#her hair has like three different layers??

[rosiebbydoll]

The Right Time - Sukuna x Reader- Chp. 2

Chp. 1 - Chp. 2 - Chp. 3

summary: Your life was blissfully chaotic. Being a single mom and raising a daughter with a bigger attitude than yours was a challenge, but you love every second of it. You decided to move to the city to be closer to work. You’ve been at your new apartment for about three weeks now and everything has been great. Until, your annoyingly hot neighbor decided to open his mouth.

cw: female reader, modern au (no curses), 18+, enemies to friends to lovers, mechanic!sukuna x librarian!reader, slow burn, fluff, smut, crack, angst, toxicity, Sukuna is emotionally constipated, Nobora is readers daughter, Choso and Yuji are Sukuna’s nephews, Toji is a present father in this, LOTS of family fluff, (more tags will be added)

wc: 10k (woops)

chp warning: Toji & Sukuna pov, fluff, tension, angst, crack, sexual content, toxic traits (from reader & Sukuna), mentions of violence

a/n: we are starting this chapter off on the same day, just a different pov! there is also some lovely backstory and some more tension from our fav enemies (who are so in love).

Toji was one of the last parents to walk out of the school. He had lingered behind to discuss pickup arrangements with Nanami, and of course, to indulge in his usual flirting with the single moms – a habit that never failed to make you roll your eyes.

As he sauntered toward the exit, he caught sight of your car spinning out of the parking lot, the tires squealing against asphalt. His head cocked to the side, that familiar crease appearing between his brows. Literal seconds later, Sukuna's car tore out of the lot too, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Toji's shoulders tensed, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"Well shit," he muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the sunlight. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the growing unease as he made his way to his car.

With practiced movements born from years of habit, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros, giving it two sharp taps against his wrist before extracting a cigarette. The familiar click of his butane lighter offered a moment of comfort as he lit up, taking a long drag that filled his lungs with familiar warmth.

Toji had always been meticulous about keeping his different social circles separate – not because he was hiding anything, especially not from you, but because he understood that some personalities were like oil and water.

He decided to pretend that your hasty exits were mere coincidence, though his gut told him otherwise. His instincts, honed from years of reading people and situations, were rarely wrong, and right now, they were screaming that something had gone sideways.

Before she passed, his wife had made him promise to look out for you, her eyes fierce even in her final days, and it was a promise he took as seriously as breathing. You'd been his ride-or-die since high school, his A1 through everything. You were the kind of person who saw the best in everyone, sometimes to your own detriment.

Sukuna, on the other hand... well, he was an asshole, plain and simple. The kind of man who wore his reputation like armor, each sharp word and cold glare another layer of protection. He had a way of letting whatever the hell came to mind spill from his lips without filter or remorse. Cold and usually preferring solitude, he was also an extremely cocky bastard.

Sukuna blames it on his success- definitely not his good looks. His car shop downtown wasn't just a business – it was his legacy, built from the ground up with calloused hands and stubborn determination. The place practically breathed with his personality: organized chaos, raw talent, and an undercurrent of barely contained intensity. The air always smelled of motor oil, metal, and ambition, the walls lined with tools that gleamed like soldiers standing at attention.

He started working at the shop when he was 19, just another grease monkey with too much attitude and raw talent burning beneath his skin. The turning point came when his brother passed away. That was a loss that reshaped his entire world. His brother left behind not just two wide-eyed kids who looked too much like him, but a decent chunk of change from a life insurance policy.

Most guys that age would've blown it all on fast cars and faster women, but Sukuna had always been cut from different cloth. Without hesitation, he put most of it into savings accounts for the boys – his nephews were his brother's last gift to the world, and he'd be damned if they went without. The rest? Well, that went into buying the run-down shop from the old man he worked for, a crusty bastard who'd taught him everything he knew about cars and nothing about people.

Seven years later, and the place is barely recognizable. What was once a dying garage with more rust than customers is now one of the most respected shops in the city. The walls that used to leak now house state-of-the-art equipment, and the floors that were once stained with decades of oil now gleam under LED lights.

He's got some loyal employees who understand his moods better than he does. They can read his grunts and scowls like a second language. His customer base keeps growing despite (or maybe because of) his abrasive personality. Toji being one of his most frequent visitors, though that has more to do with how often he destroys his cars than actual loyalty.

His father still hovers on the periphery of their lives, a silent presence that's neither fully there nor completely gone. Like a ghost that refuses to fade away completely. The old man watches the boys when Sukuna needs it, their relationship better with the buffer of distance between them. It's not perfect – nothing in Sukuna's life ever is – but it works, held together with the same stubborn determination that keeps his vintage motorcycle running.

Now when Toji moved to the city after his wife passed, he didn't know many people. He left you in the town you both grew up in, and surprisingly, you didn't hold it against him. He needed a change, and you supported him effortlessly. Besides, the city wasn't too far, only about a thirty-minute drive. You had to drive there for work anyway. You believe it was fate that he lived in the city because that's where you met Nobora's dad. And no, it wasn't fate for you and him, but fate because now you have Nobora. You only visited on rare occasions though, the library and being a mom kept you pretty busy.

Lucky for Toji , fate was on his side too. Because he met Sukuna at the most inconvenient time.

A couple years ago now- on a random Tuesday night, he decided to go to the bar. Being a newly single dad was a lot for him, so he paid his fifteen year old neighbor to watch Megumi for the night.

He was going out to do... something. He didn't exactly know what yet. The weight of grief and responsibility had been crushing him, making every day feel like he was walking through quicksand. You knew he wasn't doing well. You tried to call as often as possible, checking in with that gentle persistence that had always been your way. But even with the frequent calls and check-ins, Toji was still lost, drowning in the silence of his empty house.

So, that's why he found himself sitting at a bar, drinking his little heart out. The bourbon burned going down, but it was better than feeling nothing at all. To his surprise, women started flocking to him. They circled like vultures, rubbing his shoulders, playing with his hair, whispering lewd suggestions in his ears. The attention was suffocating, making his skin crawl with discomfort.

This was weird. He hadn't flirted with another woman since his wife. His nerves were shot, body stiff as a board as he laughed awkwardly at their advances, feeling like he was under interrogation.

It wasn't their fault – these women with their practiced smiles and careful touches. He was just extremely rusty, trying desperately to avoid getting turned on since he hadn't been laid in a while. Not that he came here for that. Did he? No. He definitely wasn't ready for that. His wife had only been gone for six months, and the thought of being with someone else made his stomach churn.

Women kept approaching him throughout the night, each one blending into the next in a haze of perfume and bad pickup lines. Then suddenly, there was one who stood out – long dark brown hair, so dark it was almost black, with short eyebrows and dark brown eyes. For a split second, his heart stopped. But no, she could never be her. This woman's smile was too practiced, too sultry as she greeted him.

"You all by yourself, handsome?" she hummed, sipping something fruity and too sweet. Toji gave her a quick smirk, glancing around at his unwanted admirers.

"Wouldn't call this being alone," he muttered, already tired of the game.

"Oh, I see, so you brought them all here with you?" she giggles, leaning closer. Her perfume is too sweet, making his head spin or maybe that's the bourbon.

Toji gives her a smirk back, but his heart isn't in it. She's trouble walking in stilettos, the kind of beautiful that usually comes with a price tag. Sure, she's hot – all long legs and practiced seduction – but he doesn't need this right now. Not with Megumi waiting at home, not with his wife's photo still on his nightstand, not with the wedding ring still leaving a phantom weight on his finger.

He's not trying to be rude, but subtlety isn't working. Even with his coldest shoulder, she's persistent, determined to break through his defenses. She lays her head on his shoulder, manicured nails trailing across his chest in a way that should be arousing but just makes him feel hollow. The bourbon isn't buzzing the way he wants anymore, and now all he can think about is his wife.

Fuck.

"Listen, doll—" he starts, but she presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. The gesture is meant to be sexy, but it just pissed Toji off.

"Shhh, how about we go somewhere else, huh?" Her words slur together, her eyes heavy-lidded in a way that suggests she's had way too much to drink. The seductive act is slipping, revealing something desperate underneath.

Alright, I need to leave.

Toji pushes himself up from the barstool, carefully extracting himself from the drunk woman's grasp. She sways dangerously as he moves, and he has to steady her before she falls. "Don't go," she whines, clinging to his arm with surprising strength.

Christ. He's never wanted to hit a woman, but this is testing his patience. All he wants is to go home to Megumi, to the quiet of his apartment where he doesn't have to pretend to be okay.

"Yarozu." A deep voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts. The woman rolls her eyes and huffs, ignoring the man who called her name.

Toji's stomach twists. Great. This is probably her boyfriend or husband, coming to kick his ass for letting his girl drape herself all over him. He'd be pissed too in their position—

Oh fuck.

He definitely didn't come here to fight. Sure, he could probably win – he's handled worse – but he's too old to be throwing hands over some woman he doesn't even want. Hell, he doesn't even want to be here anymore.

Toji lets out an annoyed sigh, ready to explain himself before this turns ugly. But before he can speak, Yarozu is being pulled away from him. The guy is covered in tattoos, looking more annoyed than angry as he pries her off. "He isn't interested, Yarozu. Leave him alone."

Toji turns to leave, eager to escape this increasingly awkward situation, but the tattooed man calls out, "Hey, wait." His voice is gruff but carries no hostility. Toji stops, shoulders tensing. He really isn't in the mood for any petty relationship bullshit.

"Listen man, whatever this is—" Toji starts, but the guy cuts him off with a dismissive wave, his tattooed fingers catching the dim bar light.

"You’re not the first guy she's tried this shit with." He's still holding Yarozu back with one arm as she continues her drunken tirade, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his forearm. Despite her best efforts, he seems unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

A smirk plays at his lips as he holds out his free hand. "I'm Sukuna." Yarozu keeps grunting and grabbing at him, but he ignores her with practiced ease.

Toji raises a brow, studying the man before him. After a moment's hesitation, he shakes the offered hand, noting the firm grip and the calluses. Toji studies that tattooed man in front of him. He looks tired, even sad almost. Kinda like him. Toji’s sighs, “Fushiguro”.

Yarozu frowns at their interaction. "Sukuna, baby, why are you being like this?" She whines, her attention suddenly shifting as she tries to reach for him instead of Toji. Her mood swings from seductive to needy in an instant. "We were having fun..."

"No, you were having fun. This guy clearly wants nothing to do with your bullshit." Sukuna's tone is harsh but carries an undertone of practiced patience, like someone who's had this exact conversation too many times before.

He turns to Toji, and there's something like understanding in his eyes. "Let me get her home before she makes another scene. You wanna grab a drink after?"

Yarozu gasps dramatically, her perfectly lined lips forming an 'O' of indignation. "You're such an asshole!"

"C'mon, you need to get home." Sukuna rolls his eyes, already steering her toward the door with the expertise of someone who's done this too many times.

Twenty minutes later, Toji and Sukuna are sitting at a quieter bar down the street, the kind of place where the wood is actually aged and the whiskey doesn't taste like lighter fluid. The tension from earlier has dissolved into something more comfortable, both men recognizing a familiar kind of pain in each other's eyes.

"I can’t apologize for Yarozu," Sukuna says, sliding a whiskey toward Toji. His voice is gruff but sincere. "She gets like this when she drinks, tries to make me jealous or some shit. Usually ends up making some poor bastard uncomfortable instead." He traces the rim of his glass with a tattooed finger, the gesture almost nervous.

Toji appreciates the straightforward explanation. No bullshit, no drama – just facts. It's refreshing after months of people tiptoeing around him, treating him like he might break. "Sounds complicated."

"Nah. We fuck sometimes, that's it. The complicated part is when she forgets that's all it is." Sukuna takes a long sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim bar light. "Anyway, what brings a guy like you out alone on a Tuesday night? You don't strike me as the type looking for whatever the hell Yarozu was offering."

Something about Sukuna's blunt honesty makes Toji decide to return the favor. The words come easier than expected, maybe because this stranger doesn't look at him with pity. "Lost my wife six months ago. Got a kid at home. Thought maybe I needed to..." he pauses, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Hell, I don't even know what I needed."

Sukuna nods slowly, understanding flickering across his features. There's no sympathy in his eyes, just recognition. "Yeah, lost my brother last year. Left behind two boys. Been trying to figure that shit out myself." The admission hangs between them, heavy with shared understanding.

They spend the next few hours talking about everything and nothing – cars, work, the general mess that is life. The conversation flows naturally, neither man feeling the need to fill silences with empty words.

The next morning, when Yarozu texts Sukuna her usual post-drama apology, he just sends back a quick 'whatever' and saves Toji's number in his phone.

Toji chuckles at the memory and finally pulls his Camaro into his reserved spot at the front of the complex. The familiar rumble of the engine dies as he shifts into park, his mind still replaying both the past and this morning's events. He's got a stack of maintenance requests to handle today. He lets out another sigh. Just another day of being a landlord. But it’s better than what he use to do.

The stack of maintenance requests on his desk seems to multiply every time he looks away. Being a landlord isn't exactly what he'd pictured for himself, but there's something satisfying about fixing things, about making people's lives a little better one repair at a time. The flexible schedule works well with his life, letting him balance work with being there for Megumi and the other responsibilities that come with single parenthood.

And now for Nobora and you too. He promised to pick up both kids at five to give you some extra time at work. Though if he's being honest, he thinks you're pushing yourself too hard lately. But telling you to slow down is like talking to a brick wall.

Toji settles into his office chair, the leather creaking familiarly beneath him. The morning sun streams through the blinds, casting striped shadows across his desk. He pulls up his maintenance scheduling app, trying to organize his day efficiently. Between the AC unit, the washing machine, and whatever new crisis Yamamoto's faucet presents, it's going to be a full day. Toji likes it that way. He likes to focus and work, helps the time go by and doesn’t let his mind wander.

He goes on about his day trying to finish every request he scheduled. Of course, tenants stop and talk to him, some even flirt. It’s nice to feel a since of pride to help others. He thinks his wife would be proud of him. He’s pretty lost without her. And without you? He might’ve been dead by now.

He starts to walk back to his office with his last job of the day finished. His phone buzzes – a text from you. It’s a voice memo. He raises a brow because usually when you do that you’re ranting. You claim it’s easier than texting fifty paragraphs. Toji presses play and he immediately lets out a sigh.

You start off with yelling at him for being “a piss poor land-lord” and continue with how he has some tenants who he should have never let move in here. You finally get to the point and explain why all happened with Sukuna. And you don’t miss a beat, you explain everything. From the porno you heard last night all the way up to you calling him “limp dick” and flipping him off.

Well fuck. Toji was right. He would love to revel in the satisfaction of it all, but he just knew that something bad would happen if you two ever met. You’re polar fucking opposites. And now you’re neighbors. Which is his own fault because he should have payed attention to that. How the hell did he miss that? Either way it’s done and over with now, but man is he proud of you. In high school you were picked on a lot (by Toji mostly) but you developed a thick skin and don’t take peoples shit. He’s damn proud. And Sukuna deserves every bit of it.

Toji quickly sends back a message apologizing and saying, “We can talk about it later”.

He leans back in his chair and lets his body stretch for a moment before checking the time again. He had about an hour left before he had to get the kids. He was finished with his work for the day and was bored.

So, he grabs his keys, deciding to head out early. He could swing by Sukuna's shop, maybe give him shit about this morning's encounter. Besides you, Sukuna is his closest friend, though neither of them would ever admit how much they actually enjoy each other's company. Some things are better left unspoken.

The familiar rumble of Toji's Camaro engine dies as he pulls into Sukuna's shop. The place is busy as usual – the sound of power tools and classic rock music spilling out from the open garage doors. He spots Sukuna's distinctive figure bent over the engine of a sleek black Mercedes, tattoos visible under his rolled-up sleeves.

"Yo," Toji calls out, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Heard you got your ass handed to you this morning."

Sukuna doesn't even look up from the engine. "Fuck off."

"No, no, please – tell me more about how my 'type' threatened to get you evicted." Toji leans against a nearby workbench, thoroughly enjoying this moment. "Actually, what was it she called you? Limp-dick?"

That gets Sukuna's attention. He straightens up, wiping his hands on a shop rag. "She made sure to tell ya, huh?” He chuckles.

"Course she did. We're fucking, remember?" Toji's voice drips with sarcasm. "You’re real good at talkn’ to women ya know?”

Sukuna throws the rag at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "Get outta my shop, Fushiguro"

"What? Ya mad?." Toji catches the rag easily. “You know, for someone who deals with Yarozu's drama, you sure are quick to judge other people's relationships."

Sukuna's jaw tightens at the mention of Yarozu. "Speaking of – she stopped by earlier." He stares at the ground intensely with his brows furrowed.

"Oh?" Toji raises an eyebrow, recognizing that tone. "How'd that go?"

"About as well as everything else today." Sukuna moves to the mini-fridge in the corner, pulling out two beers. He tosses one to Toji. "She wants more. I don't. Same shit, different day."

"Maybe if you stopped sleeping with her..." Toji suggests, cracking open his beer.

"Maybe if you minded your own business..." Sukuna mimics his tone, taking a long drink.

“I know you aint talking” Toji huffs and starts to down his beer, but immediately remembers he has to pick up the kids and sits the beer down. You would kill him if you knew he sipped on a beer before he picked up your daughter.

They fall into a comfortable silence, the garage's ambient noise filling the space between them. Sukuna fidgets with his beer label, peeling it back methodically, clearly wrestling with something behind those crimson eyes.

"So, she’s the ‘good’ friend you always talk about," he finally says, not meeting Toji's gaze, his voice unusually hesitant. "Why’d ya keep her hidden all these years?”

Toji snorts, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Look what the fuck happened when you did meet, dumbass.”

Sukuna tries to hold in a laugh and shakes his head. “Never been the best at talking with women.”

Toji rolls his eyes, “Bullshit. You’re just an asshole.” Sukuna can’t argue with that. He also knows he fucked up. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you all day, it’s been pissing him off.

He takes another drink, his expression thoughtful, almost distant. "She's something else."

"Don't," Toji warns, his tone shifting from playful to serious. "She's not another Yarozu."

"Wasn't gonna do anything, fuck head," Sukuna says too quickly

"Yeah, okay." Toji stands, checking his watch. The afternoon light catches on its scratched face. "Gotta go pick up the kids. Try not to piss off any more single moms today."

"Fuck you," Sukuna calls after him, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice.

As Toji heads back to his car, he can't help but wonder if he should be worried. He knows that look in Sukuna's eyes – it's the same one he gets before doing something incredibly stupid or incredibly bold. He decides to ignore it. Sukuna is a stubborn asshole, so he probably isn’t going to listen to Toji (not a surprise at all). He bites the inside of his cheek and starts his car to head over to pick up the kids.

His phone buzzes (again) as he's pulling into the school parking lot, the screen lighting up with your name. The text reads: "Hey, since you're picking up the kids, just take them to my place. I left snacks in the pantry. I'll be home around 7."

Toji sends back a quick "Got it" before parking under the sprawling oak tree, its leaves casting dappled shadows across his windshield. The late afternoon sun bathes the playground in golden light, where a handful of kids are still running around, their laughter carrying across the empty lot.

His phone buzzes (again) with another text from you: "I ordered pizza for dinner. Should be there around 6:30. And please make sure they do their homework before the movie."

"Yes ma'am," he texts back, unable to suppress his amused smile. You always think of everything, planning three steps ahead.

"Don't 'yes ma'am' me, you ass", comes your quick reply, making him chuckle.

The school bell rings, its sharp peal cutting through the afternoon quiet. Kids pour out of the building like water from a broken dam, their excited voices filling the air.

Toji spots Megumi and Nobora immediately – they're impossible to miss, always gravitating toward each other like magnets. Megumi wears his usual serious expression, the one that makes him look too old for his years, while Nobora bounces alongside him, talking a mile a minute with wild hand gestures that paint stories in the air.

"Dad!" Megumi calls out, his face lighting up like a sunrise as he spots Toji. The rare smile transforms his entire face.

"Uncle Toji! Uncle Toji!" Nobora shouts, her backpack bouncing with each excited jump. "Look what I made today!" She's already digging through her bag, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper covered in vibrant colors and imagination.

Toji kneels down to their level, accepting the artwork. "Wow, is that a... butterfly?" He truly doesn’t know what the fuck he is looking at. He has several drawings in his office and at home designed by the artist Nobora, but he cannot tell you what any of them are.

"No silly!" Nobora puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes because it should be obvious of what she created. "It's me and Megumi and you and Mommy at the park!"

"And there's the swings," Megumi adds seriously, pointing to some wobbly lines in the corner with the precision of a museum curator. "Mr. Nanami said we did good coloring in the lines today."

"Yeah? That's awesome," Toji says, helping them both into their car seats with practiced ease. Toji and you both have two in your cars now because it’s easier than transporting the heavy fucking things every other day.

As they all get settled in the car Toji turns on the radio and the kids start humming to the songs. They don’t really know the words, but they are trying their best. This is when Toji feels at peace. Megumi will never know how much he means to Toji, and Nobora is a pretty good bonus daughter.

"We're heading to your place today, Nobora,” Toji says as he turns onto the exit.

"Really?" Nobora claps her hands, her excitement infectious. "Megumi! We can play with my new stuffed animals! We can have a tea party!” It seems she had already forgotten about the Gameboy disaster.

Megumi nods quietly, a small smile playing on his lips like a secret.

"Uncle Toji, you have to play too!" Nobora shouts as she kicks her feet in excitement.

"Oh yeah?" Toji chuckles, turning into the parking garage. “Am I the special guest?” Toji smirks back at them. The kids look at eachother and then frown. "No!" both kids shout in unison, dissolving into giggles that fill the car with pure joy. He gives a fake pout and holds onto his heart like the kids just shot him. They start to giggle and say he can sit by them. He chuckles and turns the car off and begins to unbuckle himself.

The kids are still yapping and Toji shakes his head, grinning as he helps them out of their car seats. They do not shut up as the walk up the stairs. Discussing on which stuff animals are invited to the tea party and who would be sitting by who. It is obviously very important. Nobora is sure to tell Toji he has a spot right next to her.

While the kids and Toji settle in at the apartment, you were still busy at work. You made it your mission to distract yourself. After that stupid fucking asshole- no we are not gonna think about him right now. You got caught up on returns and organizing many books, as well as cataloging. It was a pretty productive day. Except Ino noticed you were off from the moment you stepped in.

You both usually chat about anything and everything, but today you were barely ever seen. He overthinks the entire thing and thought you were mad at him. So, around seven, right before you left he decided to be brave and see what the hell was wrong with you.

“Do you hate me?” Ino asks as he slowly leans over your desk.

You stop typing and look up at him, “What are you talking about?”

Ino immediately leans over on your shoulder and pretends to cry, “Oh! Finally she speaks to me! I thought you decided to hate me forever since you have barely spoken to me.”

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. “Ino you’re being dramatic. I just had some stuff to do today.”

He frowns, “You eat lunch with me everyday.” He leans in even closer to you, “I don’t even think you at lunch today.”

You dead pan at him and shove him away. “I was busy. I’m fine.” You watch as Ino pouts and he literally looks like he is about to cry.

With an exaggerated sigh you give him a soft smile and hold out your arms to hug him. He immediately accepts and bear hugs you- almost making your chair fall over.

“Look, I’m tired and I wanna go be with my kid, but I’ll explain everything later, okay?” You smile at him and he gives you a nod.

You both walk to exit, making sure every light is turned off and every door is locked. “I’m expecting a full debrief over coffee,” Ino states as you walk to your car.

You give him a wave goodbye, “It’s a date.”

You had a silent drive home. It was actually pretty relaxing. You didn’t even think of he who shall not be named. All you wanted to do was go home and see Nobora. You made sure to have a career, you didn’t want motherhood to stop you from that. But now you feel like you’re missing out. Nobora is getting at the age where she realizes you’re gone. You sigh at the thought and slowly pull into your parking spot.

The apartment stairs have never felt longer, each step a small mountain to climb after your exhausting day. Your feet drag slightly against the worn tile as you make your way up, already imagining the cheerful chaos that awaits in your apartment – Nobora and Megumi probably turned your living room into their latest pretend restaurant, with Toji enabling their every whim like the softie he pretends not to be.

You hear voices before you reach your floor, and your stomach drops when you recognize one of them. Of course. Because this day just needs one more encounter with your hot annoying dickhead of a neighbor. Stop thinking about him.

As you round the corner, you see them – Sukuna's holding a sleeping Yuji, the boy's pink hair tousled against his father's shoulder. Behind him, Choso struggles with several grocery bags, trying to act grown up by carrying more than he probably should, his small face scrunched with determination.

Your steps falter for just a moment, but you quickly steel yourself. No. You're not doing this again. Not today. Without missing a beat, you continue up the stairs, eyes fixed straight ahead as if they're invisible, as if the air they occupy is just empty space. You can feel Sukuna's gaze on you like a physical touch, but you don't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Yuji makes a small snuffling noise and burrows deeper into Sukuna's shoulder. Despite your resolve not to look, you catch a glimpse of his peaceful face, pink lashes fluttering against round cheeks. The sight tugs at something in your chest – damn kids, making it hard to maintain your righteous anger.

"Miss—" Choso starts to say in his child-like voice, innocent and sweet, but Sukuna cuts him off with a sharp look that could slice steel.

You're already unlocking your door, pretending you didn't hear anything, the keys jingling in your slightly trembling hands. The last thing you catch before slipping inside is Choso's confused whisper, "I thought you said she was mean and loud?"

You pause in your tracks and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt. Do not give him the time of day. Do not let him see he's gotten under your skin. The keys jingle as you open the door and it clicks shut behind you with finality, cutting off whatever Sukuna's response might have been. You lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.

The apartment is surprisingly quiet when you walk in. No chaos, no pretend restaurant, just the soft glow of the TV playing some cartoon on mute, its colors dancing across the walls. You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and slip off your shoes, padding quietly into the living room in sock-covered feet.

The sight that greets you makes your heart melt. Toji's sprawled on your couch, his long legs hanging off the end because he's too tall for normal furniture. Nobora and Megumi are curled up against him, both fast asleep in the way only children can manage. Your daughter's got her favorite unicorn plushie clutched to her chest like a lifeline, while Megumi's using Toji's arm as a pillow.

Their homework is spread across the coffee table, completed and ready for tomorrow, pencils and erasers scattered like evidence of their diligence. The sight makes your heart swell. Never in your life would you imagine Toji of all people being such a good dad. You know his wife is so proud and so are you.

Toji slowly looks up and nods his head. "They crashed about twenty minutes ago," Toji whispers, his voice barely a breath in the quiet room, careful not to wake them. "Pizza's in the kitchen. They insisted on waiting for you, but..." he gestures to their sleeping forms with his free arm, a soft smile playing at his lips.

You smile, taking in the peaceful scene before you. Empty juice boxes and half-eaten pizza crusts litter the coffee table, evidence of their earlier feast. There's a stack of drawings too – probably their latest masterpieces they'll want to show you in the morning, full of bright colors and impossible stories.

"Thanks for watching her," you whisper back, grabbing the throw blanket from the armchair and gently draping it over the kids. The soft fabric settles around them like a protective cloud.

Toji just nods, that soft look in his eyes he only gets around the children. It's moments like these that remind you why he's your best friend, why you trust him with everything. He's grown so much from the troublemaker you knew in high school, transformed by love and loss into someone steady and true.

You carefully scoop Nobora up, her little arms automatically wrapping around your neck even in sleep, muscle memory stronger than dreams. Her plushie dangles precariously from her hand as you balance her weight against your chest.

"I got it," Toji whispers, gently taking the plushie before it can fall. He shifts Megumi onto the couch with the care of someone handling precious china, making sure not to wake him as he gets up to follow you.

You carry Nobora to her room, her warm breath steady against your neck. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling cast a soft light as Toji helps pull back her covers. You lay her down gently, and she immediately curls onto her side. Toji tucks the unicorn plushie into her arms, and you both watch as she hugs it close, lost in whatever sweet dreams fill her mind.

Back in the living room, Toji's already gathering his and Megumi's things, movements quiet and practiced. "I should get him home," he whispers, carefully lifting his sleeping son. "You good?"

You nod, following them to the door. "Thanks again for today. Sorry about the whole... neighbor situation." The words taste bitter in your mouth.

Toji shifts Megumi in his arms, a knowing look in his eyes that sees right through you. "Don't apologize. Man needed to be knocked down a peg."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Night, Toji."

"Night," he replies softly, and you watch as he carries Megumi down the hall, disappearing around the corner. Their footsteps fade away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the quiet of your apartment.

You're too exhausted to even think about the cold pizza waiting in the kitchen. After a quick change into your favorite oversized t-shirt, you collapse onto your bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. The events of the day weigh heavy on your limbs, and your last coherent thought before drifting off is hoping tomorrow brings less drama than today.

Just on the other side of your walls is Sukuna pacing in his living room, wearing tracks in the carpet as he moves like a caged tiger. He's unable to shake the image of you deliberately ignoring him in the hallway, the way you looked right through him as if he were made of glass.

Your complete dismissal burns more than your earlier insults, and he can't figure out why it bothers him so much. He's used to people either fearing him or wanting something from him - this blatant disregard is new territory, and it's getting under his skin like an itch he can't scratch.

"Uncle Sukuna?" Choso's voice breaks through his brooding. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, homework spread around him like a paper nest. "Is that lady really mean?"

Sukuna stops pacing, looking at his nephew. Yuji's already asleep in his room, worn out from their grocery run, but Choso's still up, his innocent question hanging in the air. "No, kid. She's not mean." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Your uncle's just a fu—" he catches himself mid-word, eyes widening as he realizes what he almost said.

"You almost said a bad word," Choso points out seriously, his face stern in a way that makes him look like a miniature teacher. "That's fifty yen in the swear jar."

Sukuna snorts but dutifully pulls out his wallet. He stares at the jar for a moment, irritated at himself more than anything else. What the hell is wrong with him? One encounter with some mouthy woman and he's acting like... he doesn't even know what.

The reflection in the window shows a man who looks pissed off, unsettled, and – worst of all – intrigued. No. Absolutely not. He's not doing this. He's got enough complications in his life without adding another one, especially not one that lives next door and has already made it clear she thinks he's trash.

“Shit.” He mutters and is already aggressively shoving another fifty yen into the jar.

Your encounter with Sukuna on Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week. You make it your mission to avoid him while making sure he knows exactly what you're doing – a delicate balance of deliberate ignorance and pointed awareness.

You'd purposely talk to the boys, your voice warm and kind, and then make sure to not make any eye contact with him, as if he's nothing more than a shadow on the wall. The first day didn't seem to bother him. But by Thursday, you can practically feel the frustration radiating off him in waves.

Toji did manage to make him feel bad - which is a rare feat indeed. So, Sukuna tells himself he wants to apologize because you're neighbors after all. He didn't know how long he planned to stay at this apartment, and he didn't want to have to deal with you blatantly ignoring him. Well, that was the excuse he was giving himself for why he wanted to apologize. Or he could say Toji made him. Neither excuse feels quite true, but he's not ready to examine why.

He couldn't stop thinking about you. And that pissed him off even more. He’d rather have you call him “limp divk” for the rest of his days, as long as you were acknowledging his fucking presence. But no, you wanted to play your petty games. That's fine, he decides. If you wanted to play, he would play. The game is on, even if he's not sure what the prize is supposed to be.

Ignoring him made you feel powerful, a small victory in each deliberate non-acknowledgment. Hell, you wanted to cuss him out every time you laid eyes on him. It infuriated you how much his presence annoyed you. It annoyed you even more that his mere existence caused unwanted butterflies in your stomach. So, ignoring him and being deliberately cold was the only option that made sense.

The week drags on, your strategy of avoidance complicated by the fact that Choso and Yuji have become instant best friends with Nobora. You'd figured after the gameboy incident she'd be hesitant about being their friends. But to your disbelief, she's more than friendly and has been begging for them to come over all week. The kids' innocent friendship makes your cold war with their uncle even more complicated.

Now it's Friday. Nobora's with her dad, giving you a rare evening to yourself. Work was fine, though Ino spent most of the day talking about this new girl he's obsessed with. You're actually very happy for him. You hired him about two years ago and have watched him grow into his role. He's basically your little brother at this point. But it's hard not to feel a twinge of something as everyone around you seems to be finding connection.

Jealous wouldn’t be the right answer. You want to see the people you care about fall in love and be happy. It’s just been awhile. So, here you are sitting in the middle of your bed reading the directions to the shiny new vibrator you bought after work. It was kinda risky going into a sex shop, but like we already addressed. You’re desperate. It’s time to release some tension.

You’re now kneeling in the middle of your bed as you are reading the directions on how to charge the new toy. You have a draw full of them , but you wanted to treat yourself. This week was awful and spending a little bit of cash so you could have a mind blowing orgasm was exactly the right move. One point for retail therapy.

You treated this moment like a sacred ritual. The everything shower - exfoliating, shaving, moisturizing. Your baby blue pajama top buttoned just so, with cheeky underwear that wouldn't stay on for long. Chinese food waited in the microwave, a reward for later. Everything was perfectly planned for a night of self-care and release.

Settling onto the bed, you scrolled through your phone, finding a particularly steamy chapter in your latest book. Your underwear slipped off, forgotten in the blankets. The bright red toy buzzed to life, its vibration sending a tingle through your hand.

As you pressed it against your sensitive clit, your back arched immediately. Sensitive as hell. It had been so long since you'd truly enjoyed a moment like this. Your mind began to drift, seeking escape, seeking pleasure.

Your breath became heavy, eyes rolling back as you let yourself slip into complete bliss. The slick slowly dripped down, each sensation a reminder of how long it had been. Oh, how you needed this. Especially after that stupid fucking asshole who ruined your week.

That stupid fucking asshole who is your neighbor. That hot fucking asshole who smells amazing and looks like a god. That stupid fucking neighbor who you heard last night fucking the shit out of god knows who. Only you can imagine how he fucks. How he’d rut into your into you so good making you scream his name-

"Mph! Suku- fuck,"

You freeze as you hear the similar noise that kept you awake a few nights ago.

Oh fuck no.

While you were trying to pleasure yourself. Sukuna decided to answer Yarozus message and gave no time to get down to business once she got here. She was here for one reason tonight and that was to piss you off. Yeah you were fucking hot as you told him off, but you’re not gonna fucking ignore him and threaten to kick him out.

So here he is, slamming his hips into Yarozu as hard as he can while her face is pushed deep down into the mattress. He made sure he positioned his bed right against the wall too. He slaps and pulls on yarozu to get every little noise out of her. And she loves it.

Although, Sukuna isn’t really thinking about her. He never really does. But he is thinking about you. The fucking random ass woman who he just so happened to piss off. The random ass woman who is actually stunning and he can’t get her out of his head. But this woman pissed him off to no end, so here he is trying to piss you off.

You lie there in shock for a moment and listen. You can hear everything. Every slap, every breath, and squelch. And just like the color of your new toy, you see red. This motherfucker. Normally, you’d ignore it. But this is a declaration of war.

You sit up and pull your underwear back up. The toy gets placed on your night stand and you roll off the bed. With a huff and a deep swallow you walk over to the wall. Without even placing your ear next to it you can hear what’s happening as clear as day. So, without any hesitation you start banging on the wall. Not only that, you start moaning as loud as you could.

Yes, this is childish. You know it is, you would never want your daughter to act this way. However, you simply have forgotten to give a shit when it comes to this man. Within the past five days of knowing him he has awoken a beast inside of you that you have tried to keep tame for some time. And you are letting it run free.

Sukuna thinks he’s hallucinating. There’s no fucking way she’s doing this, right? At first he ignores it, well tried to. The banging on the wall gets louder and the moans coming from your mouth sound angelic, almost real. It’s hard to focus.

Yarozu finally lifts her head and looks back at Sukuna in confusion. The banging continues and your moans get louder. Suddenly a framed picture on the wall falls and barely misses yarozus head.

Yarozu gasps and Sukuna holds back a laugh. he pulls out of her and sighs, quickly puts on his grey sweats and heads right toward the door. You’re too busy banging on the walls to realize they have stopped and you suddenly hear a knock on the door.

The smirk on your face is devilish. You trot towards your door and open it. There is your asshole neighbor in only grey sweats and he’s glistening with sweat. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d ask him to come inside and finish the job.

“Can I help you?” You say sweetly and bat your eyelashes at him.

Sukuna holds a groan in his throat has he checks you out. You’re only in some underwear and a pajama top, which shows everything. He can see every beautiful curve you were blessed with. He can’t help but notice the way your hair drapes perfectly framing your face. The way your brow furrows and nose crinkles as you look at him in disgust-

Focus Ryomen.

He lets out a sigh and leans down, “What the fuck Is your problem?”

He’s so close as he speaks. You raise a brow and step closer to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” Suddenly a girl steps out behind him wearing a shirt that is way too big for her

“Sukuna, baby who’s that?” She purrs and reaches for his shoulder and he swats her hand. She just rolls her eyes and stands to the side.

