed his gloved fingers, trying your best to comfort him.

Shnday was speechless for a moment, staring at your eyes without blinking like he was trying to turn you into a stone statue, which made your heart ache in sorrow and guilt.

“T-Trust me when I say this, Sunday… There are many… hundreds… probably thousands of other women here that want to be your girlfriend. And… they’d probably be better girlfriends than me, anyway…” You shrugged your shoulders, trying to make yourself inferior to raise his confidence again.

“I don’t want other women! I… I want you..!” Sunday screamed with a shaky, cracky voice, eyes in the edge of tears. “Is there not even a chance..?” He abruptly spoke, holding your hand tighter.

“I… I don’t think so, Sunday…” You couldn’t deny his grip made you feel a little scared, but he was going through enough humiliation for you to add the fact that he was hurting you.

“N-Not even a-a slight chance..? Y-You looked so happy with me tonight, I—!” Sunday couldn’t even finish himself from the anxiety that was attacking him and his body, having to breathe in and out to cool off. “I would give this to you every day of your life, Y/N… And more.” He pulled his hand out of the sandwich of hands you two had built, using a bit of force to quickly shove the rose in your palm and close your fingers, making you hold his the physical version of his love confession standing straight.

“I…” You reflected a bit, imaging scenarios of you and Sunday kissing, going out on dates like this but with way more intimacy, love and trust, cuddling with each other, calling each other corny nicknames… but it didn’t work, no matter how much you wanted to tell him ‘Yes’ to not shatter his heart.

“Maybe..?” Sunday whispered with all his last topes, bringing that new hand sandwich to his chest and landing it where his heart was, his accelerated heartbeat pumping in your hand.

And you finally noticed a tear beautifully falling in the corner of his right eye, which you finally took as a sign to end the conversation before it got worse.

“… No.” You looked away from him once again, feeling horrible about being honest to him despite insisting in it, but it would’ve been worse if you said ‘yes’, wouldn’t it? “I’m really sorry, Sunday…” You couldn’t handle your guilt anymore and freed your hands from his knot, hugging his back the the most comfortably you could, the rose’s green structure slightly weakening in your hand.

Sunday’s head inevitably melted in your neck, breathing in your vanilla scent like it was oxygen. You could even feel his shaky lips sometimes touch you, desperately trying to hold back from kissing you. His hands also stopped hopelessly shaking with no support to hug you back with that same strength he was using to hold your hands just now, almost ripping your dress with his scratching and clawing.

And Sunday proceeded to quietly sob, wordlessly expressing his anguish and pain from being rejected… but finding comfort in that same person who hurt him. It was a but odd to you, but it was the bare minimum you could as the friend Sunday mostly spoiled—

“Go home.” Sunday’s voice suddenly changed to a serious tone, the command echoing over and over in your head until you realized just how helpleslly waeak your body was slowly becoming, unable to react or fight back, succumbing to whatever that weird feeling was. “Forget everything I’ve told you right now and replace this memory with me walking you home, and leaving you home-alone for the night after a nice talk.”

Y/N’s body was paralyzed as it processed the orders, staring at the sky with dead eyes like a mindless puppet. Even if I rose my head and made eye contact with her again, nothing in her inanimate expression changed. Is this how meaningless I still am to her? Where she doesn’t even try to fight back and remain conscious for me?

Wow.

Progress really is going to be slow, isn’t it?

I know exactly what Y/N is waiting for right now. She wants me to stop hugging her so she can walk away like I told her to. But I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to stop hugging her at all. She is so close to me. She feels and smells so warm and comfortable. And she was letting me hold her hands and back so easily... Letting me cry on her shoulder so welcomingly like a home does… My mouth was shaking in anguish and hunger to kiss it, to look up and kiss her, but I couldn’t. I decided not to. At least getting to feel the tip of my lips touching her skin felt good. But I’ll respect her boundaries just like I should always do and always did with her this whole time in the paradise. It’s a shame she’ll never know about this accomplishment of mine, though.

But I have to let her go if I want the script to keep working like I asked it to. I have to learn with this failure like I did with all the others and move on just like she will right now. I’ll go home and prepare a new date for next weekend, a better one, just to convince her to like me even more and more. So, ignoring all the cells in my body desperately and agonizingly screaming for me to keep our bodis touching each other like this, I eased my arms, giving her allowance to go. And she did. My right arm even lifted up instinctually, wanting to hold her and huge her again, but I managed to stop and force myself to watch her reject me, her figure fleeting and blurring away from my eyes more and more just like all the other times I had to do this.

My heart burns to watch her walking away like this.

It really does.

Once again, I have failed to achieve my only wish when I created this utopia… This Penacony… Her. The love of my life, Y/N Y/S, has once again slipped away from my hands and rejected my love for her. And once again I feel like throwing a tantrum because of it.

But I refused to let my instincts to win me and rose a hand to begin materializing the notepad that I use to document keep up with these… attempts along with its pen.

107

108

Roses

Orchids

Restaurant + Penacony’s Bridge

Cinema + Penacony’s Bridge

Additional Notes: This was the first time Y/N ever felt comfortable to vent about her gratitude to me related to these dates, and she also hugged me, so I won’t delete all her memories of this whole night.

I closed the notebook, proceeding to stare at the floor with no purpose, only emptiness.

It was done.

There is nothing more I can do about her tonight, only look forward to the next ones.

Looks like I’m still cursed to fail every time. After all my hard work, all the sacrifices I’ve made to achieve this, all the love I’ve put into her, she hasn’t fallen in love with me.

Maybe the lack of honesty from my side affects us, but I can’t afford to have her knowing about the truth behind this paradise and me. It’d only make her hate me again, and I can’t afford to have a bitter relationship with her again. I want the both of us to be this close to each other again even if it’s at this cost.

I can’t tell her this is all a dream.

I can’t tell her about my identity as a semi-Aeon who is in charge of coding this entire planet and everyone’s script.

I can’t tell her about our real story.

I cant tell her about my manic love for her.

I can’t tell her about how I use my powers to manipulate how things between us happen sometimes.

But, most importantly, I can’t tell her about our real current relationship. The one outside this realm. The one I can’t change. A relationship that I’ve fully ruined on my own and miraculously restored with this dream. Still, it’s very clear that even this one is broken and unbalanced. But the difference is that now, as an Aeon, I can fix it.

With a simple command I rewrite past, present and future. With more complex commands, I rewrite one’s memories and actions.

So everytime something stains our relationship, I simply make it inexistent in her head, or even reset the day so I can try again. This way, our friendship never has obstacles for the possibility of evolving into something more serious, which is what I want with this.

For example:

On Attempt #4, I broke down right in front of her.

On Attempt #17, I made a critic about her lifestyle that she did not like at all and wanted to dump me for.

On Attempt #31, I slapped her face in anger when she rejected me after so much effor I put into the date.

On Attempt #59, a similar thing happened. I threatened her with my death if she didn’t date me and almost assaulted her.

But she doesn’t remember a single second of those days. I deleted them from her head or I altered them to something better. So, Y/N technically only fully remembers about 15 of these dates, 35 inclusing those who were altered.

It would be too embarrassing to live with her when she had those mistakes of mine in her mind, neither would my wish come true. I know it from experience.

“Sunday, no! Stop! Stop it right now! You’re hurting me!” She kept pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me.

“Y/N, please! Listen to me! I promise you I’ll treat you well! I’ll treat you so well! It’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you! I’m your friend! Your best friend! Why wouldn’t you want us to be together?! After all I’ve done for you?! I just you want you to be happe with me!” And I kept touching her, and touching her, and touching her until she finally managed to escape from me.

She started to hate me after that forsaken day despite all the years of friendship we’d collected so far. She started to feel hatred, anger and disgust at my mere presence, avoiding looking or talking at me, even in situations where we were supposed to be interacting.

I was forced to move on from her, even if it pained my every cell doing so. Deep down, I was still obsessed about her, always keeping an eye on her to keep her safe and myself aware of every information about her life, but she wouldn’t let me any closer than that. At least I learned my lesson with that. I will never disrespect her boundaries like I did that day again. I’ll respect it just like I did today and all the other days because what good men do, that’s what the real Y/N wants. Those few exceptions are excludable and will be outlawed from her mind, meaning all she has a memory of is me being a gentleman to her, the gentleman I know I am.

That day was just a mere... stupid decision. I’m a good man. I’m a really good man. I’m a gentleman, a provider, a caretaker, a peacemaker and an semi-Aeon. This Y/N knows it. The real probably does too. Everyone I know does.

I just can’t waste the opportunity the Harmony gave to me. This utopia. When the dream finally became true, everyone’s backstory has its bad moments deleted and rewrittenwith good versions of them, and Y/N had the memories of that day altered too without my intervention. I didn’t expect it to be, but when she suddenly approached with that good-old bright smile of hers, something awakened in me. That was my second chance. My infinite second chance. To her, I never attacked her, I never acted pathetic to her, I never stopped being her friend, and I won’t let her go now. And it’s fair because I didn’t personally cause her to lose the memories of that day. This was just the result of a mission unrelated to her, the mission of turning Penacony into a paradise. So, I’m a good, honest man.

I can’t even believe I almost lost to those unrealistically optimistic Trailblazers, that snobby gambler, that disgusting Masked Fool and that wretched dog who dared touching my sister. How was I almost convinced by their useles, meaningless, fake speeches about me being a manipulative man? A dictator? A control freak? A maniac? When my intentions are so pure and considerate to every unfornate soul out there? Dictators don’t search for power for the good of everyone. They do it for their own good. I didn’t do that. I did this for the Family, the Harmony, Xipe...

And as expected, they’re all happy now. Alive, safe, well and living with everyone they love or once lost.

I sighed, annoyed by remembering the memories of the day of that fight between me and the Trailblazers, and turned around. Hopefully, the step I took tonight with my relationship with her will be bigger than I expected it to be.

As usual, every time I took my turn and walked away from her to conclude the night, the same question voiced itself in my mind.

“Why don’t you make her to fall in love with you already and stop torturing youself?”

And every time she rejects me, this will becomes stronger. But once again, I didn’t succumb to it, and rested my hope on ‘Plan A’, shaking my head to hopefully scare the thought away from my mind.

I don’t want a fake Y/N. I want her. I want her true feelings, her flesh, her blood, her heart and her mind. I want her to truthfully love me, feel things for me, be sad, sinful, lusty, naughty, happy and dirty with me. Forcing her to be my girlfriend would only go going against what she taught me that day. I shouldn’t let my powers blind me too much.

“There wouldn’t be real happiness in such a forced relationship like that.”

“Y/N would not be Y/N if you do that. It’d be Sunday’s version of Y/N.”

I counterattacked my own mind, forcing myself to be optimistic about this plan no matter how crushed my heart is.

I sighed, knowing the mental discussion would begin once again until I was finally home, sobbed and lamented myself to sleep and woke up to another day of nothing but hoping I can make my dream come true like everybody else’s dream did. To make Y/N fall in love with me.

“How do you know Y/N wouldn’t be herself under a spell? You don’t know how Y/N is as a girlfriend.”

“Is Y/N even worth all of this?”

“Do you think she’d be happy to learn the truth, Sunday?”

I really disliked these discussions I have with myself. It feels like I am talking to that Wonweek all over again.

I am being honest at this moment by denying these thoughts, aren’t I? I don’t even dare trying to change her past with me, not even my biggest mistake with her. I allow her to hate me and force me to watch her from afar forever in the real Penacony. So what if I deleted a few memories from her to make sure nothing goes wrong in our relationship? I am doing it for the good. For the good of the both of us. I am Y/N’s perfect match. If I make her my girlfriend or his wife, I doubt the real Y/N wouldn’t reconsider her feelings for me because I know I can treat her well. I know I’m the best man she could ever find. I can treat her like a queen or a whole new Aron. All I need is her permission to do so.

How could I live in that imperfect world until my last breath knowing her, out of all people in this world, hate me? Who even am I without Y/N? Without her counseling? I can’t live like that at all. Not when I have the second chance right in the palm of my hands.

And this stupid walk isn’t helping me calm down at all.

I should just teleport home already.

…

Here I am. At home.

Can I even call this place a ‘home’?

Such uncannily clean white walls, perfectly-placed furniture, every utensil set clean and ready on its place to be used and immediately put back to their place using my technological powers. It perfectly matched the mood of the utopia I created, yet I couldn’t feel a single emotion of satisfaction walking around it.

“Welcome home, my love.” It spoke.

I looked behind my shoulder as soon as the voice ringed, a wing of mine twitching in recognition, meeting exactly what I expected to meet.

You.

No, I shouldn’t call it that.

It’s a manifestation of you.

Because in the end, Xipe also promised me a happy, comfortable life in the dream, meaning my dream would be accomplished in this place too. But since my dreams overlap with hers, and the dream can’t afford to have to sacrifice her dreams to make her fall in love with me, the coding keeps trying push this alternative to me. A clone of you.

So it’s her, in a certain way. Wearing my favorite kind of makeup and casual clothes, like the housewife it acted as, working in the house all day for me no matter how much I try to stop it. Her curves and face were distinctively finer than the real one’s, reflecting my own beauty standards when it came to women. I hate staring at it and it knows it. That thing feels like a demon trying to bother my peace, seduce me, and then torture me with the disgusting truth about myself.

Because it know just had bad I desire you. I am disgustingly attracted to her in all ways possible and the clone knows it. It doesn’t stand like that with its hands behind his back out of submission for me or innocence. It wants to show off those fake, hypnotic curves. It wants me to walk to it, reach it, and savor what Xipe offers me. It is a bit blasphemous for me to reject their gift, but they must understand my point of view about this. I have godlike powers too. I’m no longer a simple gentleman. I am escalating in the power hierarchy more and more.

I’ll deny it, and I’ll fight it back. That’s why it keeps standing in corners. It knows what will happen if it keeps pushing itself against me. It’ll be destroyed by his hands, no matter if it can reincarnate or if it’s belly is entirely empty aside from its uterus.

Do you understand what it costs me to keep my hands off that clone? Avoiding using its body to relieve his own desires and stress? Avoiding filling up that womb of yours with myself so I could realize my dream of having a family with you? All it does is tease me and make him crave even more for you. But I keep shutting it down every time because I am conservative in all means. I don’t care if it increases the size of its curves and makes itself warmer, wetter an tighter for every ‘No’ I say. I won’t dare to spoil or pleasure himself with anything that isn’t you or his own hands. I do not want any inspiration for my imagination of you. I want you to fill up complete that jigsaw puzzle in my head yourself.

I want to reserve all that energy for the day the two of us finally kiss, become a couple, go to either your or his home, throw each other in the bed, knot your limbs around each other, rip away your clothes, cover ourselves with the blanket, trust each other to open our bodies and make love all night to each other.

I have a fantasy for dirtiness that I usually hate to admit. But it’s one of my disgusting truths. I want to feel sinful, dirty, naughty and ashamed with you. I wants to be degraded for my disgusting behavior towards you, and I want it be done by your and only your hands.

I quietly walked to my room and ran a finger on the sheets of my bed as I thought about the clone standing in the corner. The bed was soft, fluffy and the sheets were perfectly straightened and balanced in every corner so I could sleep well every night, yet I still feared sleep. It was simply hard to do so when I have so many responsibilities regarding this realm and you.

The things I’d do to have her here by my side, caressing and hugging me, telling me everything will be okay, were unimaginable, especially when I have a “perfect” version of you right there who’d be willing to satisfy all my wishes whenever I want.

…

No.

I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t do anything with it, actually. This clone’s temptation is really something else, isn’t it? I keep rethinking about it over and over again. To even make me dare to think about breaking my secret promise to you with a clone…

“If you imagine the Y/N that you desire, that wouldn’t be ruining your actual experience with her unless she is naturally how you desire h—”

I shook his head side-to-side, trying to dissipate his thoughts away.

I will not think about Y/N and the clone like that and I will force myself to accept that thing’s existence in the corner of his room just like I always did.

So I walked away from the bed and went to my desk instead, sitting down on its fancy chair and summoning that same notebook again. I should distract and exhaust myself developing new date ideas that met or exceeded the quality of this one tonight until I felt like sleeping. In the end, despite my negative assumptions, I just reached a new level of dedication and it was far from being the most effort I could do for you. After all, I can do whatever I want in there.

So I started writing.

Maybe it’d be a nice idea to go to either your or my home for a while after a date, or spend some time together going on a trip together maybe with another companion like Robin if she wants it. I should bring you more meaningful gifts instead of giving you bigger gifts. Maybe you’re a fan of simple things and not big bouquets and shiny jewelry and I’ve been just missing that all along. I should maybe even try to wear a different style, either in his clothes, his hair or both. I could change my entire body for you, although that’d truly hurt my pride of myself a bit. But I’d do it if it’d keep her with me.

You have no idea how mad I can be writing all these suggestions. How many scribbled texts there are across these pages with the most insane, evil, cruel and ridiculous ideas I have for you.

And this stupid clone annoys me. Its gentle, hypnotic stare was almost distracting me from what should be my main priority. And, in fact, it started walking. It was walking towards me very slowly, aware of my defeat to its presence and prepare to breakdown and discount whatever bloodlust I have for it.

But, all it did when it was one step away to be crushed, was to stand by my side and quietly sit in the edge of the table. In that position, its knee-long skirt couldn’t hide most of it legs anymore, meanly revealing its crossed thighs to my hungry eyes. And it sold itself even more by slowly trying to pull the skirt upwards and reveal more of its skin.

Fucking Christ. It really fucking knows how to strike.

Inevitably, a wave of tension was sent to my pants, my organ protesting for freedom. The clone giggled while I opened a wing of mine to censor the view of it, desperately trying to force my eyes to focus on the paper. But at the same time I decided to slightly give up and start moving my free hand towards it, finally admitting a bit of my own desire for the clone. My hand landed on its soft thigh and I groaned at the touch. It felt perfectly good just like any other woman in a porno movie would. I wish I could see it, but I refuse to let that clone to ruin more of my dignity. The way my touch lingered in it was pathetic enough.

My thumb acted on its own and lingered and rubbed around its skin, my body slowly leaning down in acceptance and shame. My other hand trembled on its spot, unable to keep writing while half of my body was overwhelmed by the feeling of the clone’s soft thigh. In fact, the last line I’ve written was nothing but random lines that wanted to imitate cursive letters. It’s been haunting and distracting me all along.

“You’ve done a great job today, Sunny.” And it dated to talk to me again and make me moan when I least want to be acknowledged or acknowledge it in my own.

I hate it. I hate it so much.

I want to kill it. I want to see blood coming out of it. I hate how it dares to think it’s better than Y/N’s flesh with its plastic skin. I hate how it knows my weaknesses and abuses it. I hate how it’ll always linger with me as long as don’t have the real Y/N with me.

Buzz buzz

My hand immediately expelled itself from the clone in pure disgust as soon as I felt my phone buzz in my pants’ pockets, feeling as if I’d almost been caught.

My wings spread open, body leaning upward and fixing itself from its previous position. I quickly shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled my phone out of it.

It was Y/N.

Thank you so much for dropping me off, Sunday!

It was a really fun night!

I’m still mesmerized by the view we had of the sea and sky…

Hopefully the dinner didn’t cost you much either

My left wing twitched in appreciation of her words a bit proud of myself, something I’d typically control in public.

I looked around, wanting to make sure I hadn’t been caught at all, and I wasn’t, of course. The clone had actually disappeared from my table at Y/N’s apparition.

I smiled at my screen, quickly unlocking my phone and opening my messages with her.

Please,

Don’t worry about that.

I’m equally glad you liked the date.

Stoppppppp!!!!!!!

You’re too kind!!!!!!!

Its okay, Y/N

I promise

In fact,

I was thinking about taking you to the movies next Saturday.

They’re screening a beautiful romance movie

You’re kidding me?

You won’t ever let me rest, will you?

Sure I’ll take it

I’ll just have to check if I’m free

Of course.

I’ll look for the next available time if you can’t come.

Can you stop spoiling me for one second!!!!!!

Haha

Sure

I’ll stop for now

But I’ll do anything for you, Y/N ❤️

Taglist: @vvalentiqq @ipandacutie @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

#honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #hsr x you #hsr sunday #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x y/n #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #sunday smut #honkai star rail sunday #honkai star rail smut #yandere sunday #yandere sunday x reader #manipulative yandere #yandere x y/n

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dipperscavern · 22 days ago

Note

Could I request something with Remmick and a modern time reader who’s his friend yet she’s also afraid of him? he’s doing his best to court them nonetheless because he’s in love with them? Like each time he’s simply staring at reader lovingly she gets the wrong idea and thinks he’s about to bite her?😭something kind of fluffy maybe even a lil angsty. Your writing is so good!!

im trying out my hand here with writing rem so be gentle with me !! & thank you for your compliments i hope i did it justice <33 Also made him a bit of a (total) freak in this sorry it just happened i Cant stop it

remmick x fem!reader, but can be gn! if you ignore the whole ‘attagirl’ thing

you must be the sweetest thing this side of the mississippi river he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes on.

except he's not in mississippi anymore, and sayings like that seem to be dying out. remmicks seen the coming and going of a thousand and one sayings, but that couldn't be the furthest thing from his mind right now.

you.

he almost fears if he ever gets his mouth on you, you'll melt under his tongue, cause you must be made of sugar.

you're kind. gentle, polite. unbelievably accommodating. you, before he told you why, didn't ask why you always needed to let him in. no complaints, no weird looks, just you assuming the best of people, as always, and accommodating to his strange verbal ritual without blinking.

that's one of the things about you he's noticed, and perhaps its part of the reason he's infatuated with you. gorgeous, sweet, kind, patient - all the things he's not. that he may have been but can't be again.

ah, what the hell.

"opposites attract", a saying since its birth he hasn't understood well — but he gets it now. you're all he's not, he's all you can't be.

not without a bite from the devil, anyways.

and that idea, the one of a bite, has been swimming in your mind ever since remmick unveiled the curtain that hides his dark secret.

you didn't run. you thought about it, but you didn't. you're scared, but, somehow, you're still trying. still letting him in. still hanging around the darkness, even when you think it might just swallow you whole. maybe that’s what you want.

that scent of fear that you now carry, it contrasts with the inherent trusting nature of your actions. and god, it makes remmick ache. makes him want to corner you and put his mouth on you and ask, "You scared?"

and when you say "Yes," since you're no liar, he'll reply "Good," and won't even mock you when you grip him closer.

okay, he is a liar - maybe he will. but it's all in good nature, darlin'.

your own good nature is doing it's very best to not think when he looks at you he wants to eat you (not entirely untrue, really), but you can't help it. can't help the small hesitation before saying he can come in, but that's alright. he's trying, too.

he intentionally makes his footsteps heavy so you know where he is, when he's approaching. makes sure to keep his tone light, a sort of airy that's unnatural to him, but it doesn't matter in the slightest when he sees how it helps. and it does.

you're starting to look at him the same way you did before you knew. with dwindling ounces of unsuredness, or falters of your gaze. with that want you think you're doing a good job of hiding.

all in due time.

and right now, you're cooking, for him. making him pasta. offered when he came in — maybe you think that kind of food will help to satiate his other stomach.

it doesn't, not really, but like other things lately, he finds it doesn’t matter in the slightest. whatever makes you feel better, safer.

the steam rises in swirls and seems to dance around you. he studies your frame, something he hasn't felt in a long time stirring in his chest. watches how you move, how you breathe, and isn't ready to think about how he wants to for the rest of his unending life.

he's almost lucky you notice him staring, then, because he may have had no other choice but to consider his realization.

uncertainty coats your gaze, and he knows you're waiting for him to say something. to justify those eyes of his you now can see the unnatural glow of. and he does something he doesn't often find himself willing to. (he almost forgot how to say such a word)

"Sorry. Just lookin'," he says, with the hint of a smirk he's trying to repel. it's not funny, remmick tells himself. but it is.

you, poor, sweet thing who when he was certain you wouldn't run off, was made aware of who he is. what he is, more specifically. he should be— is grateful you still let him in, of course, but it's amusing to a man such as remmick. how your eyes go wide as saucers when you catch him looking (or lingering, really) what he wouldn't give to get inside that pretty head of yours.

you swallow your fear, nodding as if you believe him. maybe you do, or maybe you're a good pretender. it isn't remmicks business. you decide whatever he's doing sitting behind the counter isn't yours either, returning your attention to the stove. "You can look."

a beat passes.

"Attagirl."

your head is stiff when it turns back to him. remmick, naturally, is looking at your fridge - studying (pretending to) the magnets you've placed on it. he also pretends to notice you looking and throws an unsure glance of his own your way.

im hearing things, you must think, because when you turn away again, it's with a light shake of your head. remmick can hear the hard blink of your eyes to try and make yourself snap out of it. it takes every year of his old age to hold in his smirk.

you a wicked man, remmick, some distant part of him says. and another responds with 'sure am. and when the steam escapes from your pot and the smell hits his nostrils, they both go quiet.

"You hungry, Rem?" you call softly.

yes ma'am, but not for that, is what he thinks. "Hungry as all can be." is what comes out.

he's practicing softening his own voice, for you. he seems to be not half bad at it, because even if you don't notice, those unnatural orbs of his pick up at the slight relax of your shoulders. he can almost see the breath you release, and he wants to taste it. but he'll settle for pasta.

for now.

#dippys asks #like i’m sorry for making him make r! think they’re a smidge schizophrenic #it’s just his nature okay #i’m observing this interaction not coordinating it ok #you know what #this is my fic i do what i want #but for real if you want something more fluffy or angsty u can absolutely request again!!!!!#sometimes these things grab me by the balls and steer me in their own direction #ANYWAYS #let me shut the hell up #sinners #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners x reader

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yvaineseleneposts · 23 days ago

Text

The Noise Between Us

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warning(s): little angsty

The club pulsed with a heartbeat of its own — strobe lights flickering like lightning, the bass thudding deep in your chest. You hadn’t expected to end the night dancing this close to Jack Hughes, your best friend since high school. But here you were, his hands warm at your waist, yours wrapped loosely around his neck. Your skin buzzed, but whether it was the music, the drinks, or Jack himself, you couldn’t tell anymore.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you shouted over the music, breathless from laughing at something he’d said.

He grinned, lopsided and a little drunk. “Because you’re hot.”

Your laughter froze in your throat. “Jack—”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t clumsy or unsure — it was bold, urgent, the kind of kiss that made everything else in the room disappear. You kissed him back without thinking, fingers tightening in the soft fabric of his shirt, and he pulled you in like he’d been waiting a long time for this.

When he pulled away, his eyes were dark, searching yours. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

The car ride back to your flat was quiet, but his hand rested on your thigh, fingers brushing back and forth like he couldn’t stop touching you.

Back at your door, you both hesitated.

“Come in,” you said softly.

Inside, you tossed your keys on the counter, heart racing. Jack leaned against the doorway, watching you. The silence grew.

“I…” you started, your throat tightening. “Jack, I need to say something before this goes any further.”

He straightened, suddenly alert.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I have been. For a while. And I know this probably started as a drunk thing, but it wasn’t for me. It’s never been just a friendship for me, not really. I didn’t want to say anything and ruin us but—”

Jack stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

You blinked. “So… what are you thinking?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. Instead of answering, he kissed your forehead gently. “Let’s talk in the morning, yeah?”

You nodded. You didn’t know if that meant yes or no, but you let him pull you into bed, his arms wrapping around you, warm and familiar.

The Morning After

Sunlight bled through the blinds, falling across the empty side of your bed.

You sat up slowly, the quiet hitting you harder than any hangover. The sheets beside you were cold. Jack was gone.

No note. No message. Just gone.

You stared at the space he’d left, your heart slowly cracking open in the stillness. All that noise last night — the music, the kisses, the confessions — was gone now. Replaced by silence.

The first day, you told yourself, maybe he just needed space.

The second day, you checked your phone every hour, even when you tried to pretend you weren’t.

By the third, you knew you were lying to yourself.

You texted him once.

you: can we talk?

No response.

you (later): i just want to know you’re okay.

Still nothing.

You didn't dare call. You didn't want to hear the line ring out or go straight to voicemail. You weren’t sure which would hurt more.

It wasn’t just that he left. It was that he’d disappeared entirely — like the night never happened, like your confession had scared him into another dimension. You replayed everything: the dance, the kiss, the way his hand found yours on the couch like it belonged there. The way he’d held you like he didn’t want to let go. And then he did.

By day five, your friends were starting to notice.

“You’ve been weird lately,” one of them said as you sat across from them at brunch, barely touching your food. “Is this about him?”

You nodded, too tired to lie.

“Jack Hughes ghosted you?” their voice rising. “That’s insane. He’s been in the city, like, I literally saw a story of him with Luke yesterday.” Of course he was still around. Just not for you.

Day six, you cracked and tried calling. Straight to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Jack. Leave it.”

You hung up before the beep. You hated how your chest still fluttered when you heard his voice. Even if it was a ghost of him — a recording made long before you ever told him you loved him.

Day seven came. A full week of nothing.

You lay in bed, phone on your chest, the silence screaming louder than anything. You’d cried the third night and then shut down. Now you were just numb. Angry at yourself. At him. At how easy it had been for him to disappear when it had taken you months to build the courage to say those three words.

Then, sometime around midnight, your phone lit up.

1 Message from: Jack

You sat up so fast your heart nearly stumbled out of your chest.

jack: i’m outside

Your heart punched your ribs. You threw on a hoodie and socks, heart thudding as you walked to the door. When you opened it, Jack was there. Hoodie, cap pulled low, hands stuffed in his pockets like he was trying to make himself small.

His eyes met yours — and they were tired. Guilty.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse.

A thousand things burned on the tip of your tongue. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you call? Why did you kiss me like that if it didn’t mean anything?

But all you could say was, “A week, Jack. You didn’t even text me for a week.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside without a word, and Jack walked in like someone returning to the scene of a crime. He hovered near the doorway, like he didn’t know if he deserved to sit down. You didn’t offer. You crossed your arms and stayed standing, waiting.

“You disappeared, Jack,” you said, your voice sharp around the edges. “You left. No message, no call, no nothing. After everything we said—after I said—”

“I know,” he interrupted, quiet but pained. “I know. And I don’t have an excuse. But I can tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard. “Then do it.”

He took a deep breath, eyes flicking to yours, then away. “I panicked.”

You stared. “You panicked?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “That night—what happened between us—meant everything to me. And when you said you loved me, I swear to God I felt something split open in my chest. Because I’ve wanted you for so long. And hearing you say it out loud, finally, it was like—” He shook his head. “It terrified me.”

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“Look,” he continued, voice cracking, “I’ve had people say they love me before. Fans. Girls. People who want the version of me they see on the ice or in interviews. But you—you know me. You’ve seen me at my worst. When I choke in a game. When I’m quiet for days. When I lose my temper or go numb. You’ve seen all of it, and you still said you loved me.”

Silence stretched between you like a tightrope.

“I didn’t know what to do with that,” he admitted. “I didn’t know how to be someone who could deserve it. So I did the worst thing I could do—what I always do when I get scared. I ran.”

You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “You could’ve just told me. I would’ve—Jack, I would’ve understood.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “But I didn’t want to say something and get it wrong. Or ruin what we had. Or mess up this one thing that ever felt real.”

“You already did.”

He flinched, but nodded. “Yeah. I know. I hurt you. And I can’t undo that.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “So why are you here now?”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“Because I realized I’d rather risk ruining everything than live one more day pretending I don’t love you back.”

The room went still.

You looked at him, heart racing, pain and longing crashing into each other inside you. You could still feel the echo of his absence, but now, in front of you, was the real thing—raw and scared and finally telling the truth.

Your voice was shaky. “You love me?”

Jack stepped closer, closing the space. “Yeah. I think I have for a while. I was just too much of a coward to face it.”

You stared at him, your eyes burning. And for the first time in a week, the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full. Of breath. Of truth. Of something finally breaking open.

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lokicraft · 5 months ago

Text

Cod thoughtssssss. Inspired by @beloveds-embrace ‘s harpy Gaz + wingless reader concept

CW: kinda angsty with talk of Simon’s past and serious injuries

In a winged!AU, where everyone’s wings are based on real birds and such, some people view those with crow or raven wings as bad luck or cursed or otherwise undesirable. Cliché start, I understand 😅.

So our boy Simon grows up with his past, abuse amplified by his pitch black wings. Escapes to the military where wings are seen as an asset, and his powerful dark ones make him amazing at stealth. Through being with TF 141, he sees his wings as tools to protect his flock, and he grows to like them. Soap also helps by telling him how much he loves his LT’s beautiful black wings: “It’s like looken at th’night sky ye ken?” Oh yeah there’s definitely poly 141 in here, I love me some winged found family vibes.

And then he finds you.

Maybe on a random night out on the town after a mission. Maybe on a mission and you are a hostage. Maybe you are a specialist coming to base to share info. Or to teach a class. Or just to fix the dammed printer.

It doesn’t matter, because he sees you.

You, who doesn’t have your wings out (totally normal, for a variety of reasons people like to be more private). You, who he knows is just like him. He just knows. It’s in the way you hold yourself, the way you shy away from looking at other people’s wings. The way you subconsciously act like you are lesser than others, because that is what the world has beaten into you. He knows. And he sees the rest. Sees how kind and thoughtful and beautiful and genuine you are. Sees how you show love to the world and the people around you. Sees how smart and funny you are, whether you are fighting with the printer, or fighting for your life. And he kinda falls in love right on the spot.

He courts you. Tries to do it as properly as he can. Introduces you to his flock. They see how much Simon loves you and, through dinner dates and baking cookies and just simply hanging out with you more and more, they fall in love with you too.

And you, despite your best efforts, fall in love too.

You can’t say no to these men. They are charming, honest, handsome, intelligent, irresistible. And even though Simon is still the most mysterious of the bunch, you know him.

You know him because you were just like him once, with beautiful black wings. And every time you look at that man, and you see his wings, proudly splayed in private and public settings alike, your heart soars and crashes simultaneously. You see in Simon the best of humanity, how people can grow to love and protect and live even when they’ve been buried in the darkest pits of the past. You also see what was taken from you. You are reminded of the night where humanity showed you its worst face. In your ass-backwards home town in a country across the sea, where the bigotry of the people you grew up with reached its boiling point. When you were held down and “cut loose of the curse you bring to our homes”. When you lost your wings.

And eventually the boys see you. All of you. And they love you all the more.

They are your protectors, your loyal soldiers, your wings. And you are their reason to fight, their guiding light, their heart and soul.

And it takes a while to get there. You enchant them, and heal them, and give them a home. And they break down your walls, comfort you, and love you like you always deserved.

And who knows if I’ll ever be able to put this in to more words, but at least it’s out there now.

#cod mwii #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #poly tf141 #tf 141 #LC writes

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whizzing-fizzbee · 5 months ago

Text

Black Butterflies & Deja Vu

Sebastian Sallow x Reader (F!MC) Rating: Explicit 18+, MDNI (smut, profanity), all characters are 18+ Words: 5,474 Themes: friends to lovers, angst, fluff, shameless smut

Summary: Your best friend Sebastian Sallow has been downright angsty lately. You have no idea it's because he's lovesick over you, until Anne and Ominis force your hands.

Notes: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested some Sebastian Sallow angst and smut. Decided to write this one inspired by the song "Black Butterflies & Deja Vu" by The Maine. All characters are 18-year-old seventh years. Reader/MC is a Ravenclaw.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Sebastian Sallow sighed and hurled another stone into the Black Lake. It pierced the water’s surface with a sharp splash and sank to its deep demise. Sebastian wished he could do the same.

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but Sebastian was feeling rather melancholy. Another Saturday spent alone while you were whisked off to Hogsmeade by yet another suitor.

Or so he thought.

In truth, you were only with Amit Thakkar to help your fellow Ravenclaw craft a plan to ask out Poppy Sweeting. You were fond of Amit – he was handsome and thoughtful – but the notion of any romantic interest between the two of you was laughable. You were gutsy; the type to charge into combat and to speak your mind. Amit was introspective; more of the type to read up on his enemies rather than fight them.

Besides, Amit had it bad for your friend, Poppy. He told you her kindness toward creatures was endearing to him, but he also appreciated how she fought for her convictions. Ever since you and Poppy took down the poachers of Horntail Hall, Amit admired her creed.

Now, it was your seventh year and Amit felt like he was running out of time. You assured him that Poppy would likely say yes to a date. She often spoke highly of Amit, noting his kind and studious nature. Sure, Amit wasn’t the most adventurous student, but you’d seen him hold his own in combat the time you took him to a goblin mine. He had more moxie than he let on.

So when Amit asked you for help, you eagerly agreed. Now that you no longer had to worry about goblin rebellions or Anne Sallow’s curse, you had time for more fun and frivolous quests – like playing matchmaker for two friends.

You spent the afternoon in the Three Broomsticks with Amit to help him decide how and when to ask Poppy on a date. Once it was decided that you’d let him use your vivarium so that he and Poppy could spend time with your unicorns, you toasted to your plan with a round of butterbeers before returning to the castle.

You were practically skipping with satisfaction. Your plan was bound to work and you couldn’t wait to see what may come of Poppy and Amit’s romance.

But Sebastian didn’t know that. To him, Amit was just another sorry bloke who had joined the long line of people desperate to know you on a deeper level. But no one knew you the way Sebastian did. It was more than your secrets, though; sure, he knew those – about Ranrok, your ancient magic and the Keepers – but he also knew your feelings. He knew your fears, sorrows and your emotional triggers. He knew how you liked your tea in the afternoons. He knew you couldn’t fall asleep without reading before bed each night. And he knew you dreamed of a life free from the pain and suffering you’d been forced to live since your fifth year.

That’s why Sebastian never spoke a word of his feelings for you. You were strong and sensible; kind and clever. You were brilliant in every way possible; beautiful inside and out, worthy of all the admiration you received. He decided he was too weak and insignificant to ever deserve you. He was reckless and weak; he gave in to dark magic and it nearly ruined his life – and yours. You deserved a world of warmth and prosperity. Sebastian carried too much darkness.

Of course, Sebastian had spent every day since Solomon’s death trying to make up for it. You were proud of the work he’d put in to resurrect himself from the dark cavern he’d been drawn to because of that relic. You often told him so, because you wanted him to forgive himself and see himself as someone who deserved to be happy.

But Sebastian loved you far too much to risk tainting you with any more of his poison. So instead of simply telling you how much you meant to him, he remained in the shadows as a bystander, witnessing all the ways your glow captivated anyone privileged enough to cross your path.

Of course you’d chosen Amit, Sebastian thought. Amit was polished and smart, generous and astute. He calculated life with consideration rather than sprinting headfirst without reason the way Sebastian did. Amit had a wealth of information and creativity, always writing in his stacks of notebooks or gazing at the stars in awe. The only thing that left Sebastian in awe was you. You were his North Star.

As you returned to the school grounds, you spotted a familiar figure sulking by the lake. You said goodbye to Amit and tread carefully toward Sebastian.

“Seb,” you said, pulling your sweater tightly around yourself. The early stages of fall were creeping across the Highlands, bringing a new chill to the air. “Seb, what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” Sebastian answered tersely. You flinched at his coarse tone. Sure, Sebastian could be brooding and moody, but not usually toward you. He adored you.

You and Sebastian were closer than ever. The events of your fifth year left you both fragile and forlorn; you, because you lost your mentor, Professor Fig, while the repository remained your burden to bear; Sebastian, because he lost more than his uncle when Anne refused to forgive him. The two of you were left with each other, so you leaned inward and formed a bond that could only be understood by two people who shared an unspeakable trauma.

Then you killed Victor Rookwood and Anne Sallow’s curse was lifted. When she began to heal, so did her relationship with Sebastian. He had you to thank for it, and you were merely happy to see him smile again. It brought you even closer.

But something shifted as time passed. You and Sebastian remained bonded, but the new layers of adulthood began to stack between you. He watched your classmates eye you like candy in the corridors. You listened to them whisper and giggle when Sebastian returned tanned and taller after a summer growth spurt.

But for all the rumors and mumblings about the nature of your relationship with Sebastian – “Are they together yet? Is it true they snogged in the Restricted Section? Will they or won’t they?” – you and Sebastian had never broached the subject.

It broke your heart every single day. Everyone else thought you and Sebastian belonged together. So did you. But you were merely one half of the equation and Sebastian never seemed to count you as a love interest.

“Sebastian, what’s wrong?” you asked, frowning at his cool demeanor.

“Just hanging out,” he said simply. He skipped a flat rock across the water, scattering a cluster of butterflies that hovered near the surface.

“Why weren’t you in Hogsmeade?” you asked innocently.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you care?”

You swallowed, hurt by the way he was lashing out. He was known to have a short fuse – his emotions often got the best of him – but he always treated you with more delicate tact.

His eyes always softened when he looked at you. His touch became gentler and his words became tender. You were the calm to his storm, so it scared you to see dark clouds in his eyes.

“Sebastian, what is wrong?” you demanded. “Have I done something?”

“Other than Amit Thakkar? No. Well, unless you include Larson and Weasley too.”

“What? What do they have to do with-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sebastian snapped.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you angry at me for going to Hogsmeade with Amit?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeated.

“It does matter,” you pushed back. “It wasn’t a date. In fact, I was helping him plan a date. With Poppy.”

“What?” Sebastian finally pulled his gaze from the lake to turn toward you, his own eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I was helping Amit form a plan to ask Poppy out,” you said. “He’s fancied her forever.”

“Oh.”

“What’s this about, Seb? Is that really why you’ve been pouting here by the lake all day?”

“I wasn’t pouting.”

You rolled your eyes and hugged your arms around his torso, resting your head against his back. You did this often, as it always seemed to relax Sebastian when he was moody.

“Tortured and forlorn isn’t a good look on you,” you quipped before you released him.

He sighed and turned to look at you. “Sorry. I suppose I’m just feeling a bit down, is all,” Sebastian said.

“I know,” you said gently. “I know it’s nearly Halloween.”

Halloween was a difficult time of year for Sebastian. The holiday wasn’t fun and frivolous for him the way it was for others. For him, it was the anniversary of his parents’ death.

Sebastian’s lips thinned as he stilled himself. You reached downward to give his hand a gentle squeeze and spent the remainder of the afternoon comforting him by the quiet lake.

---

Later that evening, you sat with Ominis Gaunt and Anne Sallow in the Undercroft. Sebastian had trudged off to bed, leaving the three of you to continue your Ancient Runes studies.

The Undercroft was quiet as your quill scratched quietly over parchment, a stark contrast from the roar happening inside your head. Finally, you tossed your quill onto the table and sat back in your chair. Anne looked up at your sudden movement and Ominis leaned forward.

“I’m worried about Sebastian,” you said.

“Get in line,” Ominis muttered dryly.

“I know the anniversary of your parents’ death is approaching, but I think it’s more than that,” you sighed as you looked at Anne, who nodded in understanding. “He just seems so… sulky.”

“Sulky?” Ominis mused. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“So you’ve noticed it too?”

“Of course, I have,” Ominis said.

“You’re right, it’s not just our parents,” Anne said. She and Ominis shared a glance that made you uncomfortable, as if they knew something you didn’t.

“What is it?” you demanded with a frown.

“We think he’s lovesick,” Anne said with a soft laugh. You blinked as you processed her words, your stomach deflating as if she’d punched you there.

Sebastian was in love. That was the hardest pill to swallow, but the fact that he hadn’t told you made it even more painful. He told you everything.

“Lovesick?” you repeated. “Sebastian?” Anne nodded while Ominis folded his arms across his chest, the faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But he hasn’t mentioned anyone to me. And I haven’t seen him with anyone lately.”

It was Ominis’ turn to blink. “He isn’t dating anyone,” he said. “He’s distraught over someone he thinks he can’t have.”

“Who?” you pressed. “Is it Nerida? Because-”

“Oh, please.” Ominis snorted. “Sebastian wouldn’t be arsed over someone as scatterbrained as Nerida Roberts. Give him some more credit than that.”

“But I heard they hooked up.”

“Even if they did, she’s not the one Sebastian’s pining after,” Anne remarked.

“Then who?”

Another silent exchange of glances and you glared at your friends. “What aren’t you telling me?” you demanded, hurt that they were keeping a secret from you. There were no secrets when it came to Sebastian and you.

“And I thought Ravenclaws were smart,” Ominis teased.

“Why won’t you tell me?” you pushed, your hurt frustrating beginning to surge. It was bad enough Sebastian was in love with someone else, but your friends withholding it from you twisted the knife deeper.

“We don’t need to tell you,” Anne said. You couldn’t decide if she was amused or annoyed.

“Why not? I clearly have no idea who it is.”

“Clearly,” Ominis said dryly.

“So then tell me!”

“We can’t,” Anne said simply. “If it isn’t obvious to you, you aren’t ready to know.”

Tears stung your eyes at your friends’ callousness. Was this their payback for the secrets you kept from them your fifth year? Of course, you’d never told them how you felt about Sebastian. How could you? Ominis would tell you to run far, far away from your chaotic friend. And Anne was his sister. She’d never understand.

“Fine,” you snapped, shuffling your parchment and quills into a pile. You shoved your chair back as you rose to your feet and gathered your study materials in your arms. “It’s also obvious to me I’m not meant to know, so I suppose I’ll call it a night.”

You scurried from the Undercroft, hurt and confused.

---

The following day, Sebastian seethed over his breakfast. He watched you from the Slytherin table as you laughed with your fellow Ravenclaws. Andrew Larson was leaning in particularly close to you and Sebastian hated the way he was looking at you. Sebastian looked at you the same way.

He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to lust over his best friend, but everything you did, every move you made, forced him into a wild spiral. Sometimes he even forgot how to string together a coherent sentence when you were around, like when you’d subconsciously bite your bottom lip while deep in thought, or the time you fell into a creek and he could see through your blouse.

Sebastian was so busy glaring daggers at Andrew, he didn’t notice the arrival of Ominis and Anne. Anne turned to see the source of her brother’s miffed expression and sighed as she sat down.

“Sebastian, stop,” she scolded. “If you scowl any more, you’re going to accidentally hex half the Ravenclaw table.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it includes Larson,” Sebastian muttered as he tore his gaze away.

“What’s wrong with Larson?” Anne asked. “He seems nice enough.”

“Don’t be so daft,” Sebastian mumbled. Anne set down her water goblet as her eyes pierced Sebastian with annoyance.

“Sebastian, this has got to stop,” she said forcefully. “You’re acting insufferable.”

“She’s right,” Ominis chimed in. “All of this moping about is becoming unbearable. Just tell her already.”

“Tell who what?”

“Who’s the daft one now?” Anne clucked her tongue. “Come on, Sebastian. It’s clearer than crystal. Everyone knows you’re in love with her.”

“In love with who?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Anne snapped. “Now either tell her or we will.”

“You won’t say a word,” Sebastian threatened. “Mind your business.”

“You’re making it our business with your sour attitude,” Anne said. “We can’t stand it anymore. And frankly, neither can she. You’re just lucky she’s too in love with you to gain any sense.”

“She’s what?”

Anne sat back and smirked. “Come on now,” she continued. “Even you aren’t this dense.”

“Did she say something to you?” Sebastian demanded.

“No,” Anne said simply. “Sometimes the truth is in what we don’t say.”

---

After dinner, you decided to check on Sebastian. You hadn’t seen much of him that day, but you had seen the way he seemingly scowled at you in the Great Hall.

You descended the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower to make the trek toward the Slytherin Dungeons. But as you approached the Quad Courtyard, you were met by Anne.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, causing you to stop dead in your tracks.

“Anne? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been looking for you. Have you forgotten about your detention?”

“Detention?”

“Remember, for last week’s Potions incident?”

“But that wasn’t me. That was all Garreth’s f-”

“But Sharp gave you both detention for it, remember?” Anne asked. “He said you were complicit in the explosion since you were Weasley’s partner that day.”

“But…” your voice trailed off as you racked your brain to remember. You couldn’t recall Professor Sharp scolding you or giving you detention. Surely, you would have remembered that.

“You need to get down to the Detention Chamber,” Anne said urgently. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

“But-”

“Go! Sharp’s already livid. He sent me because I happened to be walking by. Weasley’s already there.”

You groaned. How did you forget? This surely meant you’d receive a second detention for your tardiness.

“Alright,” you sighed. “I’m on my way.” You thanked Anne and hurried to the dungeons.

“Sorry I’m late, professor!” you exclaimed as you shoved your way through the door to the Detention Chamber. You froze when it became clear Professor Sharp wasn’t there. Neither was Garreth Weasley. Sebastian was the only other occupant, sitting at the front of the room.

“Where’s Sharp?” you asked, confused.

“Sharp? No idea,” Sebastian answered, looking equally confused. “Where’s Binns?”

“Binns?”

“He apparently gave me detention for falling asleep in class last week,” Sebastian explained. “I don’t even remember it. But Anne said-”

“Anne said you had detention?” Your brow furrowed as your suspicion spiked. “But Anne told me-”

A sudden click from the door behind you made you whirl around. You reached for the door handle and found it was locked.

“Hey!” you shouted. “There’s people in here! Unlock the door!”

“No.”

Your eyes widened at the voice on the other side of the door. “Anne?”

“We’re not letting you out until the two of you confess,” Anne’s voice said.

“Confess? Confess what? And who’s we?” Sebastian appeared next to you, his arms crossed as he frowned at the door.

“You know what,” Anne’s voice replied pointedly.

“What’s she talking about?” you asked, turning to stare at Sebastian. He shrugged.

“I have no idea. Anne, open the door.”

“No.”

“Ominis? Are you out there too? Are you in on this?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes,” came Ominis’ voice.

Sebastian cursed. Neither of you had your wands – students had to place them in a lock box outside the chamber upon entry so that you couldn’t use magic during detention. The box wouldn’t unlock itself until the full detention was served.

“Let us out!” you shouted at the door. “This is ridiculous! You can’t keep us in here!”

“You can and we will,” Anne responded. “We’ll be back soon.”

You pressed your ear to the door and could hear their footsteps fading down the corridor. You sighed and turned to press your back against the door.

“What’s this about?” you demanded, your eyes narrowing at Sebastian.

“I don’t know,” he said as he ran a hand through his already tousled hair.

“What do they want you to confess?” you asked.

“They said ‘the two of you,’” Sebastian pointed out. “We’re both meant to confess something.”’

“Confess what? We don’t keep secrets from one another.”

Sebastian sighed and paced toward the front of the classroom. He leaned forward against the large desk at the front of the room, his hands gripping the desktop while he appeared deep in thought.

“They think we… have feelings for each other,” he said, his back still to you as he gazed downward at the desktop.

“What?!”

“They think you and I have romantic attractions,” he said. He turned to face you and crossed his arms again.

“You can’t be serious,” you laughed nervously. Heat began to creep up the back of your neck. “Why do they think that?” Sebastian gazed at you with tired eyes that startled you. Your tense posture slackened as you frowned in concern. “Sebastian? Are you okay?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. I’m exhausted.”

“Do you want to sit down?” you asked as you crossed the chamber to approach him. “Maybe you’re ill.”

The conversation you had with Anne and Ominis drifted to the front of your mind.

“We think he’s lovesick,” Anne had said.

You paused. Dare you ask? What if the answer killed you?

“Sebastian,” you started carefully. “Are you… have you got a crush on someone? Is that why you’ve been so moody lately? Anne mentioned you’ve seemed a little lovesick.”

And to your absolute, utter shock, Sebastian began to laugh. Dread coursed through your blood as you waited for him to regain his composure.

“Anne’s right, this really is unbearable,” he said as he shook his head. He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face, so you closed more distance and leaned backward against a desk across from him.

Sebastian’s eyes roamed you up and down. It made you shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“The answer is yes,” he finally continued. “I do have feelings for someone. That’s what Anne and Ominis want me to confess.”

“Who? Who do you have feelings for?” you asked, ignoring the sting that was twisting shards of heartache inside your chest.

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. His eyes lingered on you as he seemed to be fighting impatience.

“You really don’t know?” he asked.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” you complained. “Clearly I don’t.”

Sebastian dug the palms of his hands against his eyes as if seeing clearer might make you see clearer. “They keep asking because the answer is obvious,” he said. “The answer is you.”

His words seemed to hover between you, an invisible line begging to be crossed. All you had to do was break the plane.

“Me?” you asked stupidly.

Sebastian couldn’t help but smile at the naivety plastered all over your face. “Yes, you,” he answered. “It really can’t be that much of a surprise, can it? I haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

“I thought you were just being protective of me,” you said breathlessly. The cool dungeon felt hot and your hands were clammy. This wasn’t happening. You had to be lost in one of your countless dreams about Sebastian, fantasizing over all the ways he’d show you how much he loved you.

“I was,” Sebastian said simply. “I was protecting you from me.”

“What?”

Sebastian paced in front of the desk. “You deserve so much more than someone like me,” he confessed. “I mean, look at you. You’re… everything. I’m just the fool who got lucky enough to call you a friend.”

“Sebastian, that’s not for you to decide,” you said, your eyes still wide at the stunning revelation. “You don’t get to pick for me. And I’ll always pick you.”

“What?”

Suddenly, you understood the frustration that Anne and Ominis felt. You were stunned the two hadn’t strangled you and Sebastian both by now. You were no longer angry with them; you were grateful.

“This is all so ridiculous,” you breathed with a laugh. You stepped toward Sebastian and it was his turn to look surprised. “Sebastian, can we both just confess already?”

“You… you really mean it? You’re not just trying to get out of here?”

“On the contrary,” you said as you took another step toward him. “I’m trying to make the most of our time.”

You grabbed him by the front of his jumper and pulled him into a kiss. It was soft at first, but you grew hungry for more until your hands became balls of taut wool and your tongue was dragging along Sebastian’s bottom lip.

His hands snapped to your waist and pulled you against his body as he kissed you deeper. His tongue clashed with yours until you were gasping for air.

“Wait,” you laughed as you broke apart to catch your breaths. “We still need to confess.”

“I love you,” Sebastian said immediately. His eyes were heavy with a new level of affection that was foreign to you. It made your chest swell and heart race.

“I love you too,” you breathed. Sebastian smiled and leaned in to kiss you more gently this time.

“This was a lot easier than I thought it’d be,” you murmured once he pulled away.

Sebastian laughed as his thumbs traced gentle circles over your hip. He smiled at you with so much love and lust, your knees would surely give out. Luckily, you had a solution for that.

You pulled him into another forceful kiss, tugging on his jumper until he moved away from the desk. You spun so that your own back was pressed against it, pulling him into you until he lifted you onto the desktop. You wrapped your legs around him, your hands tugging at the hem of his jumper.

You could already feel his erection digging into the skin of your thigh. You’d never wanted anything so badly in your life.

You slipped the sweater over his head and dragged your palms over his bare chest, the feeling of his skin sending shockwaves through your fingertips. You couldn’t believe you were finally touching him in the sinful manner that only existed in your forbidden fantasies.

“Can I take this off?” Sebastian asked as his fingers grazed the top button of your blouse.

“If you don’t, I will,” you replied. He grinned at your response and kissed you.

Once all the buttons were parted, Sebastian shoved your shirt onto the desk behind you. His hands skimmed over your waist and held your hips as he pulled you hard against him, your inner thigh grinding against his erection.

You decided you hated the feeling of his trousers against your skin. You fumbled with his belt buckle and zipper until you could shove his remaining clothing to the floor, freeing his cock from the layers of fabric.

Your breath hitched at the sight of it. Sex wasn’t new to you but someone of that size certainly was. You internally scolded yourself for depriving yourself from this for so long.

Sebastian’s hands snaked beneath the hem of your skirt, the pads of his fingers stroking the tops of your thighs. He licked his lips at the heat radiating from your body.

As he leaned in to kiss you, one of his hands found the apex between your thighs, grazing two fingers over the fabric of your panties.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned as he felt the moisture of the fabric. He planted a trail of kisses from your neck across your collarbone, stopping with one final peck to your right shoulder.

His thumb brushed patterns over your entrance and you whimpered in frustration at the fabric separating your flesh. Sebastian smirked and inched your panties to the side with his thumb and index finger until your entrance was exposed. His thumb returned, this time running up and down over your wet folds. You could feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

But he had to taste you first. His lips left a trail of kisses from your neck and between your breasts until he lowered himself to a kneeling position. One more kiss followed above your belly button until he was pushing your skirt hem upward. He eyed your most precious asset and attacked it with his tongue.

Your gasp hissed throughout the chamber on contact. The sounds of Sebastian’s tongue immersed in your folds was music to your ears as he hummed a moan into your flesh. The vibration made you buck your hips forward.

His tongue swiped patterns over your clit until you fisted his hair in your hands. You pressed your fingertips into his skull, begging him for more pressure. He obliged, his tongue flattening and flicking against your clit until you were moaning repeatedly.

His lips enclosed your clit and he sucked against it, the sound drawing scowls from the portrait paintings on the walls.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyelids heavy as you gazed at the erotic vision between your legs.

Sebastian sucked harder, the tip of his tongue pressed against your clit until your thighs twitched in his hands. You were afraid to know what it’d be like to fall apart on Sebastian’s tongue – not because you were embarrassed or self-conscious, but because you knew it would ruin you for life.

And when it finally started, the sweet sensation shooting through your nerve endings in the form of a convulsion across your cunt, you forced your hips forward as Sebastian’s tongue danced against your clit. Your shaking thighs clamped either side of his head and he groaned at the surge of wet arousal that surfaced from your entrance. His tongue glided inside you to collect the reward of your climax.

As you recovered, your chest rising and falling while you caught your breath, Sebastian kissed both of your thighs and stood, smirking at you with sensual eyes as he returned to his standing position between your legs.

You realized the top of your thigh was wet from the tip of his cock. You took it in your hand and stroked, your thumb appreciating the sensation of its velvet head. Your core began to throb with desire for it.

“I need you. Now,” you whispered. You didn’t need to ask twice.

Sebastian lined the tip of his cock against your entrance and took a moment to behold the sight. He decided he’d burn the entire castle down if he were to wake up and learn this was merely another dream.

But the feeling of your slick, warm arousal coating the head of his cock was far too real. He moaned at the sight of himself disappearing inside your entrance. He sank further into you while you held your breath at the size of him.

“Relax,” Sebastian said gently. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded silently and exhaled, willing the tension to vacate your body. Sebastian continued to ease himself inside of you, his jaw clenched at the sensation of your walls stretching to accommodate him.

“My god,” Sebastian groaned as his gaze drifted downward to where you were joined. You bucked your hips to indicate your readiness.

Sebastian pushed his hips forward, his cock parting your walls again. You moaned at the pressure mounting within your core.

His cock drove steady strokes against your walls as his hands gripped the tops of your thighs. You whined for more, your hips rocking forward as the desk creaked beneath you.

You clutched Sebastian’s shoulders to pull him closer. He snapped his hips harder, the sounds of his thrusts growing louder as they became more erratic.

Your legs clenched around his torso tightly, willing him to drive deeper inside you. You could feel the smoldering climax searing hotter within your twitching walls. When it finally began, your tight cunt released, pumping pleasure through your walls while you cried out.

Your nails sank into Sebastian’s shoulder blades, leaving sharp crescent divots in his skin. Sebastian’s cock pumped you through your orgasm until your twitching cunt was spent.

Sebastian’s hands drifted to your back, a flick of his fingers snapping your bra apart. He flung it onto the floor behind himself and buried himself inside you again.

He kissed you hard, easing you backward until you were lying flat on your back. He couldn’t help himself from roaming his hands over your body, cupping and squeezing your breasts as he slammed into you. You moaned as he gripped your hips, pulling you into him as he fucked you.

“Oh my god,” he moaned. The sight of you, splayed out flat on your back, breasts bouncing with each thrust, was better than any vision his head could conjure.

The smacking of your bodies chorused across the chamber, your whimpered moans growing louder in rhythm with them. The delicious incline to another peak was mounting in your core, bringing you so close to the edge of ecstasy.

Sebastian reached down to drag a thumb over your clit, nudging you to the climactic cliff. The sound you released was anything but subdued; an unrestrained wail as your walls convulsed around Sebastian’s driving cock, sending your back into an arch as you clamped your eyes shut.

The aftermath was more than Sebastian could handle; your heaving chest panting for air; your heavy eyes dark with satisfaction; your arousal slowly dripping onto the desktop.

Sebastian thrusted hard until his cock was fully enveloped in your warmth again, his tip buried deep within your plush walls. He grunted as he held you against himself, his cock throbbing with his own climax until he painted your core with his release.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned once it was over.

He slumped forward. It felt as if his frame might collapse amid its boneless state. Beneath him, you were grateful for the desk keeping you off the ground.

Once you felt lucid enough to move again, you sat up slowly. Sebastian dipped his head to rest his chin against your forehead as you both recovered in silence. He didn’t want to part from you, so he remained still, savoring your warmth as he draped his arms around you.