Your blood boils as you stare daggers into him. His look is just as bad. His red ruby eyes melts into yours. You swallow thickly and clench your fists. “Keep it down or I’m calling Toji”

Sukuna scoffs and rolls his eyes. “He ain’t gonna do shit, baby,” he says in a mocking tone. Your eye twitches as you hear that stupid pet name.

As you glare into his crimson eyes, you feel a shadow creeping behind you and turn. Toji appears up the stairs with a pack of beers. His eyes immediately dart to you and shock covers his face.

Fuck, he definitely came here to drink with Sukuna didn’t he?

You’re starting to put two and two together. They for sure know eachother. There is no doubt about that. You didn’t think that they were that good of friends. Hell, he never really talked about him. You then feel helpless. Toji isn’t going to kick him out. You don’t even want him kicked out, he has two kids to raise. Just like you.

The tears swell up in your eyes as Toji walks closer and tries to brush the tears out of your face. “Hey pretty what’s-“ you swat his hand away and turn to the door, pulling your shirt down with one hand and cover your tits with the other arm.

“Fuck off toji.” You say coldly and hurry to shut the door. You make sure to lock every lock and dart to the bathroom, tears streaming down your face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sukuna watches with a blank face and Yarozu stands behind him, twirling her hair. “Hey Toji,” she smirks.

Toji quickly nods his head and heads into Sukuna’s place. Sukuna lets out a sigh and follows him.

Yarozu begins to step but Sukuna stops, “Go home Yarozu.” She pouts, but he doesn’t turn around to see her. She simply sighs, grabs her purse and heads back out. In only his shirt and her underwear.

Sukuna shuts his door and locks it. Just like you did. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “She left her clothes.” Toji says and his eyes dart toward the clothes thrown around the living room.

Sukuna huffs and walks over to the clothes, picks them up and tosses them off the balcony. Toji watches, his eyes widen a bit, but that’s honestly not surprising when it comes to those two.

He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head, “You don’t even like her, why the fuck do you-“. Sukuna cuts him off by grabbing a beer from him and flipping him off. Toji flips him off right back and smirks.

It’s gets silent for a long moment and Toji watches Sukuna as he twiddles his thumbs and sips his beer.

"Want to tell me what the fuck that was?" Toji asks, his voice low.

Sukuna drops onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. "Not really," he mutters.

Toji raises an eyebrow. "She's my best friend," he says, a warning implicit in his tone.

"I know," Sukuna responds, taking a long drink. "Believe me, I know."

"She's not just some random woman," Toji says, his voice carrying a protective edge. "She's been through enough."

Sukuna says nothing, which speaks volumes.

"I'm serious," Toji continues. "Whatever game you're playing, stop."

“Who says I'm playing a game?" Sukuna responds, but there's no conviction in his voice.

They both let out a sigh and stare up at the ceiling. Letting the silence consume them.

In your bathroom, you lie on the floor, tears streaming down your face. The cool tile against your back provides little comfort. Your mind races - everything blends into a chaotic emotional storm.

You're not crying from sadness. No, these are tears of pure frustration. Anger at Sukuna, at the situation, at yourself for being so affected by this stranger who seems determined to get under your skin.

You glance over to the vibrator as it lies forgotten on the nightstand, your evening of planned relaxation completely derailed. It truly feels like nothing ever goes to plan. And this fucking asshole is making sure of it.

With a defeated sigh you slowly sit up a wipe the tears from your face. You’re about to reach for your face wash when you feel a vibration on the bathroom counter. It’s Ino?

The call came unexpectedly. Ino's excited voice filled the phone, talking a mile a minute about a group night out. "Come on!" he insisted. "Me, my girlfriend, Nanami, and his fiancée. We need you there!"

You were hesitant. Group outings typically meant navigating potential awkwardness - endless small talk and the looming possibility of feeling like the perpetual single friend. But Ino's enthusiasm was infectious, his excitement bleeding through the phone in a way that made resistance futile.

Your outfit came together quickly. A black mini skirt that hit a little above the knee, paired with a tight white t-shirt that hinted at confidence without trying too hard. You added black tights underneath, chunky lace-up boots that could handle a night of dancing, topped with a well-worn jean jacket.

You took extra care removing the day's remnants - brushing out your hair, ensuring any trace of earlier tears was completely erased. This wasn't about looking perfect. This was about survival, about drinking away the stress that had been building for weeks.

The evening passed in a beautiful blur of music, laughter, and strategically consumed alcohol. Nanami's fiancé was stunning - the kind of gorgeous that made you simultaneously admire and slightly resent her effortless beauty. Ino's girlfriend, was a revelation - hilarious, the type of person who made friendship feel instantaneous.

You danced with strangers, laughed without reservation, drank far more than any responsible adult should. Karaoke became an adventure - you were pretty sure you sang something, though the exact song had dissolved into the night's liquid memories. The music, the drinks, the company - everything blended into a perfect escape.

The guys could tell something was wrong. You never go out. Ino told Nanami he’s been worried about you all week. You still have yet to tell him what the hell is going on. But they are happy to see you having fun. You deserve it.

Around 1 A.M., Nanami - ever the responsible one - called you an Uber, his quiet concern a counterpoint to the night's wild energy.

You said goodbye with dramatic kisses on cheeks and tight hugs. Ino has you on his Life 360 (he’s nosey and you didn’t say no when he asked) so he plans to watch it to make sure you get home. The ride home was a blur of streetlights and half-remembered conversations, the city sliding past your window like a watercolor painting.

You slowly stumble up the stairs, making sure you don't trip. The hallway seems to sway slightly as you try to keep your eyes open. You keep humming whatever song they were playing at karaoke - something pop, maybe? The memory is fuzzy, blurred by alcohol and laughter.

Finally reaching your door, you thimble around your handbag for your keys. They slip from your fingers, clattering to the ground. "Shit," you mumble, giggling as you bend to retrieve them. The lock seems particularly challenging tonight, your coordination reduced to a comedic struggle.

Unbeknownst to you, Toji and Sukuna are watching your entire performance. Toji was just about to leave, and Sukuna was seeing him out when your drunken arrival caught their attention.

In your current state, you might normally be mortified. Instead, you look up and see them staring. Your response? A defiant middle finger.

Toji frowns and sighs, a mixture of concern and exasperation. Sukuna, however, can't help but chuckle. "Hey there, drunky," he calls out, his voice a low rumble that makes you shiver despite your irritation.

The door finally opens with a triumphant "Ha!" from you.

"Need any help?" Toji asks, stepping forward.

You look up, still fumbling through your bag for your phone, and raise a challenging eyebrow. "Oh, now you're asking if I need help?" The sass is sharp, cutting through your alcohol-induced haze.

"Pretty calm-" Toji begins.

"Don't call me that," you interrupt, folding your arms and shooting a glare that could freeze fire.

Sukuna can't resist adding fuel to the fire. "Don't piss drunky off, Toji!" he shouts, his laughter echoing in the hallway.

Toji tries again, reaching to fix your disheveled hair. "Pretty, c'mon now-"

"No, Toji," you cut him off, your words slightly slurred but no less venomous. "Go suck his dick or something. I'm mad at you."

Toji rolls his eyes. You were pissed. He hasn’t seen you this mad since you found out you were pregnant (a story for another day).

Sukuna, never one to miss an opportunity, smirks. "Not really interested in him, but you can come over if ya want."

You glare back, and he winks. In his mind, you're beautiful, especially when you're fired up. Every encounter he's had with you - when you’re not ignoring him - has been a hurricane of emotion, and he loves every moment of it.

"Oh, I'm sure I'd be on a long waiting list," you retort, laying your head against the doorframe. The alcohol is catching up with you, making it hard to stand.

Toji huffs and steps closer to you, “Pretty, let me help.”

Before you can fully process it, you're nodding yes to Toji's offer of help. He swiftly picks you up, and you wrap your legs around his torso, your body going pliant with exhaustion.

Toji carries you into the apartment, with Sukuna following close behind. His eyes scan the space - moving boxes still needing to be unpacked, the signs of a recent move scattered everywhere.

Yet, it still felt like a home. Framed family photos and vintage art prints hung over the cream-colored walls, arranged in those trendy asymmetrical clusters you'd probably seen on Pinterest.

Nobora's toys were neatly corralled in a woven basket in the corner, a halfhearted attempt at containing the chaos of childhood.

It looked like every piece of furniture had been meticulously picked by you. The mid-century modern coffee table with its gentle curves, the overstuffed armchair in soft leather that practically begged to be curled up in, even the delicate ceramic vases arranged on floating shelves.

You had good taste. He was almost too distracted until he noticed Toji struggling to help your drunk ass.

"Need any help?" Sukuna asks, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Toji doesn’t look at Sukuna, too focused on your care. He simply gives a nod and asks, “Can you get a shirt for her? I'm gonna help her change."

Sukuna rolls his eyes but complies, moving to your dresser. He opens several drawers, careful not to disturb too much. Realizing he might upset you further by rummaging, he opts instead to take off his own shirt and bring it to the bathroom.

Toji helps you undress, completely un phased . When Sukuna raises an eyebrow, Toji scoffs, "What? I watched her give birth. This isn't the first time I've seen her naked."

You giggle, raising your arms for the shirt like a child. Sukuna watches as Toji pulls the shirt over you, noting how the fabric falls loosely on your frame.

"Need to wash my face and brush my hair," you mumble, your words slightly slurred.

Toji helps you to the sink, supporting you as you carefully remove your makeup. Sukuna can't help but chuckle at the sight - you're a mix of determination and drunken clumsiness.

You use Sukuna's shirt to pat your face dry, then turn to Toji with a mischievous grin. "Mhmm, this smells like the asshole," you giggle.

Toji starts to laugh, the tension from earlier melting away.

"That's because it is the asshole's," Sukuna's voice cuts through, momentarily sobering you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him shirtless, and he winks. You glare back - still angry, still defiant.

Toji helps you into bed, and you crawl to the center, wrapping yourself in soft sheets. As he goes to get water and medicine, Sukuna explores your room, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A bright red toy on the bedside table catches his eye. For a moment, his face heats up with thoughts he quickly tries to dismiss.

When Toji returns, he leaves water and medicine, then leans down to kiss your temple. "I'll be back in the morning to check on ya."

You wave lazily. "Bye, asshole," you call to Sukuna, who sighs and responds, "Go to sleep, drunky.

After closing your bedroom door, Toji pauses in the living room. A photograph catches his eye - a memory from his wedding day. You, him, and his late wife at the courthouse, where you served as their witness. The image pulls at his heart, a bittersweet reminder of love, loss, and enduring friendship.

Sukuna watches silently as Toji studies the photo, recognizing the depth of emotion playing across his friend's face.

"I'm actually gonna crash on her couch," Toji explains, breaking the silence. "Make sure she's okay. I'll call her baby daddy in the morning to keep Nobora for the day." Thank god Megumi was at the sitters.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow and nods, a simple acknowledgment of Toji's protective nature.

As Sukuna walks out, he can't shake the thoughts of you. It's unprecedented - he's known Yarozu for almost a decade, and she barely crosses his mind. But you? In less than a week, you've occupied more mental space than anyone has in years.

There's something about you - your fire, your refusal to back down, the way you move through the world with such unapologetic intensity. You're not afraid to show your emotions, to be loud, to take up space. It's intriguing in a way he can't quite define.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought echoes in the empty hallway, a whispered confession to no one but himself. With a final sigh, he returns to his own apartment, your presence clawing at his mind like a persistent memory that refuses to be forgotten.

Each step feels weighted, charged with an energy he can't explain. He's realizing something, a truth that both irritates and intrigues him.

You were going to consume him entirely.

A slow, inevitable destruction he would welcome with open arms.

summary/notes: sorry this was another chaotic one! we will slowly but surely see those two warm up to eachother (maybe) lmao! I had a blast writing Toji and Sukuna’s pov. I also realize their backstory could’ve been the beginning to their love story. ah well, maybe in another universe. they are just besties, trust.

I am also still figuring out the mechanics of tumblr so I will have links and everything updated as soon as I can! my asks are open, so if you have any questions I will be so so happy to answer! I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I love you all so much! mwah! <3

taglist is open: please comment and let me know if you want to be on it!! (:

@sukubusss @poopooindamouf @tojiswifeforlife @777pluto @emochosoluvr @bookfreakk

@withtanxp @pandabiene5115 @fava-boi

[yellowjacketsfashion]

Hii writer again and I was wondering if you can break down the outfits from the hunt/winter and give some inspo?

I’d say the biggest thing about the hunt/winter outfits is that the team is finding creative ways to use their resources to stay warm.

They mix regular clothing pieces with deconstructed ones such as the sweater balaclava or the use of cut up sweater sleeves to act as arm and leg warmers. Thrown in with the clothing items are also fur pelts and other fabrics/materials acquired in the wilderness (such as feathers, bones, etc.

The masks are for anonymity as well as warmth. When the group does acts of violence they often wear masks such as during the force feeding scene or the bed check. Is this so that they can hide from what they’ve done? Or perhaps have the masks become a part of their rituals?

Another thing to consider is how to make it personal to the character, what does it say about them? For example, the outfit originally worn by Natalie has a fur apron and pink raincoat that are supposed to keep blood from getting on the outfit underneath. This is helpful as Natalie’s been demoted to the butcher and would be most at risk with getting blood on her clothes.

The pelts were also created in the Pilot to show where people are in terms of a hierarchy, the antler queen is at the top with human hair and Melissa at the bottom with rabbit (after she’s been publicly humiliated). I’m not sure what the exact order of the hierarchy is but Van has the skunk, Tai the possum, Gen the raccoon, and Misty has beaver and wolf pelts (though her job as “overseer” was more hyped up in the Pilot).

Using the pieces from the wardrobe inspo post, here are some edited examples of some Wilderness inspired outfits you could create:

As you can see there’s a lot of layering of different clothing pieces and patch working with fabric and furs. You could also include things like shirts, skirts, or dresses turned into scarves, masks, or other kinds of warm accessories you’d need in the cold. Since it’s a soccer team pieces such as shin guards or soccer gloves (worn by a goalie) should also be available as well as the jerseys that surprisingly aren’t worn a lot by the team.

I’d previously made these posts as well one, two, and three, where I went more in depth about the Wilderness outfits if that’s more of what you were looking for. Hopefully this is helpful but if not feel free to reach out!

[sevsgiirl]

— piss her off ‘til she hates me, pt. 3 (final)

pt. 1, pt. 2

mechanic!sevika x reader. men and minors dni.

synopsis: when the vacant house next to sevika’s finally got new tenants she didn’t think much of it. as long as her new neighbors didn’t cause any trouble, all was well. that is until she found out the neighbor had a young daughter.

word count: 9k words.

tags: age difference, alternate universe, mechanic!sevika, brat!reader, enemies to lovers, oral sex, dom!sevika, sub!reader, pet names, scissoring, hate sex, vaginal fingering.

note: anddd we’re on the final! I hope you guys enjoyed this little fic I wrote. it’s my first ever fic writing for sevika and I originally posted this on ao3 but thought I’d bring it here to tumblr as well <3

you can check out the fic playlist here.

you need to get the hell out of here.

you were becoming a problem and sevika doesn’t know how much more she can take until she starts losing her mind. you were loud, reckless, inconsiderate, had a questionable way of dressing yourself (who the fuck wears fishnet stockings and skirts in this weather?) and most importantly-

you were way too fucking young for her to be thinking about you like this.

lewd, pervasive thoughts crept into the back of sevika’s mind shortly after you caught her gawking at you. she wanted the ground to swallow her whole, not only because she has to explain to you why you caught her eyeing you like a raw piece of meat, but also because she had to sit down and reflect why seeing you in that state - naked, alone and oh so, vulnerable - caused her heartbeat to quicken.

she tossed and turned on her bed unable to sleep, visions of your skin and how soft it looked plagued her thoughts. the small curve of your spine while you stared at yourself in the mirror, acting all timid which was a juxtaposition to your usual bold behavior.

sevika bit her lip at the thought. maybe there were layers to you she didn’t know about yet - layers she’d have to admit she wanted to unravel piece by piece.

perhaps underneath the confident persona you put up, hid a needy and bratty girl who just compensated for the lack of attention she got by being loud and intolerable. that should explain it.

why every time sevika didn’t pay you any mind you insisted on pushing her buttons just to get a reaction. how you clearly reveled in being told no and disobeying.

it annoyed the shit out of her and she’s imagined many times putting you in your place, and how the only thing up for debate was her method of doing so.

when she let her mind linger on the idea, all she could think about was how she could bring out that same shyness she saw in you earlier. maybe if she pushed you hard enough she could do it.

push you down onto your knees rather while gripping your hair. tight enough that it’ll cause your eyes to water, pleading with her that you won’t disobey her again after being such a goddamn headache.

she can picture it now. slipping a thumb into that annoying mouth of yours so she can shut you up while you suck on it, feeling you drool by the corners as you let your tongue swirl languidly around the thick digit, imagining just how better it’d feel if it was her strap buried deep into your throat while she pushed it in and out of your warm mouth until you found it difficult to breathe. maybe then you’d learn to behave.

sevika’s throat bobbed as she envisioned throwing you harshly onto her bed, legs spread while you looked up at her with glossy eyes. she found herself unbuckling the belt around her hips, thoughts of you swimming in the darkest corners of her mind while she pulled her pants down until it bunched up around her feet and she snaked a hand down into her boxers.

feeling just how wet she’d gotten imagining you writhing on her sheets, soft sighs and pathetic whimpers leaving your mouth while she’d plunge two to three fingers in and out of your tight hole.

then she’ll push you by the arch of your back and your thighs will grow moist by the abundance of slick she’ll coax out of you. sevika lets out a groan as she rubbed circles onto her clit, visions of your naked form taped onto the back of her eyelids while she slipped a finger in and gave her poor pussy its needed stimulation.

the rhythm of her touch started slow and her eyes fluttered shut - thinking about getting on all fours and gripping the meat of your thighs while she ate you out. doing it at her own pace and teasing you until you start whining, demanding she go faster but it’s not like you deserve it, do you? after how you’ve been acting.

how she’ll lap you up with her tongue and take her time with you like you’re a meal needing to be savored. god, just imagining how you would taste drove her insane.

her chest began to rise and fall as images of your fucked out face came to mind - with tears streaming down your cheeks while you babble out incoherent nonsense. telling her to go harder, faster, to handle you in whichever way she likes.

the pace of her fingers quickened, and the slow build-up of a climax started to unfurl deep in her abdomen, feeling the throes of her pleasure soar as she became just as desperate as you were in the sick little fantasy she conjured up in her head.

how after she’s finished eating you out she’ll pull out her strap and slide it into your needy cunt, watching you beg for it while little cries of pleasure slip past your lips.

a litany of promises of how you’ll be good. that you won’t disobey her again and that you’ll do better than to talk back and test her patience, and how she’ll reward you with every harsh snap of her hips until the tip of her strap reaches so far into your insides that all you see is white.

how your nails will claw down her back and leave a trail of scratches that’ll sting so good. with that, she felt something in her snap as her orgasm consumed her.

moaning loudly, sevika felt herself leak down onto her sheets. surprising even herself at just how much came out of her, at how much the thought of you alone immobilized her, she could barely feel her limbs as exhaustion slowly overtook her. she couldn’t even find it in herself to feel ashamed about what she’s done before she fell asleep.

but little did she know, that right across her window and into your bedroom, was you writhing just as pathetically on your bed while you drew orgasm after orgasm out of your pussy. trying to repress the noises you so desperately wanted to let out in case your father would hear. you pushed in and out the lengthy dildo in your sopping cunt, your cum coating it to the hilt as your body shook.

meanwhile, sevika’s name tingled just at the tip of your tongue.

𐙚 ˙ ⋆ .˚

she couldn’t bear to look at your father in the eyes after that.

she felt guilty, so fucking guilty because here your old man was being nice to her and what does she do? act like a creep around his daughter and fantasize about fucking you into her mattress?

it was shameful but it’s not like she could push it down and ignore it. until now she still hasn’t been able to. too caught up in how she’s been obsessing over you since. she knew her agitation towards you stemmed from genuine annoyance, but she’s speculated there was more it than that.

how you’ve vexed her without even knowing it. sevika may be in denial but she wasn’t a liar. she’s caught herself many times in the past eyeing you way too long. how some of your clothes were way too short and revealed slithers of skin so intimate it made the insides of her mouth dry up.

how she’d watch you from her porch while you sun bathed on your front lawn. nothing but a thin bikini on as on-lookers, mainly boys around your age, stopped to stare as she glowered at them until they ran off. she wanted to justify it thinking she just wanted to do good by your father, but by the way she’d continue to let her gaze linger on the deep plunges of your cleavage she realized she was full of shit and wasn’t any better.

still, it was wrong and so she avoided you. even when you continued to litter on her yard and blast your annoying music, she ignored it and didn’t waste any time confronting you or telling you to keep it down.

you knew the reason for it too. you weren’t stupid. it irked you beyond belief because it’s not like it was a big fucking deal? she caught you half naked, so what? now here she was acting like you’re a deadly virus she needed to avoid. truth be told, as much as the two of you got under each other’s skin, seeing that exasperated look on her face as she took the trash out and heard your alternative pop rock music blasting loudly from your room made your day.

plus you’d never admit it, but you’ve noticed the way she’s stared at you. even though her actions spoke otherwise you couldn’t ignore the tension between you and how that only got amplified by how she’d get up in your face and tell you to fuck off.

you found enjoyment in it, and now she’s not doing it anymore. you hated to feel this way but it almost made you feel unwanted.

so much so that you didn’t even bother blasting your speakers anymore, which made sevika curious but decided to brush it off while she continued fixing her car engine outside her house, oil and grease lathered onto her forearms as she positioned herself beneath the vehicle, giving you a good view of her muscles and the way her abs rippled underneath her shirt.

she was annoying but dear god, was she hot.

you couldn’t stand it.

you walked closer to where she laid on the ground, covering the streaks of sun that bounced off her glistening brown skin and she wondered about the silhouette that suddenly casted itself over her. she then pushed herself from beneath the car only to be met with the sight of you, ever so curious.

“I need to borrow a screwdriver,” you said with your arms clasped behind your back, staring down at her expectantly.

sevika took a moment to process your request before she let out a scoff, resuming her task and you frowned at her ambivalence “fuck off, princess.”

“I mean it,”

“yeah sure, and let’s all just act like the tools mounted on your dad’s garage isn’t there but somehow my tiny tool box is more of use to you.” she quipped back. she’s been invited there before when your father asked her for help to fix his generator.

you huffed “his screwdriver is uh… dull now.”

“and you’ve become less insufferable. see? we can all lie. now scram.”

you wanted to throw that tool box on her head. why was she being so stubborn and ignoring you? you hated it but you refused to back down, even when she continued fixing her car and not paying you any mind.

“I told you, I’m not-“

“why haven’t you been paying me any attention lately?”

sevika blinked slowly at your question. it was so meek too, the way you asked it, so out of character from the way you normally presented yourself. she pulled herself from underneath the vehicle again just to see you watching her with an almost puppy eyed look on your face.

she sighed. god, what are you doing now?

“I never pay attention to you.”

“we both know that’s not true.”

“I only pay attention to you just to tell you to quit being annoying. I promise you that’s not the kind of attention you should be worried that I’m no longer giving to you.”

‘we’ll, it’s better than nothing’ you thought but kept it to yourself, intending to be more straightforward instead.

“is this because of what happened a few days ago? when I caught you staring at me from my window?”

sevika didn’t expect you to bring it up, so to say she was caught off guard would be an understatement “that’s not-“

“it is, isn’t it?” you chuckled “grow up. it’s not like it was a big deal. plus I could tell you liked it.”

a deep blush painted over sevika’s face and you liked that your words got to her. she began to stand up from where she laid on the ground and hovered over you, her jaw clenched and visibly irked.

“I’m telling you this now. quit it or else.” she warned and your eyes darted to her lips.

you took that as a challenge “or what?” you stepped closer, tip toeing ever so slightly that your nose almost brushed against hers.

sevika couldn’t believe this. what’s gotten into you? but she should’ve seen this coming. she knew you did everything that you did because you wanted attention, craved it. and based on how desperate you looked right now, she was tempted to set you straight and give you what you wanted.

to grab you by the waist and bend you over the hood of her car and take you right ther-

she shook her head, stepping away as you looked at her like a wounded animal at the loss of proximity.

fuck. this girl is gonna be the death of me.

“go home. I don’t have time for your bullshit.” sevika snapped, picking up her tool box and walking back inside her garage. she then watched as you stood there, a pout on your face and your eyebrows furrowed before you glared at her, stomping back to your house and she slammed the garage door shut.

this is bad. so fucking bad.

𐙚 ˙ ⋆ .˚

two weeks.

two more weeks before you head back to college and sevika couldn’t be any more grateful.

because thank fucking god she didn’t have to deal with you anymore. not that she had to ever since your little moment with her while she was fixing her car. everything seemed to stop after that. the music, the pestering, all of it.

while she was relieved you were out of her hair, she couldn’t deny that a part of her felt almost restless since you stopped bothering her. coupled with the news that she no longer had to see you for god knows how long. it was overwhelming, but still. it was for the best.

she still talked to your father now and then and was recently asked if she could watch over you while he goes out of town to tend to your grandmother who had recently fallen ill. nothing too serious. but because she only lived alone of course your father was quick to pack his bags for the next three days to go check up on her. so she agreed.

not that she was going to come over, babysit you or anything. she just had to watch over the house and see if you’d go out late and to inform him of any suspicious happenings while he’s gone.

on the day that he left, sevika watched from her front door when you bid him farewell. giving him a long hug before he got into his car and drove off.

leaving you two to meet each other’s eye again and you simply brushed her off, slamming your door shut once you were inside. no commotion from you after that, nothing.

one could say she liked the silence, but it unsettled her. maybe you just got her so used to your chaotic nature these past couple of weeks the absence of it felt disorienting. yeah, that’s the only explanation for it.

she wanted to chalk it up and think that in a matter of days everything will blow over. plus her boss had informed her the renovation will be done soon so she needed the peace and quiet now more than ever, and for a moment she really thought she had it.

until she heard it again.

but this time much louder.

she had just fallen asleep on her couch and it was nearing 8pm when the sounds of a crowd outside jolted her out of her slumber. she rubbed her eyes and looked around to see where all the noise was coming from, and when she peeked through her blinds she couldn’t believe it.

your house open to a line of people, some she recognized to be the firelights and others she couldn’t even identify, coming in and out of your house as the same overpowering music blared from your living room - so loud she could feel the shockwaves bounce through her walls.

you were ridiculous. so fucking ridiculous and she should’ve known better than to think you learned your lesson.

without a moment of hesitation she got up from her couch and marched her way to your house, pushing past the bodies of intoxicated twenty something year olds grinding against one another. neon green lights illuminated through the windows of your home and red solo caps were scattered across the grass your father worked so hard to trim.

she was angry because while you were here throwing a fucking party, he was out of town looking after your sick grandmother.

you’re unbelievable. so fucking unbelievable.

she noticed many familiar faces when she pushed through the sea of people dancing in your living room, but one she was quick to pluck out from the crowd was a girl whose bright blue hair couldn’t be missed even from a mile ahead.

she made her way towards her, forced her to turn around by her shoulder and powder looked up, confused before she registered sevika’s face.

“sevika?” she yelled through the bustling sound of techno music “what are you doing here?”

“where is she?” she didn’t have to clarify who because powder immediately knew who sevika was referring to.

“she’s throwing a party before she goes back to college. can you please just lay off her and-“

“I don’t fucking care. she’s caused enough trouble as it is.” she snapped, making powder take a step back and before she could even reason with the distressed older woman, was when you finally appeared.

scurrying through the crowd in a tight, strapless mini dress that reached below your thighs, the material hugging your body in all the right places and while sevika would’ve loved to take her time to look at you, she wasn’t in the mood.

your eyes widened when you saw each other, but then your expression quickly turned sour and you crossed your arms over your chest “what the hell are you doing here?” you asked, voice clipped.

her nostrils flared as she straightened her posture and towered over you, her height overwhelming in the already cramped space.

“I already told you to quit this bullshit. but of course you never listen. your father is out of town and you pull this nonsense?” she barked and you can only laugh in response.

“what? you think just because my dad is not here you have full authority over me? fuck off, sevika.” you spat, a stubbornness in your tone that didn’t allow any room for arguments.

but sevika fought harder.

she balled her fists, looked around and saw the empty bottle of hennessy on the table near her. your eyebrows knitted together when you watched her take it, raise it in the air and slam it onto the edge of the table, causing everyone around you to stop and stare as the music paused.

you couldn’t believe what she had just done as she glowered at the many faces in the room, a mixture of both scared and perplexed at the sight of her.

“everyone. out!” she yelled, her voice echoing like a clap of thunder bolt.

everyone got up and fled as fast as they could. meanwhile, you stood there frozen, shocked at just how easily she was able to ruin your night as the last person got out of the room until it was only the two of you left.

the room was simply crickets and your bottom lip wobbled, a sob threatening to spill out “what the fuck is your problem?” you cried out. sevika couldn’t help but chuckle at your pathetic display of frustration. you looked like you wanted to tear her apart.

“do you have any idea the commotion you could’ve caused? your dad works at the town’s office and if any of the neighbors got fed up with you and decided to call the deputy to file a complaint, how do you think this will look for him? you’ll be leaving in two weeks and won’t be the one facing the repercussions of your actions. but he will.”

your shoulders sagged at the realization. perhaps the thought of you leaving your dad again got you so tangled up in your emotions you couldn’t think clearly, coupled with the unresolved tension between you and sevika. everything had become too much to bear. you wanted a moment away from it all.

“I didn’t think-“

“yeah, that’s the problem with you. you don’t think.” she growled and your mouth fell open at her words.

that’s when you felt it - the fiery hot rage that culminated inside of you these past couple of days after being ignored by her. truth be told, a huge part of the reason behind all of this was because you needed a way to grab her attention again. but with the way she was speaking to you now you’re beginning to doubt if you still want it.

“I don’t need you to talk to me like I’m a child.” you hissed and she grinned.

she walked towards you and bent her head slightly so she was eye level with you - her hot breath fanning against your lips.

“then stop fucking acting like one.” she bit back, noticing the way your breathing became shallow.

“you’re so obnoxious, you know that? you’re so deprived of attention and what do you do? you act like a brat. always so loud with your horrible music and skimpy clothes, walking around like you need the attention so badly you’re almost thirsty for it.” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous octave and you only looked at her, wide eyed “what do you get out of it, huh? annoying me so fucking much?”

you were unable to speak. at loss for words while your gaze darted from her eyes down to her full lips that was formed in a subtle snarl.

you were silent before your mouth twitched into a smirk “I like the way you get mad at me.” you purred, clutching her shirt and tugging her towards you “it turns me on.”

sevika didn’t have time to process what was happening when you smashed your lips on hers. the kiss searing, hot and heavy. all teeth and desperation and clawing onto each other, the outcome of the built up tension between you two ever since you arrived.

her hands pawed at your hips, leaving deep crescents on their journey down to your thighs and she harshly gripped the plush skin with her blunt nails. making you squeal and she lifted you up while you circled your legs around her waist.

she tore her mouth away from yours and proceeded to pepper kisses down your throat, a broken moan leaving your lips at the feeling of her sucking on the sensitive area below your ear. sure to leave hickeys once she’s done while she leveled her eyes with yours with a predatory look.

“this is just what you wanted, huh?” she huffed and you nodded your head.

“sevika, please…”

“please what?” she taunted with a nasty grin on her stupid, beautiful face “what do you want me to do, princess?”

you bit your bottom lip while a tear fell from the corner of your eye and dear god, she didn’t expect it’d ever come to this. all those nights imagining what you’d look like under her and here you were, so pliant and needy for her touch.

you snaked your arms around her neck and pulled her closer “you know what I want,” you whined with a pout, which amused her even more.

“nah. that’s not enough, baby. want to hear you say it. come on.” you gasped at the feeling of her callous fingers trailing softly inside your thighs, leaving feather like touches that left goosebumps on your skin.

“sevika, please.” you cried out, trying to grind on her hand and it only made her pull it away.

“say it, you little brat. come on.” she pressed once more and you groaned.

“please fuck me.” you mumbled and she lets out a tsk at your tone.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

your jaw clenched and you tugged at the fabric of her top “I said please fuck me!” you demanded “sevika, I swear-“

that was all she needed. she didn’t intend on teasing you further when she herself wanted this just as much as you did. maybe even more.

the next thing you knew she placed you onto the table, took her arm, used it to slide everything that was on top and threw it all onto the ground. adjusting you properly onto the wooden surface before crouching down so she could be near your crotch.

your breath hitched when she bunched up the bottom of dress so she could see the lace panties you wore, whistling at the sight as your cheeks warmed “take a look at this.”

before you could make a snide remark, your head fell back when she suddenly dug her nose at your clothed heat, moaning when she kissed the area and sucked. hard.

“sevika… oh my god.” you whined helplessly when she continued licking through your panties, biting the inside of your thighs and leaving little love marks as your body shivered.

the sound of fabric tearing snapped you out of your euphoric state and you looked down to see she practically ripped your underwear in two “why the fuck would you-“

“shut up. I’ll get you another one.“ she grumbled, holding your hips tightly.

“but those were expensive, you asshol!-“

your words died in your throat when she licked a fat stripe onto your pussy with her hot, wet tongue. making you cry when she lapped your juices like a woman starved.

“you’re so fucking soaked...” she groaned, vibrations shooting up your spine and you clenched at the way her tongue drew circles around your clit to all of a sudden deep thrusts with the muscle. you shamelessly rode her face as your slick dripped from her mouth down to her chin.

she pulled back and quickly collected spit in her mouth just to shoot it down your puffy cunt, watching the way her saliva moved down to your folds and she lets out a shaky breath “such a pretty fucking pussy.” she rasped, lapping at it harshly.

you arched your back and gripped the edge of the table so hard you swore that your knuckles turned white. with her pupils blown wide you felt like were being feasted upon as she continued making harsh sucks onto your bud, feeling your orgasm approaching and you started squirming in her hold.

“I’m so close, sev…” you whimpered and her tongue darted further while you felt one of her fingers prod your entrance before she slipped it in, a choked sob leaving your mouth at the stretch when she pushed it in and out at a maddening pace before adding another finger in.

you swore you almost saw stars explode behind your eyelids at the way she fucked you with her fingers, starting off gentle before she began ramming them into you at a brutal pace. so much so that your body rocked back and forth against the table.

“s-sev, please! please! fuck!” your cries were borderline pornographic as she continued pounding into you “I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna-“ your words came to a screeching halt as white, hot blinding pleasure took over your body in harsh tremors.

you cried loudly and gripped her hair but she didn’t let up, slurping up your juices while she bent her fingers to piston them into your tight walls you could only thrash in her grip due to the overstimulation “s-sev… too m-much.”

“this is what you needed right? to have the attitude fucked outta you?” she chuckled before giving your clit one last kiss.

watching the way your pussy gaped before she started sliding her sweats down, her chiseled abs and prominent V line coming into view and you licked the top of your lips when she pulled her shirt over head, leaving her in nothing but her sports bra.

she took your dress and pulled it down until you were left bare naked as well. then she scooped you up in her arms and placed you onto the carpeted floor.

she leaned down, placed a languid kiss onto your lips and you cupped her face in your hands as you moaned softly.

she then slotted your legs together so her clit touched yours. it was swollen and red due to not getting her fill yet and she groaned at the feeling of your wetness grinding against hers. humping you like an animal in heat.

“that’s right. f-fuck. cum for me. cum for me one last time while I shoot my load onto this pretty fucking pussy.” she huffed while your eyes moved to watch the scene below you and your jaw went slack at the way your clits dragged against one another. your slick meshing with hers and the residue of saliva that she left when she was eating you out.

you felt the coil in your stomach tighten one last time and you swore you were about to pass out “I’m gonna c-cum again, sev. oh my god.”

“cum for me. cum again for me, baby. come on.” she panted while the sounds of skin slapping resonated through the small space of your kitchen, making you wail out while your tits bounced at the the violent way her hips snapped at the bottom of your thighs.

you came the second time that night, body trembling so hard you simply went limp and sevika continued using your body to get off.

she followed you shortly after, grunting as her hands gripped your hips so tightly you were certain it’ll leave bruises.

she was breathing heavily, squeezing your sides before she dipped her head down to kiss you.

you hummed at the display of affection and she pulled back once both of you found it hard to breathe.

“that was…” she muttered and you giggled.

you peppered kisses up her jaw and smiled “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to have breakfast on that table the same way again.” you said which sevika could only laugh at, shaking her head as she palmed your cheek.

“god,” she looked at you with amused eyes as you nuzzled against her touch “you really are something aren’t you, princess?”

[die-auster]

Some "if Yue is alive and went travelling with the Gaang" designs

With a ton of text about cultural inspiration.

The main book 2 look

I wanted to show cultural differences between the tribes, so Yue's look is sort of Mongolian. There were Mongolian-styled hats in the Northern tribe, and Yue's dress under the coat looked like a Mongolian deel (thanks @atlaculture for all these posts about clothes and everything else!), so it's not much against the canon information.