“You really didn’t think I was in love with you?” you murmured softly against his chest.

“You really didn’t realize I was in love with you?” he mused.

“We really do owe Anne and Ominis an apology,” you laughed softly. “Or a thank-you.”

The door suddenly creaked open and the sound of hurried footsteps stopped with a sharp halt. Anne stood in the doorway, her face twisted in an expression of horror as Ominis stood behind her, unaware of the sight before them.

Sebastian winced at the intrusion. “We should probably start with an apology.”

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy sebastian #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow smut #whizzing fizzbee fanfic

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leejenowrld · 4 months ago

Text

back to you — five

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 43k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — the fallout from the bar backs you and jeno into a corner, forcing everything to unravel faster than you can control. just when the lines blur and restraint shatters, when old habits become impossible to break, you’re forced to confront a demon—but you can’t let him save you. not when the real threat has finally stepped out of the shadows, pulling the strings tighter, making sure there’s only one way this ends, and it’s not with jeno by your side.

chapter warnings/contents — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, i want to preface this by saying that this chapter explores heavy, dark, and deeply angsty themes. please read with care. without giving too much away, it delves into blackmail, a sense of entrapment, and the overwhelming weight of hopelessness. but i want to remind you—this is not the end of the story. we still have about four parts left, and what happens here is only a fragment of the whole. don’t take anything as final. if you see y/n break, if you see weakness, if it feels like all is lost—trust me, it’s part of the process. you haven’t seen anything yet, hard angst this chapter, get tissues ready please, this chapter is the embodiment of a roller coaster, a very needed mark and y/n bestie scene, desperate and horny smut as always, y/n riding like always, jaemin is back, descriptions of heavy emotions. please read with care, love you all 🖤.

authors note — very important note, this was going to be a single part upload but of course i can’t upload 80k worth of words in one post so like part four, it’s going to be uploaded in two separate posts. the next post will continue exactly where this post ends, just remember that as you’re reading! there’s still a lot more to take place.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

You found the bar on a night when the city felt too sharp, too loud, its edges pressing into you like glass. It wasn’t the kind of place you were searching for, not the sterile cafés or fluorescent-lit study halls where you usually passed the hours, but something about the warm glow spilling onto the pavement made you stop. The hum of conversation didn’t feel intrusive here—it folded into the low strum of a guitar, into the soft clink of glasses, into the air thick with stories left half-told. It was a place that didn’t demand anything from you, didn’t ask who you were or what you carried. It just existed, steady and unchanging, waiting for someone like you to find it.

At first, it was just another stop for a project—some academic exercise in mapping out the significance of local businesses, analyzing spaces that held weight beyond their walls. You went in with observation in mind, your role meant to be distant, analytical, outsider. But then you met Jihyo. She had been a quiet storm behind the counter, all sharp edges and unreadable expressions, eyes like dusk settling over a city. She did not welcome easily. She did not waste time on strangers. And yet, the moment your presence folded into the hum of her bar, she had looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you, as if already dissecting what you would be before you even knew it yourself. You’re a music major, aren’t you? It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. She had asked you to play, not out of kindness, but because she wanted to see if you had something worth offering.

Her nod, after you played, had been slow, deliberate, something close to approval. Come back next week. And so you did. The bar became yours in the way places can belong to people—not in ownership, not in name, but in the way they hold the softest, most secret parts of you. It wove itself into your skin, into the fabric of who you were when no one else was watching. Here, you were not the version of yourself the world demanded. There were no expectations, no reputations to uphold, no ghosts of the past waiting in the shadows. There was only the music, the dim glow of the lights pooling like liquid amber against the walls, the quiet hum of conversation, and the people who came not because of you, but because of the way you made them feel.

And then, you shared it with Jeno.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to see you like that, lost in the music, stripped bare of the carefully constructed persona you wore everywhere else. But he wandered in one night, an outsider drawn into your orbit, caught in the gravitational pull of something he didn’t fully understand yet. He stood at the back of the room, watching—eyes dark, breath slow, body wound tight with something he wouldn’t name. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was hunger. It was awe. It was the moment before a supernova—when gravity falters, when the universe holds its breath, when all that exists is the unbearable tension of something vast and inescapable teetering on the edge of annihilation. Armageddon woven into stardust, devastation dressed as inevitability, the kind of collapse that doesn’t just destroy but remakes everything in its wake.

The air between you vibrated, charged with something vast and inevitable, the kind of force that shifts planets from their orbits, that drags comets screaming through the dark. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t falter—it only pulled, a gravity well with no escape. And you, reckless and wanting, let yourself be drawn in. It wasn’t curiosity that made you hold his stare; it was recognition, a quiet understanding that whatever existed between you now would either swallow you whole or burn everything you had built to the ground. The bar had been yours—your refuge, your world untouched—but in that moment, you felt its foundation tremble. Because Jeno had never been the kind to stand at the edges of things. He was the kind to step over the threshold, to carve his presence into a place until it could no longer be called whole without him. And somehow, you already knew—you would let him. You would let him ruin this, if only to see what it felt like to be unraveled by him.

And then, he kept coming back. Night after night, slipping into the bar like a shadow, lingering at the edges until he didn’t have to anymore. Until you started looking for him first. Until his presence wasn’t an interruption but an expectation, woven into the rhythm of the room, the silence between notes, the way your pulse stuttered the moment you felt him there. The space stopped being yours alone. He had carved himself into it, into you, a quiet inevitability.

And suddenly, the bar wasn’t just your sanctuary anymore—it was a constellation thrown into chaos, its gravity tilting, its meaning rewritten in the language of him. He was the rogue planet that had torn through your quiet cosmos, shifting your tides, unraveling your axis, pulling everything into a new and dangerous alignment. The space you had once claimed as your own no longer belonged to you alone.

The first time you let him touch you in the bar, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some carefully orchestrated decision, a moment meant to unfold with purpose. It happened the way gravity does, the way the tide follows the moon, inevitable and ancient and completely beyond your control. He had been sitting in his usual spot—back against the worn wooden booth, eyes dark, following the curve of your spine as you played, the tilt of your throat when you sang, the way your hands moved over the strings like they were something sacred. And when you set the guitar down, when you made your way over, drawn by the pull of something neither of you wanted to name, he had reached for you without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist, your pulse stuttering beneath his touch.

And then you were in his lap. Just like that, as if you’d been there a thousand times before, as if you were made to fit against him like this, your knees bracketing his thighs, your fingers threading into his hair, your breath hitching when his hands finally, finally settled on your waist. The bar was still there—still humming, still moving, still existing in the background—but it felt distant, irrelevant, a different world entirely. This world, the one where you were pressed against him, where his lips were at your throat, his breath warm and uneven, belonged to the two of you alone.

It was yours and now, it’s broken.

You feel it before you see it, a shift in the air so visceral it presses against your skin like an oncoming storm. The static of unwanted attention hums beneath the usual noise, something foreign, something knowing. The bar has always been a refuge, a place that belonged to you in ways no one else understood, but tonight, the edges have been breached. The weight of strangers—of interlopers—sits heavy in the space, their presence poisoning something once untouched.

You scan the crowd, and the sight of them rips through you. The basketball team—every single one of them. They didn’t come here by chance; this was orchestrated. Someone called them, and they answered. Some lean against the bar, arms crossed, postures too casual, too easy, feigning disinterest even as their eyes flick between you and Jeno. Others are scattered at tables, half-engaged in conversation, but watching. Waiting. It’s a spectacle to them, and you are the entertainment.

The cheer team. Karina sits at the center, perched on a high stool, her body angled towards Winter, but neither of them are looking at each other. Karina’s expression is too smooth, too practiced, an intentional absence of reaction. Nahyun tilts her head slightly, lips curling in something not quite a smirk, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her glass, she’s with Mia, Aisha, and Yiren, who giggle, whispering in hushed voices that carry just enough for you to know it’s about you. They’re poking fun at you, and they want you to know it.

Your classmates—people you’ve shared lectures with, worked on projects with—are here too. People who have never given a damn about your life before now, but suddenly, they’re watching, murmuring, collecting pieces of a story they were never supposed to be part of. Your close friends—they were enjoying themselves at first, oblivious to the shift. But then they see you. And they know.They know something is wrong. Shotaro’s face tightens with concern, and Chenle, normally so relaxed, stiffens beside him. Donghyuck and Yangyang exchange wary glances, not sure what to do, but instinctively closing ranks.

And then there’s Mark. Sitting off to the side, alone—but not really. Areum leans into him, murmuring something in his ear, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. His gaze is locked onto you, steady, unwavering, and yet so far away it feels like staring into a void. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disgusted. But there’s something worse in his expression—something hollow, like recognition slipping through his fingers. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and realizing you are nothing like the girl he thought he knew. A stranger in your own skin. A stranger he once loved. The weight of that realization cuts deeper than anything else.

The world you kept separate has collapsed into this one. And now, there’s nowhere left to run. Your fingers tighten around the mic stand. You don’t shake—you refuse to—but your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm you can’t ignore. The first chords echo through the bar. Normally, music grounds you. Normally, it pulls you under, drowns everything else out. But tonight, you feel watched in a way that music can’t fix. The melody slips from your lips, the weight in the air is wrong. You don’t make mistakes on stage. You never do. But tonight—tonight, you do. A chord lands a half-second too late, your voice catches on a breath that shouldn’t have been there.

It’s small. So small no one else should notice. But Jeno does. His grip tightens around his drink, jaw tensing, tapping his fingers against his knee in that restless way he does when he’s holding something back. His phone is still out, still recording, but he isn’t watching the screen. He’s watching you. His posture doesn’t shift, but the flicker in his expression does. Something almost like disappointment. Like a realization clicking into place.

Nahyun’s fingers continue their slow, rhythmic tap against her glass. Karina doesn’t move. And then, the whispers start. Soft at first, curling under the music, threading through the melody like a parasite. They grow, multiplying, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Someone laughs. Low. Quick. But sharp enough to slice. Your stomach clenches. You keep going. You have to. But it’s too loud now, not the noise itself, but the knowing. Because they do. They know. Someone told them.

You hear the murmurs slicing through the haze of the music. Is that her? Is that the girl Jeno’s fucking? Mark’s best friend? Accusatory, speculative, invasive. The weight of their stares turns suffocating. You look at Jeno, half-expecting to find an answer, half-hoping for reassurance—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch at the unraveling of your world. And that’s when you know. The sanctuary is gone.

Jeno doesn’t notice it at first. He’s caught in the undertow of your voice, the way it sinks beneath his skin, pulls him under, leaves no room for anything else. The world outside the song doesn’t exist. Nothing else matters—not the noise, not the people, not the way the air shifts around him like something tangible. He only sees you. Only hears the raw rasp of your voice, the way your fingers move over the strings with effortless precision, the way the dim light bends to you, making it impossible to look anywhere else. You are celestial. You are his.

But something fractures. A hairline crack in the illusion. A shift in the current, imperceptible at first, then all-consuming. He doesn’t know when he feels it, only that suddenly, the bar isn’t warm anymore. It isn’t safe. There are too many eyes in the dark, too many murmurs curling like smoke, thick and suffocating. The air is weighted, carrying something cold and sharp. A secret being pried open, a wound split for everyone to see.

The music stumbles—just for a breath, a note out of place, but it’s enough. The whispers swell, curling through the air like static, thick with something heavy, something knowing. And then, a voice. Low. Meant to be heard. Meant to wound. A careless remark sharpened to cut, dressed as a joke but dripping with cruelty. Jeno sees it happen in real-time. The way your fingers clench the mic stand, knuckles whitening with the force of restraint. You don’t flinch, don’t react, but he knows. He sees the slight tremor in your breath, the way your shoulders lock into place, bracing. The way you blink once—too slow, too deliberate. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

Something inside him uncoils. Not in anger, not in blind rage, but something darker. Something quieter. The feeling creeps in slow, pooling in his chest, seeping into his limbs before he even understands it. He moves without thinking, natural instinct taking over before logic can intervene. The scrape of his chair against the floor is unhurried, controlled, but it silences the murmurs like a blade cutting through air. Heads turn. The weight of his presence settles over the room like a storm rolling in, thick with warning.

No. There’s no way this is happening. No way these people are actually here. No way you just laid yourself bare, let something real slip from between your lips—only for it to be dragged into the light, exposed for anyone to pick apart. No. No. No. The denial loops in your head like a corrupted file, skipping, repeating, refusing to compute. Your mind moves with mechanical precision, scanning, assessing, sorting through names and faces, filtering through every interaction, every whispered confidence, every moment of trust. You test each possibility, examine every variable, trace every thread that led here. And one by one, they all unravel.

Except one. Jeno. The name lands like a system failure, a short-circuit searing through you with the force of a fatal error. Your breath is shallow, pulse erratic, but your steps are steady as you turn, moving without thought, without hesitation. Backstage. Away. You don’t shove past him, don’t even spare him a glance as you walk by—but it’s deliberate. A rejection louder than words, heavier than silence.

Jeno stands frozen, still caught between confusion and something deeper, something heavier. The noise of the bar hums behind him, distant, meaningless, but he doesn’t move. His body should follow you, his mouth should shape words, but nothing happens. Nothing makes sense. One second ago, you were his gravity, pulling him in without resistance, and now—now you’re gone.

But then instinct takes over, something primal, something that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. His feet move before his mind catches up, propelling him forward, past the curious glances, past the whispers still thick in the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop. He follows the path you carved through the crowd, slipping into the same shadows you disappeared into, chasing after the only thing that matters.

The door swings open, and there you are. The air in the small backstage room is heavy, thick with something he can’t name. You stand there, motionless, as if you expected him to follow, as if you knew he would. But there’s nothing in your expression—not anger, not fury, not even disappointment. Just a vast, hollow silence, carved deep into your features like something irreversible. Your eyes meet his, deadpan, unreadable, except for the sharp undercurrent of something that cuts straight through him. Hurt. Betrayal.

The space between you stretches impossibly wide, though barely a few feet separate you. The bar still buzzes behind him, voices blending into a meaningless static, but in here, there’s nothing but quiet. And in that silence, in the absence of everything you refuse to say, Jeno feels something sink, something cave in, something break. He’s seen you angry before, frustrated, amused, indifferent—but never like this, never stripped of every emotion, never with a silence so absolute it feels like there’s nothing left at all.

Jeno opens his mouth, but before he can even form a thought, you cut through the silence. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” The words barely rise above a whisper, but they hit like a blow, quiet and heavy, weighted with something raw, something that makes his breath catch. It’s not anger. Not accusation. It’s worse. It’s realization. Like you’re seeing him for the first time and finding nothing of the person you thought was there.

He falters, blinking, his mind racing to make sense of it, to grasp at the threads slipping through his fingers. He didn’t bring them here. He didn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Do what?” His voice comes out too soft, too careful, a hesitation he doesn’t even notice.

You shake your head, slow, deliberate—not in frustration, not in disbelief, but in something far more final. “You fucking know what.”

A sharp, twisting pang lodges itself in his chest. He doesn’t know. Something about the way you speak, the way you still won’t look at him, the way your breathing is just the slightest bit unsteady—it makes his stomach turn. It makes him feel like he’s already lost. “Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wavers, just enough to betray you. You inhale sharply, swallowing it down before it can fully break. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The distance between you stretches wider. Jeno feels it in real-time, the way something unravels between you, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. His frustration coils in his throat, not at you, never at you, but at himself. At this moment. At the way everything is spiraling and he has no idea why. “Baby, I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

You laugh. But it’s not a laugh. It’s a breathless, bitter thing, hollowed out and stripped of warmth, and it makes his skin prickle with something cold. “Don’t call me that.” The way you say it, the way you spit it out like it tastes wrong, like the word itself is poisoned, makes something in him plummet.

“Y/N, please. Just talk to me.”

“Why?” The word is barely there, but when you finally lift your gaze to him, his chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are glassy, but there’s nothing behind them, no warmth, no anger, just empty space where something else used to be. “So you can lie to my face again?”

“I’m not lying to you, what are you talking about—”

"It doesn’t even fucking matter." The words come out too fast, too sharp, burning the air between you. You exhale, blinking fast, but it’s useless. Your vision is already blurred, the sting already settled deep. "Just go. Get out of here."

"No." His voice is steadier now, almost desperate. "Come on, I’ll take you home and then you can sleep on this and we’ll talk tomorrow—"

"No." The word is a wall, solid and immovable. The finality in it feels like it should shake the earth beneath you, crack the foundation of something neither of you want to name. "We’re done."

His breath stutters, chest tightening, a split-second of stillness before his voice comes again, softer now. "What?"

"It’s over, Jeno."

"You were ready to be my girlfriend an hour ago, and now it’s over just like that?" His voice wavers between disbelief and something rawer, something darker, like he’s grasping at air, at something that’s already slipped through his fingers.

You don’t debate. You don’t argue. You don’t give him anything. Every time he tries, every time his voice rises with another plea, another question, another attempt to pull you back, you silence it with nothing but a look, a shake of your head, a single, stony word. "Yes It’s done."

And then you turn. Mid-sentence, mid-conversation, mid-everything. You carve yourself out of the moment like a missing page torn from a book, leaving behind only the hollow shape of where you stood. Your spine locks into something unyielding, your steps crisp, purposeful, final. You don’t look back. Not because you don’t want to—because you refuse to. Because looking back is a trapdoor, a snare waiting to snap around your ribs and drag you under. Because if you see the way he’s watching you, the way his world is actively caving in, you might hesitate. And hesitation is how disasters are made.

Jeno doesn’t chase you. Not because he doesn’t want to—God, every fiber of him is screaming at him to move—but because he can’t. His body betrays him, feet locked to the floor, lungs forgetting how to draw breath, thoughts caught in the violent whiplash of what just happened? He watches you disappear through the haze of low-lit amber, the laughter and chatter around him muffled like he’s underwater. Like the universe has pressed pause on everything except the sound of your retreating footsteps.

And just like that, you’re gone. The absence of you is immediate, a vacuum that swallows sound, air, reason—leaving behind only the weight of everything that just unraveled between you. The realization is settling into his bones like an irreversible event, something written in the fabric of the universe long before this night ever arrived. He just lost you. And not in the way people lose their keys or their tempers—no, this is planetary collapse, tectonic shift, a fundamental change in the orbit of things. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This is the first time Jeno truly understands—you are not his. You never were. And the universe doesn’t care how unprepared he is to exist in that reality.

The campus feels altered, as if reality has warped in your absence, as if the foundations of the world you once moved through so effortlessly have shifted just enough to unsettle your balance. The air is dense, not with fog or windy bite, but with something intangible—something weighty, crawling beneath the skin, slipping into the cracks of every conversation left unfinished, every glance that lingers too long. It clings to the walls, coils through the courtyards, distorts the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times until they feel like something out of a dream you can’t quite wake from.

It’s been days since that night, since the last time you saw Jeno, since you learned what he did. Days since you skipped class, something you never do, something that would have been unthinkable before. But today, you had to show up. And now, it’s the way the cold sinks deeper, how the shadows stretch longer, how even the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times feel foreign. The isolation clings to you like mist, curling into the spaces between conversations, slipping into the gaps between footfalls. And yet, you’re not alone. Shotaro and Donghyuck flank you on either side, their presence unwavering, their warmth solid against the chill pressing in from all directions. They walk with you, unhurried, as if the world isn’t different now, as if your reality hasn’t just been turned inside out.

You learn today that they defended you that night. All of your friends did—minus Mark, for obvious reasons. They stood up for you, argued for you, drowned out the laughter and the snide remarks with something sharper. It should be a comfort, should be a relief to know that you weren’t abandoned in the moment that mattered most, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It just feels tired. Donghyuck, never one to hold his tongue, fills you in on the gossip, his voice a steady hum in the chaos. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, he says. The incident at the bar, the breakup, you. The rumors shift like waves, changing depending on who’s telling them. Some say you dumped Jeno out of nowhere, blindsided him when he did nothing wrong. Others insist he cheated, that you made a scene, that you lost it. The worst ones are the ones that laugh, the ones who sneer, I guess she finally got what was coming to her.

You press your lips together, feeling the heat creep up your neck, the weight of unseen eyes pressing into your back. You’ve been off campus for three days. Three whole days, the first time in your life you’ve ever willingly skipped class. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face it. Not after everything. But reality was waiting, and it hit the moment you stepped into the hallways.

The whispers are immediate. Students pause mid-conversation as you pass, their voices lowering to hushed tones that somehow still reach your ears. Your name, spat out between half-hidden smirks, paired with mocking giggles and knowing glances. The details of that night have been twisted beyond recognition, warped by the relentless churn of rumor. She lost it on Jeno for talking to another girl. She embarrassed herself. She threw a tantrum. The words burrow under your skin, fester like an open wound. It isn’t just the breakup they dissect—it’s you. Your singing, your lyrics, the rawness you poured into the music. Someone sneers, Avril Lavigne wannabe, and laughter follows. Your jaw clenches.

But worst of all, it’s the disbelief. Jeno was with her? For real? That doesn’t make sense. It’s like they can’t even fathom that you were worth his attention, his time. Like it was a joke, a temporary lapse in judgment on his part.

You don’t lash out—not at first. You keep your head high, shoulders back, posture unshakable. But then someone has the nerve to stop you outright, some guy you’ve shared a class with but never spoken to, his smirk lazy and careless. “Hey, I heard you went crazy on Jeno for talking to a girl. That true?”

Something inside you snaps. “Mind your own fucking business.” Your voice is sharp, precise, carrying enough weight to send him reeling. He stumbles back a step, blinking rapidly before he mutters something under his breath and turns away. The next person who thinks to approach you doesn’t.

And yet, despite the bite in your words, despite your friends at your side, you still feel alone. The isolation isn’t just about the rumors or the humiliation—it’s about what’s missing. The bar was yours, your sanctuary, and now it’s gone. Your secret world, invaded. Your comfort, stolen. And worst of all, the one person who was supposed to keep it safe, the one person who should have protected you, is the reason you lost it.

Shotaro and Donghyuck talk, filling the silence, keeping the weight from settling too heavily. They tell you your performance was amazing, that your voice was otherworldly, that no one who matters is saying otherwise. You force a smile, nod, thank them. Because you’re grateful. Because they care. But deep down, there’s a part of you that’s just relieved.

Relieved that no one was there on the other nights, the ones where you stripped, where you performed without music, where the stage became something else entirely. Because if they had seen that version of you— You don’t think you could have survived it.

You shake your head, clearing the lingering weight of it from your thoughts. “I have to go soon,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I have a tutoring session with Jaemin.” But before you can leave, there’s one last thing. One final certainty you need to grasp, even if you already know the answer.

In your head, you’re sure it’s Jeno who told. The process of elimination has left you with no other rational explanation. You’ve run through every possibility, every thread leading back to that night, compared every person who knew about the bar, who could have let the secret slip. None of them hold up as strongly as him. Not Karina. Not your friends. Karina is reckless, impulsive in ways that make her dangerous, but she’s also too skilled at hiding the mess she creates. If it had been her, she would’ve played it off, feigned innocence, kept her hands clean—but guilt has a way of slipping through the cracks, and you would have seen it. She isn’t careful, not really, and something would have given her away.

And your friends? There’s no reason to suspect them. They had no motive, no purpose in hurting you like this. If it had been one of them, the weight of it would be too much, too heavy to bury beneath casual conversation and knowing glances. And beyond that—none of them even knew. Not really. They found you sitting at the bar, not performing. They weren’t there the nights you stepped onto that stage, the nights you bared yourself under dim lights and heavy music. So how could they have known? How could they have spread something they never even had the chance to see? But still—you need to ask. You need to be absolutely certain before you let yourself believe it. Before you accept that there is only one possibility left.

You don’t want to make your words accusatory, not yet. You keep your voice even, steady, but there’s a seriousness to it, something raw beneath the surface. “When you guys came to the bar and found me with Karina,” you start, pausing, letting the words settle before lowering your voice to a whisper. “How did you find it?”

Shotaro and Donghyuck exchange a glance. It’s Donghyuck who speaks first. “There were posters. In the student union building,” he explains. “They listed the bar, its promotions. Discounted drinks, food deals. It looked like a vibe. We didn’t think much of it at first, but a lot of people were talking about it. It seemed like the place to go.”

Shotaro nods in agreement. “And there was something else on the poster. It said there’d be a ‘special performer.’ We didn’t realize it was you.”

Jeno wouldn’t go out of his way to print flyers, to scatter them across campus like breadcrumbs leading straight to you. A tightness coils in your chest, slow and insidious, winding itself around your ribs until breathing feels like a conscious effort. A new thread of doubt, a question you don’t want to ask but can’t push away—what if it wasn’t him? The certainty you felt that night, the conviction that made you walk away without hesitation, without looking back, suddenly feels brittle. You’d been so sure. You had laid out every possibility, tested every theory, let your mind operate like a machine, ruthless in its search for the only answer that made sense. And yet—what if you were wrong? What if, in your desperation to blame, to anchor yourself to something solid in the chaos, you had thrown him into the fire without stopping to see if he was even holding the match?

The memory of his face won’t leave you. The way his brows had drawn together, the way his voice had cracked—not defensive, not angry, just… lost. I didn’t— But you hadn’t let him finish. Hadn’t given him the chance to explain, to fight for himself, to fight for you. You had cut him off before he could even gather his footing, sealed the door shut before he could pry it back open. We’re done. And it had felt right in the moment, righteous even. But now, standing in the ruins, with the ashes cooling at your feet, you wonder if you had set fire to something that was never meant to burn.

The guilt is slow and creeping, settling in your stomach like lead. You don’t regret walking away. Not entirely. But maybe—maybe you should have stayed long enough to hear him out. Maybe you should have let him prove whether you were right before you made the choice for both of you. Because if you were wrong, if it wasn’t him, if you ended it with a finality so sharp there was no coming back—then what the fuck have you done?

For now, you have someone else to confront. Jaemin. He’s been gone for a month, away on a pediatric pre-medicine placement, working in a clinical setting with young patients, shadowing specialists, and gaining hands-on experience for his future in medicine. He’s always been meticulous about his career path, determined and methodical, the kind of person who follows through with everything he sets out to do. It makes sense that he’s been absent, buried in something bigger than campus drama, disconnected from the whirlwind of rumors and revelations that have unfolded in his absence.

But he’s back now. And whether he knows it or not, he’s about to walk into the aftermath of something he wasn’t here to witness. You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face, the weight of the morning pressing down on you. Shotaro and Donghyuck linger for a moment longer, their gazes searching, concerned, but you manage a small wave. A silent reassurance that you’ll be fine. They don’t push, just nod in understanding before heading off in the opposite direction.

Your steps feel heavier than they should as you make your way across campus, the cold biting at your skin, whispers trailing behind you like shadows. You ignore them, keep walking, keep moving, because stopping means sinking, and you can’t afford to sink. Not now. The tutoring center smells like coffee and ink, the low hum of whispered conversations weaving through the space like background noise. Usually, the quiet settles you, grounds you. But then you see him.

Jaemin is already there, waiting, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. His gaze lifts as you approach, and then comes the slow stretch of a smile, lazy, knowing. "I missed your performance," he says, casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t carry weight. No greeting, no small talk, just that. "Such a shame, it’s all I’ve been hearing about all over campus."

You don’t hesitate. You roll your eyes, already exhausted. "And you missed your tutoring sessions." You slide into the seat across from him, tone dry but lacking any real bite.

He grins, unfazed. "Touché." But the amusement fades, and something softer settles in its place. "Don’t worry about what people are saying. You know how this place is. The story changes every five minutes."

You exhale, long and slow. You’ve heard this reassurance before, from Shotaro, from Donghyuck, but somehow, it still doesn’t settle right. It should be comforting, knowing that rumors have a shelf life. Instead, all you can think about is how much damage they do before they die out. Jaemin leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. "How was the placement?" you ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.

His expression shifts, stretching out his limbs like he’s recounting something exhausting but rewarding. "Hospitals, clinics, shadowing doctors, the whole thing," he says, stretching his arms behind his head. "Long hours, a lot of standing around, but I loved it."

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. "Pediatrics? I didn’t know you were set on that."

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I like it. I think you would, too."

You scoff. "That’s random."

"Not really. I learned a lot during the placement. Not just from the medical teams but from the psychology specialists, too. You know psychology ties into medicine more than you’d think—developmental stages, trauma responses, all of it. I feel like you’d love it. Your project shows you have the brain for it."

That catches your attention. "It’s always been interesting to me, but it’s way too late to change my major."

Jaemin shakes his head, amused by your sudden interest. "Not really. I feel like the dean would allow it with how much work you do in other departments outside your own. You’d actually love some of the stuff I’ve been reading. Plus, the psychology department’s got some amazing professors. Maybe you should take a class."

Jaemin doesn’t look away. His gaze is steady, thoughtful, peeling back layers you haven’t even begun to process yourself. “I heard about you and Jeno.” He doesn’t preface it, doesn’t soften the words, just lays them down between you like a truth that can’t be avoided. His change in tone and topic is swift, seamless, and you know—you know—he’s been meaning to say this.

Your fingers tense around the edges of your notebook. “Of course you did.” The words are dry, clipped, but the tightness in your shoulders betrays you.

Jaemin doesn’t let you deflect. “I know you think he told.” A pause. “But he didn’t.” Silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. His voice is measured when he continues. “Jeno wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

You exhale sharply, but it doesn’t feel like release. Just pressure mounting in your chest, twisting into something unspoken. You stare at the pages in front of you, the words blurring into meaninglessness. “Yeah.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly, watching you with a quiet kind of scrutiny. “You’re being weird.”

Your jaw clenches. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Jaemin leans forward, resting his arms against the table, his voice lowering—not conspiratorial, but softer, more deliberate. “That’s bullshit.” His words don’t carry accusation, just quiet disappointment. “You do know. You’ve always known.”

Jaemin exhales, shaking his head, his voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to make sense of it himself. “I can’t believe you really ended it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. No hesitation, no second-guessing. One second, you were ready to be with him, and the next…” He trails off, watching you, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you can give him.

The weight in your chest sinks deeper. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I didn’t have to be. I know what he was like after.” His expression shifts, something raw bleeding into his voice. “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s not—he doesn’t break easily, but that night? He shattered.”

You flinch. It’s small, barely noticeable, but Jaemin catches it. “You weren’t just some girl to him,” he continues, quieter now. “You weren’t a phase, or a mistake, or something he could walk away from.” He pauses, searching for the words. “You were it for him. You are it.”

The weight of those words lands somewhere deep inside you, cracking something open, but Jaemin doesn’t give you the space to shut it down. “And I know,” he says, watching you carefully, “that you don’t believe it was him anymore. I can see it in your eyes.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost like a sigh, “You feel guilty.”

Your breath stutters, your hands pressing harder against the edges of your book. You want to look away, but you don’t. You force yourself to hold his gaze, to sit in the reality of it. “I don’t know how to fix it.” The admission slips out before you can stop it, quiet and raw, and it tastes like surrender.

Jaemin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. His frustration isn’t anger—not at you, not at Jeno. It’s something else. Something close to exhaustion, close to care. “Start by not pretending like you don’t care.” The words are gentle, but they don’t let you escape. “If you regret it, then fucking do something about it.”

You shake your head quickly. “I wish it was that easy.”

Jaemin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? Then tell me what’s stopping you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. No excuse, no justification—just silence, thick and heavy, pressing against your ribs. Because what is stopping you? Your pride? The fear that if you reach for him now, you’ll find nothing but air? That maybe, even after everything, after the way you burned it all down in your desperation to protect yourself, you don’t deserve to put out the fire? That maybe he doesn’t want you to?

The thought latches onto your lungs like smoke, something acrid, something inescapable. You feel it in the way your throat bobs with a swallowed answer, in the way your fingers tense against the paper in front of you like they might keep you from slipping under. You want to say something. You should say something. But the words don’t come.

Jaemin doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t press for an answer you can’t give. He just exhales, slow and steady, watching you with an understanding that sinks its teeth in deep. Like he already knows. Like he’s seen through every layer of hesitation and self-preservation and found the only truth that matters. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, but it lands with the weight of something irreversible.

“You love him.”

Loving Jeno was never the hard part. You’ve been falling for him for what feels like forever—long before you realized it, long before you were ready to name it. It’s in the way your body recognizes his before your mind can catch up, in the way your world tilts imperceptibly toward him, even when you swear you’re standing still. You know you love him. That’s not the terrifying part.

The terrifying part is how much. It’s not a soft, steady thing—not a quiet warmth you can tuck away, not something manageable. It’s all-consuming. It’s something you feel before you think, something that exists in the space between your ribs, in the gaps between your bones, something woven into the very structure of you. It’s the kind of love that rearranges things, that rewrites every rule you had for yourself, that makes you want in a way you’ve never wanted before.

And that’s what scares you. Because it’s not just admitting that you love him—it’s admitting that this is bigger than you, that it’s out of your control. That if you let yourself fall completely, there will be no catching yourself before you hit the ground.

You love him.

The sentence lands with the force of something irreversible. Something you can’t outrun. You stare at him, pulse hammering, your chest too tight, your skin too hot. The air between you feels suffocating. There’s a second—just a second—where you think about denying it, about shutting it down before it can grow roots. But you don’t. You can’t.

Jaemin doesn’t push further. He just lets the silence settle, lets the weight of the moment wrap around you, lets you sit in the truth of it. And then, with a sigh, he flips open his textbook, breaking the moment before it can crush you completely. “Come on,” he mutters, like the past few minutes didn’t unravel something inside you. “Let’s at least pretend to study.”

You hesitate, fingers still curled too tightly against the pages. Then, slowly, you let out a breath, forcing a small, reluctant laugh past the lump in your throat. “Fine.” And just like that, the tension shifts. Not gone, not even close. But something momentarily easier to carry.

The study session stretches on longer than you expect, the weight of Jaemin’s words pressing into your ribs long after the conversation fades into equations and notes. You try to focus, to let the work ground you, but your mind keeps circling back—back to everything Jaemin said, back to the truth you’ve been trying not to look at too closely. By the time you’re closing your books, Jaemin leans back, stretching lazily. “You need to talk to him,” he says, and you don’t argue, because he’s right. And somehow, the moment you dread comes faster than you expect.

It’s later in the day, the lull of afternoon settling over campus, when your phone vibrates with a message.

jaemin — meet me by the library? i need help with an assignment, i’m actually struggling this time.

You sigh but don’t think much of it. Jaemin skipping tutoring sessions was one thing, but he never let himself fall behind. It’s easy to believe he really needs you. So you go. The lounge is empty when you push the door open, thick with the scent of old books and worn-out ambition, only broken by the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the library outside.

But Jaemin isn’t there. You step inside, scanning the room, about to pull out your phone—when the door creaks again. The air shifts. A presence heavier than silence itself presses against your senses, familiar and suffocating all at once. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You feel it before you see it, the static charge in the room crackling like an impending storm. But you turn anyway. Jeno.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your ribs, refusing to settle. He’s standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, presence so effortlessly imposing that it makes the already too-small room feel claustrophobic. His hoodie is loose, hood down, hair tousled in that way that looks unintentional but isn’t. The dim lighting casts shadows along his jawline, sharpening the angles of his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the almost unfair symmetry of his features. His lips are slightly parted, his tongue swiping along the inside of his cheek as his gaze locks onto you, unreadable. And then there’s his posture—relaxed but not. Legs slightly apart, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the fabric stretching ever so slightly across his chest. You know him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw, the weight in his eyes that tells you he’s bracing himself.

He’s frozen too, staring at you like he wasn’t expecting this, like he’s still processing the fact that you’re actually here. You feel your fingers twitch, instinctively reaching toward the strap of your bag, toward the door—toward an exit. But before you can move, the unmistakable sound of the lock clicks from the other side. And then, laughter. Jaemin. And Chenle.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, already shoving at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Not letting you out until you two talk,” Jaemin’s voice carries through the wood, amused, self-satisfied.

“Or until we hear something else,” Chenle adds, laughter curling at the edges of her words. “Moaning. Begging. You know. Reconciliation.”

Your entire body goes rigid, heat rushing to your face. “You’re both so annoying —”

Jeno doesn’t react to any of it. He just exhales, slow and deep, then moves to one of the couches, dropping onto it with a quiet, controlled weight. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, legs spread, arms resting against the back, head tilted slightly forward. A storm. The kind that doesn’t come with lightning, doesn’t tear through with fury—just lingers. Dark and unshaken, waiting.

You take a breath. You’re never wrong. It’s something you pride yourself on. But you were wrong about this. And for once, you’re glad you were wrong.

The words pour out before you can stop them, unfiltered, raw, dragging the weight of your guilt and regret to the surface. “I’m sorry.” The confession trembles between you, thick with something fragile, something desperate. “I was irrational,” you force out, voice uneven, splintering at the edges. “I needed someone to blame. I needed a villain, and you were right there, and that night—Jeno, it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever. And I—” Your breath shudders, throat constricting around the truth. “I panicked. I deflected. I didn’t even stop to think—” Your vision blurs, a single tear slipping free before you can stop it. You shake your head, swipe it away, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can undo this. “I’m so fucking sorry,” you whisper, barely able to hold his gaze.

Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly—so softly you almost miss it— “Come here.”

Your heart lurches. He leans back further, shifting slightly, arms open, waiting. You don’t hesitate. You cross the space in an instant, slipping into his lap, letting him pull you in, letting his warmth anchor you. You kiss him, slow and trembling, and you feel the way he exhales against your mouth, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. His arms tighten around you, fingers sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt, skin to skin, grounding.

Your apologies pour from you, whispered into the space between kisses, pressing against his lips like a prayer. He drinks them in without hesitation, swallows them whole, his mouth catching yours again and again, deeper, slower, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His fingers skim up your spine, featherlight, reverent, tilting your chin just so—so he can kiss you deeper, so he can taste every ounce of regret and longing tangled in your breath. His hands roam with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter, sliding over your back, your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of your sweatshirt like he’s relearning every inch of you, like he needs to feel you to believe you’re really here.

Then, softly— “What made you figure out that it wasn’t me?”

You exhale, slow and uneven, forehead still resting against his, your lips brushing his every time you speak. “The person who told everyone made flyers, Jeno.” Your fingers tighten against the back of his neck, nails pressing lightly into his skin. “They went out of their way to print them, to put them everywhere—that’s what led people to me.” You shift against his lap, the movement subtle, but enough to make his grip on your waist tighten. Your voice softens, something aching beneath it. “That’s how I know it wasn’t you, you wouldn’t use that sort of method and you would never do that to me. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t waste your time running around campus, designing, printing, distributing flyers.” A quiet, breathless laugh slips from your lips, the sound fragile, edged with regret. “I know you.”

Jeno exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between amusement and disbelief, fingers flexing against your hips, thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles into the sliver of bare skin beneath your sweatshirt. “So that’s what made you realize it wasn’t me?” His voice is rough, low, but there’s something almost fond behind it. “Not the fact that I really fucking like you? Not the fact that I would never hurt you?”

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words sinking into your bones. You do know. You knew it the whole time—you just didn’t let yourself believe it. You shift again, slow, deliberate, just to feel the way his breath catches. “You know what I mean,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slide up, dragging heat along your skin, his nod slow, like he’s feeling the truth of it sink in. Because he does know. He knows exactly what you mean. He’s always known. “I was so stupid,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his, the kiss featherlight, teasing, a plea wrapped in something softer. “Of course you’d never do that to me, baby.” The words melt into his mouth, swallowed by another kiss, deeper this time, your hips pressing forward just enough to make his grip tighten, his breath shudder.

Jeno groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and when his hands slide back down to your waist, his fingers dig in, guiding you closer, pulling you into him like he needs you closer, like there’s still too much space between you. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low and strained, his lips trailing along your jaw, hands pressing you down against him. “You were stupid.”

His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, tracing down your spine. His touch is reverent yet desperate, mapping every curve, memorizing every inch. He kisses you like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d have, like he’s been starved for this. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as he moves to your jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste, lips dragging, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

The room is too quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the slick, sinful noise of lips meeting, parting, crashing back together. Every kiss leaves you dizzier, head spinning, stomach fluttering. You can’t stop the needy little whimpers spilling from your mouth, and Jeno must like it because he groans against you, deep and guttural, his hands gripping you tighter, pressing you down against the hardness between his legs. His hips roll up instinctively, and you moan into his mouth, the friction sending shivers down your spine.

Then—banging. “Let’s hear some moaning!” Jaemin’s voice rings through the door, followed by Chenle’s cackling laughter.

You barely register it, still too lost in Jeno’s kiss, too breathless and dizzy from the way he’s kissing you, but then he lets out a quiet chuckle against your lips, forehead pressing to yours as you giggle softly. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You wanna scare them?” you whisper, teasing, voice still breathless, still heady with the taste of him.

Jeno nods, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You nod back, lips twitching with mischief, heart pounding with anticipation. And then, without hesitation, you throw your head back and moan. Loud. Obscene and drawn-out, practically screaming it like you’re in the middle of the best fuck of your life, body arching, hands gripping onto Jeno’s shirt like you’re seconds from falling apart. “Ohhh—fuck, Daddy! Right there, yes, yes, yes!”

Jeno bites down on his lip, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter as he watches you put on the most ridiculous show, his hands still firm on your hips like he’s actually holding you steady through it.

From outside the door, there’s a horrified gagging sound.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“I’m gonna be sick—”

Jaemin and Chenle’s voices overlap, their disgusted groans filling the space, and then you hear it—the frantic shuffle of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of them retreating as fast as humanly possible. Jeno buries his face in your neck, laughing, his whole body shaking with amusement. You dissolve into giggles too, barely able to catch your breath, clutching onto him as you both tremble from the effort of holding it together.

The gym smells like sweat and varnish, the air thick with the residual heat of bodies moving in unison. It’s the final stretch before state championships, the last few practices where every second on this court is meant to sharpen the edges of something already honed to precision. It should feel electric—the weight of preparation, the intensity of competition looming just days away. But it doesn’t. The energy is off, subtle in its wrongness, like a melody just slightly out of tune. No one says it, but everyone feels it.

You stand at the edge of the court, your sneakers pressed against the polished wood, a reminder that you aren’t just watching anymore. You’re inside it now. A part of it. You didn’t realize how seriously Karina took the cheer oath when she first pulled you into this world—how binding it would feel, how absolute. There is no halfway, no tentative belonging. Once you wear the uniform, once you step into formation, you are the team. But standing here now, the fabric clinging to your skin, you aren’t sure what, exactly, you’ve become a part of.

The court has always been a place of discipline. Strategy. Control. It is supposed to be a perfect system, every movement dictated by external authority, every play a calculated effort toward something greater. Personal emotions are meant to be left at the door. There is no room for doubt here, no space for hesitation. And yet, that illusion of order is beginning to crack. The structure is still in place, but it’s hollowed out, weakened. The air hums with something tense, something frayed at the edges. It’s not chaos, not yet, but it’s the kind of stillness before a storm, when the sky holds its breath and the wind shifts just slightly.

Before, this was just a place you observed. You’ve always been good at watching, at standing on the outside and pulling things apart piece by piece. Your role has always been to understand people without being inside it yourself—to categorize emotions into neat little boxes, to study behavior from a safe distance where nothing could touch you. But you are no longer an observer. You are in the experiment now. You are no longer watching the variables—you are one, influencing the outcome in ways you can’t even begin to measure.

Basketball and cheerleading are both supposed to be about precision. They thrive on discipline, on coordination, on people moving as one. But both teams are unraveling, their seams splitting just slightly, just enough to notice. The Ravens aren’t playing like a team anymore. Their chemistry is disjointed, their rhythm offbeat. The cheer team isn’t much better—every movement synchronized in appearance but lacking real cohesion, girls stepping just half a second too late, a second too early. It should be instinct by now. It should be effortless. But it’s not.

No one says it, but it’s there. It lingers in the air like a scent no one can place, in the way passes fall just short, in the way plays fall apart at the last second. You see it in the flicker of hesitation before a shot, in the way trust between teammates is thinning like ice on a lake that’s starting to crack. No one understands what’s wrong, but they feel it. Doubt is creeping in like a slow-moving poison, seeping into every interaction, every glance exchanged in frustration, every loss stacking onto the last.

And Jeno—Jeno looks like he’s carrying all of it.

His shoulders bear an invisible weight, the kind that settles deep into the bones and doesn’t go away. He still moves like Jeno, still plays like Jeno, but something is different. His confidence hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been layered with something heavier, something that dulls his edges just enough for you to notice. You wonder if anyone else sees it, if anyone else knows. Or if they just assume that this, too, is part of the slow breakdown happening around them.

And yet, even in the middle of all of this, you feel warmth. A pulse of heat beneath your skin, a lingering glow inside you from last night—from the way Jeno held you, the way you fucked yourself onto him, the way he touched you like he was memorizing you with his hands. You still feel him everywhere. His lips against your throat, his breath against your skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he never wanted to let go. That warmth stays with you, curled in your chest like an ember, like something still burning even after the fire has gone out.

But there is something underneath it. A shadow stretching over it, barely there, just a flicker at the edge of your mind. You don’t know what it is, not yet, but you feel it. Like a drop in pressure before a storm, like a quiet pull in the wrong direction. Something bad is coming. You can’t rationalize it. You can’t categorize it. It’s not a logical conclusion, not something you can break down into a series of steps and predict an outcome from. But it lingers. This moment, this warmth, this fragile sense of happiness—it’s slipping through your fingers even as you hold onto it.

The downfall has already begun. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s Kun’s whistle that breaks through your thoughts, pulling everyone back into the immediate present. The echoes reverberate off the walls, the sound harsh and demanding, dragging the players from their scattered positions on the court. Kun stands at the center, clipboard gripped tightly, his usual composure strained by something he hasn’t yet voiced. The team moves toward him slowly, their exhaustion evident in every heavy step, the tension palpable in the way they glance at each other, searching for reassurance no one can offer.

Your gaze is instinctively drawn to Jeno. He’s standing slightly apart from Mark—noticeably apart—and the distance between them feels deeper than mere physical space. Jeno’s expression is carefully neutral, a mask you’ve rarely seen him wear so perfectly. His jaw is tight, shoulders squared beneath the fabric of his jersey, his entire demeanor one of careful detachment. It’s as if he’s bracing himself, prepared for something he’s long since learned to anticipate but has never fully accepted.

“Alright, listen up,” Kun begins, his voice firm but slightly strained, cutting through the uneasy silence. “You’ve worked hard today, and it shows. But there's something you all need to know.”

A ripple of uncertainty passes through the team. Chenle leans into Jaemin, whispering something urgent and confused. You see Mark stiffen, the muscles in his neck tightening as Kun continues. “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is. He’ll be absent for a while—he’s recovering from surgery.”

A wave of murmurs flows through the group, surprise flickering across their faces. Jeno’s expression doesn't shift, but you notice his fingers twitch subtly at his side, the only visible sign he's affected by the news. You realize, suddenly, you’re witnessing something intimate—something you were never meant to observe. Something you were never prepared for.

“Rest assured,” Kun continues, attempting reassurance, “he’s okay. It’s nothing life-threatening, but he needs time.” The tension lifts slightly, though uncertainty still hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Kun hesitates, his fingers flexing around the clipboard. “But with championships approaching, we’ve had to make a difficult decision about a temporary replacement.”

You see the slight shift in Jeno’s posture—the cautious tilt of his head, the wary tightening around his eyes. He senses something you don’t yet understand.

Kun exhales, a faint apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “Guys, please don’t kill me.”

The double doors swing open, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Taeyong strides into the gym, and the room instantly contracts around him. His presence is immediate, absolute, suffocating. He carries himself like someone used to command, expecting obedience without question. Your gaze instinctively shifts back to Jeno, watching carefully. You realise that you’ve never actually seen the two interact firsthand before—of course, they’ve interacted countless times, behind closed doors or out of your view—but you’ve only ever heard whispers, pieced together assumptions from fragmented stories and unspoken truths. Witnessing it now feels strangely invasive, almost wrong—like stumbling upon something deeply private, a tragedy unfolding quietly in the open.

“Alright, listen up,” Taeyong’s voice slices through the gym, sharp and unyielding. He strides forward, authority radiating from every movement. “Coach Suh is out—recovering from surgery. Until he's back, I'm your coach.”

Instantly, murmurs ripple through the team. Chenle’s eyes widen, surprise breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait—since when?” he blurts out, disbelief coloring his tone.

Taeyong turns, narrowing his gaze with icy precision. “Since now,” he responds, voice cold, allowing no room for challenge. “Anyone else have an issue?”

Jaemin hesitantly lifts a hand, looking far smaller beneath Taeyong’s intense scrutiny. “Why you, though?” he asks quietly, attempting bravery.

“Because I was asked,” Taeyong responds evenly, stepping forward, forcing Jaemin to shrink back visibly. “Problem?”

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

Taeyong doesn’t hesitate or offer pleasantries. He scans the team sharply, eyes cold and calculating, silently demanding compliance. “I’m not here to babysit,” he begins, his voice hard-edged, emotionless. “I’m here to enforce discipline.”

He dismantles their confidence with surgical precision, attacking each flaw without mercy. “Mark, reckless doesn’t mean effective. Jaemin, hesitation is weakness—figure yourself out, or get off my court.” His eyes finally land on Jeno, lingering a second longer than necessary. “And Jeno, leadership means stepping up. Right now, you’re hardly worth the title.”

Your chest tightens. This is the first time you've ever witnessed Jeno with his father. You'd imagined many scenarios, pictured Jeno’s defiance, expected fire, or even quiet rebellion. But Jeno gives none of it. He remains utterly still, utterly unreadable, as if he's become nothing more than a silhouette in the harsh glare of Taeyong’s presence. Jeno's confidence, the quiet strength you've always known him to carry, dims visibly under his father's shadow.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably. Jeno has always been strong—almost untouchable—and seeing him shrink, even slightly, beneath Taeyong's gaze feels deeply unsettling. Taeyong notices this silence, takes it as submission, unaware of the quiet rebellion stirring deep within his son. Unaware that the seeds of defiance are already beginning to take root beneath Jeno’s passive exterior. You sense it—the inevitability of change hanging thickly between them. Something small, barely noticeable, has begun shifting in this moment. And Taeyong, blinded by his certainty of control, does not see it coming.

“Get in position.” Taeyong’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the air like a whip. His glare sweeps over the team, brimming with undisguised contempt. “You want to waste my time? Fine. But if you think I won’t tear each of you apart for slacking, you’re dead wrong.” His tone drips with venom, each word laced with a promise of punishment. “Move. Now.”

The players reluctantly disperse, each movement heavy with silent protest. Mark's intensity is palpable, frustration turning his movements sharp, aggressive. Beside him, Jeno remains deliberately distant, moving with mechanical precision, never letting his eyes stray too close to Mark. Taeyong's voice echoes across the court, cold and cutting. “Jaemin, pick it up! Jeno—is this your idea of leading? Mark, you're dragging your feet!”

Kun’s eyes flick over the exhausted players, growing more concerned by the second. Finally, he raises his whistle and blows sharply, slicing through the chaotic noise. “Alright, let's take a breather. Five minutes—get some water.”

Relief visibly washes over the players, their bodies slumping toward the benches. Taeyong’s head snaps toward Kun, eyes blazing with irritation. “Five minutes? They're barely warmed up.”

“They need recovery,” Kun replies firmly, meeting Taeyong’s challenging stare without flinching. “You won’t get results by running them into the ground.”

Taeyong holds the silence just long enough for discomfort to ripple through the gym before relenting with a curt nod. “Fine. Five minutes.”

The boys collapse onto benches, breaths coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on their skin. Jeno sits near Mark, hesitantly, maintaining that careful distance. Yet, as you watch, you catch them exchanging brief glances, quiet smirks passing between them. Something subtle, something secretive, shared silently—a flicker of understanding. It makes your chest tighten slightly, uncertain of what exactly you've just witnessed, but sensing instinctively it's important.

You notice Jeno lean toward Mark, lips moving quietly. The conversation is brief, punctuated by nods and subtle smiles. You're left wondering—did they reconcile? Did something shift? Your pulse quickens, sensing that whatever they've silently agreed upon is significant, that this careful rebellion has only just begun. The two brothers seem to share a silent promise—something deliberately hidden from Taeyong’s watchful gaze, something quietly powerful in its defiance.

And suddenly, you understand: beneath Jeno's careful silence and Mark's open rebellion, they're both choosing to fight back in their own ways. Against the control, the pressure, the suffocating weight of expectation. You just wonder how long their quiet resistance can last before everything snaps.

Their plan clearly unfolds with precision—too precise, too smooth. Every pass lands exactly where it should, each movement seamless, each play executed with practiced ease that feels deliberate. It's muscle memory, instinctive, something ingrained long before Taeyong ever stepped onto this court. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and yet it’s everything Coach Suh would have praised.

Mark and Jeno move like two parts of the same whole, their chemistry effortless despite everything that’s come between them. Their movements openly defy Taeyong’s rigid commands, directly opposing every demand he's made, every principle he's tried to enforce. And yet their plays are flawless. The ball moves between them in perfect rhythm, a game within the game—a quiet rebellion masked as cooperation. The harder Taeyong tries to impose control, the easier they slip from his grasp.

Jeno nudges Mark with his shoulder, and Mark shoves him back lightly, their laughter echoing across the polished floor. The tension that weighed so heavily between them only hours ago is gone. They stand shoulder to shoulder, no longer divided, no longer opposing forces. Brothers. As if they had never stopped being so.

Your heart clenches at the sight, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a fragile moment, a piece of something temporarily broken now fumbling toward being whole again. You don't know how long it will last—if it will last at all—but for now, it’s enough. For now, it’s everything.

Yet, not everyone shares your sentiment. When your eyes shift to the corner of the gym, they land on Areum. She’s standing rigidly near the bleachers, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her expression is wrong—not her usual composure, nor her usual soft, delicate eyes. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes distant but brimming with something raw. Hurt, betrayal, grief—emotions she’s terribly bad at hiding. She looks heartbroken, as if watching something slip irretrievably through her fingers.

You force yourself to turn away just as the air in the gym shifts. The warmth of the moment vanishes, replaced by a cold, oppressive weight. Under the sharp lights, Taeyong stands silent, his clipboard clutched so tightly his knuckles whiten. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his stillness says more than words ever could.

He is seething. For a moment, he simply observes, the silence stretching painfully. Every breath, every heartbeat seems amplified by the tension. Then his voice splits the hush with lethal precision. “You think this is funny?” The question is quiet, barely more than a growl, but it feels like a physical blow. Mark and Jeno exchange a glance, and though their laughter fades, neither looks away. Neither shows fear. Their faces are neutral, but their postures are ready—as if they've been waiting for this.

Taeyong’s lips press into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What’s so damn funny?” he demands, voice taut with barely restrained anger. “Is it the part where you ignore every order I give? Or maybe you just love making a mockery out of this practice?”

Jeno’s jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. “We’re just playing basketball.”

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder. Taeyong’s eyes narrow, darkening with fury. “Oh, basketball,” he echoes, dripping with contempt. “That what you call blatantly disregarding every single command I gave you? That what you call turning my court into a joke?”

Jeno’s response is a slow, deliberate shrug. “We scored, didn’t we?”

Mark exhales a breath that's almost a laugh, and you sense Taeyong fray at the edges. Taeyong shifts his focus to Mark, eyes burning. “And you,” he snaps, “you think this is some game? You’re not here to show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s smirk is razor-sharp. “What system?” he challenges. “Barking orders and working us to the bone isn’t a system.That’s just your ego.”

The air turns electric, charged with sudden danger. Taeyong moves closer, clipboard clutched so hard it might crack. “You want to keep laughing? You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark sets his shoulders, refusing to back down. “It’s not that hard to be above you.”

Taeyong’s fury boils over. With a sudden lunge, he shoves Mark’s chest, the impact sharp and punishing. Mark staggers, eyes blazing, and drives both hands into Taeyong’s chest, forcing him back a step with a hollow thud that echoes across the gym.

Everyone freezes. Nobody breathes.

Mark’s voice is low, tight with anger. “You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve been throwing your weight around my whole damn life, acting like everything you say is law, like you can control me from a distance. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He steps forward, forcing Taeyong back another inch. “This team isn’t about you,” he seethes. “It’s bigger than your fragile ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you. I’m done playing by your rules.”

A hush falls over the court, thickening the air until it feels nearly suffocating. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as the fragile balance of power shifts visibly between Mark’s defiance and Taeyong’s furious disbelief. Each word from Mark is precise, cutting, methodically dismantling the false authority Taeyong has built around himself. You see the strain in the older man’s expression—the cracks in his carefully maintained facade—and you recognize, deep down, that this is a turning point.

But your attention drifts briefly toward Jeno, who stands slightly apart, his expression tight yet carefully blank. His jaw clenched, he watches the confrontation without intervening, his posture stiff as though bracing himself against an invisible storm. You hate this sight—the way tension coils in his body, the muted resignation painted across his features. But then, Jeno’s eyes flicker toward you, catching your gaze with a precision that steals your breath. For a split second, the storm in his eyes breaks, revealing something softer beneath—something reserved only for you. A delicate smile, small and gentle, graces his lips, warmth peeking through the heavy tension. The corners of your mouth curve upward instinctively in response, a silent reassurance passing between you. In that brief moment, nothing else matters but the fragile intimacy of his quiet smile.

The moment shatters as Mia steps closer, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge of condescension. “You and Jeno are still together?” she sneers, her tone dripping with mock incredulity. “Honestly didn’t think you’d last. Didn’t think you were his type.”

Mia’s words grate on your nerves, an annoyance rather than outright anger. You roll your eyes, letting out a slow breath as you look her over with deliberate boredom. “And do you think you’re his type?” you drawl, arching an eyebrow to make it clear just how little you value her unwanted opinion.

Her eyes narrow, her expression sharpening. “Please,” she scoffs, her tone dripping with mockery, “like you’re actually his type.” Her gaze sweeps over you dismissively, lingering just long enough to emphasize the insult. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your rib cage, but you hold her gaze firmly. Before you can respond, Aisha chimes in from beside Mia, voice equally acidic. “Come on, Y/N, we all know you’re just playing pretend. You’re not some innocent angel like you want everyone to think. We’ve all seen who you really are.”

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lash out. “And what's that supposed to mean?” you bite back, tone sharp and unwavering.

Yiren’s voice cuts in, taunting and smug. “It means that I’m surprised Jeno still wants to be with you as you’ve lied about who you really are. We know about the bar, Y/N. The smoking, the performance—pretending to be innocent isn’t really your thing, is it? ”

You roll your eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re that interested in me performing at the bar, just ask next time—I’ll get you private tickets.”

Nahyun mutters something under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re surprised, girls.” She exhales, arms crossed, voice dripping with patronizing amusement. “Jeno’s just experimenting. Mark finally came to his senses and dumped Areum, now I’m just waiting for Jeno to come to his senses, then both the Lee brothers—”

"I broke up with him, actually.” Areum’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She looks at Nahyun, chin lifted, eyes flashing, daring her to say otherwise. The air in the gym shifts as the girls exchange glances, taken aback by the steel in Areum’s tone.

You shake your head in frustration, not even bothering to suppress your irritation. “Nahyun, don’t even start,” you cut in, your voice flat with exhaustion. “You literally had to beg your way back onto the cheer team.” It lands exactly as intended—pointed, dismissive, a reminder that her opinions mean nothing when she’s only here out of necessity.

Nahyun’s face falters for a split second before she schools it back into indifference. She did beg to be let back on. She wanted this, needed it, and Karina, desperate for numbers with the state championships approaching, let her return. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about necessity.

Something shifts between you and Areum in that moment—a quiet understanding, a shared distaste for the girls standing in front of you. When your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of amusement beneath the irritation, the beginning of a small, almost imperceptible smirk exchanged between the two of you. For once, you’re on the same side.

Karina’s voice suddenly shreds through the tension. “I am so sick of this!” Her scream echoes across the gym, reverberating off the walls, sending a sharp jolt through everyone standing around. “The fighting, the yelling, the constant bullshit—I’ve had enough.” Her eyes snap to Nahyun, venom dripping into her glare. “You are on your last chance. Do you understand me?”

Nahyun swallows but doesn’t respond. Karina doesn’t wait for one. “Formation. Now.” She steps back, tossing a final glare at Mia, Aisha, and Yiren. “And if any of you want to keep running your mouths, don’t bother showing up to the next practice.” Silence. Then, begrudging movement as the girls start to shuffle into formation. But the damage is already done—the tension, the bitterness, the fractures in the team remain.

The cheerleading practice is a mess, just like always. There’s no unity. No real sense of teamwork. None of these girls like each other, and it shows. The routine lacks chemistry, the formations are off, and Karina is practically grinding her teeth in frustration. Mia, unsurprisingly, makes her presence known first. “You need to keep up, Y/N,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest. “This routine isn’t for beginners.”