So she's wearing a deel again with a second layer - there are chinese actors on photos as far as I know; I hope it's okay. One-shoulder silhouette refers to later Aang's clothes because Yue is still kind of a spiritual person (she wasn't a fighter, so I want her to have some other useful talent – not a bender or healer like Katara or a non-bender warrior like Suki). Violet, pink and white were originally her colors, no changes here. Three blue characters would be too much for a group of five, and total white is not practical at all. I like to think that violet color shows high rank in the Avatar universe; in the original series it was only worn by princess Yue, Kanna, the chief Hakoda's mother, and by king Bumi.

Yue's boots here are mongolian gutals/gutuls (the collage is already big, but I used them again for one of Book 3-looks).

Her hair become simpler – just two braids and a hairpiece, to match her previous decorated hairdo. I guess if she's travelling with the Gaang she's not that much of a Moon Spirit anymore (maybe she returned the part of the moon spirit that saved her and was healed other way?), so I decided to forego the moon-referring part. Also it will be easier to do by herself since she has no servants now... The headdress I took from modern Mongolian dancers; the front part is crescent-moon-shaped.

The Ba Sing Se dress

I fell in love with this Ao Dai dress, it's simple, long and elegant. But... it's mostly Vietnamese… and I'm afraid that it's modern and not historically accurate. Also it does not really go together with other Ba Sing Se dresses :( because I did not want to just copy-paste some background look. But there is at least one dress with a tail, thigh high slits and a standing collar on the dress underneath, so... I guess my choice is not that bad? The tail makes her look more royal. The fan is the same which Toph and Katara had. For the palette I chose Yue's white color with EK greens and warm yellow/ochre to match Katara and Toph. The hairdo is copied from the series; I chose one with the tassel on the right, to refer the NWT/Korean accessories.

The Fire Nation disguise

A confession – I don't like FN clothes. I wasn't sure if I would be able to do it properly, so I almost copied that attire (left one) – asymmetry, as a Thai touch, which again matches Aang's Invasion Buddhist-like clothes. The palette keeps Yue's signature white, with some pink of a warmer shade, as they wear it in the Fire Nation. And the "royal" long skirt, 'cause she's still not a fighter. The look is simplified so I could not keep zigzag ornament on her longyi skirt, therefore I moved it onto the top part.

I used Thai dancers jewelry and... flip flops? idk how they are called in Southeast Asia (don't like Sokka and Katara's FN shoes at all, why the design is so complicated?).

For covering her hair I used a turban, inspired by Myanmar turbans; a white one, so if some hair will show, it won't be too noticeable. Also Yue could still be easily recognised on screen/page by her white head. The long end of the fabric on her right resembles burmese hairstyle silhouette.

The Invasion-and-till-finale look

For her dress I used a deel (again); the sleeveless jacket is an hommage to her original design and has some Korean vibes, like Toph's Ba Sing Se dress (at least I hope so). Katara and Sokka's season 1 looks have Korean influence, so I guess it's okay. Gutals are from her Book 2 main look. I have a soft spot for them.

My favorite thing is her hair :)))) It's a mix of Inuit/Mongolian braids and a hairpiece, also from the Book 2 look. This time there will be more braids. Two on the front – I wanted to keep them from her original hairdo, but now they are braided together (I saw this on the Alaskan Inuit/Eskimo women photos). On the back there are five, inspired by a Mongolian hairdo for young unmarried girls, who wore multiple braids. I decided to make five, because Alaskian Inuit language uses this amount for counting and with two front braids it'll make seven, which is a lucky Mongolian number. And in theory a limited number should be easier to animate.

The post-canon noble look

After the final battle I thought Yue will come back to Agna Qel'a and become a more active political figure. I chose a white kuspuk (blue color is still for Katara and Sokka), showing that she is ready to lead her tribe after this journey, not the passive perfect princess she was before. "She is associated in canon with the masculine yang of the yin and yang and the moon which, in most Inuit and Eskimo cultures, is considered masculine as well. While white kuspuks are associated with men and specifically family patriarchs, a feminine kuspuk in white makes plenty of sense for Yue's character" – @mostly-mundane-atla helped me a lot with the cultural meaning of the clothes (I am so grateful!). Also it's an hommage to her total-white Moon Spirit look. And I changed her hair again to Greenland updo with two tied braids on the front – more complicated than the simple braids she wore during the journey. It looks formal.

NWT is less Inuit-inspired and has a strong Mongolian touch (to make them look more "modern"? dunno) but I guess the formal wear for the spiritual princess could refer to older traditions. Which should be the same with SWT, 'cause SWT was originally a part of NWT – or so I heard. For example, Kuruk, the NWT Avatar who lived about 400 years ago, has nothing Mongolian in his look.

All the looks are simplified to match the style of the original cartoon. I know there should be more details and embroidery, but my goal here was to draw something (at least theoretically) applicable for animation. And no Hahn's betrothal necklace of course.

Also I want to mention here other great Yue designs, since they are the inspiration behind the overall idea of the post – the moon looks and "Yue joins the Gaang" outfits by amazingly talented @chiptrillino.

P.S.: an important note

This is my first attempt ever to design outfits that could fit the world of A:tLA. I am not Asian or ingenious, not an expert in their cultures or costume history at all, not a professional character designer. I am just a fan who tried to create designs with respect to real cultures and people. Nothing here was supposed to be offensive in any way. If something still is – please inform me so I could fix it as soon as possible.

I hope, as a fan, I have the right to draw fanarts looking for an inspiration in the cultures that inspired the original cartoon.

If you see mistakes in my post, be it in drawings or a text, also feel free to tell me. I will deeply appreciate it.

[leejenowrld]

back to you — six

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 47k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

synopsis — after the breakup, you throw yourself into silence and strategy, unraveling beneath the weight of secrets you can’t tell and love you can’t forget. jeno spirals in the opposite direction, reckless and numb, chasing anything that doesn’t remind him of you—only to find that everything does. a fantasy boy draft, meant to unify the fractured cheer squad, becomes the excuse that pulls you back into jeno’s bed, and then his arms and then onto his cock, again and again, until you can’t remember what it felt like not to crave him. but love built on a game is still a game, and the rules keep changing.

chapter contents/warnings — 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, insane smut in this, y/n gets with three different guys lool, she’d i gone this chapter all that’s on her mind is cock, fem!receiving oral, throatfucking, missionary, riding, doggy style, wall sex, floor sex, balcony/outdoor sex, mirror sex, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, cockwarming, choking, slapping (face and ass), hair pulling, face fucking, brat/brat-tamer dynamic, lots of switch dynamics, degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, mommy kink, spit kink, possessive sex, jealousy kink, public sex/exhibitionism, voyeurism, semi threesome (mfm), drug use (cocaine), sex on drugs, ass eating, edging, overstimulation, rough sex, emotional sex, angst sex, lots of girl moments this chapter, cheerleader girls have a slumber party, karina and y/n are new besties, areum is being a bit annoying, insane party scenes like always, shotaro has a new girl, nahyun is a loser like always, y/n and yangyang get touchy, yeonjun is back and a weirdo! and y/n moves a bit mad in this one

authors note — part five was meant to be one post but i ended up writing so much it’s turning into three separate ones, so i’ve split them into their own parts. they’re all deeply connected though, especially this one and the next (part seven), which i’m working hard to get out as soon as i can. love you forever, enjoy. <3 pacing might feel sudden in this chapter but remember i do everything for a reason [evil laughs]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

[fic ml]

The world feels different now, split along a fault line that neither of you saw coming. It is not a clean break. It is jagged, uneven, cruel. The kind that leaves debris scattered in every direction, waiting to cut into whoever dares to walk through it. There is no before and after, no definitive moment where everything fell apart—just the slow unraveling of something that once felt inevitable. One day, there were shared spaces, overlapping schedules, voices that fit together like puzzle pieces. Now, there is only distance, a rift so wide it might as well be measured in light-years.

The separation isn’t just physical. It’s molecular. You exist on different planes now, moving in ways that contradict each other, orbiting the same spaces but never colliding. The absence should be quiet, a simple subtraction. But somehow, it is loud. Somehow, it is everywhere. Somewhere, in the endless sprawl of the universe, stars collapse and planets lose their way. In another life, in another timeline, maybe you were two celestial bodies bound by the same force, drawn together by something cosmic, magnetic, inevitable. But in this one? You are two objects spinning in opposite directions, torn apart by your own gravity, each moving toward a different kind of destruction. 

You are the dying sun, collapsing inward, devouring yourself in the relentless pursuit of something—proof, victory, purpose. You are imploding, shedding layers, burning too bright, too fast, swallowing your own brilliance just to keep shining. Your destruction is slow, methodical, inevitable; the kind of death that takes eons but is written in the stars from the beginning. You do not let yourself rest, do not let yourself cool, because stopping means feeling, and feeling means breaking.

Jeno is a rogue planet, flung from its orbit, untethered and spiraling into the unknown. He was never meant to be without you, never meant to drift this far, but now he is ruinous, reckless, swallowing chaos whole because at least chaos is something he can control. He throws himself into the dark, chasing the cold, deliberately avoiding every path that might lead him back to where you are, because the idea of turning around—of feeling the gravity of what was—might be the very thing that shatters him. He keeps moving, keeps running, because stopping means facing the void, and he is not sure which will destroy him first—the emptiness or the unbearable pull of everything he lost.

And yet, even in destruction, you are both moving. You are not stagnant. You are waging wars of different kinds. The last embers of what you were still burn, but they do not burn the same.

You sit in the library long after the lights should have dimmed, surrounded by the weight of papers, graphs, calculations that blur at the edges of your vision. Your fingers ache from typing, from annotating, from making absolutely sure that the data is airtight, bulletproof. The project you started together now belongs to you alone, and if you have to carry it across the finish line by yourself, then so be it. It is not just about proving a point anymore—it is about proving him right, proving that all the work you did together wasn’t in vain, that his absence does not make you weaker, that you can stand even when he is no longer beside you.

But the project is only half of the battle. The rest is a war you have been meticulously crafting, an assault so precise it might as well be a military operation. The Ravens are set to face the Busan Titans in the state championship finals, and you are combing through their statistics with a ruthless, calculated eye—not to manipulate, not to twist the facts, but simply to expose what is already there. Their weaknesses, their inconsistencies, their over-reliance on predictable plays. You are not fabricating anything, merely holding up a mirror and forcing them to confront the cracks they have ignored.

But beneath the surface, this runs deeper than just one game. Eric and Sunwoo were once part of this program, once players who held influence, who had power—until they threw it away for something as reckless as gambling. Their removal left a stain on the team, a shift in leadership, an unspoken instability that lingers even now. And the Titans? They have been riding on that instability, preying on the gaps left behind, using the Ravens’ past turbulence as an opening. That is what you are tearing apart now. Not with deception, not with false claims, but with facts—cold, irrefutable numbers that will make it impossible for them to hide. When the Ravens take the court, they will do so armed with truth, and the Titans will have no choice but to face the reality they never saw coming.

The late nights have turned into something grotesque. You don’t sleep. You don’t stop. You drink too much coffee, then let it turn into something else—something stronger, something that keeps you awake for hours beyond what’s human. The walls of the library warp and bend at the edges of your vision, and there are moments, deep into the night, where the exhaustion laps at the corners of your mind, where you think you hear his voice in the back of your head. You swallow down the thought like a pill and keep working. There is no space for weakness. Not anymore.

Meanwhile Jeno is nowhere, and he is running.

The nights blur together, a revolving door of faces he does not care to remember, music that pulses too loud, drinks that burn in his throat but never quite reach the part of him that aches. He is always moving—from party to party, room to room, letting the neon and the noise drown out the thoughts that refuse to let him rest. If it is something you would hate, he gravitates toward it. Mindless fun, empty conversations, meaningless distractions. He does not want meaning. He wants oblivion.

And when alcohol is not enough, he looks for something stronger. Pills, powder, things passed between hands in dark rooms, the kind of things he never thought he’d touch, the kind of things that make the edges of the world blur just enough to pretend that nothing matters. He doesn’t even like the way it feels, not really. But he keeps chasing it, keeps swallowing it down, keeps trying to lose himself in the high before the comedown crushes him all over again.

He tries to fuck other people. He really tries. Hands on his shoulders, lips at his neck, fingers slipping under fabric, breathless invitations whispered into his ear. He gets as far as he can, as far as his body will allow, but then—nothing. It’s not them. It’s not you. And he hates himself for it, for the fact that even here, even now, his body refuses to forget you. He leaves them behind, leaves them confused, angry, embarrassed. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

So he keeps running. He picks fights just to feel something, throws himself into reckless decisions, loses himself in anger that has nowhere to go. He’s been showing up to practice less frequently, letting his game slip, watching as his teammates and coaches look at him with growing disappointment. But he doesn’t care. He cannot let himself care. Because if he stops to think—if he stops at all—he might just feel the full weight of what he has lost.

And maybe that is the worst part. That no matter how fast he moves, no matter how hard he tries to drown it all out, he still sees you. On campus, in passing, in fleeting moments where his gaze finds you before he can stop himself. He never speaks. Never approaches. But his stomach twists all the same.

He doesn’t know what he expects. For you to look at him? For you to ignore him? He hates both options.

You were once a perfect crime—two masterminds moving in tandem, your hands inked with each other’s fingerprints, your every move a counterbalance to the other. You were the precision, the strategy, the steady hand behind the operation. He was the instinct, the risk, the recklessness that made you unstoppable. Together, you were untouchable, a seamless execution of chaos and control.

But now? Now, it’s a botched getaway. You are still inside the burning building, rewriting blueprints, refusing to run. He is miles away, watching the explosion in the rearview mirror, knowing he left behind the only thing that ever made the crime worth committing. Your suffering is a mirror, but it is distorted. You are sharpening your mind into something unbreakable. He is dulling his into something unrecognizable. You are both running—one toward something, one away from everything. You are both haunted. And it is slowly, inevitably, leading to something breaking.

The walk home from campus feels different now. It's not quieter, not softer—if anything, it's louder in its hostility. The looks don’t linger long enough to confront, but they last just long enough to sting. The whispers are low but deliberate, carefully timed to slip into your path like landmines. You’ve stopped flinching. You keep your chin high, shoulders squared, moving through it all like you’re bulletproof, even if most nights you cry in the shower just to get it out of your system. You’re tired, so deeply tired, but you won’t let them see that. You won’t let this campus break you. You’ve given too much to let them take anything more.

You’ve been everywhere lately—everywhere but where it matters. Cheer practice, project meetings, tutoring jeno’s teammates while pretending you don’t flinch at his name. You’ve been organizing, emailing, reworking data, reviewing footage. You’ve sat in on three sessions with Coach to study offensive stats from games you already memorized. Coach Suh, who’s still recovering but slowly finding his rhythm again, has been helping you gather footage and lay quiet traps, subtly pushing Eric and Sunwoo back into their place. 

But you haven’t stepped into a music room since that night. The night the bar was packed—standing room only, the entire campus crammed wall to wall—just to watch you play. Just to watch you fall apart instead. It was the day something inside you cracked open and never quite closed. The day the music died. Not all at once, but in slow, splintering ways. Every whisper since then, every glance in a hallway, every half-laughed comment about the girl who used to sing? It’s made your major feel like a joke. And maybe that’s why you haven’t gone back. Maybe you’re not ready to find out if your voice still works.

But today’s meeting isn’t on campus. It’s here, in your apartment. The one you share with Mark. It’s small, not finished, not polished. But it’s warm now. There’s a thick beige rug underfoot that Mark picked out, one you weren’t sure about until you spilled tea on it and realized how soft it was under your knees. There are string lights above the window you both strung up during a thunderstorm. And on the fridge, crooked and peeling at the edges, a polaroid of you and Mark mid-laugh, mouths open, limbs tangled, half-asleep on the couch after a late-night frozen pizza run. It’s home. Or it’s becoming one.

It’s not really a meeting—not officially, anyway. More like a team-building night disguised as something softer. And you don’t know when it happened, exactly, but somewhere along the way you stopped just being on the cheer team and started leading it. It’s not a title you ever asked for. But after late nights staying behind after practice, rewriting parts of the routine when others refused to focus, smoothing over arguments when Karina was too tired to deal with the mess herself—no one really questions your authority anymore. You don’t either.

You and Karina have been working in tandem lately, both driven by different versions of the same urgency. She’s desperate to hold the team together with the championship coming up fast—her leadership is on the line. And you? You’re trying to keep your project from falling apart. A few nights ago, you got a letter—one that’s stayed folded in your back pocket ever since. It confirmed that your research project, the one you started with Jeno, is under consideration for inclusion in the annual sports and science exhibition. The exhibition. The one he took you to on your first date. It’s prestigious. Competitive. The kind of recognition that launches careers and changes lives. And it might actually happen.

You told Karina about the letter a few nights ago—how it arrived folded and official, tucked between overdue assignments and empty takeout containers, how your hands had trembled just holding it. You told her what it meant. That if your project with Jeno met expectations, it wouldn’t just be marked and filed away, it would be exhibited. Publicly. Featured in the same exhibition Jeno took you to on your first date. The same one you lingered in too long after closing hours, fingers brushing over glass displays, sharing quiet, tentative smiles that felt like the beginning of something. So no, this wasn’t just another academic milestone. It was a reckoning, a loop closing in on itself. Karina had known that the moment you said it that she didn’t need the full explanation to understand that this meant everything.

So when you came to her with the idea—a bonding night to fix the rift in the team—she listened. And when she threw in the ‘fantasy boy draft’—some wild cheer tradition she’d sworn by since her first year—you both knew you’d found the perfect distraction. The perfect solution. You offered your apartment without hesitation. Cleaned every surface, fluffed every pillow, scrubbed down the kitchen with something citrus-scented and borderline chemical. 

Karina handles the mood, candles flickering in each corner, warm vanilla mixing with eucalyptus, string lights twinkling soft and gold above the couch. You stack glittery hamper boxes by the fireplace—filled with sheet masks, essential oils, sweets, personalised mixtapes, written words of affirmations and polaroids—while Karina slips satin scrunchies and vibrators. You also brought matching pink satin pajamas with each girl's name embroidered across the chest and lined the table with rows of pastel-pink frosted cupcakes, little edible basketballs on top. You also baked thirteen brownie slabs the night before and packed tubs of buttercream frosting, piping tools, heart-shaped sprinkles, gummy letters, mini glitter stars—everything they’d need to decorate a personalised slab for another girl. It was effort disguised as aesthetic. A performance of unity you were determined to make real. Not because you cared about appearances but because you knew this, every inch of it, was part of the bigger picture and that picture was going to be on display.

You did it all because this project needs to work because you need it to work. And because if the team won’t act like one on the mat, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll start to feel like one here. You thought about cutting them out entirely—stripping the cheer squad from the final project and focusing on more cooperative data sets. It would’ve been cleaner, quieter, easier. They hadn’t given you anything but tension and side-eyes, and you were tired of chasing girls who didn’t want to be part of something bigger than themselves. But this—this whole thing you’re building—isn’t about ease or neat conclusions. It’s about truth and the truth is, a star player doesn’t shine alone. He needs a system that pushes him, holds him up, even when it’s fraying at the seams. That includes the messy parts, the jealous ones, the girls who roll their eyes in practice and whisper behind your back because whether they like it or not, they’re part of the structure that builds someone like Jeno. And if they’re broken, it reflects on everything he touches. On what he becomes. On what you’re still trying to prove.

The apartment is already warm and glowing by the time the girls begin arriving. The lights are dimmed low, casting soft halos against the walls, and there’s a sugar-sweet haze in the air from too many candles lit at once—rose, vanilla, something citrusy that makes the whole place smell like a sleepover dream. Cushions are scattered like flower petals across the floor, snacks spilling from heart-shaped bowls, and there’s a soft pink throw blanket draped over every empty seat. Someone laughs from the kitchen. Someone else calls dibs on a spot near the snacks. By the time the seventh voice enters the mix, the room is alive—ribbons and candles and cushions melting into bodies, and every inch of space soaked in vanilla-scented heat.

None of them had really planned to show up—not when it was first mentioned. There were eye-rolls, muttered jokes about forced fun, half-hearted excuses ready to go. But then the photos dropped. Trays of food, custom hampers with their names in cursive, matching satin pajamas folded on every cushion. And word about the fantasy boy draft spread faster than you could send a reminder. The group chat lit up like it never had before. Suddenly, everyone was interested. Suddenly, they all wanted in.

Nahyun’s already critiquing. Her voice cuts through the music, offhand and sharp as she mutters, “Feels like a five-year-old planned this,” nudging a cushion with her foot. “All that’s missing is a princess cake.” She drifts through the room like a guest, arms crossed, smile never quite reaching her eyes. She lingers near the brownie tray, says something to Mia—light, maybe even funny—but Mia doesn’t laugh. Yiren glances over, then looks back at her phone. Aisha shifts the conversation without pause, voice a little too quick. Whatever closeness they once had, it’s quiet now. Faded around the edges.

Mia’s on the rug, leaning back on her elbows, trying to tear open a face mask with her teeth. “Did you put a security tag on these?” she mutters. You hand her scissors without missing a beat. “Try now.” She murmurs a quiet thank you, softer than usual—quieter than usual—and keeps her eyes on the packet. Aisha’s next to her, already reorganizing her hamper like it’s a task list—serums here, snacks there, ribbons pulled taut and retied with sharper corners. “These don’t even match the palette,” she says under her breath, but she doesn’t change them. Yiren hovers around them, phone steady, catching slow pans of the candlelight across glossed lips, the shine of polished nails, the curve of someone’s laugh. “You’ll thank me when it’s all gone,” she says, barely louder than the music. They weren’t eager to come—you remember that. But now they’re sitting in the spaces you’ve carved for them, unwrapping what you planned, moving to a rhythm you designed. No one's said it out loud, but you can feel it. The room’s unfolding exactly the way you set it in motion.

Ningning’s camped by the speaker, phone already plugged in, flipping through hyperpop and house playlists like she’s curating a runway. “Don’t even think about asking for a skip,” she warns, tapping play on something glitchy, bassy, and violently pink. The walls vibrate on cue. Her brownie slab sits in front of her half-decorated, smeared with neon icing and topped with tiny candy letters spelling something definitely unhinged. “If mine doesn’t win, I’m flipping the table,” she says, dead serious, lining the edges with rhinestones like she’s building a shrine.

Giselle’s slouched against the arm of the couch, drink balanced on her knee, legs stretched out like she owns the floor. Her brownie slab’s already finished—thick swirls of dark frosting and, across the top in black icing gel, ‘dump his ass’ written in perfect cursive. She doesn’t look up when someone laughs. “Sorry, Chaewon,” she says, biting back a grin. 

Chaewon shrugs from across the room, not even pretending to be offended. “You’re right,” she calls back, lifting her drink. “He’s been on thin ice since Tuesday.”

Areum’s stuck close to Karina all night, never far from her side, but quieter than usual. She hasn’t added much to the conversation, just sips from her drink, nods along, lets Karina speak for both of them. But whenever you talk—whether it’s to pass a plate, explain a game, or just laugh at something someone else says, her eyes find you, sharp and deliberate. She doesn’t bother hiding whatever’s behind them. Not anger, exactly. But something pointed. Something personal.

Yunjin has moved through the room with soft hands and steady warmth. She pauses behind Yeji to adjust a hair clip, then passes out hot towels like a spa hostess. “Relax your jaw,” she tells Mia, tapping her chin. “You’re holding stress.” Her voice cuts through the buzz without needing volume. When she finally sits, it’s beside Yeji, who leans into her with easy familiarity. Yeji’s been floating gently between every corner of the room—helping Yiren adjust her camera angle, handing Aisha another lip balm from the extras pile, whispering something into Giselle’s ear that makes her laugh and nearly spill her drink. 

And you—you are everywhere. Not in the way that takes up space, but in the way that dictates how space is used. A refill here. A nudge there. You laugh at just the right volume, make eye contact when it counts, step in before any silence stretches too long. Every pivot in mood, every shift in dynamic—you don’t just notice it, you engineer it. When someone strays, you pull them back in without touching them. When the energy sways, you anchor it. This isn’t about snacks or skincare or curated aesthetics. That’s the cover. The real work is underneath—threading these girls into a shared rhythm, one that begins with sugar and satin and ends with loyalty that can’t be faked on the mat. They think this is bonding. A night off. A bit of fun. But it’s infrastructure. Memory laid down like groundwork. A team built on glitter and inside jokes and the feeling that they were seen. You’re not just giving it to them. You’re making sure they never forget who did.

Mia asks it casually, almost like a dare. “Ryujin—what’s going on with you and Shotaro?”

Ryujin’s already blushing before the question finishes. She hugs her knees, lets her head tilt slightly back like she’s weighing how honest to be. “It’s been good,” she says, quiet but sure. “We hang out after practice. Eat. Talk. Fuck. Then talk more. He listens. Pays attention. He’s always making sure I’m okay. Like... even with the choreo, if his hand’s too low or my back hurts, he stops and adjusts.” Her smile creeps in slow. “And he’s sweet. In a stupid, hot way. Always saying something dorky and then acting shy about it.”

Yeji doesn’t miss a beat. She lifts her head from where she’s curled on the floor and says, too casually, “I was in the practice room with them last lesson, by the way.” She pauses just long enough for the room to quiet. “It was less dancing, more grinding. There’s this move where Ryujin’s supposed to sit on his lap and he’s meant to stay still—keyword, meant.” She grins, eyes flicking to Ryujin. “But he kept grinding up. Every time. And I counted at least three moments where his hand stayed on her ass longer than the beat asked for.”

The room loses it—squeals, laughter, someone hits the floor with a pillow. Ningning yells “Oh my god!” and Yunjin fans herself with a napkin. “You’re corrupting our sweet boy!”

Ryujin just shrugs, unfazed, lips curled into something smug. “I told him to stop,” she says, soft and slow. “He said he couldn’t help it.”

There’s a low chorus of giggles and sighs around the room. Chaewon groans but it’s affectionate. Ningning hides her face behind a cushion. Even you smile, remembering the way Shotaro has been looking these last few weeks after Nahyun wrecked him—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes sharper. No more quiet apologies in his walk. No more shrinking back. He’s dressing bolder now, speaking louder. Like someone who finally realized he doesn’t owe softness to the person who broke him.

Then Nahyun speaks, syrup-slick and venomous, like she can’t let the moment breathe without twisting it. “He’s cute now,” she says, voice airy, almost bored. “Wait till he’s inside you and you realize he doesn’t know how to make a girl cum. Can’t fuck for shit—just lies there and hopes you moan enough to cover for it.” It cuts through the warmth like a blade, derailing the laughter, stiffening the air. Not loud, not messy but felt. She ruins it. She always does. She can’t stand when the room forgets to orbit her. The silence after isn’t shocking. It’s quiet, loaded, and disappointing. Everyone knows exactly what she’s doing.

Ryujin doesn’t flinch. “Sex with him’s been great.” Her voice is clean, steady. “He told me his last relationship nearly ruined it for him. Said she didn’t do anything—wouldn’t ride, wouldn’t go down on him, just laid there making sounds like that was enough. Didn’t touch him, didn’t move, didn’t care if he finished. He said half the time he had to fake it just to get it over with. Couldn’t even look him in the eye when she came—probably because she didn’t.”

Yunjin buries her face in a pillow, muffling the secondhand embarrassment vibrating through the room. Someone exhales too loud. Nahyun shifts like she’s ready to bite back, eyes narrowing, lips parting with something sharp already forming. And you step forward before she has the chance. “Alright,” you say, voice louder now—measured, final. “Fantasy boy draft starts now.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band. Heads lift. Spines straighten. The shift is instant—like they’ve all remembered why they came. Voices rise at once, buzzing with sudden energy. You move to the edge of the rug and begin handing out the empty wicker baskets, one by one. Each is lined with soft pink tissue paper, ribbons already curling at the corners. “These are yours,” you announce, voice calm beneath the chaos. “When you pull a name, you’ll fill your basket with whatever you want—snacks, notes, lingerie if you’re bold. Think of it as a seduction starter pack.” There’s laughter, gasps, someone already asking if edible lube counts. “Presentation counts,” you remind them, and the girls giggle louder, suddenly competing before the game’s even begun.

Karina’s already kneeling at the center, pulling the glass punch bowl closer—the one filled with glittery slips of paper, each folded name inked in your handwriting. She gives it a hard mix with her hand, swirling them fast. “No trades,” she says, smirking. “No swaps. No complaints.” 

Then her tone dips, slow and heavy, dragging everyone in. “The rules are simple,” Karina says. “Tomorrow night, you spend at least one full hour with the boy you pull. That’s the minimum. If you want to spend the whole night with him—be my guest. Just the two of you. No friends, no interruptions, no backing out. It’s a tradition before big games, especially state championships like this one. Helps ease the nerves. Fuck the stress out of the boys—literally.”

She grins now, all teeth. “If you want to fuck him—fuck him. If you want to tease him the whole time—do that too. Just make sure something happens.” Her smile twists, eyes glittering. “You can suck him off in the car. Ride him in his room. Make him beg and leave. I don’t care how you play it. But whoever gets the furthest—sexually—wins.”

There’s a pause—then chaos. Laughter, shrieks, someone throws a pillow. Ningning screams something about winning before the names are even pulled. Giselle demands clarification on what counts as ‘furthest’ while already opening a lip gloss. The room swells again. And you—you let it happen. Let them shriek and flirt and laugh like it’s just a game. Like it’s not being directed. Like they aren’t moving exactly how you want them to. But your grip never loosens. You’re still setting the pace, still tracking every glance, every flicker of tension. This isn’t about flirting. It’s about leverage. About memory. About which bonds form, which cracks deepen, who follows impulse and who stays calculated. Who reaches first—and who gets chosen back. And the beauty of it is, they think it’s theirs. But you built this stage. You handed them the script.

Karina walks the bowl around slowly, letting each girl pick one by one. It turns giggly quickly—some of them are clasping hands like they’re praying for their favourite name, whispering to the ceiling as if the boy gods are listening. The slips are drawn one by one, each rustle of paper followed by gasps, groans, and shrieks. You watch from where you're sat, knees drawn to your chest, hands cradling your glass, as names are revealed like fate being bargained. It starts light. Silly. And then it shifts.

Areum unfolds hers slowly. Blinks once. Twice. She doesn’t speak, but her thumb presses down hard on the paper, white-knuckling the edge. Her face doesn’t shift. Not a smile, not a wince. But her eyes move. Across the room. Past the flickering candles and half-tied ribbons. Mark’s name might as well have caught fire in her hand. Her eyes land in a blank space like she’s looking through the room instead of at it like she can’t believe what she’s holding. Like she thought she had more time. “I have Mark,” she says finally, so low it barely counts as a whisper. No reaction. Just a fact she has to say aloud to believe. Then she folds the slip again and tucks it between her fingers like it means nothing at all.

Karina pulls her name next, it turns out to be Jaemin. She exhales as soon as she sees it, then mutters, “Of course.” Her voice isn’t bitter, just tight with familiarity. She grabs her basket and starts assembling it immediately, hands sure and practiced. Her fingers curl around a satin bow like muscle memory. "I won't get any action tonight," she says dryly. "Never been his type and he’s never been mine, he’s too quiet and mysterious." She doesn’t sound sad, just factual. But her grip on the scissors is tense. You say nothing. Watch her slice through cellophane with purpose.

When Ningning opens hers, she gasps loud enough to make half the room jump. "Chenle!" she squeals, hugging the paper to her chest. “God always provides.” She scrambles toward her hamper, giggling as she tosses things in without pause—heart-shaped lollipops, flavored lube, candy rings, a pink satin blindfold, and a bottle of edible massage oil labeled “lick here.” She hums while she packs, murmuring something about riding him until the hour’s up, and slips in a pair of crotchless lace panties, folded neatly on top like a final promise.

Yunjin sighs when she gets Jungwoo. She groans, but it’s not disappointment, more like bracing for chaos. “If he tries to teach me the Dougie again I’m gonna scream.” 

Ryujin snorts from across the floor. “Last time I got him he brought one of his friends and turned it into a threesome. Didn’t even ask first. Just showed up with a 6’5 surprise.” There’s an eruption of laughter. Yunjin throws a sequin. She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “Okay but he is hot and I hope I see this ‘friend.’” She giggles whilst wiggling her eyebrows seductively. 

When it's your turn, the room quiets. Not completely, not enough for anyone to notice unless they were watching closely. But you feel it. A soft hush beneath the laughter. Eyes flick toward you, quick and curious. Your name has weight, and everyone knows it. You walk toward the bowl like it's something sacred, like the paper inside might rearrange your entire night. Your fingers hover, dip in, shuffle too long like you’re searching for something specific. Maybe you are. Maybe you’re hoping it’s not him.

Not because you wouldn’t want him. You would. That’s the problem.

You wouldn’t be able to play it cool. You wouldn’t know how to pretend. If it’s Jeno—if it’s Jeno—you’ll lose whatever grip you’ve managed to keep on yourself. If he looks at you soft, you’ll fall. If he looks at you cruel, you’ll break. There’s no version of this where you win. No version where you fuck him and feel fine after. Wanting Jeno has always come with ruin. Always. It’s never been easy. Never been safe. Just blood under your nails and ache between your legs.

You’re not here for that. Not tonight. Not when everything depends on your control.

So when the paper unfolds in your hand and reads San, your breath leaves you quiet and low. Not relief, exactly—but something close enough. You can work with San. You’ve fucked before. Once. Maybe twice. It was good. Clean. No mess. No history. He made you come, made you laugh, didn’t make you think. If you suck him off in a car, it’ll count. It’ll be enough. It won’t be dangerous. That’s what you need. Something you can handle. Something you don’t have to feel.

Then Nahyun opens hers.

She screams. Breathless, high-pitched, vibrating with glee. “Oh my god. I got Jeno!” Her hands are already fumbling for her phone, typing out notes and planning how to spend the night with him, giggling to herself. "He’s going to love this. He even said I give the best head he's ever had. Always cums when I’m on top. He's probably thinking about me right now—"

You suck your teeth, a quiet flick of pressure that doesn’t beg attention. Your tongue settles in your cheek, eyes fixed anywhere but her—because you don’t need to look. She’s already filling the room with her noise, grasping for a spotlight that was never hers to hold. Your expression stays smooth, impassive, perfected over time like muscle memory. But underneath it, there’s the slow curl of amusement, low and easy. Not because you care. Not the way she wants you to. But because it’s funny—laughable, even—the way she keeps reaching, convinced she still matters.

She doesn’t stop. Flushed and breathless, voice high with performance. “He’s already been texting me tonight, actually,” she says, like she’s letting everyone in on a secret. “Said I’d be his first pick even if there wasn’t a draft. We’ve fucked so many times. He always comes back to me. Always wants me.”

You smile—small, measured, just the barest curl of your mouth. Because it’s a lie. Every word. And you know it.You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because you know exactly who Jeno messages when he’s high—when the drugs make him bold and stupid. When he’s drunk and desperate and aching to feel something real. The messages he sends you aren’t sweet, aren’t shy, aren’t asking how you’ve been. They’re pure filth, breathless voice notes where he slurs your name like he’s trying to fuck it, like just the syllables taste like you. He sends videos with his hand wrapped tight around his cock, leaking and flushed, every stroke harder than the last, captioned only you get me like this. 

You haven’t touched him in weeks, but he hasn’t touched anyone else either—not really. He’s tried. You know he’s tried. You know how he looks at other girls and hopes one of them might make him forget. Might make him come. But they don’t. They never do. The only time he gets off is with your photo on his screen—your pussy spread open for him, your moans playing on repeat, his fist choking his dick while he gasps your name into the dark. He doesn’t fuck anyone else. He fucks memories of you.

Ryujin’s eyes slice across the room and lock onto yours, her expression unreadable for a beat before it sharpens, like she’s catching onto something only you both are in on. Her brow lifts, slow, deliberate as she turns to Nahyun. “You’re saying Jeno’s been fucking you recently?” she asks, voice flat, almost bored.

Nahyun nods. Too quickly. “Yeah, he’s really needy—” she starts, dragging her eyes over to you again, and it’s obvious now she’s not really speaking to Ryujin at all. Her words are laced with sugar and something mean, like she wants to press them directly against your skin, see if they sting. “He said my pussy’s the only thing that makes him cum right now.” The room stills. Not because anyone believes her, but because of the way she says it—like she’s already imagining how it’ll hurt you.

It barely registers on your face—the twitch of your lips, the way they curve at the corners like something bitter-sweet just brushed past. You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek, jaw tightening for half a second before you smooth it away with a breath. No sharpness. No crack. Just control. When you glance toward Ryujin, she’s already looking at you. And when your eyes meet, she smirks, shaking her head a little like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. The two of you share a laugh—quiet, breathless, folded into the space between cushions and candlelight. It’s not loud enough to draw attention as you haven’t bitten back all night, haven’t risen to a single dig, but this—this is just too delicious to ignore.

Then Yeji pipes up. “That’s wild,” she says, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “I tried to fuck him at that party last week. He said no and told me to go home, he said he hasn’t been in the mood lately. I couldn’t even get him hard when we made out.” Her tone is casual, but the weight of her words lands heavy.