You scoff, throwing her a sharp look. “I’m keeping up better than you.”

Your words land, sharp and certain, cutting through the noise like a blade. The gym stalls, tension stretching in the silence left behind. You can feel the shift—eyes turning, breaths held, the undercurrent of something shifting beneath the surface.

But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you. Jeno’s gaze is steady, unreadable at first, but there’s something in it, something knowing. He doesn’t react to the murmurs or the way the practice has momentarily unraveled—his focus is only on you. His head tilts, the movement slight, careful, a pull toward the door so small that no one else would catch it. But you do. Because it’s not a question, not really. He’s not asking if you want to leave—he’s waiting for you to decide. Waiting to see if you need him to take you away from this, from them, from the weight pressing against your ribs.

It’s a way out. An answer to something you hadn’t even put into words. Your nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he catches it instantly. The corner of his lips quirks—not a full smile, just the ghost of one, something knowing, something meant just for you. Then he move, Jeno crosses the gym without hesitation, cutting through the tension like it doesn’t exist, like the weight of every lingering stare and unspoken judgment doesn’t matter. His presence alone shifts the air around you, steady and sure, yours.

Jeno’s arm slides around your back, firm and protective, pulling you in just enough that his body shields you from their stares, from them. His voice is low, meant only for you, the steady weight of it sinking beneath your skin like something permanent. “Ignore them” he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers press lightly against the small of your back, a quiet reminder, a reassurance. “Come here.”

And then, just like that, he kisses you. It’s soft. Dreamy. A moment of quiet in the middle of chaos. His lips press to yours, warm and certain, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing in the middle of the gym, by the fact that people are watching. He doesn’t care—he only cares about you. And when you smile against his lips, when his hand curls just slightly at the small of your back, it feels like the both of you are in your own world, untouched by anything else.

His lips part against yours, slow and searching, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. He tastes like sweet, brown sugar and something else that’s undeniably him, something you could drown in if you let yourself. His grip at your back tightens, drawing you in until your bodies are flush, the heat of him sinking into you. Your fingers slide deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn the faintest, almost inaudible hitch of breath against your mouth. His other hand ghosts over your waist, not demanding, just there, steady and possessive, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to. The kiss lingers, deepens—lazy, intoxicating, a slow pull into something heavier. If you weren’t already breathless, the way he tilts his head, deepening it just enough to leave you dizzy, would’ve done it.

But the world is watching. You don’t notice Mark glaring, his jaw set, his expression dark. You don’t see Taeyong’s sharp stare, the unreadable weight in his eyes. You don’t realize that this moment—the way Jeno stands before him, untouchable, unconcerned, unafraid—is a fracture in something far bigger than the two of you. A thread pulled too hard, a balance tipping, a fault line beginning to crack. It does not shatter yet, but the weight of it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jeno pulls away slowly, his forehead still nearly resting against yours, his lips brushing over the ghost of your smile before he finally leans back. There’s warmth in his eyes, something soft and golden that lingers between you. Neither of you speak—you don’t have to. The moment stretches, slow and syrup-thick, wrapping the two of you in something untouched, something safe.

And then—splash.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as the coldness seeps in first, biting against your skin, drenching through the fabric of your uniform. It’s thick, slow-moving as it clings to you, sinking into the fibers, sticky and sickly sweet. The scent of vanilla, artificial and overpowering, curls in the air around you before you even glance down. Milkshake. A Fucking milkshake.

Nahyun blinks at you, wide-eyed, faux-innocent, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my God,” she gasps, voice pitched just right, so perfectly performative. “I bumped into you.”

Jeno steps back slightly, just enough to register what’s happened, his brows knitting together in confusion before his expression hardens. His body shifts, his hand already moving—instinctive. The cold press of liquid against your skin has the fabric of your uniform clinging to you, the damp material turning sheer, betraying the curve of your body, the way your nipples tighten against it from the chill. His eyes flicker down, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he says nothing. Just moves. The hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve stolen a dozen times before, the one that still carries the faintest trace of his cologne—is yanked from his bag without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Just drapes it over your shoulders, the motion deliberate, possessive. His hands ghost along the fabric, adjusting it so it shields you fully, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your collarbone.

The gym hums with murmurs, the weight of stares pressing into you from every angle, but Jeno doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t turn to Nahyun, doesn’t waste a second giving her the reaction she wants. Instead, his grip tightens around your wrist—a silent let’s go—and he begins to lead you toward the doors, his steps purposeful, his intent clear.

Then—“Jeno.”

His father’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

Jeno doesn’t stop. “Jeno.” Sharper. Colder.

His steps slow, but he doesn’t turn. You see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against yours. His father’s presence is an anchor, something suffocating and heavy that drags against him even as he tries to walk away.

“You don’t get to leave practice early.” Jeno stops. The gym is silent. You glance up at him, watching the war play out behind his eyes—anger, resentment, exhaustion, defiance. It’s all there, unraveling and rebuilding in real-time, his grip on your hand tightening as if he’s trying to ground himself, as if he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t the inevitable pull of his father’s control.

You squeeze his hand, tilting your head just slightly to catch his gaze. “Just go, baby.”

Your voice is gentle, meant for him alone, meant to be softer than the weight pressing down on him. His eyes flick to yours, searching, uncertain. He doesn’t want to let go. You say it because you know him. Because you can see the war waging behind his eyes, the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for a fight he doesn’t even want to have. Because if you don’t say it, he’ll stand here forever, caught between what he wants and what he’s been conditioned to obey. You say it because you refuse to be another thing that weighs him down. Because you’d rather be the thing that makes it easier—that reminds him, even in moments like this, that he has a choice.

You nod, a small smile, a quiet promise. I’m okay. I’ll see you later. Jeno hesitates for just a second longer before exhaling, his jaw clenching as he reluctantly loosens his grip. His touch lingers as his fingers slip away from yours, the warmth of them still imprinted against your skin.

So Jeno stays. And you leave.

You step into the girls’ locker room, heart still racing from the chaos outside. The sticky sweetness of the milkshake clings uncomfortably to your skin, and your thoughts spiral between the sharp words exchanged, Jeno's comforting presence, and the soft, reassuring kiss that still tingles on your lips. You peel the damp fabric away, relief briefly washing over you at finally being alone, when the door creaks open. You turn instinctively, expecting—hoping—to see Jeno or even Mark, but instead, your blood runs cold. Lee Taeyong stands in the doorway, utterly unfazed as his eyes sweep over you, dominance and disdain clear in his sharp gaze. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and the soft click echoes ominously, sealing you both inside.

Your breath catches violently in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripping from your lips. Panic lurches through you as you scramble for Jeno’s hoodie, yanking it up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. “What the fuck—get out!” Your voice cracks with sheer disbelief, your body moving back instinctively, pressing against the cool metal of the lockers as if you could somehow will yourself away from him. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the reality of the moment sinking in too fast, too suffocating.

Taeyong doesn’t flinch. He barely reacts at all, his expression remaining cold, detached, like your outrage is nothing more than an insignificant detail to him. His gaze flicks over you once—impassive, clinical—before he exhales, slow and deliberate, and shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sends a violent shiver up your spine.

Your stomach twists, nausea rising in your throat. “Are you insane? You can’t just—just walk in here—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is frantic, shaky, but edged with pure anger. You clutch the fabric tighter against your chest, heat rushing to your face, not just from humiliation but from the absolute audacity of his presence.

But Taeyong? He remains utterly unmoved. If anything, his disinterest in your outrage makes it worse. His suit is pristine, not a thread out of place, as if nothing in the world could possibly unsettle him. His eyes—Jeno’s eyes, but colder, emptier—fix onto you with something bordering on contempt. His lip curls ever so slightly, as if the very sight of you is offensive. “Oh, don’t act modest now,” he muses, voice like ice water down your spine. “You’ve been naked in front of my son plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Taeyong exhales sharply, shaking his head like the mere sight of you is exhausting. “You really thought you could sneak around under my nose?” His voice is sharp, steady, cruelly unimpressed. “That I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been throwing yourself at my son, crawling into his bed, distracting him, ruining him?” His lips twist, the words dripping with disdain. “You think I don’t see what you are? What you do? You’ve been fucking Jeno, dragging him down with you, pulling him away from everything he’s supposed to be. And you really thought you’d get away with it.”

The words slap into you like a physical force, the air in the locker room thinning, closing in on you. Your fingers clutch tighter around Jeno’s hoodie, but there’s no hiding, no escaping under his scrutiny. He doesn’t look angry—not in the way people do when they lose control. No, Taeyong is composed, every syllable measured, a knife sliding between your ribs with effortless precision.

“I’ve known about you from the beginning,” he continues, voice smooth but cutting, like he’s stating something obvious. “I knew the second Jeno started slipping, the second his focus started waning. He used to be sharp, disciplined. Now?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s careless. Distracted. By you.” His eyes flick down, scanning the hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, and his lip curls. “I should have shut this down the second it started.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you without hurry. “But I waited,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, making the words heavier. “I let him get whatever this is out of his system. I tolerated it. I watched. And what did you do with that time?” He tilts his head, his stare sharp enough to flay skin. “You made it worse. You changed him. And not for the better.”

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his presence suffocates the space between you.

Taeyong lets out a slow, measured sigh, as if it genuinely pains him to acknowledge this. “Jeno has always had potential,” he says, and there’s something cold, final about the way he says it. “He was built for this. Raised for this. Do you even know the level of talent he has? Do you even comprehend what he’s capable of?” His voice sharpens, the edges hardening, the first real crack of irritation slipping through. “He was meant to be exceptional. And now? He’s squandering everything.”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you feel it. The control, the restraint, the absolute certainty he’s carried up until now—there’s something just slightly frayed underneath it. He’s pissed. “He’s fucking around with those morons—Eric, Sunwoo—gambling away his career, throwing himself into something that could ruin not just him, but the entire team.” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “And the worst part? He doesn’t think. Not the way he should. Not the way I taught him to. He acts on impulse, on whatever stupid, fleeting emotion he’s chasing at any given moment. He believes things will just work out—that no matter what he does, he’ll land on his feet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Your voice is quiet, but sharp, unwavering. “You say Jeno doesn’t think. That he acts on impulse. That he believes everything will work out for him no matter what.” Your head tilts, mirroring his own, a cold smile tugging at your lips. “Who do you think taught him that?”

Something in Taeyong’s gaze flickers. “You didn’t raise him to be careful. You raised him to win. To obey. To be everything you decided he had to be before he ever got the chance to figure it out himself.” Your voice is steady, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “You built him to push through everything, to never stop, never think, never hesitate. And now, when he finally does? When he finally starts making choices that don’t fit into the future you forced on him, you call it a distraction. A mistake.” Your eyes burn into his, unflinching. “You don’t like that Jeno is slipping, Taeyong? Maybe you should ask yourself why he was trying so hard to hold it together in the first place.”

Taeyong doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts, amusement flickering through his cold gaze. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like it’s an observation. Like he’s studying you. “That little bite. That fire Jeno seems so drawn to.” His head tilts just slightly, and something about it makes your stomach knot. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place.” The words are quiet, unhurried, but they land with the force of something far heavier. “So let me remind you.” He takes a measured step forward, his gaze hard, unforgiving. “You are going to stay away from my son. No contact. No texts. No meetings. Nothing.” His voice remains infuriatingly steady, laced with the kind of authority that doesn’t entertain defiance. “I don’t care what delusions you’ve let yourself believe, what fantasy you’ve built in your head—Jeno is not yours to keep. You will cut him off completely, and you will do it now.”

His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then his head tilts, just slightly, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. “Or should I make you?”

You blink at him, his words hitting you with the force of something designed to break, to sever. A breath catches somewhere in your throat, half disbelief, half something darker. “Seriously? No, what the fuck, I’m not—”

“Yes, you will,” he cuts in, and it isn’t just an interruption—it’s a dismantling. His voice drops, something heavier curling around his words, pressing them into the space between you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “It’s not your choice. Either you do exactly as I say, or I will expose you.”

For a second, you can’t move. The words settle into the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, threading through the small, imperceptible cracks in your composure. You hear the threat before you fully understand it, before your mind can wrap around the weight of what he’s saying. And then the realization crashes into you, something cold and sharp locking around your ribs. Expose you. Taeyong is methodical. Calculated. He doesn’t make empty threats, and he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t already have something to back it up. Your voice comes out unsteady, barely above a whisper. “Expose me? How?”

The smirk that flickers across his face is small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A cruel little thing that lingers in the corner of his mouth before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He moves with unhurried precision, scrolling through something, murmuring under his breath about the inconvenience of technology, like this is just another chore, another trivial task he needs to check off his list. And then, without fanfare, he turns the screen toward you.

Your breath catches. The image is grainy but unmistakable. You. On stage. The dim neon lights of the bar cast a shifting glow over your body, your movements languid, sultry, designed to seduce an audience you thought would never see beyond those walls. The outfit clings in all the ways you intended, the sway of your hips deliberate, practiced, controlled. It was supposed to be private. A secret life you kept locked away from the version of yourself that existed outside those doors. And yet, here it is, playing out on the screen in Taeyong’s hand like it was never really yours to keep.

He swipes, and the next video is worse. Jeno, pressed against you in the dim glow of the bar’s back corner, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The air is thick with smoke, the haze curling between your bodies as you exhale, your lips still slick from his kiss. His fingers drag up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, pushing boundaries without hesitation. Another swipe. You, straddling his lap in a shadowed booth, grinding against him as his hands roam, as your lips ghost along his jaw, your breath warm and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey. Another swipe. His fingers at the waistband of your panties, yours curled around the cigarette he just passed you, the ember glowing between your fingertips as you take another hit, exhaling slow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The night bleeding into sensation—heat, pressure, the muted pulse of bass-heavy music, the world outside reduced to nothing but this.

It feels like drowning. Your stomach twists violently, the rush of nausea so immediate it nearly knocks you off balance. How? The word beats against the inside of your skull, frantic, insistent. How does he have this? Your voice shakes when you finally manage to speak, the syllables barely holding together. “How—how do you even have this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. The phone disappears back into his pocket, and the look he levels you with is colder than before, if that’s even possible. “That’s not your concern,” he says simply, dismissing the question as if the answer is irrelevant, as if you are irrelevant. “What matters is that I have it. And trust me, Deloitte wouldn’t appreciate discovering your extracurricular activities. Imagine how quickly your opportunity would vanish once they see this.”

The breath in your lungs turns to stone. You feel it lodge itself there, unmovable, impossible to breathe around. He’s not just threatening you. He’s already won. “Delete those,” you snap, but the bite in your voice is weak, forced. Your fingers curl into fists, trembling despite your best efforts to keep them steady. “Now.”

Taeyong doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. “Agree to stay away from Jeno.”

The words fall between you like a gavel striking down in a courtroom. Absolute. Unshakable. A sentence that has already been passed. The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin you swear you can hear the pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your body is locked in place, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, for anything, for some miracle that won’t come. And then it happens. The words spill out before you can even process them, slipping from your lips like an instinct, like a reflex, like survival.

“I agree!” You lunge forward, your hands moving faster than your thoughts, reaching for his phone, needing to erase everything, needing to make sure it’s gone. Your fingers fumble as you unlock it, as you scroll through the videos, your breaths sharp and erratic, your heart slamming against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. It has to be gone. It has to be gone. The panic is suffocating, tightening around your throat, making your vision blur as you force yourself to delete each file, one by one.

“Are they only here?” you demand, your voice barely more than a whisper, your fingers still moving, still erasing, still destroying. You don’t stop until every trace is gone, until the screen is wiped clean of the evidence that he should neverhave had in the first place.

But the question lingers—How does he have them? The question gnaws at you, twisting through the panic, refusing to settle. Did he have someone follow Jeno, track his movements, watch him slip into the bar, wait for him to find you, wait for the moment your guard was down? Or did he buy the footage outright, slip money into the right hands, a transaction so effortless it barely cost him a second thought? Maybe he didn’t need to pay at all—maybe someone handed it over willingly, a nameless bartender or a faceless bouncer, someone who recognized Jeno, who knew exactly who his father was, who saw an opportunity and took it.

Maybe Taeyong barely had to ask. That’s what makes it worse—not just that he has them, but how easily he must have gotten them, how little effort it took to unravel something you thought was yours. It makes it bigger, impossible to trace, impossible to fight. You thought you were safe in the dark, that your secrets lived in the space between liquor-drenched laughter and neon-lit shadows, in the heat of Jeno’s hands and the haze curling from your lips. But you see it now—the illusion of privacy, the lie of anonymity. You were never hidden. You were never out of reach.

Taeyong nods once to your question, sharp and decisive. And you know. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need backups. He doesn’t need a second copy. He doesn’t need to hold onto them at all. Because he already holds you. But he’s not finished. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be. The power shift is too easy, too simple. Because blackmail alone isn’t enough. He can see it—the way you’re still breathing too hard, the way your hands are still trembling, the way your mind is still searching for an escape. You agreed, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

And so, he goes for Jeno. “But understand this—if you defy me, if you even consider staying with my son, it will be Jeno who pays.”

The floor drops out from under you, but it isn’t the sharp kind of fall. It’s slow, measured, the kind that makes you feel every inch of descent, every second of helplessness, every breath that lodges in your throat and refuses to come unstuck. Your body locks up, panic curling in tight, but it isn’t just panic—it’s something worse. Because Taeyong knows. You see it now, the calculation in his eyes, the way he watches you like he’s already predicted every reaction, every desperate counter-move. His first threat was never going to be enough. He knew that. Knew there was a chance you’d find a way around it, that you’d figure out how to survive the fallout, that you’d swallow your own ruin if it meant keeping Jeno.

So he does what he always does—he makes sure there is no way out.

He goes for Jeno. And that’s what makes your breath stutter. Because it’s not just about you anymore. It’s not about your future, your dignity, the life you’ve been clawing your way toward—it’s about him. And Taeyong knows exactly what that means. He knows how you feel it in the pit of your stomach when Jeno so much as frowns, how your heart clenches when exhaustion lines his face, how you would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, to protect the pieces of him that Taeyong has spent years trying to snuff out. He knows that when it comes to Jeno, you would do anything. Everything.That’s why he doesn’t just threaten him—he promises. Promises to unravel the thing Jeno loves most, the only thing that has ever truly been his. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It never did. The only thing that matters is keeping Jeno safe. And Taeyong knows—of course he knows—that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

“It’s already clear he’s ruining his own future with his reckless gambling and impulsive decisions,” Taeyong continues, and the way he says it—so calm, so disappointed—sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. Like Jeno is nothing more than a failed investment. A project gone wrong. “But I’ll make sure he never sets foot on a basketball court again. I’ll destroy every opportunity, every path forward he thinks he has. And it will all be your fault.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. The words are there, caught somewhere between your ribs, but they won’t come out. Fear presses down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move. Because you know he means it. And you can’t let him do it. You can’t. Jeno loves basketball the way most people love air, the way his heart beats without permission, without pause. It’s the only thing that’s ever been his. His father has stolen everything else—his childhood, his choices, his sense of self—but basketball? That’s the one thing he was never able to take from him. Until now. Until you.

So that’s it? That’s what you have to do? You have to leave? Take the opportunity he’s giving you, walk away, pretend Jeno was never yours to hold? Pretend none of it ever happened? You swallow, your throat so tight it hurts. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“You want me to disappear?” The words taste bitter. “Just like that?”

Taeyong doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t falter. “Yes.”

The finality of it slices through you like a knife. There’s nothing left to argue, no room to bargain. It’s not a request. It never was. “You understand the consequences if you don’t, right?”

You nod. You don’t know if you mean it, but you nod. Taeyong claps his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the suffocating quiet. “Then it’s settled. You’ll break it off with my son immediately.”

You barely move. You barely breathe. Taeyong’s irritation, his frustration, his cruel actions—they’re rooted in his desperation to maintain control. Mark had always challenged him, openly rebellious, and now Jeno is following suit, defying expectations, acting unpredictably. Taeyong’s power is slipping, and he's determined to reclaim it at any cost. You’re merely a casualty caught in the crossfire, powerless against the fury of Lee Taeyong.

The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. Taeyong watches you, his expression unreadable, his presence an unshakable force that demands submission. And then, as if this moment wasn’t already unbearable, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You were always out of your depth,” he says, his voice carrying something between amusement and disappointment. “Did you really think this would last? That someone like you—some ordinary girl with nothing to her name—was ever meant to keep him?”

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Even Areum had more standing than you. A better family, real connections, a name that actually meant something. If anyone had a chance, it would’ve been her.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something. And then his lip curls, eyes flashing with something cruel. “And yet, even she proved worthless in the end. Let herself sink—dragged herself down to Mark, of all people.” He shakes his head again, like the very thought disgusts him. “So tell me, what makes you think you—with no name, no status, nothing—could ever be anything more than a passing distraction?”

The words slice through you, deep and deliberate. You knew, of course, that Jeno came from a world of wealth, of power, of things you’d never had access to. But this? This is different. This is Taeyong laying it out for you in brutal clarity: you were never worthy. Not because of anything you did, not because of any mistake you made, but because you were born beneath him. Because your family isn’t his family. Because you don’t have the name, the wealth, the legacy that he deems acceptable. And to him, that is justification enough. To him, that is reason enough to tear you from Jeno’s life.

Something ugly twists in your stomach—humiliation, rage, something deeper, something that makes your hands curl into fists even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You won’t be the first girl he forgets about when he realizes how small you are compared to his future,” Taeyong continues, his voice smooth, effortless, as if he’s not ripping you apart piece by piece.

Your nails dig into your palms. There it is. The future he’s carved out for Jeno—prestigious, untouchable, perfectly curated. One that has no place for you. And yet, something shifts in the back of your mind, something sharp and burning. “You’re risking compromising his future?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than before but just as sharp. “You know about Eric and Sunwoo, you know what they’re doing, what they’re pulling him into. You could fix it. But you’re not.”

A flicker of something crosses Taeyong’s face—so brief, so controlled, you almost miss it. But you don’t miss it. You see the momentary pause, the measured breath, the barest hint of something just beneath the surface. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. And that tells you everything.

Because he doesn’t want to fix it.

He wants Jeno to fall just enough. Not enough to ruin him completely, not enough to destroy his potential—but enough to make him need his father again. Enough to remind him that Taeyong still holds the reins. Because if Jeno stumbles, if he makes a mess of things just before his future is set in stone, who else can he turn to?

And suddenly, everything is clearer. This isn’t just about you being a distraction. This is about control. This is about power. Jeno is slipping from his grasp, and Taeyong is tightening his grip in the only way he knows how—by cutting away anything that lets Jeno believe he has a choice.

You exhale slowly, the realization settling like lead in your chest.

Your eyes flick to Taeyong’s, and for the first time, you really look at him. The resemblance is striking—Jeno’s sharp jaw, Jeno’s piercing gaze, the same angular features. But where Jeno’s eyes hold warmth, his are devoid of it. Hollow. Merciless. It makes you wonder how long it’ll be before Jeno starts looking at the world the same way, if Taeyong keeps pushing. If there’s a version of Jeno, years from now, who stands in a room like this, with that same cool detachment, with that same soulless stare.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not just the threat, not just the cruelty, but the possibility—the idea that Taeyong has already set the pieces in place, that he’s already shaping Jeno into something you won’t recognize. The thought sickens you. Taeyong lets the silence linger, a predator watching its prey. He’s so calm. So in control. He’s already decided this is over, already written you out of the story like you were nothing more than a misplaced footnote.

But you have something now. Something he wasn’t expecting. Desperation. He’s desperate. That’s why he’s acting now, why he’s here instead of watching from a distance like he has for months. He knows he’s losing Jeno, and that’s why he needs you gone. Because if Jeno doesn’t have him, who else does he have? You. And Taeyong can’t allow that.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Not yet. But you hold onto it, tucking it somewhere safe, somewhere deep. Right now, Taeyong has every advantage. He holds every card. But cracks are forming. And cracks always spread.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the slivers of gold slicing through the blinds, casting shadows across Jeno’s bare skin. The sheets are a mess beneath you, bodies tangled in the heat, in the desperation, in the quiet ache of knowing this can’t last. Your thighs are spread over his, knees digging into the mattress as you sink down onto his cock, slow and deep, the stretch pulling a soft, broken moan from your lips.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve ended it hours ago, should’ve walked away before you lost yourself to him again. But you can’t. You won’t. Because you love him too much, because you’re weak for him, because there’s something inside of you that needs to feel him one last time, to take him, to let him have you in the way only he ever has. You don’t know how to say goodbye, but you know how to love him. And so you do.

Jeno groans beneath you, hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you roll your hips, fucking yourself onto him with a slow, devastating rhythm. "Fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and pleasure, head tipping back against the pillows. "So fucking tight. You always take me so good."

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but feel—the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his cock throbs inside you with every deliberate movement of your hips. You lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands smoothing down his arms, tracing over muscle, feeling the way he tenses beneath your touch. You’re too quiet. You know he notices, knows he expects you to tease him, to say something sharp and playful between moans. But there’s no teasing tonight. No games. Just this. Just you and him and the unbearable ache of wanting him, of knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have him like this.

"Baby," you whisper, voice breaking, lips ghosting over his skin, over his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. You kiss him between gasps, between moans, between the slow grind of your hips, swallowing his groans like they belong to you. Your hands roam—grasping, desperate—sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, dragging your nails through the short hairs there. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his scent clinging to you like something you’ll never be able to wash away. "My baby," you breathe again, voice thick with something too raw to name, pressing your lips to his temple, to his eyelids, to the slope of his nose. "My baby. My baby. My baby."

Jeno shudders beneath you, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, his grip tightening—one hand firm on your waist, keeping you down, keeping you flush against him, the other sliding up your spine, spanning your back, dragging you closer, closer, until there’s not an inch of space left between you. His lips part against your shoulder, sucking, biting, marking. He’s not just holding you; he’s grasping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to feel you everywhere, all at once. His hips roll up, deep, slow, devastating, making you gasp, making you cling to him, fingers curling against his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, thick with something deeper than just pleasure, and it makes your whole body throb. His hand slides to your throat, not to choke, just to hold, to tilt your head back so he can see you, so he can watch every little tremor in your expression. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect.” His lips crash into yours, tongue licking into your mouth, kissing you like he wants to drown in you. His other hand skims down, smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, guiding your rhythm, pushing you down harder, making you take every inch of him.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the muscles flex under your touch. His cock twitches inside you, sending a sharp pulse of heat down your spine, making your thighs squeeze around his waist. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint it takes not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress until you’re screaming. But he lets you take him like this, lets you have him, lets you control the pace even as his fingers dig into your skin like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Jeno," you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, his cheek, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his face, sucking his bottom lip between yours. He groans, deep and guttural, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of this, of how completely you’re wrapped around him. “I love this," you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, his chin, his throat. "I love the way you fill me up. Love the way you touch me." You lick over the salt of his skin, biting down gently, and he shudders beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside.

"God, I love this pussy," he grits out, voice rough, strained, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "Love the way you move on me. You’re so fucking beautiful." His hands slide up your back again, over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your jaw as he pulls you back to his mouth. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and desperate as he groans into you, like he’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to merge you into him, trying to make sure you never leave.

And you let him. You let him take and take and take, because you’ll never stop giving.

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, trying to fight it, but the moment is too much. Every sensation crashes over you at once—the way he fills you, stretches you, the heat of his breath against your skin, the weight of his hands gripping your waist like he can’t bear to let go. Your chest tightens, breath catching, your heartbeat a frantic, stuttering thing against your ribs.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to blink them away, but the moment is too much, every sensation amplified, every touch searing into you like something permanent, something you’ll never be able to scrub from your skin. You think he doesn’t notice, think you can hide the way your body is trembling, the way you’re falling apart in more ways than one. But then he stills beneath you, breath heavy, fingers flexing where they hold you. Slowly, his grip shifts, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to brush over the wetness on your cheek.

His brows knit together as his thumb catches the wetness on your cheek. “Feels that good, huh?” His lips curl into a teasing smile, voice low and raspy, full of satisfaction. He thinks it’s the pleasure overwhelming you, the way he’s fucking you so deep, so slow, pulling sounds from you that you can’t control. He doesn’t realize there’s something else behind it, doesn’t see the weight pressing against your ribs, the ache curling beneath your skin. To him, this is just proof of how good he’s making you feel, how perfectly he has you falling apart in his hands.

You can’t answer. You just nod, swallowing hard, clinging to him as you sink down harder, as you grind yourself against him, as you chase the high that’s building in your stomach, in your chest, in the burning ache of your heart. Because this is all you have left. This is the last time he’ll ever hold you like this, the last time you’ll ever get to drown in the way he makes you feel. And if you think about that too hard, you’ll break completely.

Your hands tremble where they press against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Jeno is still beneath you, his head tipped back against the pillows, his lips swollen from kissing you, his skin hot under your touch. Your hips move in slow, languid rolls, dragging out the moment, making it last, even as the tension builds between you both, curling tight and unrelenting. You don’t want it to end. You don’t want to let him go. So you don’t.

Instead, you lean down, capturing his mouth again, deep and messy, moaning softly into him as he groans into you. He cups the back of your head, tilting into the kiss, his other hand sliding down the damp skin of your back to squeeze your waist, grounding you in the rhythm you’ve both settled into—deliberate, unhurried, devastating. Every inch of him feels too good, too familiar, too much like home, and you let yourself drown in it, in him, just for a little longer.

His fingers tighten at your waist as he tilts his head back slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is wrecked, thick with pleasure, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself back, the way his hips twitch up into yours, desperate for more.

You press your forehead against his, gasping softly as you take him deeper, the pleasure mounting unbearably fast. It’s too much, too intense, the pressure in your stomach winding so tight you can barely breathe. "Jen—" His name is barely a whisper, your hands sliding up his arms, your nails digging into the muscles there, clinging to him.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut. "I got you, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."

And you do. The orgasm crashes over you, your body seizing up as waves of pleasure roll through you. You shake, breath hitching, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him through it, refusing to let go, to separate, to break the moment. Jeno follows soon after, a sharp, broken groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as his body shudders beneath you. His lips curve against yours, smiling softly through the kiss, breathless and wrecked. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you flush against his chest, as if he can still feel the way you tremble against him.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. "Didn’t know you missed me this much," he murmurs, teasing, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. He runs a lazy hand down your back, tracing soft, mindless shapes against your skin, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on your chest, of the way your throat tightens as fresh tears spill over your cheeks.

You don’t move. You don’t pull away. Not yet. You just rest against him, soaking in his warmth, memorizing the feeling of him beneath you, around you, knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have it. But your mind is racing, spiraling through every possibility, every excuse to stay, every fear about leaving. You tell yourself this is the last time, but your body betrays you—clinging to him, pressing closer, moving like you want it to last forever.

Jeno is too wrapped up in the moment to notice. Too trusting. Too content in the haze of pleasure, in the way your body moves against his, in the warmth of your breath against his skin. He has no idea you’re slipping away. Not yet. Your senses are in overdrive. Every touch is a brand, every shift of muscle beneath your fingertips burns itself into your memory. The heat of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he grips your waist like you belong to him. It’s overwhelming. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to anchor yourself in him, but the thoughts keep creeping in. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You’re about to ruin him.

Jeno groans beneath you, his hands tracing over your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He thinks your trembling is from pleasure, that your breathless gasps are for him, because of him. His lips drag along your throat, slow and reverent, pressing soft kisses into your skin as his hands skim down your spine. And then the moment shifts. He feels it before he fully understands it. The stiffness in your body, the way your breathing falters, the quiet sniffle you try to suppress.

Jeno frowns, his hands stilling against your back. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting slightly beneath you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you press closer, pressing your lips against his shoulder, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He hums softly, tilting his head back as you mouth along his throat, your tongue tracing over the salt of his skin. His breath shudders, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the way his warmth engulfs you, but it only makes it worse. It only makes it harder.

You try to shift back, just a little, just enough to create space, but Jeno doesn’t let you. His arms tighten, keeping you right there, flush against him. "Where do you think you’re going?" he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with something lazy and possessive, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you back down, pressing you deeper into him. "Stay with me."

It’s unbearable. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, how he’s making it impossible to leave cleanly. Every kiss, every touch, every pull drags you deeper when you should be pulling away. His hands roam over your skin like he’s memorizing you, like he has no idea he’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. His warmth seeps into your bones, his breath skates along your jaw, his lips brush against yours again—soft, slow, lingering. Like he’s savoring you. Like there’s time.

But there isn’t.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, hesitation keeping you tethered for one more moment, one more second where you let yourself sink into the illusion of staying. His skin is hot beneath your touch, muscles flexing as he shifts slightly, as he tilts his head to nuzzle against you, sighing like he’s never been more content. And it wrecks you. It undoes you. Because this isn’t contentment—it’s blind faith. He trusts that you’re still here. That you’ll still be here when morning comes.

Your throat tightens, your stomach twists, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You have to go.

You force yourself to pull back, your chest aching as his hands slip from your body, as the air between you turns cold the moment he’s no longer wrapped around you. Your breath stutters, your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him again, but you don’t let them. You stay still for a second too long, caught in the space between leaving and staying, between cowardice and cruelty, but then you move.

You shift to sit beside him, curling your legs up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them like they might hold you together, like they might stop the inevitable. The bed creaks slightly with the loss of your weight against him, but Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything yet. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The silence is thick, suffocating, stretching between you like a chasm you can never close again. You’re still naked, still covered in sweat and cum, but none of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

For a second, you consider just slipping away. Not saying a word. Not doing this at all. It would be so easy. He’s already spent, body loose and warm against the sheets, his breath deep and even. Soon, he’ll slip into sleep entirely, and that would be your moment. You could gather your things in silence, slip his hoodie over your head because it’s the closest thing in reach, because it smells like him, because even now, you’re weak. You’d take your phone off the charger, shove it into your bag, and leave—just like that. No note. No message. No explanation.

He’d wake up and reach for you, his palm smoothing over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, the warmth of you still tangled beside him. At first, he’d think you just had an early class, that you left in a hurry, that you’d be back later. Maybe he’d text you something lazy and sweet, something about how good last night was, how he’s still hard thinking about it. Maybe he’d fall back asleep, thinking nothing of it.

But then the hours would stretch. You wouldn’t text back. You wouldn’t call. By the time the evening rolled around, he’d start to wonder. He’d send another message—where are you? call me. Then another. He’d check your location, and for the first time in years, it wouldn’t be shared. That’s when it would hit him. That something wasn’t right.

You shake the thought away. You know better. Jeno wouldn’t just let you disappear. He wouldn’t accept silence, wouldn’t just let it be. He’d track you down. He’d demand to know why. And deep down, no matter how much you want to escape this conversation, you know he deserves an answer. You owe him that much.

But god, you wish you didn’t. The regret sinks in faster than you expected. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, twisting deep into your ribs. It starts while you’re still catching your breath, still tangled in the sheets with him. You should never have done this. You should have walked away last night, hours ago, before you gave in to the inevitable pull. But you were weak. You always are with him. You couldn’t resist the way he looked at you, the way his hands moved over your skin, like he knew every part of you by heart.

Jeno watches you, his frown deepening. "Y/N," he says, quieter this time, and it’s the way he says your name—soft, questioning, worried—that nearly makes you lose it completely.

You take a shaky breath, staring down at your hands, at the way they tremble where they rest against your knees. You can feel him watching you, waiting, his concern thick in the air between you. And then, finally, you say it. "Jeno. I have to tell you something."

A silence cuts through the room like a blade. The air shifts. Jeno blinks at you, the crease between his brows deepening. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Tell me what?”

You finally look at him. You shouldn’t. You should just say it, get it over with. But when you meet his gaze—still softened by sleep, hazy with affection—you hate yourself for what you’re about to do. Your throat tightens. Your stomach turns. “I’m leaving.”

Jeno stares at you. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t change—not at first. Then his brows pull together, his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together, to make it make sense. “Leaving?” His voice is still thick, hoarse from sleep, like he hasn’t quite shaken it off.

You nod, your fingers twisting in the sheets, gripping them so tightly they might tear. "The opportunity Coach Suh told me about." The words are heavy, unnatural in your mouth, but you force them out. "I’m taking it."

Jeno’s brows furrow slightly, but instead of immediate concern, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. "Why are you being so serious about it?" His voice is light, warm, filled with something you don’t deserve. "Even though you never told me that you’d be taking it until now, I always knew you were. You know I’m so happy and proud of you." He leans in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your lips, a gentle smile curling against your mouth.

And for a second, you let yourself sink into it. Into the safety of him, the familiarity of his warmth, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. But it only lasts for a moment before you snap yourself out of it, before the reality of why you’re here slams back into your chest. You pull back, forcing space between you. "Jeno, I’m leaving." You say it again, firmer this time, hoping he understands what you mean, hoping he doesn’t make you say it outright.

He blinks, his smile faltering as confusion creeps into his features. His lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then— "Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to break up."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, sharp and humorless. It sounds crueler than you intended, but maybe cruelty is necessary. "And how will we stay together? Jeno, I’m going to be halfway across the world."

His expression shifts. The amusement in his eyes flickers and fades, replaced by something heavier, something you can feel settling in the space between you. He moves closer, like proximity alone will make this make sense. "Why are you talking like this?" His voice is quieter now, hesitant, like he’s starting to piece something together. "Like you’ve already made up your mind."

Because you have. Because you don’t have a choice. Because Taeyong made sure there was only one way forward, and it meant walking away from Jeno. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. So you keep going, keep twisting the knife deeper, keep making this easier for him in the only way you know how. "Because it’s the truth," you say, voice flat, emotionless. "I’m leaving."

Jeno stares at you, the weight of your words sinking in, settling into his bones like something cold and foreign. You see it hit him, watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. It should make you feel accomplished, should make this easier. It doesn’t. It never does. The moment feels like a rug being pulled out from under him. The contrast makes it worse—the remnants of last night still lingering around you both, his hoodie draped over your frame, his scent clinging to your skin. The intimacy of it all makes the pain sharper, like glass cutting through soft flesh.

Jeno lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You're joking." It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

You don’t smile. You don’t soften. "I’m not."

He moves closer, something desperate slipping into his voice. "Y/N—"

You cut him off before he can reach for you. Because if he touches you, you’ll break. "It wouldn’t have worked anyway." The words feel like acid on your tongue, burning, scarring. You shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. "This just makes sense."

Jeno’s mouth parts slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His expression twists, frustration creeping in, mixing with something raw. "This makes sense?" He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, tense. "You’re actually being serious right now? We were fine—we made up, we were fucking fine. What changed?"

Jeno’s breath stutters, his frustration shifting into something closer to disbelief. “No—seriously, what the fuck changed?” His voice is sharper now, cracking slightly, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands flex at his sides before he runs a rough hand through his hair, his movements quick, restless. “Because last night, we were fine. You were fine. You looked at me like—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Like you wanted this, wanted me.”

Jeno exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of something impossible. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and unsteady but laced with frustration. “After the shit at the bar—why did you forgive me? Why did you tell me everything was okay? Why did you kiss me, fuck me every night after that, like nothing else matters?” His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides. “And now, when you knew you were gonna end it, you did it again. You kissed me, you fucked me like you were never gonna leave. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, Y/N. You’re supposed to be a smart girl.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. It lodges there, thick and suffocating, but you force yourself to swallow it down. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a relentless, deafening beat, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but this. You try to breathe past it, try to keep your face impassive, your voice steady. But it’s slipping. It’s all slipping. The agony claws up your throat, rips through your chest, fractures something deep inside you. You have to sell this—you have to make him believe it. Even if it kills you. Even if it destroys everything inside you.

“I did,” you force out, the words jagged and strained, like they’re being ripped from your throat. "And now I don’t. I thought I wanted this, but I don’t."

Jeno’s expression shatters for a split second before he shields it, jaw clenching so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind. “Bullshit.” The word is sharp, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. His head shakes, his breath uneven, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, searching—desperate for something, anything that makes this make sense. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide you don’t want something anymore. That’s not how this works."

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded."Maybe it is," you whisper, but your voice falters at the end, betraying you.

Jeno exhales, a rough, humorless sound. "No. That’s not you." His voice lowers, turns into something rough, something almost pleading. "You don’t just change your mind overnight, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

You hesitate—too long. And he sees it. The flicker of doubt, the war behind your eyes. And it’s that, not your words, that really starts to break him.

His breathing turns uneven, his body tense with restrained frustration, but now there’s something else—an unraveling, a slow, agonizing realization that he can’t yet name. "Y/N," he says again, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like he’s trying to read you, to pick apart what you won’t say. "You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you don’t want someone anymore. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work."

His jaw clenches again, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in, to shake the truth out of you. "You think I don’t know you by now? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Your stomach twists. You can’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—he’ll see the way your resolve is crumbling, the way every word out of your mouth tastes like poison. But Jeno doesn’t let up. He moves closer, his voice quieter now, rough with something like desperation. "Tell me why you’re really doing this," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, waiting for something—anything—that makes sense. "Tell me why you’re looking at me like that, like—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Like you don’t want to do this either."

And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes it unbearable. Because he’s right. Because he knows you. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how steady you force your voice to be, he can see you breaking. He sees it in the way your breath stammers in your chest, the way your hands tremble where they grip the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. He sees it in the way your eyes refuse to meet his, darting away too quickly, like the weight of his gaze alone could shatter you.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

It’s suffocating. It’s a straightjacket laced so tightly around your ribs that every inhale feels like a punishment. And the worst part? He doesn’t even have to do anything anymore. You know what he’s capable of. You know that if you hesitate for even a second, if you let Jeno see too much, if you let him reach for you one more time, you’ll ruin everything. For him. And that’s what guts you the most. Because if it were just you—if it were only your future on the line, your reputation, your opportunities—maybe you’d be able to claw your way out of this. Maybe you’d fight back. Maybe you’d burn for him if it meant staying. But Taeyong knew that, too. Knew that there was only one way to bind you, to make sure you listened. And he was right. He always is.

So you do the only thing you can do. You twist the knife deeper. Jeno is still waiting, still searching your face, clinging to some last shred of understanding. But there’s nothing left for him to find. Nothing you can give him. Nothing you’re allowed to say. "None of this matters,” you force out, your voice thin, hollow, something barely held together by breath and will alone. "Whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that I was always going to leave."

His lips press into a thin line, his whole body going rigid like the words have physically struck him. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching into fists, releasing, like he doesn’t know where to put the weight of his emotions. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. Waiting. Giving you a chance to take it back. But you don’t. "Whether we were together or not." His voice is quieter this time, but the sharp edge hasn’t dulled—it just cuts differently now, deeper, more controlled.

You nod. "Yes."

Silence stretches, thick and unbearable, swallowing the room whole. Jeno’s breath comes uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements like he’s trying to contain something that refuses to be caged. His fingers flex again, curling, uncurling, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not this time. He doesn’t ask you to stay. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg. And that should be a relief. Should make this easier. But it doesn’t.

"So that’s it," he breathes, the words dragging out, drained, like he's losing the strength to even argue." His voice is rough now, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together. "Just like that? After everything, after every moment together, after this—you’re just walking away? Like none of it meant anything?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, trying to force yourself to breathe past the burn in your chest. Because that’s what you have to make him believe. That none of it mattered. That last night was just a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. That you hadn’t spent every second memorizing him, holding onto him like it was the last time—because it was.

"It doesn’t change anything," you murmur, forcing the words out even as they threaten to choke you. "It never did."

And just like that, you watch it happen. You watch the exact moment the fight drains out of him, watch the light flicker out of his eyes. You’ve hurt him in ways you never thought you’d be capable of. And yet, the worst part is knowing this isn’t even the real betrayal. The real betrayal is that you can’t tell him the truth. That you have to let him believe this was always going to happen. That no matter what, this was inevitable.

The air between you feels scorched, the remnants of something burning out too fast, too violently. It’s like standing at the epicenter of a supernova, watching a star collapse into itself, all that light and warmth turning to ruin in an instant. You can feel it in your chest, a pressure so crushing it threatens to hollow you out from the inside. He blinks at you, slow, disbelieving, like the world has just tilted beneath him, like he’s suddenly weightless in the worst possible way. A breath shudders from his lips, and for the first time, he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you at all.

And it’s devastating. You thought it would be cleaner than this, thought you could carve yourself out of his life like a knife through flesh, quick, precise, a wound that might scar but wouldn’t fester. But nothing about this is clean. It’s messy and raw and impossible to contain. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is louder than anything he could have said. It fills the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides, settling into the spaces where there used to be something else—where there used to be you and him.

There is no you and him anymore.

You feel the shift, the finality of it, the way something fundamental snaps between you, severing what was already frayed beyond recognition. You watch him grapple with it, the slow unraveling of understanding dawning across his features, the realization that this isn’t just an argument, isn’t something that can be fixed with the right words, the right touch. It’s over. You’re over.

And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something. A reason. An explanation. Anything to make this make sense. But you’ve already given him all the answers you’re allowed to. You’ve already destroyed him in every way that matters.

So you do the only thing left to do. You turn away.

The classroom thrums with a dissonant symphony—paper rustling, chair legs scraping against linoleum, the faint, discordant pluck of a guitar string. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a clinical glow, too sharp, too harsh, buzzing faintly like an exposed wire. Somewhere, the metronome ticks steadily, but the rhythm feels off, mismatched with the rapid pulse hammering against your ribs. The professor’s voice rises and falls, something about dissonance resolving into harmony, how tension in music must stretch itself thin before it can finally snap back into place. The lesson should interest you. It doesn’t. The words are little more than static, blending into the low, suffocating hum in your skull.

You try to focus. You try to force your attention onto the sheet music in front of you, onto the pen in your hand, onto the clean, structured lines of notation that should provide some sense of order. But the moment your pen hovers over the staff paper, the voices slip through the cracks.

It started the moment you walked in, a shift in the air so tangible you could taste it. It’s been like this for days. The stares, the murmurs that don’t stop when you look up, the way people avert their gazes just a second too late. Your name has become a low, slithering thing in the mouths of strangers, spoken in hushed tones, followed by sharp laughter, raised eyebrows, knowing smirks. You knew this would happen. You knew how quickly rumors fester and spread, how people carve their entertainment from the bones of someone else’s misery.

Jeno has been fucking around. Relentlessly. He dealt with heartbreak the same way he’s always dealt with anything painful—drowning in excess, losing himself in distraction. There was no hesitation, no moment of pause. One night, he was yours, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth whispering your name like it was the only one he knew. The next, he was on someone else, inside someone else, chasing the kind of numbness you can only find between someone else’s legs.

And maybe that should give you some kind of peace. Maybe you should be grateful that he’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do—moving on, forgetting you. Hating you. But you’re not. Because now you’re stuck here, sitting in the wreckage, while he gets to bury it in someone else’s body. Because while you are unraveling in real time, while your heart aches with every passing second, Jeno is grinning at some girl at a party, pressing her against the wall, dragging his teeth down her neck, whispering things to her he probably once said to you. And you know it’s not personal. It’s not about her. It’s about you. About making sure he never has to think about you again.

You know you have no right to be angry. You know this. You gave him up. You made the choice. You told yourself this was the only way, that you had to let him go, that this was what was best for him. But knowing that doesn’t stop the burn in your stomach, the sharp sting behind your ribs as the words reach you, each syllable carving deeper into something raw and unhealed.

"Apparently they broke up."

"Obviously. Jeno’s already fucked half the campus."

"He doesn’t waste time, does he?"

The words slip out between hushed giggles, between the casual shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. The voices belong to Yunjin and Chaewon, their heads dipped toward each other, their smiles laced with something cruel and amused. They aren’t being loud. They don’t need to be. The words find you anyway, slicing through the stale classroom air, settling beneath your skin like rot.

But then—

"Can’t believe she actually thought she could keep him."

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch that you swallow down before it can betray you. The world tilts slightly, but you don’t let yourself move. You don’t let yourself look up. The whisper is just loud enough to reach you, threaded with something that feels like pity and scorn all at once. Like you were delusional for thinking you ever stood a chance. Like this was always going to happen, and everyone knew it but you.

Your heart is a violent, stuttering thing against your ribs. You can hear it over everything else—the professor’s voice, the metronome, the slow-building pressure in your skull. Your hands are cold. Your face is hot. The anxiety settles like a second skin, thick and cloying, wrapping itself around your lungs. You tell yourself to breathe. Breathe. But the notes in front of you don’t make sense anymore, their meanings lost to the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision.

Chaewon clicks her tongue, a soft, amused sound. “Wonder who he’s with tonight.”

Laughter follows, light and careless. It’s too much. The walls press in. The lights buzz louder. The classroom feels impossibly small, like it’s shrinking around you, like you need to get out, now, before it drowns you completely. But then there’s a shift next to you, just barely noticeable over the static in your head. Mark is beside you. Where he always sits. He hasn’t moved seats just because you stopped talking. Mark’s not the type to change things just because it might make you more comfortable.

He leans in slightly, voice low, quiet enough that only you can hear. “What are they talking about? Why is Jeno fucking other girls? Thought you guys were together.” His tone is casual, like he’s just asking a simple question, but there’s an edge beneath it. Not curiosity. Not concern. Just something sharp, something unreadable.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Your fingers tighten around your pen, stiff, unyielding, like they’ve locked into place, like if you loosen your grip even a little, everything will spill out. “Well, we’re not,” you mutter. It’s barely a whisper, barely real, but he hears you. Of course he does. Because Mark doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then it starts.

The whispers crawl into the music, curling between the notes, staining the melody, twisting it into something unrecognizable. It seeps into the empty spaces, wraps around the rests, crushing them, filling the silence with static—too much static—just noise—just words—just—

The sheet music in front of you melts. The notes stretch, bend, peeling away from the staff, unraveling, slipping through the page like they’re trying to escape. Your vision flickers. The air is too thick, the room too tight, the fluorescent lights too loud. You blink, but the motion makes it worse. Your stomach plummets, weightless for a moment before the sickening lurch of vertigo grips you.

Your fingers tremble. The pen slips. The world tilts.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and clear, slicing through the noise, through you. His hand moves behind your back, pressing firm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The contact wrecks you. It doesn’t calm you, doesn’t ground you. It sends you spiraling, makes the crash hit harder, faster, sharper. Your pulse slams against your ribs, every heartbeat a violent knock, knock, knock—

You barely register Yunjin muttering something under her breath, her voice laced with something biting, something sharp. But before the words can land, before they can sink their teeth into you, Mark snaps, “Shut the fuck up.” No hesitation. No room for argument. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus stays on you, locked in place, like he already knows you’re slipping.

Your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound shrieking, slicing through the air. It feels distant. Not yours. Like you’re watching someone else stagger to their feet, someone else’s hands shaking, clumsy, fumbling to grab their things, shoving crumpled papers into a bag that suddenly feels too small, too useless, too fucking much. The tremor in your fingers is uncontrollable now, shaking, shaking, shaking, and you can feel Mark’s eyes on you, that quiet, assessing gaze, like he’s trying to map out what’s happening inside your head, like he can see the walls caving in.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. You don’t wait for the professor to acknowledge you. You don’t breathe. You don’t think. You don’t look at Mark. You don’t look at anyone. You just leave.

The classroom spins, the air clogged with voices, scraping against your skin like sandpaper. Too bright, too loud, too much. Your legs feel wrong, unsteady, disconnected from the rest of you, but you move anyway. The door shoves open, the hallway air rushing in, but it doesn’t help. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s too much. The noise. The room. The hands reaching out. The concern in his voice. The way his touch felt like something you could have collapsed into, something that would have caught you—

You can’t. You won’t. You just need to get out. You need air. You need—

You don’t know.

The hallway stretches long and endless, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a sterile, artificial glow. Your breath is ragged, uneven, the walls pressing too close, the floor too unstable beneath your feet. You push forward, past the blur of indistinct voices, past the vague shapes of people you don’t recognize, don’t care to recognize. The world outside is too loud, too sharp, but you don’t stop. You don’t stop until your fingers curl around the handle of a door, until you shove it open and step inside.

The private studio has always been an escape, a refuge stitched together with quiet and clarity. Even now, its presence is familiar—soft lamplight spilling over polished wood, the faint scent of old sheet music and varnish clinging to the air. The piano stands in the center like an altar, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the dim glow. This room has always been a place where you can exist outside of everything else. A space where nothing reaches you. Where sound bends to your will.

But tonight, it is not safe.

Tonight, it is too still. The quiet is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something thick and unbearable. You sink onto the bench, fingers hovering above the keys, but the second you press down, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too jarring. It crashes into the silence instead of settling into it, shattering the illusion of control you once had.

The keys feel foreign under your fingers, cold and stiff, resisting your touch like they know you don’t belong here anymore. The room feels haunted, thick with ghosts you can’t shut out. Jeno, leaning against the piano, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy smirk, tilting his head at a wrong note, teasing you like he had all the time in the world. Try again, baby. But he’s not here, and the warmth in his voice is just an echo, a phantom, fading like the last notes of a song that was never meant to last.

You try again. The notes slip, tripping over each other, breaking apart before they can even form something whole. The melody evades you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You press harder. The frustration curls inside you, thick and choking. Again. Again. But the more you try to force the music out, the worse it sounds, unraveling at the seams, collapsing beneath your touch.

The whispers won’t stop. The image of Jeno—hands on someone else, lips ghosting over someone else’s throat—lodges itself in your mind like a knife between ribs. He moved on so easily. He let go so easily. And you— A strangled noise leaves your throat. You slam your hands down against the keys. A discordant, violent explosion of sound ruptures the stillness, ringing in your ears, rattling through your arms, through your chest. But it isn’t enough.

Nothing is enough.

The music should flow like water—effortless, unbroken, slipping through your fingers and cascading into something whole. But it doesn’t. It staggers, trips over itself, breaking apart before it can even find a rhythm. The notes are jagged, gasping, drowning in the silence that follows. You press harder, desperate to regain control, but the melody resists you, resisting like a current pulling against your limbs, like the rush of a waterfall swallowing everything in its path. And you—you—are caught beneath it, dragged under, crushed by the weight of something that once felt freeing.

You shove away from the piano, the force knocking over a stack of sheet music. The pages scatter like dead leaves, skidding across the floor, twisting and turning before settling into a mess of ink and chaos. Your breath is shallow, too fast. The room is shrinking, the walls pressing inward, the ceiling pressing downward, the air turning thick, heavy, unbreathable. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in the sting, but it doesn’t help.

Glass shatters. The sharp, discordant sound slices through the air, and your gaze snaps to the floor. The metronome lies in ruin, its fractured pieces catching the light, splintering into tiny, fractured reflections. Time. The irony is suffocating—you thought you had time. Thought you could handle this. But everything is unraveling too fast, spinning out of control, slipping through your fingers like the scattered sheets around you.

A blast of air surges into the room. The door slams against the wall, the impact rattling through the floorboards, shaking through your bones. Loose papers lift and spiral into the air before collapsing back to the ground in disarray, the lamplight flickering against their chaotic descent. Cold rushes in, sharp and unyielding, but it’s nothing compared to the presence that fills the space, pressing against your skin like a weight, heavy and inescapable.

Mark stands in the hallway, chest heaving, eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered pages, the shattered metronome, the trembling mess of you in the center of it all. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, moving toward you with careful, deliberate strides, like he’s already assessed every detail of the room, already knows what’s happening, already knows you. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t move. The weight in your chest expands, pressing tighter, heavier, until your knees buckle beneath it.

Before you can hit the ground, his arms are around you. Strong, steady, catching you before the fall can steal you away completely. One hand grips your waist, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The motion is seamless, like he was expecting it, like he knew your body was going to give out before you did. His hold is firm but careful, his warmth sinking into your skin, and there’s no hesitation—no doubt, no reluctance, just a quiet, undeniable certainty. He’s here. He’s got you.

The world bends in on itself, a house of cards collapsing in slow motion, each breath knocking another piece loose. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, a weightless thing detached from the frantic pounding in your chest. You know Mark is touching you, feel the press of his arms, the heat of his skin against yours, but it’s distant, like you’re watching from behind a thick pane of glass. The moment fractures, splinters into something unreal, something unsteady. You can’t find the door. You can’t get out.

“Shit. Okay, okay. I got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, grounding. His arms tighten around you, adjusting his grip, making sure you’re secure against him. He doesn’t let you slip, doesn’t shift even as your body trembles violently in his hold. His chest rises and falls beneath you, deep and measured, a rhythm to follow, something to anchor yourself to. His fingers press into your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, urging you to breathe, to be here, to stay with him.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Slow. Just like that. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

You can’t. You can’t stop crying. The sobs tear through you, ragged and unrelenting, your whole body shaking with the force of them. Your hands fist into his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just holds you through it, his arms strong and unyielding, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of your pain into himself.

His chin drops, lips brushing against your temple, barely there, a soft, fleeting press. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of reassurance, a silent promise. He’s here. He’s not leaving. You’re not alone. His breath warms your skin between each kiss, slow and steady, grounding you in something real, something solid, something safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His words melt into your skin, threading through the chaos, pulling you back from the edge. He keeps talking, keeps filling the silence with something warm, something steady, something that doesn’t break. His voice is a tether, something to hold onto, something to follow out of the storm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow, soothing lines up and down your spine, mapping out comfort between each breath. “Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay.” Your sobs start to slow, breaking into uneven breaths, the tremors still there but softer now, not as consuming. Mark doesn’t let go. His arms stay firm, his touch never faltering. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking lightly against your skin, grounding you. He waits, patient, unwavering, like he’s done this a million times before, like he knows what you need without you having to ask.

“I got you. Just—just breathe, okay?”

You try, but your breath is too fast, too erratic, catching on the edges of every inhale like you can’t find the air. Your body jerks with the force of it, chest stuttering, lungs fighting against you, and Mark feels it, all of it. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, pressing you into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Slow,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “Feel that? Just follow me. In—” He exaggerates the inhale, slow and deep, his hand moving against your back in time with the breath. “Hold it. Just for a second. Now let it go.”

You clutch at him, hands fisting into his hoodie, fingers curling so tightly it almost hurts. The first breath doesn’t work. The second barely makes it through. But Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just keeps murmuring against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles into your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers again. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the air starts to come back. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s there, slipping through the cracks of your ribs, settling in your chest instead of fighting against it. The worst of the spinning ebbs, the grip on your lungs loosening just enough for the exhaustion to sink in, heavy and suffocating in its own way.

Mark feels it, the way your body sags against his, and he adjusts his hold without hesitation, shifting his grip to keep you upright, to keep you close. His chin dips, lips brushing against your forehead, barely there, a fleeting press, a silent reassurance. Then another. And another. Soft, steady, constant.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. You’re alright.”

His voice stays gentle, a low hum threading through the quiet. His hands never stop moving—one rubbing slow circles into your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He’s careful, deliberate, like he knows exactly how fragile this moment is, how easily you could break apart again.

And then, after a long moment, after your breath has steadied just enough, his lips press to your temple one more time, and he exhales, something half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not gonna lie,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “that was kinda dramatic.”

A choked, breathless noise escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh, and he smiles—you can feel it against your skin, small and warm, familiar.

“There she is,” he whispers. You shake your head against him, fingers still curled into his hoodie, your chest still tight, but the weight pressing down on you doesn’t feel as unbearable anymore. It’s still there, still lingering, but so is he—steady and sure, holding you up, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

Mark unlocks the door without hesitation, the keys turning in the lock with a quiet click, a sound that should feel like permission, like belonging. But as the door swings open, the apartment is unfamiliar. The air inside is stale, untouched, filled with the scent of new paint and sawdust rather than something lived-in, something yours. You haven’t been here in weeks. The space is supposed to be a marker of the future, of a life being built, but instead, it feels like a project abandoned mid-construction. Mark doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, but you see the way his gaze sweeps over the half-painted walls, the unopened furniture boxes stacked against the far corner. He notices the things you’ve neglected, the things you’ve left unfinished.

You follow him in, your footsteps quiet against the bare floors. The apartment is in limbo, caught between being a place and a home, and the weight of its incompleteness settles heavily on your chest. You were supposed to be here more, supposed to have put in the time to turn it into something real, something yours. But you hadn’t. Life had gotten in the way. You had gotten in the way. Mark doesn’t say it, but you know he’s thinking it too. His eyes linger on the makeshift dining table, on the paint cans pushed into the corner, on the shelves that still lean against the wall instead of standing upright. This place was meant to be more than this. You were meant to be more present. And now, standing here, the regret seeps in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.

The couch had arrived in pieces, packed neatly in boxes that promise an easy assembly, though you both know better. You push the coffee table aside, clearing space in the center of the room, and set to work. The process is slow, frustrating, full of missing screws and instructions that barely make sense. There’s a moment when Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair, ready to call it quits, but you shake your head. Not yet. Giving up feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging how much distance had grown between you both these last few weeks. And so you keep going, pushing through every minor inconvenience, every misplaced bolt, every silent thought that lingers in the air between you. When the final piece clicks into place, it’s not just the couch that stands more solid than before—it’s something else, something unspoken but understood.