Nahyun stills, like the wind’s been knocked from her. “No, that’s—he—” she fumbles. The room watches her scramble, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. Then she dives for her hamper, hands moving too fast, shoving in a half-open pack of condoms, a bag of crisps, gummy bears, socks that don’t match, a random bottle of spray cologne she hasn’t sniffed, all things that Jeno would hate. 

And maybe that’s why Karina rises—not with drama, not with a sound, just an unfazed grace that makes the moment ripple beneath the surface. Her gaze sweeps the room once, slow and calculating, before she steps forward with a kind of stillness that makes everyone pause. She stops in front of you, her eyes flicking to the name in your hand—San—and then to Nahyun’s clenched fingers. And without a word, she snatches the paper from Nahyun’s hands, then yours, and swaps them both.  The exchange is swift but heavy. 

Nahyun’s breath catches sharp, her voice dragging up fast behind her like she’s chasing the control slipping from her hands. “You—you can’t do that!” she yells, eyes wide. “That’s not fair. I already messaged him—he knows it’s me—”

Karina doesn’t even turn. She’s already back at her hamper, curling pink tissue around a bottle of whipped body oil, fingers precise as scissors slice through glitter ribbon. “I’m the captain,” she says, calm and smooth, voice dipped in glass. “I don’t follow the rules. I set them.” Then, quieter, deadlier—“And you’ve been lying to everyone since the second you pulled that name.”

Nahyun stumbles for words, mouth parting like she has something clever to bite with—but she doesn’t get the chance because your voice slices clean through the room, low and easy, thick with the kind of humor that makes people sit up straighter. “You can keep messaging him if it makes you feel better,” you say. “Just know it’s not going to deliver. He blocked your number.”

Nahyun’s face flames, cheeks red, jaw trembling. “No, he didn’t.”

You tilt your head, eyes soft, almost sympathetic. “Yeah,” you murmur, lips twitching. “He did.”

Her voice sharpens. “How would you even know?”

You don’t blink. You lean back slow, a little smirk curling at the corner of your mouth like you’re offering her the kindness of honesty—because you are. “He blocked you when we were together,” you say, tone silky, matter-of-fact. “Said you wouldn’t stop texting. Said it was getting annoying.”

That’s what makes it land. You don’t need to raise your voice or lean forward. You don’t even shift in your seat. You sit there, drink cradled easily in your hand, legs crossed like this is nothing to you—because it is nothing to you. The truth carries on its own. It doesn’t need your help. It slices clean without volume or venom. Tonight, it hits exactly where it’s supposed to.

The silence that follows doesn’t crack or shatter. It folds in on itself—thick, awkward, and painfully aware. Nahyun doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t scream or pout or argue again. Just huffs, once, loud through her nose like it might keep her dignity intact, then lowers herself slowly back onto the floor. Her face is turned away, but her hands are busy—ripping the ribbon she’d picked out into thinner and thinner strips, like if she keeps doing it long enough, it’ll distract everyone from the fact that no one’s paying her any more attention.

You don’t gloat. You don’t even watch her. You simply return to the task at hand. Quietly, calmly, without flourish, you tip the contents of the basket out onto the rug beside you. One by one, Nahyun’s choices roll out—glitter-stained lollipops, dick-shaped gummies, a cheap silk tie that smells like a department store perfume section. None of it fits. Not for him. It’s all loud and sugary and performative. Not real. Not the kind of thing that will make him pause when he opens it. 

You hadn’t planned for this. You’d hoped for something simple—something shallow enough to slip through without feeling a thing. A boy who wouldn’t make your hands shake. Someone who wouldn’t look at you too long or too closely. But now that it’s Jeno, there’s a strange kind of calm that settles in your chest. Not relief. Not fear. Just inevitability. He was always the one who could tip the scale but you’ve learned how to carry that kind of tension, how to wear silence like armor. You’ll hand over the basket—maybe. Or you’ll make Karina do it. Maybe you won’t even stay long enough to see his expression. Maybe he won’t open it in front of you at all. Either way, it won’t matter. You’ll be fine. You always are.

Even as you tell yourself it means nothing, your hands betray you—already moving with purpose, already reaching for the things only you could know. There’s no checklist. No logic. Just instinct and memory guiding your fingers across the table. You start with the peppermint tin, the same one he used to pop open in your car, pressing a mint against your tongue like he owned your mouth. It nestles low in the corner, buried in soft blush tissue. Then you add a strip of worn polaroid film, edges bent, colors soft and fading. It's not even a full photo—just the bottom half of his hand resting on your thigh, the hem of your skirt hitched a little too high, both of you laughing out of frame. He took it by accident once, fumbling with the camera when he was tipsy and reaching for you. You never let him throw it out. You kept it. Now it’s tucked inside the basket like a secret—one only he’ll recognize. 

Then you put in a small sachet of your perfume, dabbed onto silk, tied with string. A pair of black silk boxers folded neatly, pressed into the corner. A candle—warm musk and sandalwood, the kind that smells like his skin. You hesitate. Then your fingers move to put in a pack of heat patches for his shoulder. A tiny jar of that muscle rub he likes—eucalyptus and camphor, rubbed in slow under the collarbone when he’d wince and you’d whisper relax. Your lip balm, the same one he used to kiss off in pauses between moans. And the ribbon around it is black. Sleek, silent, final. A knot pulled tight—not pretty, not soft, just done. It doesn’t unravel when touched. It doesn’t ask to be untied. It stays. Like a full stop at the end of a sentence that never needed a reply.

You don’t stop to wonder what any of it means. You just keep moving, hands working faster than your head, each object pulled with unthinking care. Every detail is muscle memory. Like your body remembers something your mouth won’t say. A kind of fluency that only existed with him, still exists now, humming under your skin. The things you add to the basket aren’t grand, but they feel like confessions. Like truths hidden in texture and shape. Your fingers ghost over a pile of polaroids, and for a second you pause. There’s one of you both laughing in bed, sheets tangled, his head half out of frame but smiling anyway. You try not to smile—you really do—but it breaks through, soft and aching.

From beside you, Karina makes a sound under her breath. Her eyes flick to your basket, then to you, narrowed with sharp amusement. “Let’s place bets on who’s getting the furthest tomorrow,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Mine’s on Jeno and Y/N.” Her voice is light, teasing, but loaded, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. A few girls laugh. You huff, breath caught in your throat, about to deflect with something dry, but Ningning beats you to it.

“Wait, what even happened between you two?” she asks, head tilted. She’s curious, not nosy, but her words land with weight. Like the whole room still remembers that it was once you and him.

You sigh, glance down, voice quiet. “It’s a long story.” You hope that will be enough. You hope no one pushes. Because it is a long story. One lined with bruised trust and burned edges, stitched together with half-kept promises and the soft ache of everything you couldn’t say. It’s a story about how you tried, God, how you tried—and how in the end, love wasn’t the thing that broke you. His father was. A man with too much power and no conscience, who threatened to shatter your world if you didn’t walk away. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. You left because you had to. And now you carry that silence like it’s wedged between your ribs, bleeding every time someone mentions his name like it’s supposed to be simple. Like you weren’t forced to give up the only thing that ever felt like home.

“I hope you guys find your way back,” Ryujin says, smiling gently. “Taro always told me how happy you made each other. He used to talk about you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to Jeno. Said he’d never seen him act like that over anyone.” Her voice is sincere, kind. But it stings.

You give her a small, grateful smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m sure you’ll end up together,” Yunjin adds, voice low and hopeful. She offers you a soft glance, warm with quiet understanding. “I think the ‘boy draft’ might bring you closer again.”

You blink once, slowly, as if trying to register the weight of her words. It’s not shock exactly—more confusion. Your voice comes quieter than expected, a little off-guard. “I mean… he has,” you murmur, like you’re still piecing it together. “He’s been around. He hasn’t exactly avoided me. I’ve been the one avoiding him.”

Areum bristles. She adjusts her posture, jaw set. “Look,” she says, voice louder now, aimed at no one and everyone. “I’m really good friends with Jeno. And I just… I didn’t like how you ended things with him. It felt selfish. You broke his heart, simple as that. And now you want to give him this?” She gestures toward your filled basket, lips curled like it’s something rotten.

Your fingers tighten around the ribbon, jaw slack for half a second before it firms. Then your gaze lifts—slow, level—and lands on hers without flinching. “Mind your own business,” you say, voice low, unbothered. “Worry about you and Mark.” You don’t wait for her to speak again. You just go back to folding the edge of the tissue paper, calm and precise, like she hadn’t even opened her mouth in the first place.

Tonight is night of the boy draft. The action—the chaos, the aftermath, the games—was all meant to unfold today. But you wouldn’t be going. The last few days have left your head spinning, body anchored to your desk, mind buried beneath a mountain of strategy and sleepless hours. There have been more pressing concerns than blindfolds and lingerie. More urgent things than seduction.

The night air is thick, almost sluggish, dragging itself against the glass of your window. City traffic hums faintly in the background, a dull drone beneath the soft, lulling instrumental playing from your laptop. The only light in your apartment spills from the screen—white-blue glow flickering over stacks of paper, half-empty mugs, and an untouched bowl of something you meant to eat hours ago. It’s been days of this—pulling threads, cornering contradictions, tightening the noose with every pass. And now, finally, it’s folding. The cracks are wide open. Their story’s breaking apart under your hands, and all you have to do is keep pressing. Just a little more, and it’s done.

The first ring barely registers. You stay hunched over your desk, eyes skimming over a line you’ve already dissected a dozen times. Then it comes again—sharper this time, more insistent, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t planning to wait. You sit back slowly, irritation rising in your chest as you shove your chair away, feet dragging toward the door. You don’t bother fixing your shirt, don’t bother schooling your expression. You’re already ready to snap until the door swings open and Karina’s standing there.

She’s standing in the hallway like the building belongs to her. Like she’s the one who pays your rent. A sleek black dress clings to her body like it was sewn there, the silk catching every flicker of light. Her hair falls in perfect waves down her back, lips painted in a gloss so precise it’s criminal. She doesn’t look like she’s come to visit. She looks like she’s come to collect. And she doesn’t even greet you. Her eyes just sweep you from head to toe, pausing at the oversized shirt you’ve got half-tucked into a pair of shorts.

“What the hell are you wearing?” she scoffs, already brushing past you like she owns the place.

You step aside with a huff. “Pajamas since I'm at home?” 

"Did you not get the thousands of messages I sent you? And the ones in the group chat? Not to mention the reminders at practice?" she asks, hands on her hips. Your jaw tightens. Of course you got them. You knew exactly what she was talking about. 

Your jaw tightens. You did. You got every single one. You knew exactly what she was talking about. It wasn’t just the boy draft anymore. Jeno had a party planned for tonight—one he announced weeks ago, long before anyone realized how badly everything would start to crack. Karina didn’t care about the party itself. She cared about what it could be: a last-ditch attempt to pull the team into one place, at one time, under one roof. All of the boys would be there. All of the cheerleaders were expected to show up too. Baskets in hand. Smiles on. Unity in motion.

She wasn’t asking anymore, this was the new plan. The gift baskets would be delivered in person during Jeno’s party with each cheerleader showing support for their player, not just to fulfill a stupid tradition—but to remind the squad, the team, and themselves that they were still one unit. Even if it was fake and only lasted a night.

Karina’s voice softens, just barely. “This is the last night we’re going to get before everything starts moving too fast to fix. This is the last time we’ll all be together before the state championships and graduation. You need to come. It won’t be the same without you, and you need to make the night count, to make it worth something.”

Her eyes hold yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s no pressure in her tone, not exactly, but there’s weight in it—heavy, quiet, undeniable. “I know you’re worried about seeing Jeno,” she adds, gentler now. “But this isn’t about him. Not really. It’s about the team. About the work we’ve done. About everything you’ve held together when nobody else could.”

You look down at your desk, at the clipboard Karina handed you a few weeks ago—edges aligned, columns neat, not a single line out of place. You’ve rewritten endless plans and strategies, adjusting to every missed practice, every unexpected injury, every girl who threatened to drop out. You’ve done everything except let yourself think about what it’ll mean to be in the same room as him again. Really be in it. Not across a gym. Not beside a bench. But eye to eye.

Karina exhales, rubbing a hand over her temple like she’s already bracing for impact. “The slumber party helped temporarily but the girls are already falling apart again. You and Areum aren’t speaking. Mia and Ryujin snapped at each other in the locker room. Nahyun’s arguing with everyone.” Her voice dips, just enough for the words to sting. “We need to show up as a unit. No missing players. Especially not you. You’re the most essential piece of this entire thing. I’m not asking you to talk to him, I’m asking you to show up anyway, for the team, for me.”

You could fight her on this. You could argue your way out of it—build the defense line by line, logical and clean, polished enough to sound like conviction. You could say it’s a distraction, say it’s not the time, say you have better things to do than stand in a house full of people pretending not to see him. But beneath it all—beneath the practiced lies and rational excuses—is a truth that slips in quietly and stays like bruised fruit beneath your ribs, soft and sour and impossible to ignore. Wanting him has never been loud. It’s been a quiet ache, a familiar weight, something you carry the way a soldier carries a letter they said they wouldn’t read. You weren’t planning to go to war tonight. But your body’s already moving like you are.

The proof of how desperately you want to go is in the outfit already laid out on your bed, the accessories carefully arranged, the makeup waiting untouched on your desk. You were ready. And then, at the last minute, doubt crept in. Maybe you were waiting for someone to make the choice for you, to pull you from hesitation before it swallowed you whole. Maybe you just needed the push.

Karina follows your gaze, and when she spots the dress on the bed, she smirks. "So you were planning on going. You just needed me to show up and force you into it."

You don’t confirm or deny it. Instead, you cross the room, picking up the dress. The fabric is decadent beneath your fingertips—lace and silk in deep black, whisper-soft yet sinful, designed to sculpt the body into something untouchable and entirely irresistible. It clings where it should, drapes where it needs to, the neckline dipping low enough to draw attention to the swell of your breasts, teasing without giving too much away. The slit is high, a dangerous, calculated detail, designed to offer glimpses of skin with every step. It’s a dress made to be looked at. A dress that turns admiration into hunger. A dress Jeno fucking loves.

Karina watches as you run your fingers over the fabric, her expression unreadable for a moment before she tilts her head. "That’s the one," she murmurs. "That’s your ‘fuck me’ dress." And she’s right. You’re wearing this for a reason. For Jeno.”

It’s a selfish, messy choice—one that has nothing to do with strategy or team morale. It’s about the way you want him to want you, about the way his gaze always darkens when he sees you in this dress, the way his fingers used to trace the lace along your ribs before slipping beneath it. You remember the first time you wore it for him—his hands pressing you against his car outside a party, lips dragging over your throat as he muttered against your skin, “You’re doing this on purpose.” And he was right. You were. You always are.

The dress fits like a second skin, highlighting every curve, every line. You pair it with stilettos that force your posture into confidence, sharp accessories that catch the light, makeup that is both soft and intense—smoky eyes that deepen your stare, lips painted just enough to draw attention, cheeks subtly sculpted to sharpen every expression. Karina does your makeup with practiced ease, her fingers steady, her voice switching effortlessly between teasing and real advice. But none of it really matters. Not the dress, not the heels, not the makeup

The thoughts start slow, like static, like fog, slipping in through the cracks no matter how tightly you try to shut them out. They settle low—behind your navel, under your ribs—warmth that spreads like silk in heat, slow and clinging. Because when he sees you, you want it to happen before he realizes it. You want his eyes to catch on the line of your thigh, the curve of your mouth, the slow drag of your fingers against your glass—and feel it rise, thick and hot, no space left for logic. You want it to pull him without mercy, like gravity, like instinct. Not a decision but a reaction. The kind his body will have even as his mind screams don’t. You want to watch as he shifts in his seat, jaw tight, pulse rising beneath his collar, eyes darkening before he blinks. You won’t touch him. You won’t even look at him but he’ll feel it anyway—the heat, the pull, the undeniable weight of wanting what he can’t have anymore.

Karina lines your waterline with a practised hand, her body warm against yours as she leans in close. She doesn’t say anything at first—just tilts your chin, steadies your head, her fingers light beneath your jaw. When you blink too quickly and make her smudge the corner, she tuts under her breath, low and familiar, then murmurs that if you move again, she’s going to jab the eyeliner straight through your eye. You smile, just a little. It's not a real threat. It's Karina's way of grounding you.

But then her tone shifts, softens so subtly you almost miss it. "What are you gonna do when you see him?" she asks, quiet this time, her words sliding in like silk between heartbeats. 

You don’t answer right away, not because you're avoiding it, but because there’s no clear answer. Eventually, your voice comes out low, like it’s been sitting heavy in your chest all night. “I don’t know.” You feel her watching you through the mirror, her touch still gentle as she finishes your eyeliner. 

You’re surprised by how patient she sounds when she speaks again, like she’s thought about this more than once. "If it gets too much, just breathe. Don’t let him see you break. If he wants to stare, let him. If he wants to act like you’re not even there, fine. But don’t let him drag you down with him. Stand your ground."

Her thumb brushes beneath your eye, fixing a line you didn’t even realise was uneven. She leans back just enough to meet your gaze in the mirror. "Walk in there like you own the fucking place. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your eyes, nothing. But if you do give him something… make it count."

You nod, lips pressed together. There’s no tremble, no fear. Just quiet understanding. Karina’s still looking at you, though, her features pinched like there’s more sitting behind her teeth. She hesitates for a second, then speaks, barely above a whisper. "There’s something I need to tell you."

You glance up, meet her eyes in the mirror. "Go on."

Karina’s breath hitches so softly and her hands still against your face, her liner pen paused mid-air. Her eyes don’t meet yours in the mirror—not yet. “It’s happened a few times,” she says, voice low, like it costs her something to say it. “Three, maybe four.” Her thumb steadies your chin. The weight of it feels heavier than usual. “Jeno’s… tried,” she continues, quieter now. “He’s tried to kiss me. To fuck me. I let him kiss me once. Maybe twice. His hand was on my thigh, and I didn’t stop him, I let it happen until I didn’t. He always stops and I do too but it shouldn’t have happened at all.”

You say nothing, eyes fixed on the girl in the mirror, lips parted just slightly. There’s a familiar ache crawling up your chest, a pressure that doesn’t quite break the surface. Of course you don’t like it. Of course it hurts. But there’s nothing to say that would make it different now. Her words land heavy, but you stay still, let her finish.

“I’ve been weak around him before,” she says, her hand steady as she traces the liner along the edge of your top lip, knuckles brushing your skin with the kind of ease that only comes from years of practice. “I used to be his rebound. Every time he got hurt, every time he fought with Areum or walked out of her apartment pissed off and cold, he’d come to me. And I’d let him. I got used to it—being his second skin, his distraction. He’d fuck me like he needed to forget she existed. Like he wanted to feel something, anything, even if it wasn’t her.”

She breathes out slow, controlled, but her fingers pause briefly at the corner of your mouth. “But this time… it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t trying to get over someone. He was quiet. Like he was searching for something. He touched me like he was hoping I’d feel like you but I didn’t. I could tell. I could feel it wasn’t me he wanted.” Her voice drops lower, softer, almost intimate. “It was different. You changed something in him. He’s never felt this deep for anyone—not even her. That’s why it scared him. That’s why he stopped. I know Jeno well, I know he’s never been like this before.” 

You don’t look at her when you ask, voice low, even. “So… did you tell him to stop? To stop trying to fuck his feelings away with you?”

“I did,” she says, her voice no longer sharp or teasing, but quiet—bare, almost. “I told him he doesn’t get to do that anymore, doesn’t get to crawl back every time it gets too heavy in his own head, like I’m some fix he can reach for whenever he doesn’t want to sit in his own mess. I told him he needs to deal with his own shit, feel it all the way through. Let it sting, let it cut. Not just show up when the silence gets too loud and he can’t handle the weight of it anymore.”

Karina leans back slowly, her eyes trailing over every inch of your face like she’s signing off on something sacred. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say much—just a quiet, certain nod, her fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with practiced care. “You’re ready now,” she says, voice low but sure, like it’s already been decided. Her gaze lingers a beat longer before she adds, “We’ll meet the others outside his apartment. Once we’re all there, we walk in together. And then the boy draft starts.” Her words aren’t dramatic, not even heavy—but they settle over your skin like something inevitable, the beginning of a storm that’s already in motion.

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes remain fixed on your reflection. And for the first time in a long while, you feel beautiful. Not just pretty, not polished but beautiful in a way that feels deliberate. Dangerous. Your lips look pillowy, bitten red and lined with precision. Your eyes hold a heat, a sharpness you usually bury. And your body, wrapped in something that clings and cuts in all the right ways, radiates confidence. You lean in, add the final touches—a touch more highlight on your collarbones, a gloss to your lips that catches the light just right, a setting spray misted like ritual.

Your outfit hugs every inch the right way, dark fabric clinging like intention, the neckline a little lower than necessary, the hem rising every time you move. Your makeup is immaculate—eyes smoky, lips full, highlight catching the light just right. Karina watches from behind, arms folded, head tilted, a small smirk playing on her glossed mouth. She doesn’t say it but you feel it in her silence—this is what power looks like. You add the finishing touches—fingers sliding on your favorite rings, cool metal kissing your knuckles, a chain necklace that sits just above your collarbone, bracelets clinking softly, and then the charm bracelet, the one that’s never left your wrist. The one he gave you, back when things were soft and real and easier.

You look at yourself one last time—not to admire, but to cement. There’s no room for fragility tonight. This version of you is polished, sharp, and ready for whatever comes next. And as Karina nods, satisfied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your shoulder, you take one last breath, shoulders square, chin lifted. The city hums outside like it’s calling your name. And so you answer. Your heels click against the floor as you step through the front door of your apartment, into the heat of a night that refuses to wait.

When you cross the threshold into Jeno’s apartment, it feels like slipping into the mouth of something alive—breathing, buzzing, burning—a low-lit pit of tension stretched tight over lust and liquor. The air tastes expensive and sweet, thick with perfume and cologne and spilled secrets, and the bass-heavy pulse of the music bleeds into your bones. Every flickering shadow, every surface slick with memory—you know this place. You’ve been known in this place. Bent over its furniture. Fucked across its walls. Whispered to behind its doors. 

It holds you in a way that burns too close and stretches too far. Like him. Like Jeno. Something you’ve tasted, memorised, ached over, but can’t quite grasp anymore. Not because you let go, but because you were made to. He feels like something that used to be yours in full, now rationed in moments. Fleeting glances, silent rooms, bruises that fade too quickly. The distance was never mutual. It was survival.

You step further in, your heels clicking softly over tile, and behind you the cheerleaders follow like a beautiful, dangerous current—each of them armed with their draft baskets, soft smiles and bright eyes already trying to locate their boys for the night. They scatter like petals, but your gravity keeps the formation intact. You’re the eye of it. The center. And the second you enter, everything halts. Conversations taper off and heads lift. Eyes snap toward you like they’ve been summoned. 

You know why, everyone does. You were his for a long time, Jeno’s girl, the one he touched without restraint, kissed like possession, claimed in ways that never needed to be spoken aloud. That kind of history makes people curious, makes them crave, it stains your skin like perfume, impossible to forget. And then there was the bar, that performance, the one where your thighs were bare under dim lights, voice spilling low and sultry from parted lips, every note laced with something too intimate for strangers to hear. They came expecting shame, to watch you strip yourself of dignity, to see you crumble under the weight of it all, and you certainly did, maybe a little of you broke but you didn’t fall, you learned, you swallowed their stares and turned them into fuel. Now they look because they can’t look away, because you sing like a secret and walk like sin, and every inch of you refuses to be made small.

That kind of power? You drink it. You’ve always known how to move through a room like you own it, but now the room moves around you. You don’t just attract attention—you weaponize it. You make eye contact long enough to draw someone in, then turn away before they can get their fill. You don’t need to chase anyone, you’ve already been chased, you’ve already won.

Your walk is intentional, hips swaying with rhythm, the fabric of your dress clinging like it’s painted on. You feel the heat of every stare, the way their eyes drag down the curve of your spine, over the backs of your thighs, across your chest. You’re all soft curves and hard edges—fuckable and untouchable in the same breath. And they don’t know which they want more.

A smile tugs at your lips as you glance across the room. You greet people with half-lidded eyes, a nod here, a knowing glance there, but you’re not really present. You’re searching but he’s not here yet. His absence hangs thick in the air, not empty, but loaded—like smoke that clings to your lungs long after the fire. You feel it in your chest, that slow, aching pressure that only ever means one thing. Jeno. The boy who filled you so full of want he hollowed you out. The boy who ruined you with sweetness. The one who, even now, even gone, manages to tighten the air around you until it hurts to breathe. He had your heart once—maybe he still does—but you couldn’t give it to him freely, not when someone else held their grip around your throat. That’s the part that breaks you. Not the leaving. The not being allowed to stay.

The fantasy boy draft is already in motion. Karina has Jaemin backed against the kitchen counter, basket in one hand, lip gloss in the other, her smile syrupy and slow, dripping down the side of his neck. Jaemin isn’t looking at her—he’s watching the room, watching you. His mouth moves and he says something low but it doesn’t look like interest. Karina doesn't seem fazed, she twirls a strand of her hair around her finger and keeps talking, hips shifting like punctuation.

Ryujin and Shotaro are already dancing despite Shotaro not being a draft since he’s not even in the basketball team but Ryujin evidently does what she wants to do. They’re tucked in a darker corner where the lights pulse slower. She’s grinding against him shamelessly, skirt riding high, arms draped around his neck like they’ve done this a hundred times before. They clearly have. His hands settle low on her hips, eyes half-lidded, lost in the rhythm she’s feeding him. Nahyun stands nearby, glaring openly. Her draft—San—is nowhere in sight but she clearly doesn’t care. Her gaze is locked on Shotaro like she wants to peel Ryujin off him with her bare hands.

Your friends are scattered throughout the room. Donghyuck is mixing drinks and laughter in the kitchen, catching attention from Karina who moves closer to Donghyuck and further away from Jaemin with every passing moment, while Chenle sits on the couch with Ningning on his lap. She’s grinding slowly, languid and unbothered, his hands anchored around her waist as they pass a joint between them. He leans up occasionally to whisper something into her ear, and whatever it is makes her smile with all teeth. Yangyang’s perched beside them, blunt between his fingers, half-listening to some girl’s story but his eyes aren’t on her. They’re locked on you. Or more specifically, your ass. He doesn’t bother hiding it. Mark is beside him, silent, back against the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching nothing and everything all at once.

And you—you’re the only one who hasn’t gotten started with your boy draft. Not because you don’t want to, not because the game doesn’t thrill you in some small, vicious way, but because you can’t see him. The one you drew. It’s his party, his apartment, his name scrawled on the card you pulled. You can feel him—can feel the tension curling at the base of your spine, the way the air shifts like it’s bracing for him—but you can’t find him. It’s like chasing a shadow, like being haunted by a presence that refuses to take form. He’s everywhere and nowhere, a phenomenon stitched into the walls of this place. And you can’t begin until he does.

You approach your friends slowly, heat licking up your thighs with every step. Mark’s gaze lifts first, and he raises his drink toward you with a lazy nod. “You look pretty,” he says as sweetly as he can muster, and it should mean something—but it doesn’t. Not when his voice is flat, eyes already drifting toward the crowd, toward Areum. His want is obvious, it’s need, the kind that coils in the gut, slow and starving. You can see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the glass. He doesn’t want to be here, wants to be inside of her.

Yangyang doesn’t even bother pretending. The girl next to him keeps talking, laughing too loud, leaning in with bold touches and eager glances, but his attention doesn’t flicker once. His eyes are locked on you—hungry, dark, possessive. They trail over every inch of you like a map he’s memorized, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and when he finally speaks, it’s a moan disguised as a compliment. “You look sexy,” he growls, tilting his head back, and you catch the shift in his lap immediately. He’s hard.

You’re about to shove his shoulder, roll your eyes, say something sharp—Yangyang, move over,—but you don’t get the chance. His arm snakes around your waist in one swift motion, anchoring you down onto his lap like you belong there, like you’ve always belonged there. The girl next to him stutters mid-sentence, confused, then falls silent, watching with wide eyes as Yangyang leans back, attention fully on you.

“Yangyang!” you gasp, surprised laughter slipping out before you can help it. His hands slide down your thighs, firm, grounding, and when you try to wriggle free, you feel the pressure of his cock beneath you—hard, deliberate, shameless. You squirm instinctively, cheeks burning, fingers clutching at his shoulder. “Let me go. Right now.”

He just grins, buzzed and easy, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with something unreadable. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice low and thick like a dare brushed against your skin. “No seat? You always end up here.” His hips shift beneath you, slow and casual, but the pressure is unmistakable—it draws a soft sound from your lips before you can stop it. The reaction is instinct, your thighs tightening without thought, the heat blooming quietly in response. There’s an ease to it, a natural rhythm your body remembers without asking, like this has always been muscle memory. Like it never really left.

Your dress rides up high—too high—so you tug it down with shaky fingers, heart racing, skin flushed. And even though you shift just to readjust, the slow drag of your ass over his lap is instinctual, something your body does without thinking, something that always happens when you sit like this. If it were Jeno, you wouldn’t still be facing forward. He wouldn’t let you. You’d already be turned around, straddling him, dress bunched at your waist, his hands gripping your hips while you bounce on his cock slow and messy, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp. Your thighs would burn, your back would arch, his name would fall from your mouth like a habit. But it’s not Jeno. It’s Yangyang. And Yangyang’s laugh is sharp when you feel the shift under you. “Yeah, Yangyang—but that was as friends!” you snap, voice higher now, eyes wide. “You’re hard, you absolute pervert!”

Mark still doesn’t look at you, just swirls the ice in his drink, that same disinterested tone dragging the words out slow. “So let me get this straight—you’ve been bouncing on his lap like that at all the parties? The river court? That shitty bowling alley we used to go to? All those nights I thought, oh, they’re just close friends, and you were out here acting out porn in real time?” His eyes flick up, unimpressed. 

Yangyang doesn’t even deny it—he just shrugs with that smug little smirk like he’s already claimed the title. 

You whip your head toward Yangyang, scandal flaring in your eyes. “No,” you bite out, like the syllable itself is some desperate spell meant to rewrite every memory. As if denying it now could scrub out all the times you’ve ended up here—perched on his lap, too close, too comfortable, like your body always knew the script before your brain did. But your voice falters, guilty without meaning to be, and your thighs are still draped across his like they belong there. Mark doesn’t say a word. Just hums low, gaze turning elsewhere, like he’s finally letting himself believe what he should’ve seen all along.

You turn toward Yangyang sharply, snatching the joint from his fingers with a glare and the intent to finally get off—but then you pause. His grin doesn’t fade exactly, but it falters. Just for a second. You see the shift before he even speaks. That soft, flickering edge to his gaze. His lashes lower, mouth twitching, shoulders sinking in the way they only do when he’s too high and the world’s starting to feel too real.

“Hey, you okay?” You murmur, voice lower now, softer, threading through the noise like smoke. You lean in so only he can hear, your arm curling around his shoulder, palm pressed lightly to his chest where you feel it stutter beneath your touch. You’d never let yourself get this close—not like this, not anymore—but you’re high and not thinking, or maybe thinking too much, and he looks like he’s seconds from unraveling.

You’ve known Yangyang for years. You know every tell. Every silence. And right now, he’s slipping beneath the noise, beneath the flirtation and bravado, somewhere quieter, sadder. He swallows hard. His eyes meet yours and they’re glassy, glinting with something raw. He shakes his head. “Can we talk later?” he whispers, the words cracked and honest. “It’s important.”

You nod instantly, eyes softening as your fingers curl tighter around his. “Of course we can,” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. You squeeze his hand gently, grounding him, pulling him back to you. “I’ve got you,” you say again, quieter this time, like a promise only meant for him.

It’s only then that you feel it, an unmistakable prickle at the back of your neck, sharp and deliberate, like a live wire strung tight beneath your skin. A gaze so heavy it anchors your spine before you even turn to find it. And when you do, your heart doesn’t leap, it drops. Jeno stands across the room like he’s been there the whole time, waiting for you to notice. He’s backlit by slow-flickering neon, jaw locked, shoulders squared, eyes set on you with a stare so cutting it could flay you open. It’s not curious nor confused, it’s fury carved into bone. His arms are crossed, his posture rigid, like it’s taking every ounce of control not to act. There’s a pulse behind his eyes that doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften—not even when Areum shifts beside him, glass in hand, her glare simmering with poorly veiled disgust. He doesn’t even seem to register her voice. His eyes never leave you—not when you shift on Yangyang’s lap, not when your fingers tighten around his shoulders, not when you throw your head back laughing like you’ve forgotten who’s watching.

Yangyang follows the line of your gaze, his smirk flickering for a split second when he catches the way your eyes lock onto Jeno. He leans in closer, voice low but obnoxious, smug curling at the edge of his mouth. There's something storming in his eyes—something that has less to do with jealousy and more to do with pride, heat, the thrill of being the one touching you while someone else can only look. "What, you think he’s gonna do something?" he mutters, cocking his head, eyes narrowing in Jeno’s direction. Then, more immature now, more crude, he adds, “If he wants to watch so bad, why don’t you just start bouncing on me? Bet that’d fuck him up.”

You snap your head toward him, eyes wide, breath catching with a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Yangyang,” you hiss under your breath, sharp, warning. But he just grins wider, like he’s proud of himself. Like he thinks he’s winning. It’s not funny anymore. Not when you can feel the burn of Jeno’s stare, not when your pulse is skipping and your dress feels too tight and your body’s caught in the middle of a war you never agreed to start.

You shift your weight, untangle yourself from Yangyang’s lap without another word. He doesn’t stop you—just leans back with a smug roll of his eyes, arms spread lazily across the couch like he’s made his point. You pull your dress down, every motion stiff, tense, and you turn, intending to put distance between yourself and the attention still licking up your skin, but stop dead in your tracks.

Areum stands in front of you, silent, still. She doesn’t announce herself, doesn’t need to, her eyes doing all the talking, narrowed and bitter, holding something she clearly thinks you’re scared of but you’re not. You don’t even flinch, already knowing exactly why she’s here, knowing nothing good is going to come out of her mouth, and still, you’re unfazed. She’s small, and whatever rage she’s trying to harness reads more like a tantrum than a threat. You’ve seen storms, Areum looks like drizzle. It’s you she should be worried about, you who doesn’t yell to make a point, you who doesn’t need to raise your voice to end a conversation before it starts. If she wants to light a fuse, fine, you’re already holding the match.

She speaks quietly, but her words hit like a slap. "You have some cheek, you know. Some nerve doing all of that with Yangyang when Jeno’s right there. What’s it been—a few weeks since you broke up with him and you’re already onto the next?”

You almost laugh, the sound bubbling up more from disbelief than amusement. “And what was I doing exactly?” you ask, voice sharp with clarity. “He pulled me onto his lap because there was no seat for me, do you think I should’ve just sat on the floor? And who told you I moved on? I literally haven’t. If you’re gonna run your mouth then at least know what you’re talking about.”

That should’ve ended it but it doesn’t. Areum’s breathing shifts. Quickens. Her brows furrow and her lips part—and then the dam breaks. She doesn’t just speak. She spirals. Words tumble from her mouth faster than she can control them. “You didn’t have to sit there,” she snaps, tone clipped, trembling slightly beneath the surface. “You stayed. You laughed. You let him touch you like that and maybe you haven’t moved on but it looked like you wanted to.” Her voice drops lower, bitter, careful. “And you knew Jeno was watching.”

You blink, once, twice, letting her words sit in the silence she leaves behind. Then you exhale, soft but sharp, like you’re choosing not to raise your voice only because she doesn’t deserve it. “Of course I wouldn’t want him to see,” you bite out, voice calm but edged. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if he did because it means nothing to me.”

Areum scoffs, tilting her head, arms still crossed. “Then why’d you stay on his lap so long? Wanted to feel wanted, is that it?” Her voice is sharp, smug, like she thinks she’s hit something real. “Or was it just the closest you could get to being touched by Jeno again?”

You blink once, twice, more stunned by her nerve than her words. You hadn’t expected her to be this mouthy, this bold but you suppose heartbreak does that to people—it strips the softness right out of them and leaves behind nothing but sharp edges and misplaced rage. You know she and Mark broke up, Mark told you himself, quiet and embarrassed, eyes downcast like he didn’t want to admit it. You hadn’t pushed, you didn’t need to because now, watching Areum unravel in front of you, you see everything he didn’t say. Her eyes keep darting to him—over your shoulder, behind your back, flickering to the corner where Mark still stands with your friends. He’s looking over too, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes locked on Areum with that familiar look that says he’s ready to step in if he needs to. You hold her gaze, but your awareness of him never falters.