Neither of you sit on the couch. Instead, you collapse onto the floor, backs pressed against the fabric that had taken three hours to assemble. Your legs stretch out in front of you, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes with accomplishment. The takeout containers between you are still warm, the scent of food curling into the space between your quiet breaths. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Neither does Mark. This is how it’s always been with him—patience in the stillness, understanding in the unsaid. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand words from you, but you know he’s waiting. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you, steady and unwavering, like an anchor keeping you tethered when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under.

You tip your head onto his shoulder, feeling the tension in your body ease just slightly. The apartment isn’t finished. The walls are still bare, the furniture still sparse, but there’s something in this moment that feels like progress. Maybe not in the way you expected, maybe not in a way that erases the last few weeks, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough. Sitting here with Mark, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beside you, it’s a reminder that some things can still be pieced back together. That not everything has to remain undone.

Mark nudges your knee lightly, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “We’ll finish it, we have time” He says, and you know he’s not just talking about the apartment. You nod, exhaling slowly, allowing yourself to believe it. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, that’s all you can ask for.

You barely touch the food in front of you but Mark eats slowly, methodically, his gaze flicking toward you between bites. He’s waiting. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t push, but the weight of his patience is heavy. You know him too well to mistake his silence for anything else. He’s giving you space, but he’s also waiting for you to speak. And eventually, when the weight in your chest becomes unbearable, when the words press so hard against your ribs that they threaten to spill out, you do.

At first, it’s slow. Stilted. You don’t even know where to begin. You try to keep your voice steady, try to downplay the gravity of what you’re about to say, but Mark isn’t stupid. His brows draw together, his chewing slows, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. He’s listening, absorbing every word, every hesitation, and you can tell the longer you go without getting to the point, the more worried he becomes. When you pause too long, he finally speaks, his voice low, careful, but firm. “Tell me who the fuck I need to kill.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as his jaw clenches. “Do I need to deal with Jeno?”

The laugh that escapes you is short and hollow, nothing more than a breath between tears. “Mark, he’s your brother.”

His eyes find yours, dark and steady, the weight of his words settling between you. “And you’re my best friend.” It’s not a reassurance, not a question—just fact, the kind that’s always been unshakable. And despite everything—despite the ache in your chest, despite the mess of it all—you smile, because you know. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, he’s on your side. The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just you and Mark, like it’s always been, like it always will be. And then, finally, he nods, exhaling like he’s made his decision. He’s listening. He’s not going to fix this. He’s just going to be here for you. He lifts his hand, wordlessly, pinky extended. You hesitate—just for a second—then hook yours around his. A promise. One he won’t break.

For a second, you let yourself exist in that small pocket of reassurance. But then, the weight of reality crashes back down. You tell him everything. About Taeyong. About how it started. About how you didn’t see it coming. How he had been watching you, disapproving of you and Jeno from the start. How he had always held quiet control over Jeno’s life, and when the moment was right, he struck. You try to explain the sheer power he holds, the way he makes you feel small, insignificant, weak. Mark listens, expression darkening with every word. You can feel the shift in him, the quiet rage building beneath his skin, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl into fists against his knees. And then, when you tell him about the leverage—when you tell him what Taeyong has—his entire body goes rigid.

You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes stay locked on the floor, on the cracks in the wood, on the places where the varnish has worn away, anything but his face. Then you force it out. The videos. The proof. Recordings of you at the bar, on stage, wrapped around Jeno like you had no shame. Videos of you drunk, high, grinding against him in the dim glow of neon, his hands rough and greedy on your body. Footage of you in his lap, skirt pushed up, his fingers buried inside you right there in the open, your mouth slack, eyes glazed over. Your legs hooked around his waist, your body rocking down onto him, your lips parted, moaning for him like you belonged to him. Images of Jeno sucking bruises into your neck, dragging you into the back hallways, pressing you against walls, against doors, fucking you like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. Evidence of every filthy, desperate moment you thought belonged to just the two of you. You swallow the nausea rising in your throat and say the rest like it’s choking you, like it’s bile in your mouth.

This is what you tell Mark. Every single detail, every threat, every sickening way Taeyong made it clear just how little power you had. You tell him how Taeyong had been watching, waiting, collecting every mistake, every moment he could use against you and Jeno. How he knew exactly when to strike. How he cornered you, laid it all out, and left you with no way out. He made it clear—if you didn’t end things, if you didn’t make Jeno believe you were gone for good, he would use everything against you. He would send the videos to the right people, spin the right narrative, destroy you with one move. He’d ensure your future with Deloitte was down the drain.

Mark doesn’t say anything at first. His breathing shifts, shallow and uneven, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles go white. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his shoulders rise with each inhale, how his entire body tenses like he’s trying to hold himself back from exploding. The silence between you is suffocating, heavier than the weight of the confession itself.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through it. Eerily calm. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t need to. The silence is enough. The way your shoulders sink, the way your eyes dart away. The truth sits between you, heavy and unmoving.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not kidding.”

Mark is still trying to process everything, his mind struggling to catch up with the weight of what you’ve just told him. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to ground himself, to make sense of something that refuses to settle. “I didn’t even know you had this opportunity,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost distant. His hands are clasped together, knuckles still taut, as if holding onto himself is the only thing keeping him steady. He lifts his gaze to you, searching, trying to understand. “You’re leaving?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down like a vice. “I was always going to take it, Mark.” And it’s the truth. The opportunity with Deloitte would always be a part of your plan, a chance you had worked for, something you had earned on your own. But everything else—leaving Jeno, making him believe you chose this over him—that had never been part of it. “It’s not permanent. It’s a hybrid role. I’ll be between here and New York, working on-site, but I’ll still be around. I’ll still be coming back.” Your voice drops lower, trying to soften the blow.

He exhales. “So what about the apartment?” His voice is careful now, measured, but you can tell he’s holding something back. “We were supposed to live there. First year on our own. I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through the cracks. “What’s the point of moving in together if you’re going to be gone half the time?”

The guilt deepens, pooling in your chest like cement. You had thought about this already, had mapped out the logistics, but now, seeing the way Mark’s looking at you, it’s clear you hadn’t fully considered what this would mean for him. “It won’t be like that,” you promise, even as the words taste uncertain in your mouth. “I’ll be back just as much as I’m gone. It’s not like I’m moving out. The place is still ours. Plus, you’ll have Areum, you won’t be alone.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, nodding once, but his fingers drum anxiously against his knee. He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t look convinced. There’s an unspoken worry in his eyes—one that tells you he knows, just as much as you do, that nothing is going to be the same. Then, almost as an afterthought, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We broke up.” The words are blunt, clipped, like he’s already resigned himself to them.

You huff out a small laugh, not unkind, just knowing. “You guys will find your way back to each other.” His expression doesn’t shift, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses. “You’ll figure it out. you’re soulmates.” His eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them. Then he nods, barely, and you don’t push it further. Because this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you. And what you still have to say.

Your voice cracks before you even finish the thought, breath shaking on the exhale like your body is rejecting the words before they can fully form. “Me and Jeno aren’t going to find our way back to each other.” It’s not an uncertainty—it’s not a possibility lingering in the air, waiting to be disproven. It’s a death sentence. Cold. Irrevocable. The kind that snuffs out whatever ember of hope you were stupid enough to still be holding onto. You bite down on your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s already spilling over, thick and suffocating, settling in your lungs like smoke after a fire has burned everything to the ground. “I—” You stop, shaking your head, because what else is there to say? That you don’t want it to be true? That it still feels like something in you is being ripped apart at the seams, like you’re losing a limb, like the part of you that belonged to him—belongs to him—will never belong to anyone else? That you still love him? That you probably always will?

Your fingers clench uselessly at the fabric of your sleeves, twisting, pulling, something to hold onto, because there’s nothing left of him to reach for anymore. “I didn’t want to leave him like this.” Your voice is paper-thin, fragile, cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t want to end things like this.” But you had to. Had to. That’s what you tell yourself, over and over and over again, like repetition might make it easier to believe. Like it might dull the ache. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because the reality is—it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this was the only way. It doesn’t change the fact that you broke him. That you had to break him. That you had to look into the eyes of the only person who has ever made you feel like home and set him on fire.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift beside you—the way his arm comes around you, grounding, steady, pulling you in before you can fall apart completely. Your breath is uneven, shallow, but you force yourself to keep talking, to push past the ache threatening to consume you whole. “I had to make him hate me.” The confession spills out like a wound being torn open, raw and bleeding. “I had to make him believe I didn’t love him anymore, that he wasn’t enough, that I was already moving on.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, even as your throat burns. “So I lied to him. I told him that even if he begged, even if he asked me to stay, I wouldn’t. That this opportunity meant more to me than he did. That nothing he could say would change my mind.” The words land heavy, final, echoing in the quiet, and for a second, you swear you can still hear the way he said your name when you left. Like it was the last time.

Your breath stutters, breaking, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before you continue. "I was always going to take the opportunity," you say, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes burning from the weight of it all. "But I was never going to end it with Jeno. That was never the plan." You blink hard, forcing back the sting in your vision. "I had to make him believe I would. I had to make him think I chose this over him."

Mark’s gaze sharpens, confusion flickering beneath the frustration he’s barely holding back. His fingers flex against his knee, fists curling like he’s resisting the urge to do something—anything—to change what’s already been done. "And he just let you go?"

“He let me go,” you nod, the words barely holding together. “And then he did exactly what I knew he would do—he burned himself down completely.” The image of Jeno—reckless, self-destructive, breaking himself apart piece by piece—flashes through your mind, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut against it. “He’s spiraling, Mark. He’s fucking everyone, throwing himself into distractions, trying to erase me from his system. And it’s destroying him.” You force yourself to meet Mark’s gaze, to let him see the devastation in your own. “But there’s nothing I can do. If I go back, if I try to fix it, Taeyong will follow through. He’ll make sure Jeno never steps foot on a professional court.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confusion creeping into the storm of emotions already brewing inside him. “But… the blackmail was against you.” His voice is slower now, cautious, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes narrow. “How does this affect Jeno?”

You take a breath, your chest tightening, knowing that the next part is going to destroy him. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, and you blink furiously, jaw tightening. "Because it wasn’t just me," you whisper. "Taeyong blackmailed Jeno too—just not to him. Jeno has no idea. He doesn’t know any of this."

Mark stills. His expression darkens, breath hitching, body coiling like a live wire about to snap. "What the fuck are you saying?"

You wipe at your face, fingers shaking. "Taeyong knows how much I love him," you choke out. "He knows how much I care, how I’d put him before myself, before anything. So he told me—if I ignored him, if I still tried to be with Jeno, then he’d come for him."

You tell him about the ultimatum. How Taeyong laid it out for you in brutal, clinical detail. How he told you that if you didn’t leave Jeno—if you didn’t make him believe it—he would make sure Jeno never played professional basketball. How it wouldn’t even take much. Just a few well-placed words. A few whispers in the right ears. A few clicks to send out the files he had. You tell him how you tried to find another way, any other way, but there wasn’t one. How you knew, the second Taeyong laid it all out, that you had already lost. “I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper. “I had to break his heart. I had to make it hurt. Because if I didn’t—” Your voice catches, but Mark is already finishing the sentence for you, voice tight, raw, furious. “He’d lose everything.”

Mark braces himself, shoulders tensing, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "He told me," you continue, voice hollow, "that if I didn’t leave Jeno, he’d make sure his future ended before it even started. He’d spread the videos of us around, spread the rumors to the wrong ears. He’d destroy him. Even though I deleted them from his phone, who am I kidding? He probably has them stored somewhere else."

Mark’s entire body is rigid, but you push forward because you have to. "And it’s not just that," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "He has everything on Jeno. Every fight, every reckless decision, every time his temper got the best of him. He’s been documenting it all, just waiting." You let out a shaky breath. "He has enough to paint him as unstable, uncoachable, a liability to any team."

Mark already knows Jeno’s been fucking up lately. He’s seen the fights with Eric and Sunwoo, the reckless plays on the court, the way he’s been losing himself. But what he doesn’t know—what no one knew—is that Taeyong was watching it all. Waiting. Calculating. And now, he has the power to end Jeno’s dreams with a single move.

Mark is silent, but his breathing is heavy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And then he stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between the couch and the half-built coffee table. “We have to tell Jeno.” His voice is resolute, sharp. “He needs to know.”

You shake your head before he even finishes. “No. No, Mark. You can’t.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing. “You think I can just sit here and do nothing?”

The panic rises in your chest, choking, suffocating. “If you tell him, it’s over,” you say, voice breaking. “Taeyong has everything, Mark. If Jeno knows the truth, if you even hint at it, Taeyong will pull the trigger. He'll make sure Jeno never plays basketball again. Do you understand? Jeno's entire life, his dream—it's hanging by a thread, and this is the only thing keeping it from snapping."

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “And you think he just gets to win?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at your hands. “He already has.”

Mark shakes his head, jaw tight, barely containing the anger still thrumming beneath his skin. “No,” he says, voice steady, final. “No, he hasn’t.”

"I don’t know what to do anymore." Your voice breaks. "I can’t fix this, Mark. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about every possible way out, and there’s nothing. I have no choice. I was supposed to have a future with him, we were going to figure it out together. And now—" A sob lodges itself in your throat, thick and painful. "Now I’m just supposed to disappear? Like none of it ever mattered? Like he doesn’t matter?"

Mark exhales sharply, he looks at you, really looks at you, and what he sees must break him because his voice is soft when he finally speaks. "You’re so in love with him."

You let out a small, broken laugh. "Isn’t it obvious?" The admission nearly shatters you because loving Jeno should have meant fighting for him, staying with him, choosing him. But instead, it meant destroying him so Taeyong wouldn’t do worse.

Your voice trembles, breaking under the weight of everything you can’t change. “It’s cruel,” you whisper, each word dragging itself from your throat like it hurts to say. “That I can’t be with the man I love.” It’s not just cruel—it’s suffocating, unbearable, a slow and deliberate kind of agony that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into your palms like you can hold yourself together, like you can stop the pieces from slipping through the cracks. And then, softer, almost to yourself, “But at least he’ll still have basketball.” The words taste bitter, like something sharp and wrong. Like a lie you’re trying to believe. You let out a breathless, broken laugh, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like resignation. Like the final nail in the coffin of everything you wanted, everything you’ll never have again.

Mark lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Will he?” His eyes lock onto yours, unflinching, waiting for the weight of it to settle. “You really think he still has basketball?” His voice is edged with something raw, something almost desperate, like he needs you to see what he sees. He shakes his head, exhaling hard. “He’s fucking up, Y/N. He’s spiraling. He’s still messing around, still point shaving because he has no other choice.” He pauses, letting it sink in, watching the way your expression wavers, the way your breath catches.

“You think he’ll be fine just because you left? You think he’ll be okay?” His laugh this time is even sharper, disbelieving. “He’s not okay. And this—this shit you’re doing, keeping him in the dark—it’s not making it better.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting the urge to grab your shoulders, shake sense into you. “You think walking away saved him? You think this is what’s best for him?” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, voice dropping lower, tighter. “Open your fucking eyes. You’re not protecting him. You’re just leaving him to drown.” Mark knows his words are harsh, knows they cut deep, but he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. Because they’re not just cruel—they’re the truth. And maybe it’s brutal, maybe it’s unfair, but it’s necessary.

A lump forms in your throat, heavy and thick. Because he's right. You’ve been telling yourself that as long as Jeno has basketball, as long as he still has his future, then maybe—maybe it’s worth it. But what if he doesn’t? What if you’ve destroyed him for nothing?

Mark leans forward, voice low and firm. "Y/N. I love you. I won’t go against you despite how badly I want to but I don’t agree with this. I know why you’re keeping it a secret. I get it. But Taeyong doesn’t have Jeno’s best interests at heart. Don’t you think it’s worse that you’re not telling him? That he doesn’t even realise just how much his own father is his biggest fucking enemy?"

You nod slowly, hands trembling in your lap. Because you can’t disagree. There’s no good outcome, no real benefit, no silver lining. You’ve been choked by this situation, forced into a corner with no escape. If Jeno doesn’t end up happy, if he doesn’t thrive in his career, then what was the point? What was the fucking point? Taeyong isn’t going to help Jeno deal with Sunwoo and Eric. He could fix everything with a single snap of his fingers, but he won’t. So if Jeno is going to stand a chance, if he’s going to make it out of this in one piece—you have to be the one to do something about it.

Your pulse thrums with a new kind of urgency, something raw and unshakable clawing its way to the surface. You have to fix this. There’s no more waiting, no more hoping that things will settle on their own. Jeno is slipping, spiraling further with every second you waste. You’ve already taken everything from him—his trust, his belief in you, his sense of stability—and if you don’t act now, if you don’t move, then Taeyong will win. He’ll have orchestrated this entire thing, pulled every string, crushed every last piece of Jeno until there’s nothing left of the person he was supposed to be.

You won’t let that happen.

You can’t let that happen.

Your hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into your palms, and you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to think. There has to be a way. A way to fix this, to protect Jeno, to take back control of something—anything. You don’t know how, you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but none of that matters anymore. Because you have to do this. Because there’s no other option. Because if you don’t, then what the hell was all this suffering for? The fear is still there, curling in the pit of your stomach, but it’s different now. It’s fuel. It’s fire. It’s the thing that’s going to push you forward.

You have to move. Fast.

The past few nights have been long, stretching endlessly between exhaustion and restless thoughts that refuse to quiet. You’ve thrown yourself into work, into research, into anything that might make the ache in your chest feel a little less unbearable. It hasn’t helped. Your research sits open in front of you, the screen of your laptop casting a dim glow over the clutter of notes, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups scattered around you. You’ve been here for hours, flipping between tabs, scrolling through pages of information, chasing leads that feel both urgent and impossible. But none of it drowns out the gnawing, ever-present weight of him.

Jeno. You haven’t seen him in days. Not properly. Not in a way that means anything. And it’s obvious why. He’s avoiding you, pulling away, sinking into self-destruction the way he always does when he’s cornered. And you understand. Of course you understand. But it doesn’t stop the selfish part of you from wanting more. From expecting, against all logic, that he’d come back. That he’d want to see you, speak to you, be with you. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you miss him. You miss him in a way that makes your chest feel hollow, in a way that lingers, thick and unbearable, no matter how much you try to bury it.

You don’t know what you expect anymore. Any hope of holding onto something with Jeno—whatever fragile, unspoken thing used to exist between you—has already slipped through your fingers. You tell yourself it’s over, that you can’t have him in any way that matters, but some selfish, hopeless part of you still craves the impossible. Still aches for his presence. Still wants him to come back—to want to come back. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way your world used to tilt toward his without effort. But the truth is undeniable. he’s carved out a space in your heart that no one else can fill.

The weight of his absence lingers, stretching across the past few days like an open wound. You try not to dwell on it. Try to push forward, to focus on the work in front of you, to convince yourself that distraction is enough to keep the ache at bay. But nothing changes the fact that something in you has been waiting—bracing—for the moment he’d come back. Even if you know better. Even if you know he won’t.

The air shifts before you even hear the door. The space around you grows heavier, charged with something electric, something visceral, something undeniably him. Your fingers still over the keyboard, your breath catching in your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And then, finally, you sense movement—the subtle drag of footsteps, the faint creak of the door easing shut, the quiet force of a presence too familiar to ignore.

When you look up, he’s already staring at you. The sight of him nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. He looks good. Unfairly so. Even like this—tense, annoyed, still brimming with that barely-contained frustration he’s been carrying for weeks—he’s still devastating. The sharp angles of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders yet does nothing to hide the sheer strength coiled beneath his skin. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, and the moment your eyes lock, the world tilts.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, slow and deliberate. And then he moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s controlled. Every step forward is measured, precise, his gaze locked onto yours with the kind of quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away. It’s been weeks since you’ve last held eye contact like this, and you’d forgotten—God, you’d forgotten—how it feels. How completely, overwhelmingly consuming it is. How Jeno doesn’t just look at you; he sees you, strips you bare with nothing but the weight of his attention. And under that attention, under the heat of it, everything else—the laptop, the research, the reason you’re even here—vanishes.

You should move. You should close the tabs, shut the screen, do something—anything—before he gets too close, before he notices. But you don’t. You can’t. Because he’s already in front of you, already closing the space between you like it was never there to begin with.

Jeno doesn’t sit across from you. He doesn’t give you distance, doesn’t allow you the space to think, to breathe, to pull yourself together. Instead, he drops into the seat beside you, legs spreading wide, his forearms bracing against his thighs as he leans forward. It’s intentional. Deliberate. He takes up space, forces you to feel him, to acknowledge him. And you do. You do.

His scent crashes into you. A dark, intoxicating mix of cardamom and smoked cedarwood, something that clings to the air between you like an unshakable memory. It smells like the kind of warmth you could sink into, like a quiet storm before impact—subtle, unrelenting, inevitable. There’s something dangerous about it, too, something that lingers on your skin, in your lungs, making it impossible to think about anything but him. It reminds you of nights spent tangled in sheets, of things you shouldn’t be remembering. Of things that are gone now. But the scent is still here, clinging to you, wrapping around you, as inescapable as the man in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, down to your hands curled tight in your lap, back up again. Waiting. Testing. Searching for a crack, for any sign that you’ll fold first. And then—finally—he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, steady, but edged with something you can’t quite place. A quiet frustration, maybe. Or something heavier. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to swallow, but it barely helps. “Okay,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. And for a second—for just a fleeting, reckless second—you forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you’ve been doing. Forget everything except the weight of him beside you, the heat of his thigh brushing yours, the way the air feels razor-thin between you. And then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. And he sees it. The moment his eyes land on your laptop screen, the energy between you shatters.

Jeno hadn’t meant to come here. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t sure anymore. Avoiding you had been easy enough these past few weeks—easier than he thought it would be. If he didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, didn’t give you the chance to dig your nails into the open wound you’d left behind, then maybe he could convince himself it didn’t exist. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. But the lie had begun to unravel faster than he could stitch it back together. Because something still pulled him toward you, something gnawed at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, every time he caught himself checking for you in the places you used to be.

He told himself he just wanted to see how much effort you’d been putting into the project without him. Maybe he’d find some bitter notes, some passive-aggressive remarks about how he was slacking off, something to prove that you were pissed off at him. But instead, he finds this.

Your laptop screen is filled with names. With research. His name. Sunwoo’s. Eric’s. His stomach tightens, his muscles coil, and suddenly he’s moving. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and cutting, laced with something that isn’t just anger—something worse. It’s panic. Fear. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, doesn’t understand why you—of all people—are digging into things you shouldn’t be touching.

You move on instinct, fingers flying toward the laptop, but it doesn’t matter—he’s faster. His hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you cold, the sudden contact knocking the breath from your lungs. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s there—unshakable, unrelenting, a quiet assertion of control that sets every nerve in your body alight. His fingers press into your skin, warm, steady, possessive in a way that sends something dark and unspoken curling through you. He’s not just stopping you. He’s holding you. Holding you in place, holding you still, like he wants you like this—trapped beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of his gaze pinning you down as effectively as his grip. And maybe it’s twisted, maybe it’s wrong, but you don’t pull away. You won’t. Because part of you—some reckless, desperate part buried deep in your chest—wants to see what he does next.

Jeno notices. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against your skin, and something in his expression flickers—something dark, unreadable, something that makes the air in the room shift. He should be yelling. Should be demanding answers. Should be furious. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just looks at you, eyes locked onto yours, his grip tightening ever so slightly, firm but not cruel, possessive but not punishing. Like he’s holding you in place. Like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Explain.” The word is low, rough, dragged from his throat like it barely made it out at all. There’s no fire behind it, not anymore. Just something heavier, something coiled tight between you, thrumming like a live wire.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You force yourself to breathe, to think, to say something. But you can’t tell him the truth. You can’t let him know what you’ve been doing, what you’re trying to protect him from. And you can’t lie, not fully, not when he’s this close, watching you like he can already see the cracks forming. “It’s for our project,” you say, keeping your voice even, steady, measured—but the way your breath hitches at the end betrays you. “I was looking into the team—into different types of connections. It’s relevant, Jeno. It’s part of what we’re supposed to be doing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate, and your stomach tightens because he knows. He can feel the way your pulse betrays you, racing under his touch. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching, testing, reading between the lines, catching every unspoken thing tangled in your words. He just watches you, waiting, waiting, as if daring you to say something else. As if daring you to lie again. And the worst part? You think you might let him.

Instead, he exhales sharply, his grip tightening around your wrist for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel the heat of him searing into your skin—before he lets go. But the space between you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it feels tighter, drawn even closer by something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name. His fingers twitch like they don’t want to leave you, hovering in that impossible in-between, the ghost of his touch still burning against your pulse. His jaw flexes, his throat works around a slow, deliberate swallow, and for a fleeting second, you swear you can feel the weight of his hesitation pressing into you, thick and stifling, like a breath held too long, like a moment stretched to its breaking point.

“You need to stop this.” His voice is a shade rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel, but there’s something underneath it—something more insistent than anger. Not a threat. A warning. A demand wrapped in desperation. “Right now.”

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but your voice betrays you, coming out too soft, too unsure. “Jeno—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut as he moves closer, the space between you vanishing into nothing. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense, unyielding, something almost unbearable brewing beneath the surface. “You don’t get it.” His breath is warm against your lips, the closeness stealing the air from your lungs. “You can’t do this. You can’t dig into this shit, you can’t get involved—they will notice. And when they do, you won’t be safe.”

The fear in his voice unsettles you in a way nothing else has. Because Jeno doesn’t scare easily. He doesn’t break. But this—this is different. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his shoulders are tight with something that looks too much like helplessness, and his fingers flex again at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or let you go. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, but you don’t miss the way his throat works through a thick swallow.

And then, before you can react, his hands are on your face. Not rough, not demanding—just there. Holding you. Grounding you. Pleading with you in the only way he knows how. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch firm but unbearably careful, and his forehead presses against yours like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel you just to breathe properly. Your lashes flutter, your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when his fingers tighten ever so slightly, keeping you anchored to him.

“Is that what you want?” The words are barely a whisper now, his lips just a breath away from yours, his voice threaded with something devastating. “To get yourself hurt?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Your voice is quiet but unwavering, the promise settling between you like something immovable. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jeno exhales sharply, his grip tightening against your skin, like he’s trying to pull something from you—something real, something whole—but you don’t give. You can’t give. His forehead presses against yours, and for a second, his eyes flicker shut. His fingers move, tracing lightly over the side of your face, a barely-there touch, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone before dipping lower, ghosting over your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them. You shudder beneath the contact, your own hands hovering near his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“That’s not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “That’s not—” He swallows thickly, his breath warm against your lips, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

Your fingers twitch before they move on instinct, sliding up the front of his hoodie, grasping at the fabric like it might hold you together. His own grip shifts, sliding down, his palm pressing flat against your ribs, warm and grounding, fingertips pressing just barely into your skin like he’s trying to anchor you there. Like if he holds on tight enough, he can stop you from slipping through his fingers.

“You won’t,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, edged with something fragile. And it’s not a lie. Not really. But the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers flex against you, tells you he doesn’t believe you. Not yet.

His lips are so close to yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of them, the ghost of a touch, so close to stealing your breath. You can feel it—the restraint, the breaking point, the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s convincing himself to hold back, even as every muscle in his body screams to do the opposite. And you? You don’t move. You should move. You should push him away, turn your head, do something to stop what’s about to happen. But you don’t. Because despite how fucked up, how wrong, how impulsive everything about this is—you still miss him. And he still misses you. And it’s so difficult. Too difficult.

His breath is uneven, lips just barely brushing yours, fingers digging into your ribs like he’s anchoring himself. And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in. His nose nudges yours, a quiet inhale, a moment stretched unbearably thin—he’s about to kiss you. About to close the distance. About to claim your mouth like it’s his to take.

And then the door opens.

“Hey Y/N, I know you’d said you’d meet me outside but—oh—woah.”

Mark stands at the door, eyes wide, blinking like he’s just walked into something he really shouldn’t have seen. His presence slams into you like a cold shock, snapping you back into the moment, into reality, into the undeniable fact that Jeno has you caged against the desk, hands gripping your waist, lips a breath away from yours.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mark was gonna drive me home,” you whisper softly to Jeno, voice barely steady, eyes flickering away from his for the first time to glance at Mark.

Jeno doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Don’t look at Mark. Look at me.”

Your breath catches. You gulp, hesitant. “But me and him agreed to meet at this time, he wants to drive me to my apartment, to—”

“I can drive you there,” Jeno cuts in, voice smooth, low, almost dangerous.

You hum, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. And that’s it. That’s when he decides fuck it. His hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, and then he kisses you. Hard. Heavy. Desperate. His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, like he’s been starving for this, for you. Your gasp is swallowed between his lips, your fingers gripping the front of his hoodie without thinking, pulling him closer, needing him closer. He groans softly against your mouth, a low sound of frustration, of relief, of everything he hasn’t said out loud.

Mark makes a confused sound, an incredulous huff. He takes in the scene—the way Jeno is pressed against you, the way your fingers are curled into him, the breathless space between your lips—and then, whether out of respect or just sheer fucking bewilderment, he exhales, shakes his head, and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone.

Jeno doesn’t stop. He doesn’t fucking stop. His lips move over yours feverishly, demanding, parting your mouth with ease. His tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, drinking you in like he needs this to breathe. Your back presses against the desk, your body arching into his like second nature, like instinct, like you belong here. His hands, once steady, are now restless—palms dragging down your sides, fingers curling at your waist, tugging, gripping, owning.

You whimper against his lips, and he shudders. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving. His grip on you tightens, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth for just a second before letting go, before he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

"Jeno," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze—heavy, unrelenting, something unreadable burning behind it. “We can’t do this.”

His breath is sharp, uneven, forehead pressing against yours, his fingers tightening where they rest against your hips. "Tell me to walk away," he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me."

But you don’t. You can’t.

Jeno exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s steadying himself, like he’s been carrying the weight of this moment for too long and doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it in. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, something too raw, too heavy. "I’ve been thinking about this," he starts, voice lower now, rough in the way that makes your stomach twist. "About you. About how you broke up with me. Even when I don’t want to, I’m always thinking about you."

You swallow thickly, pulse skittering at the sheer certainty in his voice. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. He’s not just talking—he’s laying something bare. He shifts, moving in closer, the air between you thinning into something electric, something suffocating. "And the more I think about it, the more I realize… something is wrong. Something about this entire situation is off." His jaw tightens, his breath a slow, measured thing as he exhales through his nose. "I know you. I know you so well, and I just don’t believe you breaking up with me was real.” His voice dips lower, rougher, something fragile threaded beneath it.

“It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like you.” His fingers flex, like he wants to reach for you, wants to hold you still, “Not after everything—not after how you forgave me. After the way you looked at me, after the way you held onto me like you never wanted to let go.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “None of it fucking makes sense. Not after all the moments we spent together, not after everything we went through. Not after how you made me feel like—like I was everything to you.”

You’re silent. Your heart is in your throat, and your fingers are curled too tight into the fabric of your sleeves. He notices. Of course he notices. His gaze flickers over your face, his lips parting like he wants to say something else, like he’s grasping at something he can’t quite reach. And then his hands are on you. Soft but insistent, his palms settling on either side of your face, his thumbs grazing just beneath your cheekbones. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his stare makes your breath hitch.

"There’s a reason that I liked you so much more than I’ve ever liked any other girl." His voice is softer now, but there’s a weight behind it, something immovable. "Because you never pretended to be something you’re not. You always said what you meant, you always—fuck, you were real in a way that nobody else was. Nothing feels like you." His thumbs brush against your skin, a ghost of a touch, reverent and grounding at the same time. "But the way you’ve been acting… it’s not you. I know you, and you’ve been acting unlike you."

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. It’s so hard, so fucking hard, and you feel yourself breaking under the weight of his words, under the way he’s looking at you like he’s willing you to give him something. You shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "Jeno, please stop. You don’t want to get into this—"

His grip tenses for just a second, and his brows furrow. "Get into what?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And that’s when it happens—the shift, the realization, the way his breath catches and his fingers tighten against your skin like he’s piecing something together in real time. He thinks about the way you looked at him the last time you saw each other. The way your words said one thing, but your eyes—your eyes—told another story entirely. The way you hesitated, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands clenched like you were bracing for impact.

Jeno steps in closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat, but breath, but the weight of everything unsaid. "Look at me." His voice is steady, careful, deliberate. "Just tell me the truth."

You gulp. Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, uncertain. "Jeno, I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say."

His jaw clenches. He breathes in deeply, searching your face, and then— "What I’m trying to say is… did anything happen to make you break up with me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Did Eric and Sunwoo do anything to you?"

Your breath catches, a split-second hesitation that you know—know—he feels. Because Jeno isn’t just reckless, isn’t just driven by emotion. He knows you. Knows you in a way that no one else ever has, in a way that feels almost unfair, because it means he doesn’t need words to read you. He’s always been sharp, always been just a little too good at seeing through you, at catching the cracks before you even realize they’re there. And now, he’s doing exactly that—watching, waiting, cataloging every flicker of movement, every shift in your expression, every little tell that you don’t have the strength to hide. He’s studying you, the way he always does, the way he’s done a thousand times before, but this time, it’s different.

Because you thought you were the one in control. You thought you were the one keeping him at arm’s length, the one dictating how this would play out. But the truth is, Jeno has been doing the same thing to you. This whole time. Reading you just as much as you’ve been trying to read him, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defense, until there’s nothing left between you but the unbearable weight of the truth. And this time, he’s piecing you back togetherinstead of just knowing you. Taking the fragments you’ve tried to bury, the pieces you never wanted him to see, and fitting them into something dangerous—something dangerously close to the truth.

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your body betrays you—how your breath comes out too shallow, how your fingers twitch like they want to hold onto him, how you can’t look away even though you should. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but it’s weak, unconvincing, a last-ditch attempt to keep yourself together.

Jeno’s grip on you doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t ease either. He stares at you, waiting, his jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but his fingers flex against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back. “Am I?” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against your chest, suffocating. “Because I don’t fucking feel wrong. I know you. I know the way you look at me, the way you sound when you’re lying, the way you—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide to leave me. That’s not how this works. That’s not you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Jeno, please—”

“Please what?” He’s closer now, and it’s unfair, the way he knows exactly how to crowd you, exactly how to pull you under his weight without even touching you. “You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to explain why the fuck you’ve been acting like a stranger when I know you still—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You still care about me.”

Your stomach twists violently, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice drops lower, something raw bleeding through the words. “You do and it’s fucking killing me.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn. He sees it. You know he does.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jeno’s voice is quieter now, rough, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I don’t feel it every time I look at you? I don’t care what you say. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t leave me unless—” He exhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but it’s laced with something unbearable. “Unless someone made you.”

You gasp. You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Jeno stills. The air shifts. “Tell me.” His voice is softer now, but it’s not a request. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking lifeline he’s throwing at you, desperate for you to take it. “Tell me if someone did something. Tell me if they—” He swallows thickly, like the words are hard to say. “If he did something.”

Your breath catches. Eric. Sunwoo. That’s where his mind goes first. That’s what he assumes. That’s what makes sense to him, because he knows what they’re like, knows what they’re capable of. And of course, of course, he wouldn’t ever think of the real reason because it would never cross his mind that his own father is the one who orchestrated this.

Jeno is close. So fucking close. But he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t want to know it. Because that would mean confronting something that he’s buried so deep, something he’s spent years forcing himself not to look at too closely. He knows his father. Knows how ruthless he can be, how much control he likes to wield. But that control has always been directed at him, at shaping him into something stronger, something more, never at you. His father never had a reason to see you as a threat. Never had a reason to interfere. And if Jeno lets himself think about it, really think about it—about all the times his father has made decisions for him, about all the times he’s spoken in absolutes, about all the times Jeno has let him because it was easier than fighting back—then he might have to accept that this is just another move in a game he never agreed to play.

And he’s not ready for that. So instead, his mind goes where it can go. To the obvious answer. To the people who have hurt him before and would hurt the one person he cares about the most in this world. To the people he already hates. He takes a step closer, voice low but firm, as if softening it will make you more likely to tell him the truth. He asks again. “Did they do something to you?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because for once, you have no idea what to say. Every excuse, every carefully crafted lie, every way out you’d prepared—it all crumbles under the weight of his voice, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. You inhale sharply, your throat tight, your fingers curling into fists at your sides like you can anchor yourself to something, anything. “Jeno, you’re—” You hesitate, swallowing hard, searching for words that won’t come. “You’re reaching.” It’s weak. It’s unconvincing. And you both know it. You shake your head, eyes darting away like you can physically pull yourself from the noose tightening around your lies. “This isn’t—there’s nothing for you to dig into. I don’t know why you keep—” Your breath stutters when you finally meet his gaze again, because the look in his eyes is devastating. He’s searching, reaching for something, anything, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t end this now, if you don’t cut him off, he’s going to find exactly what he’s looking for.

“Do not lie.” This time, he’s not just asking—he’s pleading. It’s in the way his hands find your arms again, the way his fingers press into your skin, firm but not forceful, like he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re still here. His touch is warm, searing through the fabric of your clothes, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist, tracing over your pulse like he wants to memorize the rhythm. His grip tightens slightly, his body leaning in, closer than before, close enough that his breath fans over your cheek, over your lips, as he exhales, slow and uneven. It’s not just desperation anymore—it’s something else, something heavier, something electric, thrumming between you, thickening the air until every inhale is just him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you go, and for a fleeting second, you forget why you ever wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by something painfully raw. His chest rises and falls too fast, his composure splintering, and when he tilts his head, his nose just barely brushes yours. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to steal your breath, to leave you frozen in place. “Please.” His grip shifts, his hands sliding lower, curling around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he needs the contact to steady himself. “You can tell me anything.” His lips part, like he’s about to say more, like he’s about to close the last inch of space between you, but then he exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowing, something breaking inside of him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.” He swallows, his fingers flexing where they hold you, voice dropping into something lower, something that barely makes it past his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jeno doesn’t just promise things lightly. When he says something, he means it. And you know, without a single shred of doubt, that if you let him, he would go to any length for you. He would burn everything down, he would tear through anyone who hurt you, he would give up pieces of himself if it meant keeping you safe.

But you can’t let him protect you. You refuse to let him try.

And in your silence, he gets desperate. You can feel it in the way his fingers tense, in the way his breath stutters, in the way his body leans in just a little more, like he’s trying to physically bridge the distance you keep forcing between you. He knows he’s close to something—so close—but you’re being silent, unresponsive, unhelpful, and it’s driving him insane.

So he says what’s been bleeding on his mind, what’s been clawing at his chest every second he’s been apart from you. “I still want you. I miss you.” His words are raw, stripped bare of pride, of anger. Just vulnerable. Just desperate. He thinks he’s fixing things and it fucking breaks you. Because the moment you hear it, the moment those words leave his lips, something inside you snaps. Your vision blurs, a tear slipping down before you can stop it, before you can bite down the words you swore you wouldn’t say.

“If you still want me, then why have you been going around and fucking other girls?”

It’s a confession in disguise, a wound torn open right in front of him. Because it’s not just anger, not just jealousy—it’s heartbreak. It’s love. It’s everything you told yourself you wouldn’t say. But it slips out before you can stop it, before you can shove it back down. You’ve given yourself away. You’ve shown him exactly what you didn’t want him to see. That no matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push him away—he still has you. He’s always had you.

He laughs, but it’s choked, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His fingers flex at his sides, his breath coming harder now. “What? What? That is not what I’ve been doing. That is so far from the truth. Who have you heard that from?”

“I’ve heard it around campus.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “People are lying for no fucking reason. You know how it is on this campus.” His jaw clenches, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, shake the thought out of your head. “I tried to fuck around, but I couldn’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I couldn’t take it further because I realised it’s not what I want, you’re the one I fucking want. Isn’t that clear enough?”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to catch the tell—the flicker in his expression, the shift in his stance, the way his lips might curl slightly when he lies. You know Jeno. You know when he’s bullshitting. But there’s nothing now. No hesitation, no falter in his voice. Nothing but raw, painful honesty.

He shakes his head again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I’d just move on? That I’d just fuck someone else and forget about you?” He steps closer, gaze dark and unwavering. “I can’t. I haven’t even tried these last few fucking days because all I can see is you. You are in my fucking head, in my hands, in my fucking mouth every time I try to do anything.”

His breathing is uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast, frustration bleeding through every word. “So if you think I’ve been sleeping with other girls, then you don’t fucking know me at all.” Jeno’s eyes darken as he steps in closer, his breath coming harder, controlled, but barely. “And have you fucked anyone since me?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, curling around you like something physical, something impossible to escape. He steps closer—so close you feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of him filling your lungs, drowning you in something you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want. His fingers graze the underside of your jaw, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. His touch is teasing, taunting, like he wants to see you react, needs you to.

Your stomach twists. Your throat feels impossibly tight, but you manage to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I haven’t.”

His jaw tightens, and you see the flicker of something almost amused in his expression—except it’s not amusement. It’s something colder, something sharper. He exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something worse. “You’re good at changing the subject, aren’t you?” His voice drops lower, curling around you like smoke, slow, taunting. “You bring up who I’ve fucked, knowing damn well I haven’t fucked anyone, hoping I’ll focus on that instead. Hoping I’ll forget about the real problem. About you. About how you’ve been acting recently.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of him pressing against every inch of your resolve. His fingers brush over your jaw, not quite holding you, but close enough to make you ache for it. His next words are softer, more dangerous. “Don’t deflect. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you anymore.” It’s a weak attempt, and you both know it. Your voice doesn’t carry the weight it should, doesn’t hold the finality you need it to. It just sounds tired, forced, like you’re running out of ways to push him away.

Jeno exhales sharply through his nose, and then, in a blink, his fingers are at your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Answer my question.” His voice is low, firm, but there’s something else laced beneath it—something dangerous, something desperate. “You’re not stupid. You know exactly what I’m asking. Do I need to deal with Eric and Sunwoo?”

You’ve needed to deal with Eric and Sunwoo since day one, but you haven’t. You swallow the words down, pressing them deep into the pit of your stomach, forcing yourself to stay quiet. So now I am.

You shake your head, but your hands betray you, curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in instead of pushing him away. Your breath is unsteady, words barely forming as you whisper, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Jeno.” Your fingers tremble where they grip him, but you force the rest out, even as it rips through you. “All you can do is just go. Just—just leave me alone.”

His gaze drops, zeroing in on the way your fingers clutch at his hoodie, trembling, desperate, as if letting go would mean collapsing entirely. A slow exhale escapes him, deliberate, measured, his breath rolling over your skin like heat before a storm. He tilts his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, voice a rasped whisper soaked in something dark, something unrelenting. “You’re telling me to go,” he murmurs, his lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch, “but you’re the one who’s pulling me closer and closer.”

You are. God, you are. Even though you shouldn’t be. Even though every rational thought in your head is screaming at you to push him away, to stop this before it unravels completely. But it’s already too late. His scent is in your lungs, thick and heady, his heat pressing into you like a slow burn, consuming, inescapable. And then he’s touching you, his hands gliding over your sides, memorizing, owning, his palms dragging down the curve of your waist before gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes you shiver.

His thigh nudges between yours, pressing up, solid, unyielding, the friction sending a sharp pulse of heat through your body. You inhale sharply, but your hips betray you, rolling against him, instinctual, desperate. Jeno hums, low and satisfied, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls you closer, until there’s not a breath of space left between you. Until you’re trembling against him, overwhelmed, drowning in him.

"That’s it, baby," he whispers, his voice dark, dripping with something dangerous, something that coils hot and tight in your stomach. One hand skims lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging up over bare skin, up the delicate lines of your stomach, before dipping beneath the band of your panties. "I knew you’d let me touch you like this again. I knew you’d still be mine."

A broken moan spills from your lips as he cups you, fingers pressing against the slick heat between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. "Fuck," he exhales, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips brushing, featherlight. "You’re soaked for me. You always get so fucking wet for me, don’t you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just dips his fingers lower, dragging through your folds, spreading the wetness before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make you whimper. His pace quickens, fingers fucking into you, pushing you higher, his thumb circling your clit in tight, devastating strokes. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head tipping back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.

And then he does it—his lips brush against yours, featherlight, barely there. A tease. A question. He pulls back, his breath heavy, eyes flickering over your face before he does it again, pressing another soft, aching kiss to your lips, then pulling away just as quickly. Then again. And again. Slow, fleeting, like he’s relearning the shape of your mouth, like he’s savoring every stolen moment before you disappear again.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, wrecked. “Missed the way you taste.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his tongue flickering just barely against your bottom lip before he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

“You think you’re the only one?” The words slip out, broken, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, your lips grazing his with the movement. “I don’t know how to stop either.” It’s not a confession. It’s a curse. A wound torn open between you, raw and festering, because you shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be letting him hear it, shouldn’t be giving him even the smallest piece of the truth. But it’s too late. His breath stutters, his fingers digging into your waist, and the look in his eyes—God, the look in his eyes—tells you that you’ve just made everything worse.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, eyes drinking you in, memorizing every flicker of hesitation, every breath you take. And then—then he smiles. Soft. Just barely there. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way it does, shouldn’t make something fragile and aching unravel inside of you, but it does. Because it’s the first thing he’s been able to get out of you. The first crack in the walls you’ve built between you. And it makes his heart overflow with that tight feeling he always gets around you—the one that makes his ribs feel too small, his breath feel too shallow, like loving you has always been too big for him to contain.

Jeno hums low in his throat when he sees the tear slip down your cheek, his fingers twitching where they still frame your waist, like he’s holding himself back from reaching up to brush it away. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand, the movement reverent, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb drags gently across your cheek, catching the tear, warmth lingering where he touches, burning something deep into your skin. His palm lingers against the side of your face, his fingers curling around the curve of your jaw, holding you there—not forcing, just grounding. And God, you feel it, feel the quiet desperation woven into his touch, the way he’s still reaching for you even when you keep trying to slip through his fingers.

His other hand moves next, shifting from where it rests at your waist, slow, deliberate, until it finds yours. His fingers brush over your knuckles before curling between them, a silent question, an unspoken plea. He wants to go. He wants to take you with him. He wants to hold you all night long, wants to tangle himself into every inch of you, wants to make love to you until neither of you remember where your bodies end and where they begin. Until you forget the world outside of his arms. Until you remember that you belong there—that you have always belonged there.

But you hesitate.

His breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push, doesn’t beg. He just holds your hand in his, his grip steady, unwavering, like he’s waiting for you to come back to him on your own. Like no matter how long it takes, no matter how far you try to run, he’ll always be right here. He swallows hard, jaw tensing, something flickering behind his eyes—something softer than longing, heavier than love.

His voice is quieter when he finally speaks, but it’s steady, solid, like a promise carved into the earth itself. “I will always be there for you.” He shifts just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath fanning against your lips. “I will always protect you.” And you know—you know—that he means it. That there is no ocean too deep, no storm too violent, no darkness too consuming that he wouldn’t wade through for you. He would follow you anywhere. He would burn the world down for you. He would bleed for you, again and again and again, if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you his.

But you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself reach for him, can’t let yourself take his hand and let him pull you back into the place you want more than anything. So you stay still. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Because the moment you do, you know you’ll be his again. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be strong enough to leave twice. You shake your head. “I’m not going with you, Jeno.”

His jaw tightens. “Y/N.” It’s a warning, low and frayed at the edges, but there’s desperation threaded through it, too—desperation he can’t quite swallow down.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep the distance between you even as every part of you aches to close it. “You don’t get it. You can’t fix this, okay? This isn’t something you can fight your way through.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “You’ve let Eric and Sunwoo play you like a fool this whole time, and now you suddenly think you can handle them? You think any of this changes if I’m involved or not?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something deep, something determined. And then, softer, steadier, he says, “It does change. If you’re involved, it changes everything.”

Your breath stalls, fingers twitching at your sides. Because he believes it. He’s looking at you like this is all he needs to make sense of things, like this is what he’s been searching for—this explanation, this false puzzle piece that fits well enough to make him stop looking elsewhere. You can feel the calculation threading through your thoughts, trying to assess whether this is good, whether it benefits you that Jeno believes Eric and Sunwoo are the ones behind your behavior. If he stays focused on them, he won’t turn his suspicion elsewhere. He won’t suspect the truth. He won’t suspect his father. And you don’t know what kind of chaos would unravel if he ever did. All you know is that you need to protect him. You need to keep his future from falling apart. You need to make sure Jeno wanting you doesn’t cloud his judgment—doesn’t pull him down with you.

Jeno exhales, a slow, measured breath that barely masks the weight pressing on his chest. His fingers twitch where they hold you, like he’s trying to convince himself he still has some kind of grip on you—on whatever this is, whatever’s left. “Let’s just… let’s rest on this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, alright? Just come with me. We’ll sleep on it. That’s all I want.” His gaze softens, something unbearably raw in the way he looks at you, the way his thumb brushes lightly over your wrist. “I just want you in my bed, that’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

The tenderness in his voice wrecks you. It twists something sharp in your chest, something fragile, something you’ve spent weeks trying to keep buried. You try to shake your head, try to tell him no, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat, lost in the sob that chokes its way out instead. Your body betrays you—shaking, crumbling against him, unable to hold itself together any longer. And Jeno feels it. Feels you slipping through his fingers, slipping away, and it kills him. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he doesn’t know how to hold you without hurting you, without making things worse.

“Come with me,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer. “Please.” His voice trembles, just barely, but you hear it. You feel it. And it shatters you completely. You shake your head again, squeezing your eyes shut as another sob escapes, as you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to rebuild the walls that keep breaking every time he looks at you like this.

“I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s not just words—it’s everything. It’s sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the shape of you beside him that no longer exists. It’s the hollow ache in his chest that never quiets, the phantom weight of your hand in his, the way every room feels colder without you in it. It’s the cruel tricks his mind plays, catching glimpses of you in crowded hallways, in places you’ll never be again. He’s pleading now, voice shaking, unraveling at the seams, because you were never supposed to be someone he had to beg for. You were supposed to be his. But not anymore. And maybe that’s the worst part—you still feel like his, still fit against him like you belong there, but the moment you step away, the moment you say no, he’ll have to face the truth. That you were never his to lose, because you were already gone.

You force yourself to stand still, to breathe, to act like his presence doesn’t unravel you. Your pulse is a vicious, unsteady thing, beating against the walls of your throat, but you refuse to let it show. You can’t let it show. “You need to listen to me.” The words are sharp, cut from something jagged, something desperate, and you force them through your lips like they’re the only thing keeping you alive. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a pair of hands. Jeno watches you, eyes dark, waiting, searching, hoping. His breath is uneven, his body taut, and you can see the battle inside him—the part of him that still thinks he can fix this, the part of him that still believes in you. That’s the part you need to crush.

So you do. “I left you because I wanted to.”

It feels like swallowing glass. Like choking on a scream that will never come out. The lie slashes through you as it leaves your tongue, violent and unforgiving, poisoning the air between you. But you hold your ground, even as you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like something rotting, something unholy.

Jeno’s body goes rigid. His breath catches in his throat, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it, wasn’t expecting you to be able to force it out. His hands twitch at his sides, curling into fists like he wants to grab you, like he wants to shake you out of whatever fucking daze he thinks you’re in. But he doesn’t move.

And you can feel it—the shift. The moment something inside him breaks. “You’re lying,” he murmurs, but the confidence in his voice is cracking, splintering under the weight of what you’ve just done. His jaw clenches, his eyes burn into yours, searching for something, anything, that will tell him this isn’t real. That the way your body still reacts to him, the way your hands still tremble when you touch him, wasn’t just muscle memory. But you don’t give him that. You can’t.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before forcing the words out, each syllable like dragging barbed wire through your throat. “You need to stop this,” you whisper, voice cold, detached—a cruel echo of the person you used to be with him. “You keep looking for something that isn’t there. You need to let me go, Jeno.”

His breath hitches, sharp and shallow. The words hit their mark, sinking into him like blades, and for the first time, you see something flicker in his expression—something you never wanted to see. Acceptance. And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes your stomach lurch, makes your nails dig into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood. Because Jeno has always fought for you. Always. He has never given up on you.

When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, scraped raw like something vital has been carved out of him. “You didn’t even look me in the eyes when you left.” It isn’t an accusation, nor is it a plea—it’s something quieter, something fractured, something irreparable. His breath shudders as he steps closer, the space between you vanishing, his presence wrapping around you like a weight, like a tether that refuses to break. His voice dips lower, threading through the silence like a final thread unraveling. “Do it now, then.” The words are softer, but they carry the force of a knife pressing against a bruise, searching for pain. His gaze holds yours, steady despite the storm raging behind it. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“Because I fucking love you.” His voice is a wound torn open, raw and gaping, spilling everything he’s tried to hold back. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. It’s in my bones, in my blood, in every second of my goddamn day. I can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down—I don’t even fucking want to. You’re in my head, under my skin, in the way I breathe, in the way my body aches for something it can’t have anymore.” He drags a shaky hand down his face, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. “I love you so much I don’t know how to stop. You’re in me. Inside me. Like a fucking sickness, like something I can’t cure—I wake up with you in my lungs, go to sleep with you in my blood. I can’t escape it. I don’t want to escape it.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he can anymore. “I’m ready,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper, raw and desperate. “I’m ready to give you everything. All of me. My heart, my fucking name, everything. Just say the word. Just say you want me and I’m yours. I always have been.”

His voice wavers, thick with something too heavy to name. “But if you look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t love me—if you really fucking mean it—I’ll walk away. I’ll leave, and I won’t come back.” He steps closer, just enough that you can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the flicker of something breaking apart behind his eyes. His breath shudders, uneven, like he’s fighting against something that’s already overtaken him. His whole body is tense, like a wire pulled too tight, like if you so much as breathe wrong, he’ll snap. “Just say it.” His voice is quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”

The lights are blinding, the heat of the stage burning against your skin. You can hear the audience holding their breath, feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation thick in the air like smoke curling against your ribs. The final act is here, the moment you have to deliver your most convincing performance yet. And Jeno—Jeno is your scene partner, but he doesn’t know the script. He doesn’t know how this ends.

You step into your role, slip the mask over your face, paint your expression with precision. A detached calm, a forced indifference, a woman who is not breaking apart at the seams. A woman who is not in love with him. Because if you falter, if you let even the smallest sliver of truth bleed through the cracks, he’ll never believe it.

But he’s looking at you like he already knows. Like he’s reading between the lines, like he’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every unspoken confession you’ve ever had the misfortune of slipping. His jaw tightens, his breath shudders, but he waits. For you. For your answer.

And of course you love him. You love him like oxygen, like gravity, like something embedded into the marrow of your bones. It’s a love that has unraveled you, stripped you raw, built and broken you in equal measure. It is the kind of love that rewrites destinies, that turns men into myths, that should have been yours to keep. But this story was never meant to end in a happy ever after. The villain in your play has made sure of that.

The looming, ever-present shadow that has followed you since the beginning, orchestrating your downfall before you ever even knew you were falling. Taeyong was always there, waiting in the wings, watching. He let you believe you had control, let you believe you were safe, let you believe that loving Jeno could ever be something you were allowed to have. But now the final act has come, and if Jeno still believes you love him, it won’t end here. It won’t end at all.

So you do what you must. You prepare yourself for the lie that will end all lies.

Except—it isn’t a lie, not really.

Your hands tremble at your sides as you force yourself to meet his gaze, as you force yourself to stand tall, to deliver the line that will cut him from you forever. The words rise up in your throat like bile, sharp, acidic, burning as they take shape on your tongue. You inhale, steady yourself. And then you say it.

"I can't love you."

His face goes still, like the world has just cracked beneath his feet, like the foundation of everything he’s ever known has been torn out from under him. You watch it happen in real time—the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken, the way something inside him fractures so violently you swear you hear the sound of it breaking.

And you should stop there. You should let the curtain fall, let the weight of the tragedy settle, let the story end in silence, in a fate already sealed. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer, reckless in your own destruction, reckless in the way you give him one last thing to hold on to, only to rip it away. Close enough for him to feel it, the finality thick in the air between you. Close enough for him to see it—the death of something sacred, something neither of you were ready to lay to rest.

I can’t love you.

It’s a breath, barely a whisper, but it shatters like glass between you, cutting through whatever fragile thread was left holding this together. You see the moment it sinks in, the way his chest rises, the way his jaw locks. It’s perfect, this lie. A masterpiece of deception. Not a denial, not a rejection—just a slow, merciless killing. Because can’t is worse than don’t. Can’t is an inevitability, a cruel truth written into the script before either of you ever had a chance. And yet, it’s not even a lie, not really. You can’t love him, not like this, not when the love you carry for him is a weight too heavy to hold, a blade too sharp to keep grasping. Not when loving him means condemning him to a battle he doesn’t know he’s already losing.

The silence that follows is not just silence. It’s a graveyard. It’s a warzone after the dust has settled, a battlefield littered with things unsaid, with love left to rot in the ruins. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just watch as it sinks into him, as he absorbs it like a fatal wound, as the light in his eyes dims in a way that makes you want to take it back, take all of it back, until you remember why you can’t.

Jeno doesn’t fight. Not this time. Not anymore. But he wants to. God, he wants to. You can see it in the way his chest rises too sharply, in the way his lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again, like the words can’t find a way out. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, his breath coming uneven, and when his fingers twitch at his sides, you think—maybe. Maybe he’ll try one last time. Maybe he’ll see through you, push past the lies, break through the walls you’ve built just to keep him out.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, slow and shaky, and his eyes burn as he searches your face—one last time, one last desperate attempt to find something, anything, that proves this isn’t real. But all he finds is your silence. And when the first tear slips down his cheek, when his brows pinch together like something inside him is cracking wide open, your breath catches, because you’ve never seen Jeno cry before.

He blinks, another tear spilling, and then he shakes his head. “Fine.” His voice is wrecked, hoarse like it’s been torn straight from the rawest part of him. His jaw tightens, his lips barely moving as he forces the words out. “Fine. You fucking win.” You don’t know what he thinks he’s losing. Maybe he believes you’ve been playing a game all along. Maybe he truly thinks that this is what you wanted—to break him, to make him small, to watch him walk away like every moment between you was something disposable.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. But they’re different now. There’s no warmth, no fire, no fight left in them. Just something empty. Something hollow. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.

And then, without another word, he turns. And then, for the last time, he walks away.

And the moment he’s gone, something inside you gives out. The strength you clung to, the carefully constructed facade, it all shatters in an instant. Your legs give way, and you fall, knees hitting the floor before you even register the pain. A strangled sob tears from your throat, and then another, and then another, each one ripping through you with the force of a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Your hands clutch at nothing, nails digging into your skin, your clothes, the floor—desperate for something, anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the emptiness he left behind.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision, soaking into your skin. Your breath hitches, broken and uneven, gasping through the sobs that refuse to stop. You can’t stop. You don’t know how. It feels like you’re drowning, like you’re suffocating in the wreckage of what you just did. Your own voice sounds foreign to you—raw, desperate, cracked open beyond repair. You whisper his name once, twice, like a prayer, like a plea, but there is no answer. No arms wrapping around you, no voice murmuring reassurances against your temple. Just silence. Just the weight of your own grief pressing down on you, smothering, unbearable.

You did this. You were forced to do this.

The realization is a knife to your ribs, twisting deep, splitting you apart. The lie you forced past your lips echoes in your head, over and over, until you can’t hear anything else. Until it drowns out every other sound, until it becomes the only truth you know.

He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

Your body shakes violently, the sobs tearing through you without mercy. You curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your torso like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t. You are unraveling, thread by thread, falling apart into something unrecognizable. The pain is too much, too vast, swallowing you whole. It claws at your chest, burns through your veins, crushes you under its weight.

And yet, the world moves on. The night stretches on beyond the walls of this room, indifferent to the devastation inside it. Outside, cars still pass, people still laugh, lights still glow in the distance. But in here, inside you, everything has ended.

There is no applause. No curtain call. No second act. Only silence. Only the wreckage. Only you—standing there, staring at the space he used to fill, at the ghost of him lingering in the air, at the imprint of his warmth fading from your skin. The weight of it crashes into you all at once, an avalanche, a tidal wave, something vast and merciless that steals the breath from your lungs.

The stage is empty, the script unwritten—only the echo of his absence remains, carving its name into the ruins of you.

authors note — please don’t kill me guys. remember you have 40-50k more words to read to finish this part!! but please don’t send me an ask or message to ask when it will come up, it’s currently unwritten, i will work on it as soon as i can. also if you haven’t read my authors note at the start of the fic read it now please, it’s important.

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authors note —

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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