She’s not fighting you. Not really. She’s fighting herself and you can tell. You’ve always been able to dissect people, to see the cracks even when they’re trying to be whole. Areum’s voice might be steady but everything else screams chaos—her shoulders tight, her breathing too quick, her fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what to do with them. It’s not anger, it’s guilt, it’s projection. She’s the one who left, she’s the one who gave up Mark and now she’s standing here, trying to act like you’re the problem because it’s easier than admitting she made a mistake. You could laugh. You almost do.

So you let it simmer for a beat. Let her stew in her own silence. Then you speak, slow and measured, every word deliberate. “You’re angry because I sat on someone’s lap, because I laughed. Meanwhile, you’ve been by Jeno’s side all night, pretending you’re not still in love with someone else. Don’t project your guilt onto me, Areum. If you feel bad about what you did to Mark, take it up with yourself. Don’t come for me because you can’t handle the consequences of your choices.”

You don’t blink when her eyes flare with something close to fury, don’t shift even as her stance tightens like she’s bracing for impact. You just stare, unbothered, the way someone does when they’ve already won, arms hanging loose at your sides, posture relaxed—not because you’re calm but because you choose to be, because nothing about her shakes you. Your stillness isn’t silence, it’s power, and it radiates, settling thick in the air between you like heat before lightning. She knows it, sees it in your eyes, in the tilt of your head, in the slight lift of your brow like you’re asking if that’s all, because this is what control looks like and you wear it like skin.

Areum swallows hard, throat bobbing once. “I’m not trying to argue,” she says, voice low and clipped, her gaze darting sideways before settling back on you, something like frustration flickering behind it. “It’s just—he was watching. That’s all.”

You shrug, slow, sharp, like you’re not pressed, like you’ve already run the numbers in your head and come out clean. “Yeah? Well, I’ve seen him with other girls too,” you say, tone cool, edged with something quieter, something that burns lower. “Too close, too friendly, hands where they don’t need to be. Doesn’t matter if he’s not fucking them, he still touches them like I’m not watching.” Your eyes flick back to hers, jaw tight. “So if you’re waiting on me to feel bad, don’t. I’ve already swallowed worse.”

Her expression twists, but it’s not anger this time, not exactly. Something shifts in the silence between you, weightier than anything said so far. She scoffs under her breath, a sound that tries for casual and misses, then mutters, “You’re putting on a show, you know. For someone who made such a fuss over the boy draft, you went all out with his basket. Kinda funny how you haven’t even tried to give it to him tonight. Guess flirting with Yangyang’s the new plan?”

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You tilt your head with that same deadpan control, the corners of your lips twitching like you’re seconds from laughter. “If you think that’s me flirting, you really need to get out more.”

Mark gets up quietly but with purpose and the motion itself is enough to shift the tension. You see him from the corner of your eye as he moves across the room, slipping through bodies that have begun to linger, to watch, to whisper. The weight of too many eyes presses down on the space between you and Areum, and it makes the air tight, claustrophobic. The argument, no matter how low your voices were kept, has drawn attention. The murmurs have started, heads are turned, and Mark feels every bit of it.

He stops beside Areum, doesn’t touch her, just stands close enough to make his presence known. Then he looks at you both. His expression is unreadable at first—tired, maybe—but then he shakes his head, once, slowly, and it’s full of something heavier than disappointment. His voice isn’t loud but it’s firm. "This isn’t it," he says, to no one and both of you. "Not like this. Not here."

Mark’s eyes flicker between you and Areum, jaw tight, and you can tell this hurts him. He’s not mad—he’s uncomfortable, unsettled. You’ve known him long enough to know what that look means. Mark Lee doesn’t do conflict like this well, especially not between people he cares about, and right now, that’s what’s killing him. You. Areum. The two people who’ve been constants in different ways, standing across from each other like enemies. It makes his stomach churn.

He exhales, rubs the back of his neck. His gaze lingers a little longer on Areum, softer, knowing. He gets why she’s like this. He knows it’s not really about the lap, or the laugh, or even the draft. It’s about the fact that she cares—still, deeply, maybe too much. He knows it’s coming from a place of protectiveness but it doesn’t make this right.

He looks at you next, and this time, the shake of his head is gentler. Like he’s asking you not to do this. Not now. Not in front of everyone. Not when the night is already hanging by a thread. "You two need to stop," he says, quieter now, just for the three of you. "This is getting out of hand. You both know it."

Areum doesn’t move, but you see her jaw clench. "She started it," she mutters under her breath.

You let out a low laugh, eyes narrowing. "Please, Areum. You came to me."

Mark cuts in before it can spiral again. "I don’t care who started it. I care that it ends here. Now." The heat between you and Areum still simmers like an open flame. Mark’s trying to put it out with water, but neither of you are sure you’re ready to let it die just yet. You and Areum both fall silent, the tension coiled tight between you, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room exhales with him. But before anything else can settle, the spell breaks with a flick of hair and the sound of heels clicking softly on the floor.

Karina appears like she always does—unbothered, glossed up, and halfway through a vodka cranberry. She slides into the tension with zero regard, glancing between you and Areum like you’re both interrupting her night. "I’m so sorry to cut this catfight short," she drawls, eyebrows raised, tone amused but sharp, "but you two—" she points lazily between you and Areum with her cup, "—are the only ones left on the team who haven’t finished your fantasy boy drafts. The night’s basically over. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes. Tops. So chop chop."

She takes a sip, then continues, voice louder now, like she’s announcing to a room that already knows. "Ningning’s still on Chenle’s lap, whispering God knows what into his ear. Yeji has practically claimed Wooyoung like a stray cat. Mia literally sat on Renjun’s shoulders and fed him grapes, Aisha’s in the lead, by the way. She made Hyunjin get down on his knees and bark for her twice." She pauses, tilts her head. "So what’s the hold up? The game doesn’t play itself. And we’re not about to let you ruin our win streak because you’re both too busy throwing daggers at each other with your eyes."

Before either of you can respond, you catch the movement beside you. Areum leans in close to Mark, lips brushing his ear as she whispers something you don’t catch. Whatever it is, it makes his expression change instantly—his shoulders relax, his mouth tilts up just slightly, eyes softening like he’s remembering something he missed. He nods once, and then she grabs his hand, and they disappear through the hallway together, slipping somewhere more private, fingers laced tight like they’ve already made their choice.

And that’s when it hits you. The night’s still going. You look across the room, and Jeno is still there—exactly where he’s been the entire time. His eyes are on you, not wandering, not searching. Fixed. And there’s something in them you haven’t seen in a while. Something softer. Something that makes your chest ache.

You don’t think it’s for you, you’re completely sure it’s for her—Areum. He saw what she did, how she defended him without pause, how she stood in front of you with her hands clenched and her voice shaking because something in her wanted to protect him. That must’ve meant something to him. Maybe they talked after that party, when he found out about her and Mark, after everything burned down. Maybe they made sense of it, quietly, off to the side where no one else could see. Maybe that look in his eyes now is the aftermath of forgiveness.

And you’re glad. Honestly. If there’s one thing you’ve never doubted, it’s that Jeno deserves to be cared for. Not questioned, not doubted, not held at a distance like you’ve had no choice but to do. He deserves someone who chooses him fully. And if that softness can’t come from you—not anymore—then at least it’s coming from somewhere.

Karina’s lips curve, amused, her voice low and laced with mischief. “Stop staring and do something about it. Take him to a room, lock the door, suck his cock, whoever gets the furthest with their boy wins a prize.” She lifts a brow, eyes glinting, fully aware of what she’s doing. She knows you too well. Knows exactly how to bait you, how to turn your competitiveness into movement, especially when Jeno’s involved. One sentence, and she’s already lit the match.

Your heartbeat stutters, quickens—not just from Karina’s words, but from the way his eyes haven’t moved since. Locked on you, steady, unreadable. There’s heat coiling low in your belly, your throat going dry, skin burning beneath the weight of his stare. He hasn’t blinked, hasn’t flinched, just stands there watching you like he already knows what you’re thinking. You’re seconds from crossing the room, ready to face whatever he gives you—his anger, his silence, his mouth telling you to fuck off while his eyes say the opposite—but then something shifts. The air, the room, the mood. And suddenly, you’re not moving toward him at all.

He doesn’t come from any direction. He doesn’t approach. He just appears suddenly, jarringly, like a hand closing around your throat mid-breath. His presence is unpleasant in the way a shadow grows too fast, swallowing space before you realize it’s even there. You don’t see him until he’s already beside you, until his breath hits the curve of your cheek and something inside you tenses without warning.

You’ve never spoken to Yeonjun before, never had a reason to. There was never any overlap, no need, no interest. Everything you know about him comes secondhand, filtered through the sharpness of Jeno’s voice or the tension in Mark’s jaw. You’ve heard his name often enough, always bitter on Jeno’s tongue, spat out like something rotten. You’ve seen his face on ‘Busan Titan’ posters across the city, eyes cocky, smirk carved into his mouth like a promise. That rivalry runs deep, Seoul Ravens versus Titans but what sticks isn’t the competition, it’s the history. It’s what he used to do every time Jeno and Areum were on a break, fucking her like she didn’t matter, like none of it did. Jeno could never stand it, hated the way she’d fall back into Yeonjun’s arms like it was routine, hated how disposable it made everything feel.

Mark hates him too, not just because Jeno does but because Yeonjun has no concept of boundaries. He’d flirt with Areum in front of everyone, even when she was with Mark, sliding in close, saying things loud enough to be heard, smirking like he knew no one would stop him, like rules didn’t apply to him, like respect was optional.

Now he's looking at you, his eyes raking over you slowly, deliberately, like he has every right to take you in like that. There's something predatory in his stare—not urgent, not hungry, but certain. As if the outcome has already been decided and he's just waiting for you to catch up. You feel it before you hear him, the shift, the pressure, the discomfort settling into your shoulders like weight, prickling beneath your skin. 

“Hi, pretty—fuck, I’ve been staring at you all night. Little dress hugging every curve, that tight ass—driving me insane.” Every syllable lands like a touch you didn’t consent to—sharp, lingering, wrong. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, and it takes everything in you not to flinch. He smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, and he looks at you like he already owns the ending. Like this isn’t a threat, but a promise.

“I’ve been meaning to get my hands on you since that bar performance,” he murmurs, voice low like it’s meant to be intimate. “You up there, all lips and legs, singing like you didn’t know you were putting on a show just for me.” You step back on instinct but he steps forward like it’s a game, like he’s enjoying it. His voice is slurred but smug, breath sticky with alcohol, and the way he grins at you, lip caught between his teeth, is the most revolting thing you’ve seen all night. Like he thinks he’s being charming, like he expects you to giggle and blush but your skin crawls. 

Your hands curl into fists. He doesn’t stop, his eyes dip again, slower this time, and he murmurs, “Bet you sound even prettier moaning than you do singing. Maybe I should take you backstage, see for myself. Bet that mouth would look so good stretched around my cock.” Yeonjun’s words land like a slap, vulgar and shameless as his fingers graze your wrist. “Wonder how tight that pussy is, bet it’s perfect,” he mutters, low and disgusting, his breath curling hot against your cheek. “Wanna feel it squeezing around me.” His hand lingers too long, then grips—tight, insistent. “Come with me,” he says, but it’s not a question. “Let’s find a room. You want to, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go near you if someone paid me,” you say, low and even, every syllable cutting clean. “You think talking like that makes you hot? It makes you pathetic. You’re not charming or attractive. You’re just the guy everyone warns their friends about, the one who doesn’t get told no enough.” Your eyes drag over him, sharp and unimpressed. “I’d rather fuck concrete.”

There’s a beat of silence and then he laughs, not embarrassed, not ashamed but excited. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, eyes gleaming like he’s just found a new game. “Bet it’d look even better stuffed full. Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start thinking you want me to ruin you.” His fingers dig in harder. The more you resist, the more he leans in, breathing you in like he’s savoring the fight. He thinks your anger is foreplay. He thinks your disgust is foreplay. He doesn’t care that you hate him—he likes it. But that’s exactly why he’s going to regret ever thinking he had a chance.

Your stomach twists, bile creeping up your throat. The air feels thick, suffocating, tainted by him. You rip your hand out of his grip with force, shoving him back with a sharp press to the chest. Your voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rise—it cuts, low and lethal, slicing clean through the static of the room. “Don’t fucking touch me again.” You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Behind you movement surges, it’s not hesitant, it’s not casual, it’s fast, deliberate, and when you glance back, you see the boys you trust most closing in like a wall. Yangyang’s already in motion, face drawn tight with restrained fury, Donghyuck and Chenle shift forward in sync, no words spoken, just a sharp, mutual understanding passing between them, but it’s Shotaro who anchors the space, who steps out from behind the others, no longer soft-spoken or reserved but entirely transformed.

His eyes are locked on Yeonjun, sharp and unblinking, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck strain, his hands trembling where they’re fisted at his sides. There’s no smile, no playfulness, none of the gentle softness that usually cushions his presence. This is something else entirely—this is Shotaro seeing red. “That’s enough,” he snaps, and the sound is louder than anything you’ve ever heard from him. The room freezes. You feel it, like a static charge in the air. People glance over, heads turning, murmurs starting to rise. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink. He steps forward, slots himself between you and Yeonjun like a shield, his chest heaving.

The tone in his voice is ragged and unfamiliar, dragged up from someplace deep and rarely touched. “Enough with the bar shit,” he growls, each word deliberate, heavy. “You think just because she sings she’s yours to touch? Yours to talk to like that? Like she’s some kind of fucking show you can buy tickets to and grab after?” Gasps ripple around you, someone even lets out a stunned ‘oh my god.’ You hear a glass clink hard against the table and behind you Ryujin fans herself slowly, eyebrows raised, the grin pulling at her mouth smug and so proud. She mouths finally, and you almost laugh, even now.

Because it means something, this. It means everything. Shotaro, soft-spoken Shotaro, the one who rarely yells, rarely curses, rarely does more than watch with a kind heart and tired smile, he’s the one losing it and it’s for you, in front of everyone. The room is watching. Your heart is racing but all you can feel is safe.

Yeonjun just scoffs, casual, still smug, like none of this phases him, he tips his head back, raises his voice for the crowd that’s already watching. “Come on baby,” he purrs. “You love my attention, stop pretending, I know that you want it just as much as I do.”

But Shotaro doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t let the performance sway him, his shoulders square tighter, body braced like he might lunge. His voice cuts clean through the tension, and it’s not performative, it’s protective, deadly serious. “Say one more fucking word, go on, see what happens.” He doesn’t yell it, he doesn’t need to, the warning hits harder in its calmness.

Behind him, Yangyang shifts closer, eyes locked on Yeonjun like a second hit waiting to land, Chenle’s hands are clenched at his sides, Donghyuck mutters something under his breath that sounds like “fucking creep” but his stare doesn’t leave Yeonjun for a second. None of them are smiling, none of them are performing, this isn’t for show, this is for you.

But still, Yeonjun smirks, he looks past them, straight at you, and that’s when you hear it, snickers, soft at first, then louder. Your eyes flicker to the side. Aisha. Mia, a cluster of cheerleaders leaning by the drink table, laughing behind their hands, elbowing each other, Aisha catches your eye, grins wider, Mia mouths something you don’t bother trying to read. Your stomach sinks, you thought the slumber party worked, you thought your effort, your vulnerability, your hosting, the drinks, the gift baskets, the confessions and the team bonding meant something. You thought it made you safer, that it earned you space. Apparently not.

You don’t notice him at first. Or maybe you do, maybe some part of you always does, not consciously, not clearly but in the way the air changes— denser, heavier, charged like the hush before thunder. The kind of tension that settles into the bones, not the skin. That’s when your spine straightens. That’s when your breath stutters in your throat. That’s when you know he’s coming.

Jeno doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t shove or bark or announce himself like someone desperate to be seen. He doesn’t need to. He arrives, in the truest sense of the word. Each step calculated. Each breath steady. It’s not dramatic, it’s deliberate. He cuts through the crowd with the gravity of something planetary, like the world shifts slightly to make space for him. You don’t see him at first but you feel him like a stormfront, slow-building and inevitable. By the time he’s near, by the time he’s behind you, close enough to graze his knuckles along your spine, it’s like he’s always been there and maybe he has.

He doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t have to. His hand is already at your waist, guiding, claiming, moving you behind him with a touch that feels both instinctive and intentional. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, the slow tension in his jaw betraying the composure he’s barely holding onto. Then he speaks and it’s not just a voice, it’s a verdict.

“You’ve gotten on my nerves for a long time,” he says, voice low and dangerous, dragging like smoke over flame. “Fucking around with my ex was one thing but now you’re trying to fuck around with what’s mine?” The words hang heavy between them, laced with something deeper, something unspoken but clear. There’s no hesitation, no show of force—he doesn’t need it. His presence is enough. His anger is controlled, precise, locked down tight like a blade unsheathed just enough to flash. “Touch her again,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dangerous, “and you’re leaving in an ambulance. Try me.”

Yeonjun laughs, a rough, dismissive sound, tossing his head back like this is entertainment. “You’re funny. You didn’t see the way she was sitting on Yangyang’s lap earlier? All sweet and soft like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing and you still think she’s yours? You think she belongs to anyone but herself? Get real.”

His mouth curls, but it’s not a smile. “Yeah, I saw it,” he says flatly. “So what? She’s still mine.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked. “You know why? Because she wouldn’t look at you twice if I was in the room.”

He pauses for only a second but in it, he looks at you. Fully, his eyes raking over you in that dress, tight, glossy and sinful and his mouth parts like it steals his breath. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he sighs, quiet but audible. Like he knows. Like he knows you wore it for him. Like he’s thinking about what’s under it. Like he’s remembering. You gulp because you are his, the way he’s looking at you makes you feel it in your chest, in your core, in your throat. Your thighs squeeze together and he notices that too. It flashes in his eyes, in the way he drags them up your legs, to your mouth, like he wants it on his you can’t deny how much you want him, can’t ignore the slow throb that builds under his stare. 

It’s a reminder of everything he still is to you and that kills you because no matter how much you love him, you can’t be his. Not now. Not when so much of you is still in pieces but the feeling of being his—it obliterates the logic, it makes everything else irrelevant. There’s nothing in the world like that grip he has on you, the way he makes you feel claimed without even touching you. His presence alone, his voice curling through the air, his anger on your behalf all combine into something unbearable, something intimate and sharp, and it makes everything inside you want to give in.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch Yangyang’s gaze, his jaw tight, lips drawn into a grim line. He looks away almost instantly, like it burned to witness, like it hurt in a way he wasn’t prepared for, raw and sudden and sharp enough to leave a mark. But you saw it, clear as day a flicker of envy, the weight of something deeper, darker, the kind of quiet fury that belongs to someone who knows they never had a real shot, not when it’s always been him, not when Jeno was always going to be the center of your gravity, the force you orbit no matter how far you try to drift, even if staying in his pull tears you apart piece by piece.

Yeonjun sneers, head tilting, grin slicing across his face like he knows exactly what nerve to hit. “Oh, I get it now,” he says, voice loud, taunting, meant for the crowd. “What’s the plan, Jeno? You watching or joining? I don’t mind—long as I get to feel your girl’s tight pussy wrapped around me.” His eyes gleam, filthy. “Heard you two like to share, I’ve heard about all your threesomes, isn’t that how it goes?”

Gasps ripple sharp through the crowd, a single line of shock splitting the tension like lightning. The atmosphere shifts, fractures and turns volatile. Jeno doesn’t speak at first, he breathes in slowly and deeply through his nose and lets it go with a calm so eerie it stills the noise around him. He doesn’t yell or flinch, he just raises his hands, smooth and quiet, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows like it’s routine, as if he’s done this before. His jaw tightens, sharp, and the muscle ticks once, then again. He tilts his head just slightly to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun, unreadable, and then comes the crack of his knuckles—loud in the silence, final, like the sound of something breaking.

The crowd reacts instantly, like animals sensing a predator. Bodies shift, people back up without thinking, clearing a path as instinct kicks in. Phones are already out, lifted into the air like weapons, screens glowing. Whispers ripple like static—fast, sharp, rising in pitch until someone finally says it out loud. Then another. Then a chorus. “Fight.” It rolls through the room like a chant, voices stacking over one another, urgent and hungry. You can feel it in the air, the change, the way everything tilts toward something explosive. This isn’t posturing, this is a threat and it’s real.

“You’ve got one more chance,” Jeno says, voice low and coiled, barely above a whisper but it cuts through everything. “You’ve always been this way. Always slinking around parties, talking like this to girls. You wait until they’re drunk, or alone, or too fucking scared to tell you to fuck off and it works for you, doesn’t it? They don’t know how to make you stop, you count on them being afraid.”

“But I’m not one of them,” he says, every word like iron. “I’m not scared of you, I’m not impressed by you, I’m not gonna let you walk away thinking you’ll do this to someone else.” He lowers his voice further, the kind of quiet that makes your pulse spike. “I’ve seen the way you fold the second someone your size steps in. You’ve always been cocky because no one’s ever shut you the fuck up, right?” He smiles, not kind or calm but slow and sharp, full of something that feels like inevitability as his voice drops lower and he says, “Guess that’s why it has to be me.”

Yeonjun lets out a scoff, loud and dismissive, then shifts his weight, turning his head deliberately toward you. His eyes land on you like a spotlight, dark and invasive, scanning every inch with a hunger that makes your stomach turn. “You must be special then,” he says, voice oily. “Got two men ready to throw punches for you. Makes me wonder what that pussy really feels like.”

His hand moves before you can brace, sliding down the curve of your waist with unwelcome confidence, fingers splaying wide as he grabs a rough handful of your ass, then pulls back just enough to slap it—loud, deliberate, the sound cracking through the air like a spark to dry kindling.

In response, Jeno moves too. Not just moves—unleashes. He growls low, teeth gritted, the sound more beast than man. His entire body coils beside you like a fuse lit too fast, muscles drawn tight across his frame, arms flexing with a fury so raw it hums through the air. His feet plant firm against the floor, every inch of him braced to strike, eyes locked on Yeonjun with a glare sharp enough to split bone. The crowd gasps. The air fractures and for a single breathless heartbeat, time stutters—caught between his rage and the impact you almost expect him to make.

It should be him. Every signal points to it—his locked jaw, the fury carved into his stance, the way his body coils like a wire pulled too tight. He looks ready to snap, to lunge, to land the kind of punch that would knock Yeonjun flat and never let him forget it. The crowd feels it too; phones lift, screens glow, anticipation tightening like a fist around the room. Jeno moves forward, the pressure rising with every step, every breath, every second that passes without a hit.

Except it doesn’t come from him.

The noise doesn’t follow his fist, and the contact isn’t his to claim. The shift is too fast to catch clean, the angle just out of frame, and for a second, everyone blinks, unsure of what just happened—until Yeonjun reels back, stunned and staggering, eyes wide, lips bleeding. All heads turn, not to Jeno but to you.

Your fist hits Yeonjun’s jaw with a force that shocks even you, the crack sharp and satisfying, slicing through the air like a gunshot. Pain explodes through your knuckles, hot and immediate, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of him stumbling backwards, wide-eyed and stunned, crashing down in a graceless sprawl that sends the room into chaos. Gasps ripple out first, followed by laughter, a chorus of cheers, and someone near the back yells loud enough for everyone to hear, “Holy shit—he just got dropped by a girl!” Another voice echoes, cackling, “That’s it, wrap it up! He’s finished!”

Yeonjun scrambles, tripping over his own shoes, one hand covering his bleeding nose, the other reaching blindly for the nearest support. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before, like he can’t comprehend the humiliation washing over him in waves. The cowardice shows in the way he doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare look at Jeno. He just slinks off, face burning, body trembling, too stunned to form words.

You shake out your hand slowly, fingers flexing with the sting, blood smearing red and raw across your knuckle. It burns, sharp and insistent, but you feel steady, taller, anchored by the electricity still rushing through your veins. The ache is hot, heady, almost addictive—the kind of pain that makes you feel alive, makes you feel like something has finally shifted.

Jeno moves without a word, he grabs a tissue from a nearby table and steps in close, closer than anyone else would dare. His fingers are warm as they brush yours, dabbing gently at the bleeding skin with slow, precise pressure. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s tending to something precious. His eyes never leave your face—not once—and when you finally look up, they’re burning. Dark. Starved. His lip is caught between his teeth, jaw tense, chest rising with shallow breaths. There’s a heat in the space between you now, thick and unbearable, not just from the adrenaline, not just from the violence but from the way he sees you. From the way you feel him seeing you. Strong. Untouchable. His.

You see Karina in the corner of your eye, leaning back against the drink table like she hasn’t got a care in the world. She throws you a dramatic thumbs up and mouths the words boy draft with an exaggerated grin, then follows it with something filthier— “get that cock!” lips shaping around every syllable like a punchline meant just for you. It makes you almost laugh, your chest still heaving from the adrenaline.

He’s waiting for you, not with words but with his body, his hand already curling around your waist, firm and familiar like it belongs there. He tugs you close, just enough for your hips to brush, for the air to shift, heavy and electric between you. There’s heat rolling off him in waves, and the way he looks at you, dark eyes fixed and unwavering, it makes your breath catch. Slowly, his other hand lifts, palm up between you like an unspoken dare. It’s not just a gesture, it’s a command wrapped in tenderness, a question he already knows the answer to. You know exactly what he wants, where he wants you. You can feel it in every line of his body, in the way his fingers twitch like they’re already picturing you in his bed, straddling his lap, buried under his touch. And maybe you don’t know what will happen when the door closes behind you, if he’ll kiss you or break you or just hold you through whatever you’ve been pretending not to feel but it doesn’t matter. You want it. You want him. You’re already leaning in, already giving in, and his grip only tightens.

A brush of pressure lands on your shoulder, not forceful but enough to stir the air around you, enough to pull you out of Jeno’s gravity for half a second. You turn slowly, heart still pounding from the aftermath and there he is. Yangyang. His expression is tight, drawn with urgency, eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t blinked in too long. He doesn’t say your name, just leans in slightly, breath shaky and low, voice cracking on the edge of something raw. “Can we have that talk now?” The words fall too fast, too soft, but the way he looks at you—like he’s hanging off the last thread of something he doesn’t know how to fix—makes your throat go tight.

You blink. Once. Twice. Open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Yangyang—” Jeno hasn’t moved but you feel him shift beside you, the slow pull of tension winding through his body. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers pressing firmer into your side like a silent warning, like a claim. His eyes narrow, sharp and simmering with restrained annoyance, the kind that doesn’t need words to be felt but Yangyang doesn’t step back, he lifts his hands instead, not touching, just outstretching them toward you, open, desperate, trembling at the edges with something unspoken, and the gesture makes your eyes widen, just slightly, because it’s not just what he’s asking. It’s how.

Your voice cracks before your composure does, barely above a whisper, but loaded with everything you can’t make sense of. “You had the entire night.” Your eyes go glassy as you stare at him, blinking too fast, like you’re trying to understand why now. Why this moment, why him and why now, when you were finally about to let yourself go where you actually wanted to be.

“Can’t it wait another time?” you ask, not unkindly, but firm.

Yangyang shakes his head fast, desperate. “No. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know that.”

You hesitate, breath caught halfway between your ribs, pulse thudding loud in your ears. You want to go with Jeno. God, you want to. Your body is still humming from the aftershock of it all—his voice, his eyes, the way his fingers grip your waist. Your skin aches for him, your chest tight with the pull to be his again, even just for the night. You want the press of his mouth, the rough drag of his palms, the ache between your legs answered by the weight of him, the stillness, the dark, the undoing. He’s home. He’s gravity. He’s heat, and you’ve never needed it more.

But Yangyang’s gaze cuts through all of it. He looks like he’s unraveling, one breath away from breaking. His eyes are fractured glass—shiny, desperate, on the verge of shattering—and when they lock onto yours, something sharp twists in your gut. He’s not trying to pull you away, he’s trying to hold on before he loses the last thread and you feel it, a terrible, unbearable guilt, like whatever you choose, you’ll still be hurting someone, you’ll still be breaking something that was never supposed to fall apart.

You take a breath that doesn’t settle. One step forward would take you into Jeno, into everything you’ve been aching for since the moment his voice dropped, since the second he stepped in front of you, as if you belonged to him. His hand is still there, wrapped around your waist, his touch hovering in a way that makes you feel tethered and free all at once and it kills you because you don’t want to move. You just stand there, torn open, swallowing the guilt that rises like acid, burning its way up your throat. “I’ll come find you after,” you murmur, but it sounds thin, barely believable, barely anything at all. A promise made too late, too soft.

Jeno doesn’t look at you, his jaw set with a tension that splinters the edges of his expression, his mouth drawn so tightly it looks carved from stone and even though no sound escapes him, you can feel the violence in his silence, can taste it like metal on your tongue, thick and bitter. The room hums with it, a supernatural stillness, a haunting, like some ancient force has been awoken and tethered just barely in place by the thinnest thread of restraint. When he finally turns toward you, it isn’t abrupt, it isn’t soft, it’s deliberate, slow like a noose tightening, like the pause before a verdict is read, his stare not empty but too full, too quiet, holding more than it’s showing. 

He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to, the silence around him howls and when you take that first step toward Yangyang, when your body leans into the space you carved with your yes, you feel it, the break, the irreversible shift, the ground doesn’t crack it cleaves, clean and devastating, a fault line between then and now, between who he was when he held you and who he’ll be after watching you walk away, you keep moving anyway because you said yes, because you always follow through, because regret is softer than betrayal until it isn’t.

Karina groans, loud and theatrical, tossing her hands in the air. “You are hands down the worst fantasy boy draft player of all time,” she says, voice sharp with mock exasperation. “This is exactly why half the team wants to change the rules next season—so we can steal from girls who can’t close.”

You follow Yangyang across the living room without a word, the air thick and weighted behind you, each step a pull against the heat still clinging to your skin. His hand brushes yours, guiding you toward one of the quieter bedrooms, and you let him, even as your heart stammers. You bite your lip and keep your eyes forward, not daring to glance back because you know if you do, if you meet Jeno’s stare even for a second, you won’t leave at all.

The door clicks shut behind you and Yangyang, quiet but too loud in the stillness, a sound that slices clean through the tension and seals the room around you like a vault, like a secret, like a mistake you haven’t made yet but already regret. Outside the window the party is still pulsing, muffled voices and laughter and music like a heartbeat you’re no longer synced with, but inside it’s deathly quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that demands something be broken just to prove you’re still alive. The room smells like Jeno, that clean heat of his cologne soaked into the cushions and it makes your stomach twist because it’s so intimate, so present, like he’s still here even though he’s not. 

Yangyang is pacing, not frantically but aimlessly, his movements loose like a marionette cut from its strings, pausing in place only to start again like his thoughts are unspooling faster than he can catch them, his eyes flicking to you then away then back again, and it’s not just nerves, it’s unraveling. You don’t sit. You don’t move. You just watch him, your body still buzzing with the heat Jeno left behind, your skin aching from the way his hand had curled around your waist like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.

Yangyang finally stills and you think he might speak but he doesn’t, he just looks at you, eyes wide and glassy and fixed, and when he reaches for your hand he doesn’t say anything, just laces his fingers with yours like that alone might keep him from falling apart. His thumb moves over your knuckles, soft and shaky, and his breathing isn’t steady, and the silence drags long between you, taut and full of everything neither of you are saying. You let it hang for a beat before you break it, voice low but not unkind, “You really couldn’t wait until another day” you ask, your words cutting through the quiet as your breath catches, the weight of the almost hanging off your ribs, “I was already leaving with him.” 

He shakes his head fast, a hard jerk like denial alone will undo everything that’s unravelled, and you sigh, not because you’re angry but because this is too much, too fast, too late. “Tell me then,” you say, sharper now, because you’re starting to lose patience, “Tell me what’s happened.”

It doesn’t come all at once. He stammers. Starts and stops. His voice gets caught on words that won’t settle and you have to coax it out of him, your tone softer now, trying to untangle whatever’s knotted behind his eyes. You tell him it’s okay, that you’re here, that he can tell you anything and you see the way that gets to him, the way he starts to breathe easier under your voice, how the way you speak to him settles into his spine and drips down like something warm and welcome. He likes this. Likes you like this. It’s in the way his gaze drags across your mouth when you speak, the way he holds your hand tighter when you lean in to reassure him again, saying gently, “Whatever it is, Yang, I’ll help you figure it out. We’ll figure it out together.”

“So here’s what happened,” he says slowly, like he’s bracing himself, like the words are a bruise he’s pressing on just to prove it still hurts, “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad,” he adds quieter, almost like he’s confessing, like it costs something to say it aloud, “I’ve been slipping since the semester started but I kept thinking I could catch up, I was partying too much, missing classes, missing deadlines, skipping lectures but I figured I’d just pull it together like I always do”

His fingers flex at his sides and he looks anywhere but at you, eyes darting from your mouth to the floor to your hand like maybe the right place to rest will make this easier to say.  “Then one of my professors, the only one who still gives a shit, offered me this chance, not extra credit exactly but something to prove I could be responsible, he gave me this external port, secured as hell, loaded with confidential shit—student files, departmental records, grading data, all that, I was supposed to bring it back first thing tomorrow”

He takes a shaky breath and you can see it hitch in his chest before he continues, “I didn’t even go home after class, I was in a rush, just shoved it in my bag and came straight here, I thought it’d be fine, I really did, I thought I was being careful, but somewhere between the drinks and the people and the fucking noise—I lost it, or someone took it, I don’t know, I don’t even remember when I stopped holding onto it”

His voice is tighter now, strained, like guilt is closing around his throat and won’t let go. “If I don’t return it, I’m fucked, it’s an academic breach, a serious one. I’m already on probation with the department and if this goes sideways I’m done, I’ll have to resit the whole year or worse.” Finally he lifts his eyes to yours, wide and desperate and glassy like he’s trying to make you feel all of it too, trying to make you understand how bad this is, how scared he is, “I know it’s not fair to ask you but you’re the only person I trust, you’ve always known how to fix things, you have access, you’re respected, you know how to move through stuff like this, you’re good—too good and I don’t have anyone else, just you”

You blink, eyes wide, throat tight with disbelief, "You’re serious," you breathe, more exhale than question. 

He nods, voice splintering on the first word, "I know, I know I just—fuck, I didn’t know what else to do," his hands tremble where they cling to yours, "It’s gone, I fucked up and you’re the only person I know who can fix this," his voice cracks again, eyes glassy and desperate, "You have access, you know the systems, they trust you, you’re in every circle that matters, you’re the only one who could get into the right places without raising a single red flag, without getting caught."

Your stare hardens, brows pinch, you feel the shift inside you before your voice follows, low, razor-edged, "You want me to fix this?" You bite out, "you want me to break the rules? Breach the system? You do realize I could get expelled, Yangyang," you pull back slightly, but not far, "You really think I’d risk everything for you?"

He swallows like the words burn, "I think you will," he murmurs, "Because you’re good, because you care, even when you don’t want to, even when you know you shouldn’t, that’s why everyone comes to you, that’s why I came to you, because you always come through, for people you care about," his gaze doesn’t flinch, "You always come through for me."

You hesitate, barely, but it’s there, a glitch in your breath when his fingers twitch and yours don’t let go, like your body already betrayed you before your thoughts caught up. Your skin’s too hot, flushed with something synthetic and shameful, nerves buzzing just beneath the surface, pupils blown, heart jackhammering against your ribs—everything too loud, too close, too much. The drugs make it hard to think straight, harder to feel anything clean, but you feel this—his grip, unrelenting, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he eases up even a little and maybe that’s why you don’t pull away. Maybe you like it. Maybe that’s worse.

Your brain keeps saying walk away, get it together, breathe, stop, but your hands won’t listen. They stay locked around his like instinct, like punishment, like guilt in motion, echoing the same mistakes you promised yourself you wouldn’t make again. You tip your head forward before you can stop yourself, a breath slipping out that feels too loud, too exposed, and his thumb brushes the edge of your palm, unintentional but careful. The contact short-circuits something inside you. Something thick and sour crawls up your throat, bitter and wrong, and you swallow it back down with the words you’ve said too many times already. You wait a beat longer, like maybe the silence will say what you can’t. “I’ll sort it out,” you whisper, voice unsteady, raw at the edges. “I’ll fix everything. Don’t worry.”

The sound he makes isn’t just relief, it’s release, a broken, breathless sound like something inside him has finally been unchained. He pulls you in, arms sliding around your back with full, urgent force, holding you like his body decided before his mind did. Your chest presses to his, heart to heart, and you feel the stutter in his breathing when your fingers find the back of his neck. You circle your arms around him and stay there, not speaking, not thinking, just breathing, leaning, existing in the quiet that builds between your bodies. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to see his face—your hands still anchored to his shoulders, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles into your lower back, like letting go is out of the question. You’re close enough your breath catches on his lips.

He looks down at you, eyes flooded with something deeper than gratitude, something older, heavier. “I always need you,” he says, soft and hoarse, like the words have worn grooves in his throat. “You always know what to do. You always save me. There’s no one else. Not even close. I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you.”

It should soothe you but it doesn’t. The words hang there between you like steam off pavement, warm and rising, but laced with something else—something that doesn't cool. There’s a pulse beneath his voice that you can’t ignore, something crawling under the surface, darker, hungrier, hotter. It coats the silence like oil. It makes your chest feel tight and your spine feel aware of every place his body presses into yours. There’s relief in what he said, yes—but it’s the kind that comes with fire, not calm. The kind that doesn't settle. The kind that asks for more.

You’re still high. Not gone, not spiraling, but everything’s slowed down and stretched too wide. The world feels submerged, warped at the edges, like you’re moving through water—your pulse uneven, your thoughts lagging behind, each breath caught on delay. Guilt buzzes in the back of your skull like faulty wiring, constant and biting, but beneath it, something darker pushes through. Want. Not soft, not careful—want with claws and heat and a blade-edge sharp enough to draw blood if you get too close. It doesn’t ask permission. It just starts taking. The kind of want that roots in your spine and spreads like venom. It coils hot beneath your skin when you realize what he just said—you’re the only one. You’re the one he ran to. The one he trusts with this. Not just the danger, not just the mess but him. And it’s sick, it’s so fucking twisted, but the sound of him saying that out loud does something to you. Opens you up.

He could’ve gone to anyone. He didn’t. He came to you. Because he knows—only you can fix this. Only you can calm the storm clawing at his ribs. Only you can touch the violence in him without flinching. You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the sharp wet heat that builds just from the idea of it. That he needs you. That he chose you. That he’d fall apart without you and has no shame admitting it. It makes your thighs press together. It makes you ache. The ache of being needed. The thrill of being wanted. It’s proof that you matter, that you’re the one he turns to when it all goes to hell. It makes your breath hitch. Makes your jaw tighten. Makes your hands want to stay exactly where they are, because for once, someone sees the wreck in you and still calls it the solution.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just looks at you—unflinching, unreadable—but you feel him. You feel the heat of him pressed low against your stomach, the shape of him already hard, already aching. It’s a question you’re not ready to answer, a hunger that wasn’t supposed to be fed like this. Your hands stay behind his neck, and his breathing brushes your collarbone. His eyes are darker than they were a moment ago. Hungrier. Still soft, but softened like candle wax, not like mercy.

And it’s you—of course it’s you—who breaks the stare first, who swallows, who makes the first wound. “If you’ve always needed me,” you whisper, your voice thinner than you want it to be, your thumb barely brushing the side of his throat, “then why did you disappear the second I started seeing Jeno?” The silence that follows doesn’t offer forgiveness. It waits for blood.

His expression hardens, "What? We still talked."

You shake your head, "You know it wasn’t the same, you disappeared every time I walked into the room, it didn’t feel good."

He laughs, fast, bitter, "And why do you think that is?"

You and Yangyang have always been too close, the kind of close that slipped too easily into bedrooms and backseats, into shared joints and shirts you never returned. It wasn’t romantic—it was routine, something carved into muscle memory. Late nights turned into mornings, your body half-draped over his like it belonged there, like his hands knew the shape of your thighs better than your name. He was comfort, distraction, heat—your safe place when everything else spun too fast. When Jeno entered the picture, he retreated, slowly, sharply, and you noticed every inch he pulled away.

“You just spent too much time with Jeno,” he says, quiet but blunt, like he’s not accusing you—just stating what’s already been obvious. “You didn’t have enough time for me.”

You don’t deny it. You just blink, exhale through your nose, and say, “I know.”

His smirk is slow, bitter at the edges. He leans back slightly, arms crossed, tongue resting against his cheek like he’s holding something mean behind his teeth. “What difference does it make anyway? You were exclusive with him. It��s not like you’d touch me the way you used to.”

You sigh, shake your head once, sharp, like you’re trying to dislodge the weight pressing in behind your eyes. Then your throat tightens, and words slip out before you can stop it. "You’re confusing, when I was with Jeno, you barely looked at me, and tonight? You’ve been everywhere, what am I supposed to think?"

His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice cuts through the air—sharp, raw, cracking at the edges. “What did you expect?” he spits. “You were with Jeno, always draped over him like he was the only thing you needed. You think I could just sit there and watch that? Watch you moan for him, touch him like you used to touch me, like none of it ever meant anything?” He shakes his head once, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “You really thought I could keep pretending we were fine after that?”

His voice drops lower, tighter, mouth barely moving. “You think I could sit there and watch you give him what you used to give me?”

You pull back a fraction, just enough to clear your head, "It’s been a long time, Yang, we can’t do this, not anymore, it’s not right"

He leans in, close enough for your skin to prickle, "Can’t do what?" his voice lowers to a growl, "All I’m doing is looking at you like you’re still the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen."

His words cracks something in you. A dam you didn’t even know was holding. The tension doesn’t snap—it floods. It spills out in heat, in hunger, in the sharp, sudden ache that spreads from your chest to your thighs like wildfire. It’s not about him. It never was. It’s about you—the way he looks at you like you’re a weapon, a solution, a fix for every hollow in his chest. It hits like a high of its own. Makes your skin tighten and your stomach twist and your breath catch, not because you want him, but because being wanted like this feels too good to walk away from. It’s just sex. It’s just the illusion of power, of control. It’s just someone whispering that you’re needed when everything else feels too far gone to matter.

You fist your hand in his shirt because you can. Because he lets you. Because he’s still here. His hands find your hips with practiced pressure, dragging your body into his, and the contact is instant—hard, hot, real. He grips your ass like he never forgot how, squeezing rough, dragging you back against the thick bulge between his legs, grinding slow until your breath hitches and your thoughts scatter. His lips ghost your neck, never kissing, just letting you feel what he won’t say, and it lights something reckless in you. You don’t even flinch when his fingers push beneath your dress. You just let him. Because it’s easier. Because it’s familiar. Because right now, being touched feels better than being left alone with the ache in your chest.

His voice is wrecked when he mutters into your ear. Filthy. Possessive. You don’t remember the words. Just the heat. Just the pressure. Just the way he touches you like you’re still his favorite sin—even if you were never his to begin with. This is how it used to be with Yangyang. That’s why he was one of the regulars you fucked—often, roughly, always on your terms. You’d pull his hair, whisper orders into his mouth, ride him until he begged without shame. You’d push him down and make him say please and he would, every single time. The memory of it slams into you now, full and hot—his hands gripping your thighs, your name breaking in his throat, the way he’d let you ruin him just to feel wanted. Just to keep you for a little longer.

His hands are rough and certain, fingers digging into your hips like he’s staking a claim, dragging your body flush to his with no space left to breathe. Your back arches under the pressure, ass pressing into the unmistakable bulge straining against his jeans. He breathes into your neck, slow and hot, lips ghosting over your skin but never quite kissing, and the heat of it coils low in your stomach. His palm flattens over your stomach, firm and possessive, holding you still while his other hand slides lower, gripping your ass like he’s starved for it. He squeezes hard, then harder, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress to feel how bare you are underneath. A low groan rumbles from his chest when his hand spreads wider, fingertips dragging deliberately over the soft skin where your thighs meet. His hips roll forward, slow and grinding, letting you feel every inch of his arousal as he mutters something filthy into your ear, voice wrecked and shaking. You’re not sure if he’s trying to tease you or ruin you—but either way, he’s getting close.

Your lashes flutter once, twice, eyes heavy as the breath catches in your throat. You look up at him, barely, and the way his gaze pins you there is lethal. Your hips shift against the pressure instinctively, your ass grinding back into the thick, slow drag of him. His grip tightens. Fingers spread wider across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch through touch alone.

You lift your hand, slow and deliberate, and trace a finger down his throat, letting it linger over his Adam’s apple just to feel it jump “Already breathing like that?” you whisper, lips brushing his. “And I haven’t even touched your cock.” You smirk. “Pathetic.”

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters, the words hot against your jaw. “This dress—this ass—walking around like that, knowing damn well what it does to me. You expect me to just stand there and watch?” He breathes out sharp, grinding harder, slow and deliberate, cock pressing right where you’re warmest. “I’ve been hard since the second I saw you tonight. Couldn’t stop staring. Been thinking about bending you over a table since you walked in—tearing this little thing off you, having you dripping all over me before anyone even realizes you’re gone.”

His teeth graze your ear. You stifle a moan, swallowing it down like it’ll help. It doesn’t. Not when his voice goes lower, darker, desperate. “And now you’re here,” he growls, both hands full of you, “pressing that pretty ass against me like you want me to lose it. You feel what you do to me? Feel how bad I need it?”

His hand slides down, palm flattening against your stomach, pressing firm like he’s reminding your body where he used to live. He groans into your neck, low and broken. “Miss this,” he breathes, dragging his hand lower, thumb brushing just under the waistband of your dress. “Miss feeling me here.”

You moan back, soft but shaky, breath catching as your hips press into his on instinct. The friction makes him hiss through his teeth, grinding once, deliberate. “I miss how tight you were around me,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Miss being buried so deep you couldn’t speak.” His lips ghost over your jaw, then lower, filth in every breath. “Miss how your ass used to taste. All of it.” He squeezes your ass again, slow and rough. “I’d drop to my knees right now if you let me.”

He smirks, cock already hard against you, hand gripping your ass like he owns it. “What do you say?” He breathes, voice filthy, “let me fuck you loud enough for Jeno to hear, let him know who’s in you now, let him hear how wet you get for someone who actually knows how to fuck you. Make him listen while I ruin this tight little pussy and fuck the memory of him out of you.

It hits you wrong. Jeno. The sound of his name in someone else’s mouth slices clean through the haze, not gently but violently, sharp as impact, cold as blood. It doesn’t matter how high you are, how close you are, how soaked or needy or reckless—that name drags you out of all of it. Your breath stumbles. Your body goes still. Something deep in your chest twists, sour and instant, like whiplash snapping your spine into place. Your throat tightens. Your heart lurches. Not because you’re ashamed, not because you don’t want this but because that name still owns you, still means something when it shouldn’t. Your mouth opens on instinct, shaky and soft. “I need to go to Jen—”

His mouth crashes into yours before you can finish. All tongue, all pressure, all teeth. It’s messy and wet, more heat than precision, all-consuming in the way it tries to tear your attention from what you almost said. Your lips stay frozen beneath his for one beat, two, stiff with hesitation, tension wound so tight you feel it in your thighs but the second your mouth parts, the second your breath catches and the whimper slips free, something in you gives way. Not to him but to the moment, to the heat that’s already spread between your legs, to the ache that’s been building from the second he touched you like he remembered every way you used to make him beg.

You kiss him back because it’s easier than thinking, because lust is louder than guilt because your body is starved for something and his mouth is right there giving it to you. You kiss him back hard, filthy, hips pressing closer, rolling like instinct, like reflex. His hands tighten. Your thighs shift, grinding into him without shame. Your breath comes out in moans against his lips, his tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s rough, obscene, a collision of want and impulse and ego and still, under it all, your mind is already screaming his name.

His grip tightens under your thighs as he lifts you with ease, like his body remembers yours, like his hands were made to pull you into this exact shape. You wrap your legs around his waist without hesitation, dress riding higher, panties soaked and sticking to your skin. He stumbles back to the bed with a grunt that sounds more like a moan, his back hitting the mattress, and you’re on him instantly, straddling his lap, thighs spread wide, the heat between your legs pressed right against the hard line of his cock. There’s no hesitation now. Your hips start moving without thought, grinding down into him, slow and nasty, dragging wet friction against the denim of his jeans. Your dress bunched around your waist, your fingers dig into his chest for balance as your body rolls—up, down, forward, back—desperate for pressure, desperate for the edge.

Your breath breaks in ragged moans, thighs clenching around him, your clit catching on the seam of his jeans in a rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. He’s cursing under his breath, hands on your ass, guiding your grind like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck you or watch you fuck yourself on him. You’re not thinking. You’re not even pretending to. You’re chasing it. The heat. The high. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about momentum, about the illusion of control, about convincing yourself this doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just the drugs, just the body, just something to drown the guilt still scraping at the inside of your chest like it wants out.

The moment starts to splinter. Not all at once, not loud or dramatic, just a crack somewhere deep inside your chest, quiet and precise. It slips in between movements, in the soft drag of his jeans against your thighs, in the way his fingers dig harder like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. Your hips are still rolling, slow and searching, catching every ridge of his zipper, slick soaking through the denim between you, but your mind has already stopped. It’s not his breath you want. It’s not his voice. It’s not his hands. The thought lands like gravity—Jeno. The way he murmurs your name when you’re half asleep, how he touches you like you’re something sacred, The way he sees you, loves you. 

Your hands begin to tremble, it’s subtle at first, a twitch against his skin but it spreads fast. Your breath hitches, shallow and sharp, and the ache in your chest unfurls like a scream. He leans up for your mouth again, chasing it without hesitation, but you turn your head just enough for him to miss. His lips drag across your cheek, warm but unwelcome, clinging to skin that doesn’t feel like his to kiss anymore.

You press both palms to his chest, firm and shaking. The pressure says what your voice hasn’t yet. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. One breath. Two. Then finally, barely a whisper, cracked and soft and final—“I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. You shake your head once, slow, eyes stinging. “I need to go to Jeno.” You lift off his lap like every inch of you regrets how well he still fits. Your thighs brush his jeans on the way down, a last cruel reminder. You tug your dress down with unsteady hands, knuckles brushing your thighs as the fabric slips back into place, the hem dragging slow like it knows it’s too late. Your fingers twitch, fumbling, missing the zipper once before giving up. Your chest lifts hard, like your lungs are trying to catch up with a breath you forgot to take. You keep your eyes on the floor. Not the bed. Not the body behind you. Not the heat you let wrap around you like a second skin.

Your feet move before the rest of you does. One step. Then another. The room feels thicker with every inch you put between you and him, like the air itself is trying to cling to your skin. You feel it everywhere—your lips still damp, your thighs too warm, the curve of his palm stamped across your ass like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet. His breath lingers on your neck, phantom-soft. Your skin burns where it shouldn’t and you don’t look back, not even when the door creaks behind you, not even when the silence swells. It’s already done and you can still feel it.

You don’t run but you don’t slow either. Your thighs are still trembling from grinding down on someone you didn’t want and your lips are swollen from a kiss you regret the second you pulled away. Yangyang’s voice is still echoing faintly in your skull, muffled and messy, but it’s nothing compared to the high still pulsing through your bloodstream. You’re already halfway down the hall before the door clicks behind you. You don’t think, you just move. Instinct drags you more than anything rational. Your body already knows where he’ll be.

Karina’s voice cuts into your haze, low and exasperated, trying to catch up beside you. "Wait—where are you going now? You still have to finish the damn fantasy draft. If you don’t go I’ll send Nahyun, she’s been waiting all night."

You don’t speak, don’t even spare her a glance. Your grip tightens around the gift hamper until your knuckles sting and your steps stay locked in rhythm, fast and unwavering, like your body’s already mapped this route in sleep. It’s not defiance. It’s certainty. Jeno’s not in his room—he never is when he’s unraveling like this and whatever Karina’s saying behind you fades into static, because none of it matters if you don’t get to him first.

When you reach the door, it’s already cracked open an inch like the room’s waiting for you, like it’s always been. Like it knows you. The scent hits first—thick, quiet, familiar. Leather soaked in memory, clean wood polish trying to mask something older, something raw. There’s sweat buried in the grain of the walls, adrenaline fossilized into the corners. It smells like skin, like bruises, like breath held too long and never released. There’s a hum beneath all of it, not from the lights but the bones of the room itself, like the walls are still echoing every word that’s ever been whispered or shouted or bitten off between its edges.

It doesn’t just feel haunted—it is. Not by spirits, but by versions of him that never left, that still pace these floors, there’s still ache through the dust and shadows. This isn’t a place that forgets. This is a place that keeps. The air is heavy with him, thick with ghosts of victories that bled, of silence that burned hotter than any noise and it lets you in like you belong to that past too, like you’re another memory waiting to happen.

The lighting glows low from the corners, uneven and deliberate, carving the space into shadows and shine. Each reflection stretches across the floor like the memory of motion, long and distorted. This isn’t a room built for use—it’s built for reverence. Every detail is preserved, a shrine disguised as stillness. The walls don’t decorate, they testify. There are framed jerseys with old numbers, some familiar, some retired. A helmet split along the side, half-hidden behind a signed photo that’s been handled too much. One case holds a mouthguard, still cracked, still red-stained. You spot the medal, ‘first championship,’ tilted inside its frame, the ribbon curled in on itself like a closed fist.

Your eyes catch on the centerpiece, the jersey, torn at the shoulder, hem frayed, stained deep in streaks that speak of dirt and blood and something worse. It’s warped with time and framed like a relic, like it holds weight no words could ever carry. The glass reflects your face in pieces as you look at it, like it knows what this means. You remember the first time he brought you here, how you tried to pretend you weren’t already falling. How his voice softened when he spoke about this one, low and proud, tracing the tear in the fabric like it meant more than pain—like it meant proof. He told you the story with his body close to yours, shoulder grazing yours, and for once, he didn’t make it a joke. “This one was everything,” he said, and you believed him. Because back then, everything was easier. The season was just beginning, and you were still trying to name the ache he left in your chest. It’s still here, still watching, still waiting and so are you. 

He’s near the back, half in shadow, as if the room itself is trying to hide him and fail. The glass light catches the glint of his chain, the slope of his brow, the cruel sharpness of his cheekbone. He doesn’t move but the power in his frame hums beneath his skin, arms folded across his chest like he’s holding himself together by force. He’s dressed in black trousers that hang low on his hips, the fabric loose but expensive, and a black tank top that clings to every cut line of muscle across his torso. The cotton stretches tight over his shoulders, clinging like it’s learned the shape of him too well to let go. 

His skin is flushed in places, glowing faint with heat, and there’s a shine at the base of his throat that catches the light—sweat, tension, rage, you can’t tell. His chain dips just above his sternum, resting in the dip of muscle like it was made to belong there. His mouth is parted, his jaw locked, his breath shallow, like he’s been holding it this whole time. His eyes have already found you. Maybe they never left. And the way he’s looking at you—sharp, unsparing, starved—makes something deep in your stomach twist hard enough to hurt. There’s no welcome in his silence. Just warning. Just heat. Just that unspeakable charge that rises between two people who know exactly what they could do to each other if they stopped pretending not to.

The last time you were in this room, it was softer. His voice had touched your neck like velvet. Now it’s a blade waiting to be drawn. The trophies around him look less like victory and more like pressure, like they’re watching him with you. You don’t break eye contact as you walk closer to him, your body unreadable—not defensive, not provocative, just ready. You’re ready for whichever version of him is waiting beneath the static. The one who won't speak first. The one who never asks questions he already knows the answers to. He doesn’t say your name, doesn’t even blink, but his silence wraps around the room like a fuse. This isn’t a greeting. It’s a lit match.

He doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move like he’s been standing there too long, like he’s already played this out in his head a hundred different ways. His jaw is locked so tight it ticks when you step closer, eyes dragging over you not with curiosity but calculation, like he’s trying to decide which version of you just walked in—the one who ran or the one who stayed. And when he finally speaks, it’s not loud, not cruel, just low and bitter and so rehearsed it sounds like it’s been chewing through the back of his throat for days, sharp enough to slice right through the quiet without needing to try. “Did he fuck you or did you stop just long enough to come running back to me?”

You don’t rise to it. You don’t flinch. Your voice is steady, sharp. “We didn’t fuck. If I wanted Yangyang, I would’ve fucked him already.” It stops him in his tracks. You follow it up without hesitation. “And you knew about me and Yangyang, I’ve told you about who I used to fuck and you knew it was regular with him. This isn’t news to you. You just hate that it almost happened again, that it could’ve.”

“You really came in here to say that?” he mutters finally, voice low and wrecked, like he’s dragging it out from somewhere deep. “You think I give a fuck that it didn’t happen? You kissed him.” His laugh is short and humorless, more like a bark. “You let him put his hands on you, and now what—you want a medal because you didn’t let him stick his dick in you?”

He steps forward once, slow and heavy. “You think it makes it better that I’ve gotta picture his hands on your waist? His mouth on yours?” His voice drops lower, filthy and furious. “You think I don’t know what the fuck he was trying to do? You let him get hard for you. You let him try. And I’ve gotta live with that?”

You roll your eyes, slow and deliberate, the weight of it cutting deeper than any comeback could. “Don’t act like you haven’t tried to fuck other girls too,” you murmur, voice low but pointed. “I’ve seen it. I've seen you flirt, I’ve seen you try. The point is, neither of us actually did it. And you know why?” You step into him, chin tilted just slightly, your voice sharper now, more grounded. “Because we can't, none of it fucking works.” He doesn't move. His breathing is louder now.

You let the silence stretch, then cut it clean. “If I wanted to fuck Yangyang, I would’ve done it already. I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t breathe. The fire behind his eyes flickers, but it doesn’t lash out because he knows. You’ve never been the type to hesitate when you want something. You take. If Yangyang was what you wanted, it would’ve happened a long time ago. The fact that it didn’t says more than either of you want to admit.

Your voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its bite. “It wasn’t about him. It was about me being drunk, high, horny. I wanted to feel something. And I went to the wrong person.”

His breath catches rougher now, his hand curling into a fist by his side. The jealousy is simmering up his throat like bile. Then after the silence that nearly sizzles with heat—he falters, just slightly. His voice shifts, not soft, but quieter, something uncertain bleeding through the cracks. “How did you even know I’d be here?” Not accusatory, not defensive—just asking. His brows furrow like he’s been holding everything in for too long and this is the only question that matters now. He looks around the room like even he didn’t expect to end up here, like he needed to disappear and didn’t think anyone would follow.

Your answer is immediate, instinctual. “I just knew.” It wasn’t logic, it was instinct—like your body had already made the decision before your mind caught up, like your feet carried you here on muscle memory alone, drawn to him without asking for permission. You add, “I know this is where you go when you need a breather.”

Jeno swallows, slow and rough, jaw flexing with the kind of restraint that doesn’t come from rage but recognition. It lands deeper than he expects, the quiet proof that you still know him—intimately, instinctively—down to the parts he’s tried to keep hidden, even from himself. You see through him and he feels it, like heat crawling beneath his skin. You both feel it, that unbearable closeness of someone who once lived inside your skin and still knows how to get under it.

Your fingers tug at the hem of your dress, slow and distracted, twisting the fabric around your knuckles like it’ll hold you steadier than your knees will. “I brought something.” It’s barely louder than a breath, not confident, not rehearsed. It leaves your mouth like you already regret it, like you’re handing him something fragile and expecting him to crush it. 

Jeno scoffs, sharp and bitter. “What, a goodbye gift?”

You shake your head, the motion small, almost imperceptible. “No. For the draft.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. Just disbelief, jagged and unfiltered. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Still, you step forward, slow, deliberate, like one wrong move might splinter everything between you. The basket is clutched to your chest like a secret you shouldn't be carrying, but can’t bear to let go of, and it feels heavier now, heavier than when you packed it, heavier than when you practiced what you’d say. Your fingers are white around the handle, and your other hand keeps smoothing over the edge like you’re trying to make it presentable, like neatness might make up for all the wreckage between you. It’s not just a gift. It’s an apology without the word sorry, a confession without breath. Each item inside chosen like a verse, a memory, a thread back to who you were when things didn’t feel like a battlefield.

The basket itself is woven in navy and gold, the official team color. It’s faded in some corners, like the heat of your hands left a mark, like time itself burned through it. Right beneath the curve of the handle, is his number. 23. It’s not scribbled, pinned or easily torn away but sewn into the fabric like a vow—stitched tight with permanence, like even if everything else unravels, this won’t.

“This is a joke,” he mutters, low and scathing, but his voice doesn’t match the rest of him. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, biceps flexing beneath the stretch of his tank, chain glinting faintly at the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t look at the basket, doesn’t touch it. Just stands there, still and sharp, like a blade pointed down but ready to rise. “You think you can hand me some fucking trail mix and erase the last few weeks?”

You don’t move or flinch. His heat rolls off in waves, equal parts anger and ache, and you let it burn. You know better than to interrupt him when he’s building walls. You wait for the silence. Then you slide your words into it carefully, like they might slice both of you open if you don’t hold them right.

“I know you don’t want it. I know it’s stupid. I just…” Your voice falters, not breaking, but thinning, stretched taut like something about to snap. “I needed to do this. For me and for Karina, too. She’s been on my back about it — you know how she is.”

He doesn’t reply, but you can see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way he blinks like he wants to roll his eyes again but knows it won’t land this time. “I’ll leave after this. I swear,” you continue. “Just let me give it to you. You don’t even have to open it now. Please, Jeno. If you want me gone, I’ll go. Just… let me give you this.”

There’s a beat. Then another. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until he rolls his eyes again but this time, it’s too much, too forced, like he’s trying to scrape back control he’s already lost. “You’re serious about this?” he mutters, the words dull on his tongue, feigned disinterest curling around the edges but his hand betrays him. It moves anyway. Not toward you, not directly, but toward what you’re offering. His fingers graze yours—brief, electric, unmistakable—and it’s enough to make your breath catch. You feel him tense when it happens. He felt it too.

He takes the basket with a care that doesn’t match his tone. Like it’s weighted, not just in mass but in meaning. He sets it down slowly, deliberately, like one wrong move might splinter the moment entirely. Then he just stares at it, unmoving, unreadable. For a second. Maybe more. Maybe longer than he wants to admit.

You watch him move through the basket with a pace that feels almost punishing, like each ribbon and carefully folded edge presses against something raw beneath his skin. The tissue gives beneath his touch with a low, strained crackle, pushed aside too fast, like its softness needles at him in all the wrong places. There’s something restless in the way his hands work—too deliberate, like he’s trying to undo not just the gift but the thought that went into it. Still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers find the first item and pull—peach rings, sealed in a clear cellophane bag tied with a navy ribbon, the same kind you used to slide into the side compartment of his car during those brutal away-game weeks. It catches the light, casting soft colors across his knuckles, and for a second, the contrast is sharp—your softness, his tension, colliding in the sugar and plastic between them.

The sugar inside clings to the plastic like memory, like sweat-slick fingers on a steering wheel, like dust that refuses to be wiped away. He holds the bag up for a moment, it's too late to pretend he doesn’t care. The colors catch in the light—orange and pink, sweet and sharp, the same as sunset bleeding across the dashboard while his hand gripped the wheel and your thigh, knuckles sticky from sugar. You used to watch him eat them one by one, slow and smug, sucking the ring between his lips like a dare, dragging it through his teeth while his eyes locked on yours, waiting to see if you’d break first. He said the sour-sweet balance helped his focus. You think he just liked the attention. You think you did too.

Next come the peanut butter bars, foil glinting gold under his fingers. His thumb drags across the edge of one slowly, like he’s testing its seal, like he’s waiting for it to talk back. He always said they made him feel invincible, like the last thing he needed to taste before a win. They were more than routine—they were ritual. He’d unwrap them with his teeth when his fingers were taped, grin at you like he was about to devour the world. You’d roll your eyes and tell him he was ridiculous. He’d just chew slower, watching you.

You remember how he’d toss the wrapper too far from the bin on purpose, just so you’d bend down to pick it up. Your cheer skirt would ride high, the fabric catching on your thighs, and his palm would meet your ass with a smack before his hand slid lower, fingers sneaking under the hem like they had a right to be there. The laugh he’d let out when you gasped—low and lazy, like he wasn’t doing anything wrong—still echoes somewhere low in your stomach. He sets the bars aside now with a thud, careful but final, like he’s putting them down before he drowns in the taste of you—like he’s already tasted the sweetness of your skin, the memory of it lingering on his tongue, and he knows it won’t be long before he gets lost in it again.

The socks catch his attention, unexpected in their simplicity. Rolled neatly, a crisp white ribbon holding them together, they lie in the basket like a relic, soft and almost untouched. At the cuffs, tiny basketballs are stitched, subtle, but there—like someone believed in the old magic, the kind he once swore by. He runs his fingers over the stitching, slow, as if trying to coax something from the threads, as though the magic still clings to them, waiting to be felt again. The fabric is fresh, unworn—new—but the way the light catches the stitching, the way the material flexes beneath his fingertips, makes him feel like it’s a link to something familiar, something that once mattered. His gaze softens for a moment, and the smallest breath escapes his chest, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he just holds them in his grip a little longer, like he’s trying to remember the feeling of them

Next he picks up the tiny black glass bottle, matte and square, it rests cool and heavy in Jeno’s hand—the travel-sized echo of his favorite cologne, spicy and woodsy with that sharp, clean undertone that always lingered in your hoodie long after he’d stopped wearing it. You tucked it carefully into the corner of the basket, nestled between snacks and socks as though it were nothing significant but the truth pulses beneath your skin. You remember slipping the full-sized bottle from his gym bag once, fingers trembling, heart racing, as if you were stealing something more precious than scent alone. It lived in your drawer for weeks after everything fell apart, hidden beneath sweaters and scarves, the cap twisted off whenever the ache became unbearable, just to remind yourself of what it felt like to stand impossibly close to him. Now, as Jeno lifts it carefully, reverently, you’re handing it back in miniature—not because you think he truly needs it but because it’s him. Sweat, swagger, silence—everything you ever wanted to hold onto but couldn’t quite keep. It’s a memory sealed carefully in alcohol and amber, unmistakably yours, even if he never really belonged to you.

Next is the laminated stat card, exact and deliberate, its edges sharp like you measured them twice before making a single cut. Not rushed, not careless but intentional. The plastic sheen catches the light just enough to blur the ink underneath but it doesn’t hide the effort. Every number is written clean, steady, without error, points, rebounds, assists, all laid out with a kind of quiet pride only someone who’s been paying close attention could’ve managed. The sparkly gel pen doesn’t scream here, it glints, framing his scoring average in a soft halo, circling his best performances with thin rings of silver and blue. In the corners, your writing leans small, tidy, folded into the white space with restraint: “Stop fouling, Chenle says you peak at halftime.” Not messy. Not chaotic. Just precise. Personal. The kind of neat that only comes from knowing someone, his stats, his rhythm, his cracks. 

Of all the glittered lines and half-joked stats, one number holds the page like gravity—his scoring average, set near the top in unassuming ink, untouched by circles or stars or playful quips. But it isn’t invisible. It hums beneath everything else, louder in silence, louder because you left it alone. You didn’t mark it because you didn’t need to. You both know it’s wrong. Not bad, but wrong—a quiet dip that speaks too loud now, one neither of you have dared to say aloud. You feel it in the way people talk around him instead of to him. In the way questions trail off before they land. In the way the name Eric flares and fades in corners and the weight of Sunwoo’s name leaves behind something that clings like sweat. None of that is written. There’s no “fix this” or “get better” scribbled in purple gel ink beside it. There’s just space. Laminated silence. You sealed the page like maybe that could preserve who he was before all this, like maybe if your handwriting still wrapped around the truth, he’d feel held by something solid again. Maybe it’s a reminder. 

Maybe it’s not meant to fix anything. Maybe it’s just your way of saying he’s more than the numbers they tally and the pressure they place on his back. The lamination keeps the ink from smudging, but not the feeling that seeps through every word, every circle and underline. Your handwriting curves around each stat like touch, like the way your fingers used to drag slowly down his spine when he was half-asleep and sore from practice, like the way you used to run them across his ribs just to make him shiver. There’s nothing loud about it—just a quiet insistence, a whisper in glitter pen, that he’s not just a scoring average, a rebound count, a line on a spreadsheet.

It’s not a love letter. It doesn’t need to be. It’s something closer to skin, to memory, to all the parts of him you learned with your hands before you ever tried to write them down. You traced his wins and his wounds, catalogued the rise and fall of his breath against your mouth, learned the weight of his body the way most people learn stats: repetition, obsession, devotion. And this—this is your record of that. A reminder pressed between plastic and hope that no matter how far he strays, how many points he loses or gives away, he was never made to be measured. He was made to be felt—and God, you did. With your mouth, your hands, your thighs parted and trembling, you learned every inch of him like scripture, like sin.

He saves the note for last. He Doesn’t reach for it right away, he lets it sit there, like it’s watching him. The paper is soft, folded once down the center with a precision that feels like restraint. His fingers graze the flame-shaped sticker, the one you sealed it with—red-orange with curled gold edges, like something meant to smolder, not seal. His thumb lingers, the pad tracing its shape slow, reverent, like it might burn him if he presses too hard. The edges of the note are warm from the heat of his palm, and something flickers behind his eyes as he finally breaks the fold open. The sound is quiet, barely more than breath, but it slices through the silence like a secret spilling loose. The ink is dark, sharp, delicate in the way a whisper can be. Just one line: I'm always gonna be proud of you. It lands with the weight of every night you used to fall asleep with your face tucked beneath his jaw, with the memory of your hand resting over the beat of his chest before games, when words couldn’t hold what your silence already said.

His eyes track the handwriting like it’s something alive. Something breathing. The strokes curve in familiar ways, slanting just slightly at the end of each word like you wrote them in a hurry, or like your hand trembled. There’s a smudge near the end where your fingers must’ve pressed too hard, like you couldn’t stop yourself from touching the truth of it one last time. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. The paper crinkles faintly as he folds it again, slow, careful, almost tender. He doesn’t tuck it away. He keeps it in his hand, thumb brushing the edge like he needs the texture of it to keep grounded. Like the heat of your words is the only thing left keeping his skin warm. 

He doesn’t say a word when he sets the note down, but it feels louder than anything else. The air between you snaps tight, vibrating with something sharp and dark, something neither of you can name out loud. His eyes are still locked on the basket like it’s laughing at him, mocking him, every careful piece inside it poking at the parts of him he’s tried to keep buried. You can feel it starting to unravel—the silence, the self-control, the version of Jeno that knows how to hold himself back.

When his eyes find yours again, they’re different. Icy, cut deep from something uglier than jealousy. His jaw flexes, one hand curling into a fist before he says it, bitter and precise. “You make one for Yangyang too?” he spits, “Maybe he wants lucky socks. Or a shiny little whistle. Maybe you should go back and sit on his lap.”

“Sure, I’ll throw in a skirt,” you murmur, letting the smile curl slowly at the corners of your mouth, “A cute little skirt that barely covers my ass, it would make it easier to slide right onto his cock without him having to lift a finger.”

He doesn’t give you time to finish the breath behind that smile. The second the last filthy syllable drops off your tongue, he snaps—hands on your hips, back slamming into the nearest wall so hard the trophies on the shelf beside you rattle. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth, heat, hunger all in one brutal collision, the kiss so hard it tastes like punishment. You gasp into him, only for his tongue to swallow the sound, his thigh already wedged between yours, grinding up like he’s trying to erase every inch of space your body ever gave to someone else. His hands grip your waist, drag you down until your cunt grinds against his thigh through your dress, heat building fast and hot and needy.

He pulls back just far enough to growl it against your lips, voice shaking with rage and want, “Is this what you want? Huh? You want to talk about his cock, his hands, while you’re soaking my fucking thigh?” Your only answer is a moan as you rut down harder, grinding shamelessly, hand fisting in the chain at his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. And it is.

You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch, don’t even blink. Your gaze locks on his like a challenge, something darker simmering just beneath the surface—rage, want, something feral and utterly unshakable. Your fingers trail slow down the hem of your dress, nails scratching over skin with just enough pressure to make him watch. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting in a smile that isn’t soft, isn’t sweet—it’s a warning. Then you drag your hand between your thighs, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his. You press your palm there, over your soaked panties, and grind down just once, the friction obscene, the sound nearly as filthy as the act itself.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” You murmur, moving forward slowly, letting your hips sway just enough to make his eyes drop before dragging them back up, “if I wanted Yangyang, I wouldn’t just sit on his lap. I’d ride him until he begged. I’d make him come so hard he’d forget his own fucking name.” You lean in, voice brushing his mouth, thick with heat. “But I didn’t. I don’t want Yangyang. I don’t want anyone else.” Your breath ghosts his jaw, deliberate, filthy. “I want you. I want your cock. I want to choke on it. I want to feel it tear me open until I can’t think straight.” You tilt your head, smirk tugging at your mouth. “So don’t fucking talk to me about Yangyang again.” 

His jaw tightens like it’s wired shut, but his eyes betray him first—blown wide, black with heat, tracing the curve of your lips like they’re already wrapped around him. His breath leaves in a slow hiss through his teeth, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and do something. “You talk too fucking much,” he mutters, voice low, ragged, dangerously uneven, “but you don’t fucking lie, do you?”

His hand fists in your hair before you can answer, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you feel it. His mouth brushes your ear, not gentle, not sweet, just hot. “You wanna choke on my cock so bad, baby?” he growls, chest pressed tight to yours now, hips already lined up, already hard, “then fucking earn it. Show me you still know how to take it.”

He grips your hips, drags you forward until you feel him, thick and ready through his pants, grinding against your heat like he’s already inside you. “You don’t want anyone else? Prove it.” He’s breathing like he’s trying not to lose it, chest rising too fast, too deep, like restraint is a thread stretched tight enough to snap. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower—tracing the curve of your hips pressed flush against his. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His hands rise slowly, hesitantly at first, but when you don’t stop him, when you tilt your head like you dare him, he touches you.

Fingertips ghost over your waist, just the pads brushing the fabric of your dress, like he’s relearning the shape of you from scratch. His palms smooth over your sides, then down, gripping the backs of your thighs with a pressure that makes your breath catch. He drags you closer, grinding you into the hard line of his cock, and fuck, he’s already throbbing through his pants.

“You think I could even get wet for anyone else? The way you make me wet?” You whisper, breath hot against the edge of his jaw as your lips trail up toward his ear. He doesn’t answer, just fists the hem of your dress and pulls, rough and fast, bunching the fabric at your hips so his hands can slide under. You bite the shell of his ear, hard enough to make him groan, and he pushes his thigh between yours until you’re grinding down onto it, friction and heat sparking sharp and messy through your core.

“You think I’d let him fuck what’s yours?” you whisper again, filthier now, more breath than voice and Jeno growls, low and primal, like you’ve hit something raw. His fingers hook into your panties and tug them aside, knuckles grazing your soaked folds, and when he feels how wet you are, he groans again, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips buck forward. Your hand slides between you, palm pressing against the bulge in his jeans, stroking him slow through the fabric. He’s hot. Thick. So fucking hard it makes your mouth water. You feel him twitch under your touch, and when you look up at him, his eyes are hooded, hungry, ruined.

“I pulled back, Jeno,” you say, voice soft but wicked, “because even drunk, high, and fucking aching—I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock. Couldn’t stop thinking about how full it makes me,” you whisper, desperate now, clenching around his fingers like your body’s already chasing the memory of him. “How fucking good you stretch me out. How deep you get. N-no one else feels like that, no one else sounds like you when I squeeze them this tight—”

You whimper when he thrusts harder, faster, your thighs trembling as he fucks you rough with his hand, thumb circling your clit with perfect, punishing pressure. “Thought about riding you till I blacked out,” you breathe, hips grinding down frantically. “Till I couldn’t think anymore. Till I forgot my own name and only remembered yours.”

He groans like it hurts, like the words alone could make him cum. Then his fingers push between your folds, two slipping in at once like he can’t wait, like he needs to feel you stretch around him, and you moan—head falling back, body arching into him, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, fast and deep and filthy. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips grazing your throat like he’s tasting it, voice thick with something close to awe. His fingers thrust harder, deeper, curling up until your legs jerk and a cry bursts from your lips—raw, helpless, cracked open. “All this for me?”

Your answer’s a sound—high-pitched, breathless, halfway between a sob and a moan. Your hips won’t stop moving, fucking yourself on his hand like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing keeping your lungs working. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down onto his palm, soaking his fingers every time he pumps back in. You’re shaking. Mouth parted but slack, lips trembling, eyes glassy and unfocused. One hand claws at his chest, the other buried between his legs, fingers wrapped around the thick bulge in his jeans like it’s your lifeline. You stroke him slow, clumsy, your grip too soft and messy to be deliberate. You’re too gone for rhythm, too far gone to care—your whole body’s chasing the feeling like a drug, jaw slack, breath catching on every whimper you can’t hold back.

His mouth is on your neck, tongue hot, teeth dragging, biting down until your knees buckle. His thumb grinds down on your clit, not gentle, not teasing—demanding. And you jerk forward, hips stuttering, gasping like you’ve been punched. Drool slicks your bottom lip. Your chest heaves. You’re whining now—quiet, desperate sounds spilling from you with every wet thrust of his fingers. No words. Just noise. Your cunt pulses around him, fluttering tight, so sensitive it’s painful, and you’re nodding, nodding, like your body’s answering for you.

He groans when you grind harder, when you roll your hips with frantic, sloppy need. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. Your fingers squeeze his cock through his jeans like you’re trying to feel it through every layer. Your eyes barely stay open. You’re trembling, twitching, coming undone in real time—so far gone you don’t even realize you’re babbling under your breath, half words, nonsense, breathy broken gasps.

“Shit,” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Look at you. Can’t even think, huh?”

You nod again, fucked out, mouth parted, trying to speak but all that escapes is a pitiful little “mmnhh”—a sound so helpless and ruined it makes his breath catch, makes his cock twitch like it feels the desperation pouring off you. Your hips are grinding down on his hand with no rhythm now, just frantic instinct, chasing the friction of his fingers inside you, chasing the stretch, the ache, the promise of his cock—still hard, still waiting, still untouched. You’re soaked, slick dripping down his wrist, cunt fluttering so tightly around his fingers that every thrust feels like a struggle, like your body’s trying to trap him, pull him deeper, keep him there. And that’s when you see it—that flicker. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curl with just a little more confidence, just a little more force, like he thinks the tide’s turning, like he thinks you’re too far gone now to stop him. Like he’s going to take control. Like he’s about to flip the dynamic, sink into you and fuck you his way.

Wrong.

You move before the thought can even settle in his brain. Your hand presses hard against his chest, shoving him back with you with a command that doesn’t need words. His body jolts beneath your palm, breath catching, muscles tense as you push him until he’s leaning into the chair behind him, completely off-balance. And the look in your eyes changes—sharp now, glinting, focused like a scalpel. That’s all it takes. One shift. One look. And he knows exactly what’s happening. What’s always happened between you.

He freezes. Bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep a sound inside, the kind of sound he’d hate himself for making but his body betrays him. His chest rises too fast, too deep, and you feel the twitch of his cock where it rests hot and heavy against your thigh. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t resist. Because he knows this. He knows you. And fuck, he’s missed it. Missed this so much he’s dizzy from it—this feeling of being undone by you, not gently, not lovingly, but completely. The way you don’t just take control—you own it. The way your voice drops low, syrupy and cruel, right when he’s close to breaking. The way your eyes never leave his face when you use him, when you ride him hard enough to make his vision blur, when you say his name like it’s a threat, like he’s yours.

He listens now. He obeys. Just like he always has. Like he wants to.

Because he’s craved this. He’s starved for the way your pussy clenches when you’re on top, using him for your own pleasure. For the way you look down at him when you sink onto his cock like it belongs to you. For the way you ruin him and make him say thank you for it. He’s dreamt about it, fucked his fist to the memory of it, the echo of your voice calling him a good boy, the sound of your cunt squelching every time you bounce on him, the ache of not being inside you for so long driving him out of his fucking mind. He’s missed being dominated by you. Missed being overwhelmed, overstimulated, bent to your will until he forgets how to speak, until he’s only capable of moaning your name.

So he sits. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t dare. He drops into the chair like his knees gave out, wide-eyed and breathless, legs falling open with the kind of obedient instinct that only ever belonged to you. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like he’s grounding himself, knuckles pale, chest still heaving like he’s just been chased down and caught. There’s this raw, needy flush blooming across his face—cheeks pink, lips parted, pupils blown—eyes flicking up to you like he’s waiting for a command. Like he needs one. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless you give it to him.

He looks so fucking pretty like that. Messy. Worked up. Trying to be good.

His body remembers you. Every part of him does. The way his legs spread wide, the slight twitch in his thighs, the way his cock is already straining against his stomach, twitching like it knows what’s coming. He’s not trying to hide it—can’t. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his lashes fluttering every time you move. And he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He watches you with that soft, ruined awe like you’re something holy, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

You don’t give him time to adjust. Don’t give him a second to think. You’re already lifting your dress, fingers curling into the hem, dragging it up over your hips and bunching it around your waist like you’ve done this before, like you own this space between you. You don’t care how exposed you are. Don’t care how messy your cunt is—swollen, soaked, dripping onto your thighs with every move you take closer. That’s the point. You want him to see. You want to break him with it and from the way his eyes drop instantly to the slick mess between your legs, the way his mouth falls open wider, chest stuttering on the inhale—you already have.

Your hands are on his waistband next, yanking his trousers down with a sharp, punishing motion, like you’re stripping him of the illusion of control he thought he had. His cock springs free, flushed dark and already leaking, the head slick with your arousal and the cum from before, and he groans—sharp, breathless, eyes fluttering as the air hits him. You drag your thumb over the tip and he jerks beneath you, biting back a moan, his hips twitching like he’s about to thrust up into nothing.

And you’re watching him the whole time, eyes dark and hungry, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, feeling how hard he is, how desperate, how he’s throbbing already in your hand. He’s not going to last. You both know that. He’s soaked in your slick, your mess smeared over his skin, and when you drag his length through your folds—slow, deliberate, teasing—you feel his whole body shiver beneath you. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t move. He knows better. He just stares, mouth open, eyes locked on the place where your cunt is grinding against him, where his cock is slipping through your folds, getting slicker, messier, harder with every second. He’s trembling. Obedient. Perfect.

And he knows exactly what’s about to happen. Because he’s had it before. And now he’s getting it again.

"Look at that," you murmur, dragging his cock through your folds, teasing him with how wet you are, smearing his tip in everything he gave you. "Look how messy you made me. You want to see how deep I can take it?" You reach down, hold the base tight, and press it to your entrance. And then you drop. All the way down. No warning. No pause. Just an immediate, filthy, wet sink that punches a moan out of both of you so loud it vibrates through the floor. Your walls stretch wide to take him, swallowing his cock in one ruinous descent that leaves you both gasping. Your mouth falls open, head rolling back as the heat of him fills you, overwhelms you. His cock throbs deep inside, thick and twitching like it’s trying to mark its place, your cunt clamping down hard around him like it knows exactly what to do. He whimpers, breath catching, eyes rolling back for a second before they flutter open again just to watch the way your body moves on top of him. You grind once, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock against every soaked, aching inch inside you, and he shakes.

“Good boy,” you purr, voice rich with dark satisfaction, syrupy and sharp as it curls through the air between you. You lean down, hand in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force him to meet your gaze. “So fucking hard for mommy already. So easy to ruin.” You roll your hips again, grinding down so hard he gasps like it knocks the wind out of him, your cunt flexing tight and greedy. His lips are parted, pupils blown, chest rising like he can’t catch a full breath—completely fucked from how deep you’re sitting on him. You shift your angle and bounce once, sharp and mean, and he yelps. The sound makes you grin. You do it again, harder, faster, your rhythm quickening, pace snapping into something brutal. His cock stretches you open perfectly, every bounce making your tits shake, your ass slap down against his thighs with obscene, wet impact that echoes loud and unapologetic.

You’re soaked. The mess between your legs is shameless—slick and cum smeared everywhere, coating his cock, his lap, running down the insides of your thighs in thick, sticky drips. And you don’t fucking care. You ride him harder, faster, your thighs burning as you slam down on him with brutal rhythm, fucking yourself open like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. “You hear that?” you growl through your moans, bouncing on his cock like it’s a punishment. “That’s your dick ruining me. That’s mommy’s pussy taking you how she wants. Look at what you fucking do to me.” You grind your clit down between bounces, letting the friction send lightning through your whole body, chasing that high, losing your mind on top of him while he just takes it.

He’s gone. Wrecked. Moaning beneath you like he can’t help it, hands shaking where they grip the chair, thighs trembling under your weight. His face is flushed, lips swollen, sweat dripping from his temple down his neck as he tries not to cum from the way you’re milking his cock like your life depends on it. “M-mommy—fuck—please—” he chokes out, voice cracking, head lolling against the chair. 

You clench around him just to feel him jolt, his whole body stuttering as he whimpers something close to a sob. “You wanna cum?” you pant, your voice soaked in filth. “Wanna fill mommy up like a good little toy?” He nods so fast it’s pathetic. “Please—please, let me—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—just wanna feel you cum on me.”

“Then do it,” you growl, slamming down with everything you have. “Cum. Fucking fill me.” He does. Hard. His whole body arches, mouth falling open as he moans loud and wrecked, cock twitching inside you with every pulse, every shot of cum spilling deep into your cunt. You keep riding him through it, your own orgasm crashing into you like a fucking wave, cunt squeezing so tight around him it forces out one last desperate moan. Your legs are shaking, your whole body jerking as you grind through the pleasure, your voice a breathless mess of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ as your head falls forward against his neck.

When it finally slows, when your hips still and all that’s left is heat and sweat and the overwhelming stretch of him softening inside you, the weight of everything sinks back in like poison behind your ribs. You’re still trembling, cunt fluttering around him in the aftershocks, breath shallow, messy, hot against his mouth as you stay right there—filled, ruined, pressed to his chest like you belong there. You press a kiss to his cheek. Then another, and another, slower this time, soft and almost sweet—his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth. Your lips graze his skin like you're trying to memorize it all over again. “Good boy,” you whisper, voice ragged but dripping warmth, your fingers brushing through his hair. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve left as soon as you came but you stayed. Sat in his lap with your cum-dripping pussy still wrapped around his cock like you were trying to get stuck there, like you wanted to be trapped in this moment, to rot in it. It’s fucked. You’re fucked. There’s no pretending anymore. You knew this was wrong when you showed up, when you pushed him down, when you let him touch you like no one else ever could but you couldn’t help it, you didn’t want to. You wanted to get messy. You wanted to feel him stretch you open, fill you up, take everything from you again just so you could fall deeper into the wreckage you swore you’d crawl out of. You did this. Not because you were weak but because you were selfish because a part of you likes what this does to you. What it does to him.

You kiss his lips again—slow, soft, gentle—and you feel him melt just a little under it. He’s so quiet for a second it almost feels like peace. His arms are around you. His breath is still uneven, his chest still warm. And then you feel it. The smirk. That tiny twitch of his lips under yours.

He tilts his head lazily, eyes half-lidded, voice cracked and hoarse and smug as he mutters, “Mommy rides me like she’s obsessed…” His fingers flex against your hips, holding you there, like he’s testing the limits again, pushing just enough to see if you’ll break. Then he licks his lips, teeth catching the edge in a little grin. “But I think you missed me more than you wanna admit.” His cock twitches inside you, subtle, deliberate, and he raises a brow. “Still inside me,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where you’re connected, still warm, still dripping, still full. “Guess that means you’re not ready to let me go yet, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to respond. He doesn’t wait. One second you’re breathless and full and dizzy from the filth in his voice, and the next you’re being spun, repositioned, rearranged like he’s already decided how he wants you. His grip tightens—one hand squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise, the other dragging up your spine, slow and firm. You shiver under his touch, and he sees it, feels it, uses it. That’s when everything shifts. The teasing disappears. The smirk fades. His jaw clenches and in a blur of movement, you’re slammed chest-first into the wall, his cock still buried inside you as your cheek scrapes cold plaster. Your knees almost buckle at the impact, and that’s when his voice hits—rough and wrecked. “You wanna test me?” he growls. “Then take it. Take everything.” His hand lands hard on your ass, a warning and a promise, and your body braces without question. This isn’t play anymore. This is him taking.

He fucks you from behind like he’s got something to prove—like every thrust is a punishment, like every moan you let out just fuels him more. Your palms slam against the wall above your head, fingers scrambling for leverage as the impact drives you up onto your toes. The room is hot, air thick and sticky, the wall rough against your skin while his cock stretches you open from behind. He presses against you, breath loud at your ear, hips slamming into you with force and precision. Every stroke is deep, hard, unrelenting, and your body reacts on instinct—arching back, legs spread wider, wetness dripping down your thighs. A mirror catches the scene across the room and you see it: your mouth open, body swaying with every thrust, mascara smudged and eyes half-lidded. You look wrecked. You are. The music plays somewhere beneath the noise, but it’s drowned out by skin slapping, your gasps, his grunts, the sheer rhythm of ruin.

It started with a command, but now he doesn’t even need to speak. His presence says it all—how his hand snakes around your throat and pulls you into an arch, your back bowing beautifully under his control. You can feel him everywhere—his grip, his cock, the heat of his mouth as he drags his teeth down your shoulder. When he finally speaks, it’s low and filthy. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your skin. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His hand drops between your thighs, fingers brushing your clit. “You’re fucking soaking. Soaking my cock. Making a mess like the little slut you are.” You whimper, try to nod, but he shoves you forward again, cheek against the wall. “Say it,” he demands, voice sharp. “Say you’re mine.”

Your back hits the wall with a thud, his cock already buried to the base, hand wrapped tight around your throat like a leash he’s never letting go of. No warning, no pause—just brutal, full-throttle fucking, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel full. Every thrust forces you up onto your toes, spine arching, breath caught high, your mouth open in a silent moan as your body bounces with every slam. His teeth drag down your shoulder, his grip never easing, his rhythm violent and desperate—like he’s trying to fuck something out of you, or into you, something that won’t leave when he’s done. It’s too much. The stretch, the pace, the need—and still, you can’t stop taking him. You don’t want to.

The grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes flutter, just enough to make your body arch, offering him more—shoulders pulled back, tits pushed out, cunt stretched wide around his cock. Every thrust lands punishing and precise, timed to your breath like he’s syncing your pulse to the rhythm of his hips. He presses his body closer, crowding you against the wall, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder like he’s claiming territory. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he mutters, voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His fingers dip between your legs and find you swollen, soaked, already shaking. “Fucking dripping. You were begging before I even touched you.”

You try to nod, try to moan something back, but he slams into you so hard your cheek bounces off the wall with a sharp gasp. His grip on your throat tightens, cutting the sound off halfway—not to silence you but to own it, to remind you that every gasp belongs to him. “Don’t nod,” he snarls, voice cracked and savage. “Fucking say it.” You can’t. Not with the way he’s destroying you—cock punching into your cunt so deep, so fast, it feels like your brain’s leaking out through the mess he’s making between your legs. Your mouth stays open, drooling, glassy-eyed and desperate as he fucks you into a state beyond language. You’re not even sure what you were going to say. Your body doesn’t know how to do anything but take it.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back with no gentleness at all, and drags your face toward the mirror. “Look,” he spits, chest heaving, hips still pounding into you. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

The mirror shows everything. Your body—wrecked, bent, stretched—tits bouncing violently with every slap of his hips, your pussy spread wide around his cock, sloppy and stuffed and leaking down your thighs. His grip on your throat. His cock plunging in and out of you like he’s trying to make it fit deeper, like he’s trying to own every inch of you from the inside out. You blink at the reflection, barely recognizing yourself—your mouth open and wet, your thighs trembling, your whole body glazed in sweat and slick and submission.

“I look…” you whisper, voice trembling, half-cocked and drunk on the stretch, the slap, the choke, the way he feels. “I look used.”

He fucks you harder. Hisses against your skin. “Say it right. Used by who?” 

You choke, a moan ripping out of you as your head tips forward again, eyes locked on the mirror. “By you, I look like I was made to take Daddy’s cock.” 

He snarls, his whole body jerking like your words snapped something loose inside him. “Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you so deep your legs nearly give out. “Say it again. Say it while I fuck you harder than he ever could.” He fucks you harder, meaner, rutting into you like your body’s his to break. 

“You fuck me better than anyone ever could,” you pant, breathless, clenching so tight around him it drags a moan straight from his chest. “Yangyang couldn’t even make me wet. I was bored. I was dry. I felt nothing.” His hand lands hard against your ass, then again, and again, until your skin stings and your pussy flutters even tighter. “But I’m soaked right now,” you hiss, grinding back on him. “And it’s all for you.”

He spits straight down onto your cunt, watches it mix with your slick, then shoves back into you like he’s angry you let anyone else near it. “You feel that?” he growls, palm pressing to the bulge low in your belly. “That’s how deep I am. You take me like you were fucking made for this.” His fingers move to your mouth, pushing between your lips, smearing spit across your chin, then dragging it down to your clit. “You like being used like this?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “Like being pinned and stretched and filled until you can’t think?”

You moan, voice hoarse and breathless, “No one knows how to fuck me like this.” It doesn’t come out sweet or gentle—it leaks out, torn from your throat like a confession, slurred and high, because your body can’t take any more and your brain’s already gone dumb. You feel yourself pulsing around him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s practically drawing him in deeper, and the way his hands tighten on your hips is instinctive, reactive—because it hits him harder than anything else. Knowing that you mean it. That he’s where you come undone. That even now, with your cheek pressed to the wall and your body trembling, you want more. And he gives it.

But the illusion of control shatters when he growls, “But you nearly let Yangyang fuck you like this tonight?” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, thick with disbelief and something darker. Jealousy. His pace falters for only half a breath, like the weight of the image is too much—and then he slams in harder, rougher, angrier. Like he’s trying to fuck the thought out of both your heads. The sound of skin on skin is harsh, merciless, and the jealousy bleeds through his every motion. The thought of someone else seeing you like this—he can’t stand it. The idea of someone else getting close enough to even imagine it makes his jaw clench and his rhythm vicious.

You laugh through a moan, breath hitching, voice smug and sharp. “You’re so jealous,” you whisper, fluttering your lashes, hips rocking back with intention. “You’re never gonna let it go, huh?” The words drip with challenge, and he knows exactly what you’re doing. You tilt your hips in a slow, dangerous curve, fucking yourself onto him like it’s yourpace, your game. Your tone is all tease, bratty and smug, even when you’re gasping. It’s bait, and he takes it.

He grabs your jaw suddenly, fingers rough, dragging your face toward his mouth. His voice is low and lethal. “You still let him get this close.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. That quiet fury is worse. You feel his grip tighten, his hips slam forward with sharp precision, and the look in his eyes as he stares into the mirror in front of you is pure restraint fraying. His jaw flexes. His breathing sharpens. You’ve struck something deep.

“I thought I’d want him,” you breathe, voice catching on the next thrust. “I thought maybe it would feel good. Maybe it’d help me forget you.” Your fingers grip the edge of the wall, knuckles white. “He’s got a big cock, Jeno. He used to fuck me good.” You’re not trying to provoke this time. Not really. It’s the truth and that’s exactly why it cuts so sharp.

The slap lands so hard your moan turns into a gasp. His palm cracks across your ass, a sound that echoes through the room like a warning shot. “That’s exactly what I want to fucking hear,” he spits, but there’s no praise in it. Just venom. He yanks your hair back, makes you stare at your reflection in the mirror. “Say it again. Let me fucking watch you lie to me.” You tremble, cunt fluttering around his cock without meaning to. His spit hits your spine, hot and filthy, sliding between your cheeks, down to mix with your slick. And then—he stills. Doesn’t move. Cock buried so deep, hand tight around your throat, breathing ragged against your shoulder. The silence makes it unbearable. Every inch of you pulses with need, desperate for him to move again, to fuck you or finish you or break you.

You can barely form the words, but you do. You need to. “I don’t come for anyone like I come for you.” Your voice is soaked, broken, needy. “My pussy begs for your cock, Jeno.” You grind your hips back, slow and aching, chasing friction. “I can’t stop thinking about how it fills me—how deep you get. No one else can do that. No one ever has.” Your hand reaches for his wrist, the one still around your throat, and you pull it tighter. “I get wet just thinking about how your cock stretches me. How it ruins me.” You’re shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. “Your cock’s the only thing that makes me feel like this. Like I’m losing my fucking mind.” You gasp, wrecked, nails clawing at the wall. “I love it. I love how you don’t stop. I’m made for it. For you. For this cock.”

It happens fast. One second, he’s deep inside you, breath ragged, hips stuttering as your praise ruins him from the inside out—and the next, his moan shatters through the room like it’s been torn straight from his throat. His arms tremble, grip faltering, and you don’t notice it at first—too cockdrunk, too gone, too focused on the pressure in your gut and the slick slide of his cock holding you open but then his hold slips, your back arches too far, and your body twitches, instinctively grinding down like it needs to stay connected—and that’s what breaks it.

The fall is chaotic, graceless, loud. A sharp gasp, the crash of limbs, your moan tearing through the air as his cock jerks inside you mid-collapse. The thud when your bodies hit the floor is jarring, a mess of skin and heat and tangled limbs. His hands fumble, trying to grab at you, to stabilize, to breathe. “Fuck,” he snarls, winded and breathless, the word punched out of him as your weight settles over his chest, his cock still buried deep in your cunt, twitching. His voice comes hot and cracked against your ear. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

But you do. Not to defy him, not to take control. Your body just reacts, hips jerking once, pussy clenching so tight around him it knocks another sound out of him—raw, sharp, needy. His head falls back, mouth open, jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread, and you can feel it—how wrecked he is, how on edge, how close he is to snapping completely if you even breathe wrong again. You’re on top now, legs shaking, thighs twitching, cunt stretched and stuffed so full it aches—but you don’t dare lift off. You can’t. Not when he’s still inside you. Not when it feels this good. Not when he’s gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

He hisses through his teeth, his hand clamping down on your hip like a vice, and his eyes find yours—dark, desperate, drenched in hunger, the sharp gleam of sweat lining his throat making him look carved from something molten. His hair is sticking to his forehead, lips parted and red from being bitten raw, and the hard planes of his chest rise and fall beneath you like he’s burning up from the inside out. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight, straining under your weight, cock twitching inside you with helpless tension. He doesn’t need to speak. That look says everything. He’s about to break but you don’t stop. You lean into the threat like it turns you on, because it does.

You don’t listen.

Your lips curl into a slow, filthy smirk as your hands plant firmly on his stomach, and you start to move—not cautious, not soft. You roll your hips in one long drag, feeling the thick stretch of him all the way to your stomach, and then you lift up enough to feel the cool air kiss your slick skin before you slam back down with a squelch that echoes in the room. Again. And again. Your bounce turns frantic, thighs slapping loud and hot against his as you take him over and over, cunt swallowing his cock like it belongs there. You ride him hard, rhythm messy, greedy, riding like your body’s gone feral, like you need to feel every inch of him bruise your insides. Jeno groans beneath you, deep and wrecked, his hands flying up to grab your tits, your waist, trying to hold onto something as your pace wrecks him. “Fucking whore — fuck,” he chokes, eyes wild as he bucks up into you, cock slamming back into you mid-bounce, his abs flexing under your hands as you pin him down.

You feel everything—his sweat-slick skin, the drag of his cock along every sensitive spot inside you, the obscene sounds your bodies make every time you drop down, and you swear he’s throbbing so hard it’s making your whole body pulse with it. You’re not just fucking him—you’re devouring him, fucking him through the floor, milking every inch of his cock like you’ll die if you don’t. And he lets you, jaw slack, eyes glued to where you’re bouncing on his cock, moaning like you’ve never needed anything more.

Each bounce is a declaration, a punishment, a cry for power. His hands grip your ass tight, letting you fuck yourself on his cock until your moans rise in wild, ragged bursts, and his eyes glaze over like you’ve got him undone. But you should’ve known better. His body tenses. And before you can take another breath, he surges up beneath you, his arm locking tight around your waist as he throws you flat to his chest with a snarl. "You think this is your pace?" he grits out, voice splitting at the seams. Then he flips you. Your back hits the cold floor, air knocked from your lungs, wrists pinned, and he drives into you like he’s trying to fuck the arrogance out of your body. No rhythm. Just punishment. Flesh slapping hard against the floor, the sound of your moans colliding with every thrust.

You growl, bucking up under him, nails digging into his sides, and he grits his teeth as your legs wrap around his waist, trying to force him off-balance. You bite his shoulder, sharp and deep, and he hisses in your ear before slamming back in so hard your scream ricochets off the walls. “That all you got, baby?” he taunts, blood on his lip, eyes crazed. You don’t answer. You claw at him, trying to flip him, panting, snarling, slapping his cheek. And when he grabs your throat this time, he means it—squeezes just enough to still you, his thumb pressing your pulse like a trigger. “Try me again,” he growls, body locked, cock snapping into you with violent precision, sweat dripping down his neck as you arch and bare your teeth back.

You shove at his chest, spit clinging to your lips as he snarls and slams your wrists to the floor, one hand caging both above your head while the other grabs your jaw and forces your mouth open. His spit hits your tongue, filthy and slow, and he drags his tongue across your lips like it’s a fucking threat. “Don’t test me, bitch,” he growls, heat pouring off his body like fire. Your pussy clenches at the word, slick walls tightening around his cock like your body’s begging to be ruined, soaking and shameless as you moan against his mouth. Your tits bounce with every grind of his hips, nipples raw and flushed from the drag of his chest, your body sliding against the floor from the force of it. 

You're slick, thighs slippery with it, your cunt clenching around him with each brutal thrust like it’s trying to keep him buried. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. His fingers shift to your throat, his grip firm, guiding you down as he fucks up into you so hard your tits jolt and sway between your bodies. The burn of the floor fades beneath the weight of his cock, the slap of skin, the choking heat. You're not just being ruined—you're being owned, every thrust punishing, deep, designed to tear you apart and put you back together the way he wants.

You gasp against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses like you're spitting venom. “You think making me moan means you’re in charge?” You bite his lip, hard enough to draw a hiss. “I ride you better than you fuck me.” 

That’s the switch. His eyes flash, dark and dangerous, his jaw locking as the smirk fades. “Yeah?” he mutters, low and sharp, “Then let me remind you what you sound like with my hand around your throat.” In a blur, his arm coils around your waist, the other fisting your hair. He flips you fast, slams you face-first into the floor, cheek pressed down hard. Then he fucks back in—so deep, so harsh, your whole body jolts. One hand clamps tight around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath stutter, your eyes roll. “This pussy,” he grits out, hips snapping, “knows exactly who it belongs to.” You sob into the floor, back arching, tears spilling as he drags more out of you with every punishing thrust. He’s not trying to make you come. He’s trying to break you—until the only sound left is your scream, and it’s all his.

You slam him down, not just to ride but to win. Your knees bruise against the floor, thighs straining as you sink down on his cock with a filthy squelch, your whole body jerking from the force. There’s no rhythm—just chaos. You grind, bounce, twist, chase every reaction like it’s blood in the water. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, slick, thick, soaked in spit and arousal, and every time you slam back down, your ass smacks his thighs with a sound that makes both of you moan. He grips your hips to stabilize the frenzy but you slap his hands away, riding harder, faster, like you want to break him first. Your tits bounce wildly, sweat flinging off your skin, hair sticking to your face. He tries to meet your rhythm, thrusting up mid-bounce, but you plant your hand on his chest and shove him flat again. “Stay down,” you pant, smirking through grit teeth. “Be a good boy.”

That’s what snaps him. He lunges up, throws his arm around your waist, and lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but not from fear—from thrill. His cock slips out only to be shoved right back in as he flips you over, your back smacking the floor. You claw at his arms, try to hook your leg around his hip, push and pull and bite his shoulder. He growls—deep, animalistic—and bites your tit in retaliation, lips locking around your nipple and sucking until your back arches, your scream cut off by the slap of his hips. It’s brutal. His hands grip your wrists, pin them above your head. 

Your cunt clenches, leaking down your ass, the stretch unbearable, addictive. “You think you can fuck the fight out of me?” you gasp, breath stolen between thrusts. “Try it, daddy.”

He grabs your face, kisses you with teeth, and the fight keeps going—your hips bucking to throw him off, his thrusts pounding so deep you choke. You claw down his back, legs locking around his waist, and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and bending it up to fuck you even deeper. The slap of his balls echoes, slick and sharp. You try to flip him again, muscles burning but he grabs your throat, pushes you down, and spits on your tongue. “Stay,” he snarls, voice broken and wet. You moan, hips grinding up despite the choke, your body responding to every command like it was trained for this. You’re gasping, drooling, begging with your cunt.

When the end comes, it’s not quiet. It’s not clean. You cum first, body spasming, your scream cracking as your cunt pulses around him. He grunts, lets go just long enough to slam deep and stay there, hips twitching, cock buried inside you as he spills. The room’s silent but for the sound of your breath and the drip of slick onto the floor. You're a mess—thighs trembling, skin bruised, hair wild, cum leaking from you both. Still, you’re smiling. “Didn’t think you’d keep up,” you pant, licking his jaw. 

He bites your shoulder gently, still inside you. “I wasn’t trying to keep up,” he whispers, dark eyes gleaming. “I was trying to win.” 

You grin wider. “Then get ready to lose again.”

You only told him to cool him off—a whispered confession in the dark hallway about where Yangyang said he wanted to fuck you tonight. You thought honesty would settle the simmer in Jeno’s jaw, maybe remind him that you were here with him, not back there saying yes to someone else. But it backfires instantly. The moment he hears which bathroom, the main one near the living room with the short mirror and creaky stall lock, he doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your wrist and drags you there, shoulder shoving the door open. 

The music’s shaking the foundations of the house, bass rattling so loud the mirror on the opposite wall trembles. But it’s nothing compared to the way your thighs tremble, the way your body shakes with every drag of Jeno’s tongue across your hole. You’re bent over the metal sink, dress shoved up to your waist, one heel still on, the other kicked off somewhere behind you. Your hands are braced against the stall door, palms sliding every time he licks up—long, filthy swipes that make your knees lock and your spine arch. He’s got your ass spread open wide, cheeks held apart in his bruising grip, nose buried so deep it’s hard to tell where his breath ends and your slick begins. There’s coke residue smeared across the curve of your lower back—his lines laid right on your skin, right where he wants them. He dips to snort off the small of your back, inhales hard, then goes straight back to eating you out like his next breath depends on it.

His tongue is relentless, rough and hot and eager, working in tight, desperate circles around your rim before diving in again, licking so deep you feel it in your stomach. Your body rocks against the metal, hips moving without rhythm, your ass grinding back into his face like it’s instinct. And it is—because the way he groans into you, nose pressed to the mess between your cheeks, the way his fingers sink harder into your thighs every time you moan—it’s addictive. You gasp, voice breaking, “Someone’s gonna hear,” but even that sounds like a moan. And it’s true. 

Everyone’s banging on this door because it’s the easiest one to find—the main bathroom just off the first-floor hallway, straight past the entryway. Jeno’s place is huge, too big for anyone who’s not a regular to navigate drunk or high. Most people don’t even know there’s a second bathroom tucked behind the kitchen or a third near the guest rooms upstairs and many more scattered around but you do. You always have. Now the door’s rattling behind you, fists pounding and voices raised, half pissed and half desperate to get in. None of them know why it’s locked. None of them know he’s on his knees, nose pressed between your cheeks, tongue buried in your pussy, one hand gripping your thigh and the other doing lines off the curve of your ass while you try not to scream.

“Make me come before they break the door down,” you whisper, voice soaked in desperation, cocky with it—and he does. Without even pausing, he drags the flat of his tongue across your ass, then pushes it back inside, eating you out with even more determination, licking and groaning and fucking you with his mouth like he wants Yangyang to hear every single sound you make through the door.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nose still wet with you, jaw slick, eyes dark. The coke still burns in his sinuses, his breath ragged, jaw clenched tight. “You really thought I’d stop with just that?” he mutters, grabbing your wrist before you can catch your breath. You barely manage to stumble upright—thighs trembling, your dress rumpled around your hips—before he’s dragging you out of the stall, pace ruthless. The second the bathroom door swings open behind you, someone hisses, “Finally,” but Jeno doesn’t look back. Doesn’t flinch. His grip doesn’t loosen, doesn’t falter. He hauls you through the winding corridor like a man possessed, past bodies and heat and bass-thick air, up a side staircase even you forgot existed. And then it breaks—the sound, the weight, the heat—as a glass door slams open and you’re pulled into the night.

The balcony is narrow, sky-high, all glass and wind and city stretching endlessly below. The view is surreal—skyscrapers flickering in gold, traffic crawling like stars in motion, distant windows glowing like they’re watching. But you don’t see any of it. Not when your back hits the railing. Not when your dress is yanked up to your ribs. Not when he spits on his palm, fists his cock, and thrusts into you in one cruel, claiming stroke. You cry out, folding forward over the metal edge as he fills you, holds you there, starts to move. Each thrust slams you forward, tits bouncing, cheek pressed to the icy glass. His arm wraps tight around your waist to hold you up, the other hand planted on your hip like he’s anchoring himself inside your cunt. The cold air shocks your skin but the heat between your thighs devours it—every snap of his hips loud, obscene, echoing into the open night like a warning.

His rhythm is brutal. Relentless. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave his name stamped into your cervix, every inch of cock buried so deep you see stars. And still, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His groans are rough, close to your ear, teeth dragging down your neck like he wants to mark you all over again. The only thing you can do is stare out into the skyline, moaning, whimpering, eyes glossed and makeup ruined, your mouth falling open on every thrust. It slips out unbidden—a choked whisper soaked in wreckage. "Please... please don't stop." He hears it and snarls, pulling out just to fuck back in harder, sharp enough to make the railing rattle.

“He said he wanted to fuck me here,” you gasp, voice tight and raw, lashes wet. “Said he wanted to make me scream.” You don’t say who. You don’t need to. Jeno knows. The way his hips start to snap faster says it all. “You are screaming,” he growls, the words low, thick, dangerous. “But not for him.” He slaps your ass, once, twice, handprint stinging as your body jerks. The sound cuts through the city night like a gunshot, your cry right behind it. He leans in, hot breath at your neck, cock dragging against every nerve inside you. “Let the whole fucking city hear it,” he snarls. “Let him hear you break for me.” And you do—your mouth opens on a sob as he thrusts harder, rubbing your clit now, wrecking you from both ends until your knees give out completely, until all you can do is scream and shudder and shake. Your cries spill over the edge of the balcony like smoke, swallowed by the night, carried off into the dark until all that’s left is you, clinging to the railing, full of him, ruined in the skyline glow.

You don’t notice him at first, not until something shifts at the edge of your vision, a flicker of movement just past Jeno’s shoulder that doesn’t belong. You blink through the blur of sweat and rhythm and stretch, your body jolting with every punishing thrust, your tits bouncing with the force of it, your hands slipping slightly on the slick of your own skin against the glass. Then your gaze locks onto it—him—standing still, half in the shadows and fully watching. Your brows pull together, lips parting with a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite sound sane. “Juyeon?” It slips out before you can think, soft and stupid, like the moan that should have come out instead. 

Jeno hears it, hears a name that’s not his fall from your mouth while he’s buried inside you and his hand flies down so fast it’s instinct, slapping your ass hard enough to sting and echo, to punish you for the blasphemy. You gasp at the impact, your body flinching from it but not pulling away, and Jeno snarls without slowing, “What?” his voice rough and clipped and pissed. 

You glance at him from beneath your lashes, half-laughing still, half-daring, then tip your chin back toward the dark, voice low and twisted sweet, “It’s Juyeon. He’s watching us.”

Juyeon was one of the regular guys you and Jeno used to fuck. You remember the first time the three of you fucked—how easy it was, how natural, how Jeno had picked him out from across the room with that look he gets when he wants to ruin something just to prove he can. Juyeon had been cocky at first, all pretty smiles and fast hands but he folded so fast once Jeno took control. You’d ended up sandwiched between them, fucked from both ends, Jeno’s hand in your hair while Juyeon moaned into your cunt like it was holy. Jeno had laughed, low and mean, when Juyeon came too fast the first time, had whispered filthy things about it in your ear while you kept riding him anyway, cock twitching from overstimulation. You liked the way Juyeon listened, how eager he was to touch, to taste, how he waited for permission even when he was begging. But none of it ever stuck after—the kisses, the moans, the mess—except Jeno. He was always the anchor, the gravity. Even then, even while someone else was inside you, it was only ever for him. You’d stare over Juyeon’s shoulder and Jeno would hold your gaze like he owned you, and when he finally pulled you off Juyeon to fuck you himself, it always felt like coming home.

Jeno doesn’t speak for a moment, just turns enough to confirm what you already know—Juyeon’s there, standing in the doorway with his hands at his belt and a cocky glint in his eye, already half-hard. Jeno’s rhythm slows to a deep, deliberate grind that leaves your legs shaking and your pussy aching for more, and even as you whimper at the loss, he tightens his grip around your throat, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Not here,” he mutters, voice low and final, jaw tight with something territorial, something sharp. “We’re fucking in my room.” His palm lands hard on your ass, a warning to stay still as he pulls out, and the emptiness hits you fast and raw. Juyeon blinks, clearly expecting more right there, his trousers halfway down already, but Jeno shoots him a glare and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Move.” His voice leaves no room to argue. You swallow, breath shallow, legs trembling, and let Jeno haul you up. His arm stays around your waist the entire way there, holding you like he’s staking a claim, while Juyeon trails behind silently, cock in hand, watching the sway of your hips like he’s already imagining his mouth between them again. But even then—walking naked through his house, bruised and leaking—you’re still thinking about Jeno.

As soon as your back hits Jeno’s sheets, there’s no reprieve, no pause, no moment to catch your breath—he pushes you forward until your chest hits the mattress and your knees catch on the edge, arching your back as your spine bows into place, ass high, legs spread, cunt already dripping down your thighs. He doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t ask. He shoves into you like he’s been waiting all night to fill you again, and your head falls forward into the pillows with a sharp cry as your fingers twist in the sheets. Then Juyeon’s there, in front of you, hand curled around his cock, smirking as he brings it to your lips. You open instinctively, tongue out, already spit-slick and desperate, letting him push past your lips until your mouth’s stretched wide. Your cheek is wet, jaw aching, throat working as you suck him, while Jeno pounds you from behind, hips slamming into your ass, one hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you still. You’re trapped between them—one cock stuffed down your throat, the other buried deep in your pussy, your body rocked in rhythm, spine locked in a helpless curve, every hole filled and used.

It builds slowly, almost unnoticeable at first. Your hips twitch every time Jeno drags his cock deep, hitting something inside that makes your legs shake and your moans catch wet around Juyeon’s cock. You’re still sucking him, still stroking him with your mouth like muscle memory but your focus is already warping—your hands slipping from his thighs, your jaw slackening just slightly, eyes fluttering shut each time Jeno grinds in harder. Juyeon leans in, strokes your cheek, murmurs something low you don’t even hear, not with the way Jeno’s fucking you like he owns you, like he’s trying to fuck the shape of him back into your body. Your tongue flattens, movements growing lazier, lips stretched but no longer devoted. When Jeno growls, voice rough in your ear—“You like him watching while I break you open?”—your whole body answers before your mouth can. You choke softly, eyes watering, hips rolling back to meet him harder, deeper. 

Jeno’s already buried so deep inside you your legs are shaking, the stretch dizzying, your pussy fluttering around him with every slow drag of his cock but your mouth is still full—Juyeon’s cock thick between your lips, your chin slick with spit, your throat working around him even as your eyes start to glaze. Then, without warning, you lift your hand and shove him back, fingers digging into his hip as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet, ruined sound. “What the fuck—?” he gasps, breath catching, but you’re not looking at him. You don’t even blink in his direction. Your other hand reaches blindly behind you, clutching at Jeno’s hands, and the safe word you and Jeno had, one you rarely used, slips out like instinct. “Red.” 

You say the word because you know he’ll stop. Red. It’s your safe word, one you rarely have to use with Jeno. It’s not panic, not overwhelm—it’s a decision, one that only Jeno understands. The moment it slips from your lips, everything about him changes. His hands catch your waist instantly, the edge vanishing from his eyes, the bite gone from his breath. He pulls out gently, careful, his touch reverent as he eases you back into his lap. “Shit, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face, voice so soft it barely carries. “Was it too much? Are you okay? Talk to me.” You shake your head, slow and calm, eyes still fixed on his. You don’t answer because you don’t need to. You got what you wanted—him. Just him. Your fingers wipe the mess from your mouth, and then you shift, crawling closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle into his lap like that’s where you belong. You press your face to his neck and whisper, “Hi, baby,” like it’s a secret only he gets to hear, like it’s the only thing that matters. Then you slide down onto his cock again, slow and warm, breath catching at the stretch you already know by heart, and he groans into your skin like he’s never felt anything better, hands tightening on your waist, grounding you, loving you.

He’s confused for a moment, brows knitting, head tipping back slightly, and you see it. The click behind his eyes as he realizes what just happened—what you really meant. You said the safe word not because it was too much but because it was wrong. Because you wanted him, only him and you needed a way to get there without guilt. You thought you were okay when you came into the room. You thought maybe you could do this again, just like before but your body had already made the decision. Jeno sees it now, you’re not interested in any more threesomes. His hands soften at your waist as you roll your hips slowly, intimately, no rush, no performance. Just him. Just you. He exhales into your hair like he’s been holding it in for years.

Juyeon’s still there. Still hard. Still staring. His face twists like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, like something about the quiet between you and Jeno makes him feel like he was never really in it. “You didn’t even make me cum,” he mutters, frustrated, a little too loud but you don’t flinch or blink. Your body moves against Jeno’s like nothing else exists, slow and lazy, savoring the feeling of him deep inside you. You nuzzle against his cheek, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Jeno doesn’t even look at Juyeon. He just tilts his head toward your voice, completely gone for you. You smile, soft and ruined, and finally glance over your shoulder—not at Juyeon, but past him, like he’s already fading. 

“Get the fuck out,” Jeno adds, eyes never leaving yours. You’re already moaning again, hips rolling slow, lost in the boy who’s never let go of you, the one who always pulls you back. Juyeon stills for a second, stunned, and then the sound of him grabbing his clothes breaks the silence. 

Jeno’s hands are back on you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple. You ride him slow, deep, your pussy clenching with every grind, his cock heavy and thick inside you, warmth blooming through every nerve. The room feels like it holds just you and him now—no past, no mistakes, just now. Just his voice, low in your ear, murmuring, "You're home now, baby. Stay right here."

His cock stays buried inside you, softened now but still refusing to leave as if his body can’t quite bear the emptiness. Your limbs feel heavy and loose with exhaustion, your heartbeat easing into a slow, steady rhythm beneath his gentle touch. His hands wander your skin like he’s trying to soothe every bruise he’s left behind, fingertips tracing softly over your ribs, gliding along the curve of your stomach, brushing tenderly against the sensitive warmth between your thighs. He avoids the spots that ache most, the places where pleasure became pain, caressing you as though he’s afraid you might shatter beneath his touch. His mouth trails quiet kisses, featherlight and careful, over your eyelids, the corner of your lips, your temple, your forehead, each kiss gentle and deliberate, as though he’s silently begging forgiveness for every mark he’s left. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, his breath warm against your cheek as he murmurs softly, “We’re going to be okay.” You exhale shakily, eyes closed, heart clenching at the fragile hope woven into his tone. He repeats himself, stronger now, as though conviction alone could will his promise into reality. “We’re going to be okay,” he says again, and his lips brush yours lightly, lingering, trembling slightly from the weight of those words. You don’t respond, not verbally; instead, you sink into his embrace, allowing him this moment of belief, letting yourself pretend—for just this heartbeat—that maybe he’s right.

His voice softens further when he speaks again, low and intimate, the sound seeping into your skin and settling into the hollow between your shoulder blades. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, lips brushing softly against your back, his breath warm, comforting, possessive in a way that makes your chest ache. “No one else gets to touch you like this again.” His fingers trail down slowly, tenderly, finding the slick heat where his cum drips lazily from your body. He spreads it back inside, his touch unhurried and gentle, reclaiming every drop as if he could keep you this way forever. “It’s all mine,” he murmurs, and his hips move slightly, a delicate rocking motion that speaks less of desire and more of an unwillingness to let go, his cock stirring gently inside you. His lips press another kiss into your neck, lingering softly, desperately. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he admits quietly, his voice vulnerable, shaking with an honesty that cuts deeper than any wound he’s left tonight. “I don’t wanna fight, I don’t wanna wonder if you’ll leave—I just want you, baby. Wanting you is the only thing I’ve ever done right.” His hand reaches for yours, fingers threading carefully, gripping tight enough to anchor you both. “Promise me,” he pleads softly, almost broken, “promise me we’ll figure it out together, whatever it takes, that we’ll find a way through it all.”

Your heart clenches painfully, because you can’t promise—there’s no way to give him the words he so desperately needs without shattering the fragile moment you’ve built. The truth sticks painfully in your throat, bitter and sharp, so you silence it the only way you know how. You tilt your face upwards, capturing his lips in a kiss that speaks louder than any whispered lie. You kiss him deeply, fiercely, desperately, as if trying to memorize the shape and taste of his mouth, imprinting this moment to keep long after you’ve gone. Tears slip quietly down your cheeks, mingling with the heat of your shared breath, making everything messy, raw, heartbreakingly honest. Yet he smiles against your mouth, a gentle, relieved curve of his lips, as if you’ve finally given him the hope he’s been craving all along. “God, baby,” he whispers breathlessly between kisses, holding you even tighter, his palms sliding reverently along your spine like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I knew you’d come back to me.” And you realize, your chest aching profoundly, that maybe you’ve already left, that the part of you capable of staying behind is lost, no matter how desperately you cling to him now.

The room settles into silence, a fragile quiet punctuated only by the gentle, steady rhythm of your breathing. He cradles you closer, his cock still buried within you, softening slowly, reluctant to part—as if his body believes what his heart desperately wants to. His arms surround you, warm and sure, a sanctuary you’ve tricked yourself into believing you deserve, and just for a heartbeat, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that this isn’t selfish, that you’re not gripping the frayed edges of hope you’ve spun for him, only to unravel them when morning comes. The guilt settles in your chest, dense and suffocating, a stone sinking slowly through the hollow space inside your ribs, drowning out every bruising ache he’s left on your hips, overshadowing the tender sting between your thighs. You’re cruel tonight—not because you hurt him but because you made him believe again, made him think your broken pieces could still fit with his, knowing all along you’d vanish like a phantom at sunrise. Yet he holds you like you’re precious, smiling softly against your temple, murmuring quiet promises into your skin that you can’t bear to hear because they echo truths you can never fulfill. For tonight, you convince yourself you can stay, that the ache in your chest won’t break you both apart, even as you know you’re building him a future made of glass—a fragile illusion, beautiful, shimmering, bound to shatter the moment you slip from his arms.

You don’t leave in the morning, you stay buried in Jeno’s chest like your body’s forgotten how to exist without his, limbs tangled in quiet desperation, the air between you heavy with sleep and something softer. His skin is all heat, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck and for a few stolen moments you pretend this is your life—that this bed, this man, this hold are yours without condition. Guilt prickles beneath your skin, subtle at first then sharper, blooming like a bruise in the tenderness but you don’t flinch, you don’t let go. You let his arm wrap tighter around your waist when you shift in your sleep, let his lips brush your hair like he still knows how to love you in his dreams. You lie to yourself just long enough to stay still, just long enough to believe. Even if your heart aches with the knowing that it’s a borrowed peace you let yourself take it, all of it, even the seconds that were never meant to be yours.

The memory of what day it is breaks through slow, like sunlight bleeding through blinds, hazy and golden, soft but persistent. The river court. It sinks into your chest not just as a name but a whole world, a ritual stitched into the fabric of your youth. Today’s the meet-up—everyone’s bringing food, old playlists, beat-up speakers and weatherworn basketballs, laughter like muscle memory. The plan is to spend the whole day there, sharing memories and teasing each other over games, lounging in half-shade and slipping back into that easy rhythm only this group knows. It might be the last time you’re all together like this before graduation—the last time you’ll trace the same court lines with your feet, toss the same ball into the same rusting hoop, watch the sun dip below the trees from the same cracked bench. You couldn’t miss it. Not for anything.

Jeno stirs behind you, groaning softly, his arms winding around your middle and pulling you back to him like he’s felt your mind slipping away. His lips find your shoulder in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, tongue brushing your skin with sleepy want, and his hand drifts slow over your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He shifts over you, cock pressing firm and warm over your shorts, body draped over yours with the kind of weight that makes you want to stay forever. His mouth finds that spot beneath your jaw that makes you sigh and tilt your head, already pliant, and you giggle through it, breath catching when you push lightly at his chest. “Not now,” you whisper, lips curving, “I have plans.”

He pulls back slightly, face still buried in your neck, and hums against your skin. You tell him, voice low and soft, about the river court gathering, about how important it is. He pauses. You expect the sleepy approval, maybe even a gentle kiss to your cheek. What you don’t expect is him to say, “Mark invited me.” He says it like it’s casual. Like it won’t completely change the shape of the day. You nod, smiling, and try not to let it show. You want to be happy that the two people you care about most are finally in sync, getting along like wildfire and dry leaves, but all it does is twist in your chest. 

You both get ready slowly, lazily, the kind of unhurried rhythm that comes when being apart feels impossible. You’re dressed first, in one of your short skirts that he loves, the one that rides up when you sit, exposing just enough to make his hands twitch. Jeno’s eyes follow your every move as he buttons up his shirt, and when you lean down to fix your boot, he pulls you between his legs and into his lap. You settle easily, thigh on either side of him, his hands gripping your legs with soft reverence. Neither of you speaks at first. It’s just you and him, breathing each other in, noses brushing, mouths almost touching. There’s no rush. Just that glowing, suspended feeling that always comes before you leave something behind. 

"I have something for you," he murmurs and you hum in response, curious. He reaches over to his nightstand, opens the drawer and your breath catches when you see it—a delicate bracelet, fine crystal beading glinting in the light like it’s been waiting for you. He lifts it slowly like it’s fragile, like it means something, and he meets your eyes before saying, “You gave me so much yesterday, made me feel... fuck, like I was yours again. Like nothing else in the world existed but us. I’ve had this for a while, just been waiting for the right moment.” You bite your lip as he loops it gently around your wrist, the crystals catching sunlight, glittering against your skin like promises you never made out loud. “Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs, and you laugh softly, swatting at his chest before curling your fingers around his.

“You’ve given me so much,” you say under your breath and you mean it, even if your voice wavers a little. He’s tracing the edge of your tattoo now, fingertips light, reverent. You glance down at your wrist, the new bracelet nestled beside your charm one and it’s too much—it’s all too much. Your chest aches, your stomach twists and you don’t know how to carry it. You lean in before your thoughts betray you, your lips finding his again, soft and lingering. His arms wrap around you tight and you let yourself sink into it because this might be the last time. This might be the last day. He’s so good to you, always has been, even when he shouldn’t be and you have no right to stay. You taste the goodbye between your teeth and hold him closer anyway, guilt clawing behind your ribs as his hands spread wide across your back like he’s scared to let go and when he whispers against your mouth that he doesn’t want this moment to end, you lie and nod, because you do too but it has to.

The river court breathes like something alive. The cracked pavement yawns beneath your feet, lines of weeds pushing through the concrete like the ground’s trying to reclaim what was stolen. The paint is nearly gone, not just faded but scraped raw, like time itself has been clawing at the edges. The hoop still hangs, lopsided and rust-rusted, its net long since torn away by storms or fights or kids that never came back. The sun doesn’t shine gentle here—it sears, casting sharp shadows through the bare branches, turning the surface of the river into a shimmering, blinding mirror. The air carries heat and warning, thick with the scent of something about to shift. Something about to break.

There’s laughter, but it echoes wrong, swallowed too quick by the wind. The trees lean in like they’re listening, branches tense, waiting. You’ve always thought this place belonged to you all—but maybe that was a lie. Maybe it never belonged to anyone. Maybe it was always on the edge of collapse, and now, as you step back into it one last time, it’s holding its breath. The river court doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a graveyard of what was, and a battleground for what might still fall apart. You can almost hear it—cracks splintering deeper beneath your soles, roots tightening, old ghosts rustling awake.

You arrive hand in hand, the walk feeling far too short. The air is thick with familiarity. Shotaro, Karina, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ningning, Mark, and Areum are already there but no Yangyang. His absence is a silence louder than any words. He’s clearly avoiding you, and you don’t blame him. Not after everything, not after the mess that was last night. The looks come quickly, a mix of surprise and tension. Areum won’t meet your eyes. Chenle offers you a small smile. Donghyuck, ever the dramatist, throws his arm out theatrically. “And here they are,” he declares, “the forbidden lovers returned from exile.” It earns a few strained laughs, but the awkwardness still lingers.

Areum speaks first, surprisingly. “So,” she asks, voice cautious, “are you guys back together?” 

Jeno’s the one who answers. “Just taking it slow,” he says, with that gentle smile that makes your chest ache. 

Areum’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, voice even. Jeno doesn’t let you linger in the conversation. He leads you away before anyone else can speak, arm slipping around your waist, body shielding yours from too many stares. You curl up beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

The teasing starts immediately. Donghyuck can’t help himself. He grins at Jeno, then at you, tone loaded with mischief. “So the party was… productive?” he quips, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter ripples through the group, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head. You bury your face in Jeno’s shoulder, heat creeping up your neck. Your shyness is so unlike you, you’re usually quick with a sharp retort or sly grin but after last night, after the sounds you know carried through the walls and the mess you left behind, you can’t even look your friends in the eye.

Jeno wraps an arm tighter around you, chin resting on your head, voice low but playful. “Alright,” he says with a smirk, “everyone back off, she’s shy now.” That only makes the group laugh harder but there’s warmth in it, a kind of affectionate cruelty that means no harm. Jeno shifts slightly to block more of you from view, hand rubbing slow circles on your back, muttering, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll protect your honour.” You swat him weakly, finally peeking out just to see Karina holding up five fingers, mouthing ‘five positions?’ and Donghyuck dramatically pretending to faint beside her. You groan, burying yourself back in Jeno’s hoodie, while he just chuckles and kisses your temple, proud and unbothered.

Karina leans in, smirking. “Congrats on winning the draft. Five positions, six rooms, and a threesome? You fucked your way to the top, that’s the best result anyone has ever gotten from the cheer team.” The group breaks into loud laughter. You glance down, cheeks hot, while Jeno stays quiet beside you, but the look in his eyes says everything. He’s smug as hell, not bothering to hide it.

Mark’s reaction is instant. He jerks forward, nearly drops his drink, eyes bulging like the words physically hit him. “Threesome?” he echoes, voice cracking, like he’s trying to make sure he heard right and praying he didn’t. 

Karina doesn’t let up—she twists the knife, sweet and cruel. “They used to have them weekly,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “I joined once, too.”

Mark visibly recoils, mouth falling open in horror. “Oh my god,” he mutters, blinking hard, like he’s trying to erase the image from his brain. “I need bleach. Actual bleach.” He turns away, shaking his head so fast it looks like he might pass out. Jeno doesn’t flinch, just leans back with one arm around you, smug and unbothered, like he’s proud of every second. 

The laughter’s still hanging in the air when Chenle steps forward, brushing his hands against his jeans as he walks to the edge of the court. He stops near the dandelion patch just beyond the court, a smile playing on his lips, gaze soft. The breeze lifts his hair slightly as he looks around at everyone, eyes landing on the ones who’ve stood by him since they were kids. “This place,” he starts, voice a little scratchy from laughter and heat and emotion, “this court raised us.” His words settle into the space like ash. “We learned everything here. How to fight, how to lose, how to win, how to stay.” He looks at the dandelions, their delicate heads trembling under the breeze. “It was never just a basketball court. It was a home and it still is. Even when we leave, this place will remember us.”

Before he can go on, Donghyuck snorts. “God, you’re gonna cry again.”

“I might,” Chenle says, unbothered and tries to keep going but the teasing is nowhere near finished. 

“You writing a memoir or what?” Mark calls out, cracking a drink open and dropping back onto his elbows, grinning. “Sounds like you’re about to narrate your own biopic.”

“Bet there’s a slow piano track playing in his head,” Shotaro adds, smirking.

Chenle narrows his eyes, pointing. “You’ve been real mouthy lately.”

“Character development,” Shotaro shrugs, smug. “Ryujin says I’m glowing.”

Chenle scoffs, “She also said you were submissive and breedable like two weeks ago.” The laughter that follows cuts through the air clean and easy. The kind of laughter that only happens when nothing really needs to be said. When being here means you’ve already said it all.

Chenle shakes his head and gets back into what he was saying. “We’re doing something different this time. “We’re writing,” he says simply, “dreams, secrets, whatever’s sitting too heavy. Something you want to let go of, or something you still want so bad it hurts. You write it down, fold it up, burn it over the flame, and let it rise. That’s it. Let the smoke carry it out of you.” His voice is calm, certain, almost reverent, like this is the closest thing he believes in. “We don’t keep them, we don’t read them, we just let them go.”

“You’re so sentimental lately,” You tease, giving him a soft smile. 

“Must be the impending adulthood,” Chenle quips, holding up a lighter. 

Shotaro goes first. He folds his slip with care, then spins on his heel like he’s about to take a shot. He tosses it with perfect aim into the shallow bowl Chenle placed in the center of the court. The flame catches. His eyes don’t leave it. You don’t need him to say what it was. The dance studio he’s always dreamed of building and leading classes in is already etched into the way he carries himself.

Chenle takes his paper last, twirling it once between his fingers like he’s flipping a coin, like the words scribbled inside might decide everything. He kneels by the candle, lights the edge, watches the flame catch and eat its way in. Then, without drawing attention, he lifts his phone and snaps a quick photo—not of the fire but of all of you, bent over your slips of paper, faces serious in the golden light. No one’s looking but the shot is perfect. Everyone’s there. Everyone’s quiet. He smiles to himself, small and private, the kind you tuck away in your chest and keep. “I’ll treasure this one,” he murmurs, mostly to the flame, but it’s real all the same.

Donghyuck presses a kiss to his fingers and flicks them toward the sky before tossing his slip into the flame. He doesn’t say what he wrote, not directly, but you know. It’s the dream job he’s mentioned a hundred times late at night—the one in New York, sports broadcasting, his voice behind the mic while the whole world listens. The paper crackles in the fire, curling fast, and he watches it disappear with a look that’s half pride, half defiance. “If I cry, it’s from the ashes,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard, his mouth twitching like he dares anyone to tease him for it. No one does.

Karina’s takes longer. She holds the slip of paper like it weighs something real, like it knows how badly she wants that spot in the New York fashion program she’s pinned all her hopes on. Her fingers tighten around it once, twice, and for a second it looks like she might fold but then she steps forward, quiet and composed, and drops it into the flame with a breath so deep you hear it from where you’re standing. The edges curl fast, catching quick, and she doesn’t look away until it’s gone.

Areum’s is smaller, more hesitant. She holds hers like it might burn her before it even meets the fire. Her mouth moves—barely audible—but you think you catch the shape of a city, maybe a whisper of a dream she hasn’t shared yet. Something about photographs, about chasing light across the world. She stares at the flame too long, then finally lets it go, and her lips twitch into something that could almost be a smile. Almost.

Mark lingers behind her, the slip trembling slightly between his fingers, crumpled at the corners from how long he’s been holding it. He leans into Areum before lighting his, presses a kiss to her temple like a silent plea, like she’s the thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes don’t meet anyone else’s—too distant, too deep, fixed on a future he’s scared to speak aloud. You know what it is. You all do. It’s in the way his chest tightens every time the ball leaves his hands, in the way he flinches at every strange rhythm of his heart. His secret is simple, and brutal. That basketball won’t be taken from him. That he’ll live long enough to have a life beyond it. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to. You feel it like a pulse in the air. When the flame catches the edge of his paper, he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until it’s ash.

Jeno’s grip on the pen is firm, knuckles pale, and his posture sharper than usual, like the act of writing carves something out of him. His brow furrows in concentration, jaw tight, lips parted like he’s breathing through it, like the words on that slip of paper weigh more than ink should. When he finally folds it, his movements are methodical, almost reverent. He doesn’t hesitate when he drops it into the flame, doesn’t blink as it curls and burns. He doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes are on you.

You know what he wrote. You don’t need to see it. It’s only ever been two things with him—you, and the NBA. In that exact order. His dream isn’t fame, isn’t legacy, isn’t even redemption. It’s making it, and it’s making it with you by his side. Everything else can burn. Every path that doesn’t lead to those two things can be torched. He’ll carry that dream in blood if he has to. Protect it with teeth bared and fists ready. He’ll bend the world to his will or break trying.

When his mouth meets yours, the kiss is slow, deep, a silent vow shaped by the heat of his lips and the firm reverence of his hands cradling your jaw, as if you were the only sure thing left in his universe. You taste it—the fire and devotion, the hunger and holiness—each lingering caress a testament to something ancient and unbreakable. This devotion feels mythic; he would kneel to no one, would spit defiance at gods, would drag demons into sunlight just to keep you safe. To him, you are scripture and rebellion, his origin and endgame, the reason crowds will chant his name like an anthem through echoing arenas. You are the only prayer he’s ever uttered, fierce and unapologetic, never once begging for mercy.

Your own slip feels heavier than it should, weighted by dreams pressed into paper and ink. On the surface, you write your ambition, your future neatly inscribed. But beneath, in looping letters like whispered incantations or the prayers of priestesses begging ancient gods to free mortal heroes from cruel destinies, you write again and again: Let him be free. Let him be free. Let him be free. From chains forged in his father’s shadow, from the torment he’ll never escape on his own, from a story written by other hands. If he cannot ask for mercy, you’ll plead in his stead.

You taste the bitter edge of your own guilt, sharp and unavoidable because you know the prayers whispered between your lips will never be answered. He would kneel to no god, would challenge fate itself but his rebellion is doomed from the start. Neither of his dreams—freedom from his father’s shadow, or redemption from his silent torment—will ever be granted and you know this truth more clearly than he ever could.

When you finally retreat home, it's like sinking into a warm dream, reality softening at the edges. You and Jeno spend the entire evening wrapped up in one another, existing in a world built solely from gentle touches, whispered promises, and slow, lingering kisses that leave your heart aching sweetly. He holds you as though you're something delicate, his hoodie swallowing you whole, his scent clinging to your skin as fiercely as his embrace. The hours blur, indistinguishable from one tender moment to the next, until you're no longer sure where you end and he begins, his heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath your ear like an unspoken reassurance. But peace never lasts, and too soon, the comforting sanctuary of his arms gives way to harsh reality.

Donghyuck, relentless as ever, drags you both back to the river court, insisting the burnt paper wasn't enough to seal whatever desperate hope he’s chasing. Yangyang is there too, looking as though he's holding back something sharp, something violent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes darkened with resentment directed unmistakably at Jeno. But Jeno is oblivious or perhaps purposefully indifferent, too consumed by you, the warmth of his hand securely anchored at your waist. Every kiss he steals from you ignites the intensity of Yangyang's glare, an unsettling sensation prickling the back of your neck, making you hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat. The silence between them is heavy, oppressive, charged with tension that simmers but never breaks, hurting more deeply than outright conflict ever could.

Donghyuck ushers everyone into another round of the ritual, this time lanterns replacing paper, delicate vessels carrying hidden secrets into the vast expanse of the night sky. You write your wishes in careful strokes, afraid that too much weight might drag the fragile glow down to earth. You don't glance at Jeno’s lantern, nor do you ask him what he's written, but when his lips find yours again—slow and sure—just as his lantern ascends, you feel your answer: whatever he's wishing, it's about you. His kiss is an affirmation, an anchor, a fragile promise burned brightly into the darkness.

Yet, peace fractures once more when Mark's voice—angry and unusually harsh—splits through the night. Your heart seizes at the venom in his tone, your body stiffening as he snaps, “What the fuck are they doing here?” Eric and Sunwoo’s arrival shatters the fragile calm, the harsh screech of tires piercing your senses as their car halts aggressively at the edge of the court. Instantly, Jeno moves protectively in front of you, his back straightened, shoulders tense. But your observant eyes catch every crack in his facade. His jaw trembles slightly, his clenched fists betray his fear, and though his posture tries to radiate strength, his stance is brittle, poised to shatter under the slightest pressure. 

Eric's mocking laughter fills the tense silence first, bitter and sharp as broken glass, and Sunwoo's eyes glint dangerously as he sneers, "Long time no see, Jeno. Thought you’d forgotten about us." 

Jeno's voice, though firm, wavers with concealed dread. "Leave, Eric. This isn't your territory anymore."

Eric steps closer, invading personal space, forcing confrontation. "You don't decide that," he spits viciously, words laced with threats. 

“We were just passing by. Funny seeing you here all cozy—did your daddy finally loosen your leash?" Sunwoo snickers cruelly beside him, and Jeno visibly flinches. The jab hits deeper than intended, unraveling Jeno's carefully woven defenses. He swallows heavily, his eyes darting briefly back toward you as if checking you’re still safe, before returning to meet Eric’s unrelenting gaze. The exchange continues in heated, hushed tones, an escalating dance of provocations and barely restrained fury, until finally, Eric smirks coldly, withdrawing as though he's made his point. When they finally drive away, leaving Jeno standing alone, he doesn’t look victorious. He looks small, shaken, vulnerable in a way you've rarely witnessed, and the sight leaves a sour ache deep in your chest.

Your friends cluster together instinctively, their voices dropping into tense, anxious whispers as wary eyes dart toward Eric and Sunwoo. Confusion passes visibly between them—Shotaro’s brow furrowing deeply, Donghyuck exchanging uncertain glances with Yangyang—but nobody speaks loudly enough for clarity. The questions hang in the air, heavy and unresolved, a tangible discomfort settling over everyone present. Yet no one dares to break the unspoken rule of silence, letting speculation remain just beneath the surface, acknowledged only through uneasy looks and half-muted murmurs, an unsettled mystery they collectively agree to leave untouched.

Your anxiety spikes sharply—there's less than a week until state championships and Jeno still isn't cleared. You've been working tirelessly to fix the situation, but progress has stalled, bogged down by circumstances beyond your control. You need to accelerate, to resolve everything immediately, to lift this crushing weight off both your shoulders. Today has become your new deadline, a silent vow made in the frantic recesses of your mind.

While Jeno faces Eric and Sunwoo, Mark’s words slash through you, sharp and brutally honest. "I don’t know what the fuck you're doing," he says, voice low and cutting. You meet his gaze defiantly, defensive already, bracing against the sting of his truth. He continues relentlessly, voice laden with frustration. "Why have you been all over Jeno since yesterday? Making him believe there's still a chance? As long as his father holds that threat over both of you, you will never be with Jeno—not fully, not freely. Don’t lead him on; you’ll only disappoint him again."

Your throat tightens defensively, your voice trembling slightly as you snap back, "Shut up, Mark." Yet, the truth gnaws mercilessly at your heart.

Before Mark can press further, Jeno’s footsteps approach, but you're already moving away, purpose clear and urgent. His voice, confused and tinged with worry, calls out to you, freezing your steps momentarily. "Where are you going?" he asks, confusion laced with quiet desperation.

"I have something I need to do," you reply hastily, already turning away. 

His skepticism is clear, eyes narrowing softly. "At 11pm?" 

Your breath hitches, panic flickering briefly before you turn sharply, pulling him close. You kiss him urgently, softly, repeatedly, each press of your lips calming the rapid beat of your heart. He sighs gently against your mouth, frustration warring with longing as you whisper your promise. "I’ll come right back to you, promise."

"Promise?" he echoes, vulnerability edging his voice. 

Your heart twists painfully as you nod, offering softly, genuinely, "I don't wanna be anywhere else." Your fingers brush his chain, grounding yourself in his presence one final time, voice dropping to a whisper. "Only wanna be with you, baby." 

His sigh is heavy, reluctant, tinged with hurt. "I don’t know how I feel about letting you go right now. You always disappear, and then I don’t hear from you for hours." Yet, despite his protests, you pull away, the words unspoken between you thickening the air as you vanish into the darkness, leaving promises behind like fading lanterns in the night sky—beautiful but impossible to grasp. Hours stretch into days, leaving him stranded in your silence.

You find yourself in Coach Suh’s office as quickly as your feet could carry you, the door closing softly behind you, sealing you in familiar shadows and the lingering scent of leather and faded cologne. Silence pulses heavily between you as your eyes lock with his, triggering memories you’d carefully buried deep, ghosts you’d long since refused to acknowledge. You haven’t been alone together in months, not since you forced every heated glance, every stolen breath, every desperate touch firmly into the depths of denial, pretending they’d ceased to haunt you. But now, with his gaze burning into yours, those suppressed moments surge back, fierce and unrelenting, flooding your chest until it aches—each vivid fragment sharper, more alive, more painfully real than before.

You recall nights spent here after classes, muscles sore, skirt bunched carelessly around your waist, bouncing on his cock while he gripped your hips with desperate urgency. You’d ride him rough, ignoring his whispered pleas to be quieter, grinding harder at the risk of discovery, whispering back, “Then let them hear.” The thrill of it always pushed him over the edge too quickly, your name tumbling from his lips like a forbidden prayer. He'd protest weakly when you left marks, but you knew he secretly savored each bruising reminder.

Other times you’d hide beneath his desk during office hours, lips wrapped tight around his cock while he nodded mechanically through mundane meetings. His knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the desk, voice strained, body rigid, his fingers buried in your hair like an affectionate caress rather than guiding your eager mouth. You relished making him falter, humming lightly until he twitched helplessly, whispering “daddy” softly enough only he could hear. His whispered command to behave never held weight; you always left him wanting more.

Standing in front of him now, the heavy silence crackles with charged, unresolved tension. He stares with narrowed eyes, voice cautious yet edged with curiosity. “It’s 11pm.”

“I need your help,” you breathe softly, your voice laden with unspoken promises, the words falling gently into the heavy air between you like embers sparking off neon-lit wires. He holds your gaze for a long, charged moment, eyes burning into yours, a silent collision of past sins and present desperation—desire, guilt, and determination woven together into something dangerously combustible. His jaw tightens imperceptibly, a subtle acknowledgment that pulls the tension taut until the air itself seems to hum.

Without another word, he rises from his chair, the motion fluid yet cautious, as though afraid too sudden a movement might shatter this fragile, perilous truce. You follow him silently, each step echoing with a thousand suppressed memories, fluorescent-bright flashes of nights spent tangled together in reckless abandon. The car ride to his apartment is thick with those very ghosts, desire simmering beneath your skin like a neon sign flickering erratically in a rain-soaked alley, its electric current raw and unstable. Neither of you dares to speak, lest you sever the fragile thread holding back the chaos.

When he opens his apartment door, the quiet creak echoes like a gunshot, your breath catching sharply in your throat. You step inside slowly, your gaze locked onto his, the silent invitation between you blazing fiercely, unapologetically bright—no longer hiding in shadows, but daring you both to face it head-on. And as your eyes meet, understanding settles heavily, achingly clear, raw as an exposed nerve. You know exactly what you’re offering, and he knows exactly what you’re willing to surrender.

Tonight, you’ll burn yourself down if it means securing Jeno’s future. You’ll sink willingly into neon-lit temptation, the aching familiarity of Coach Suh’s hard cock buried deep inside you—surrendering to old patterns and darker pleasures, losing yourself completely in the ruthless heat of his mouth, the bruising grip of fingers that have memorized every desperate inch of your skin. You’ll let him consume you until every boundary shatters, trading each carefully guarded piece of your soul for the raw, electric sensation of his body moving relentlessly against yours, thrusting hard enough to fracture the lingering shadows of your resistance and when it’s over, when you’ve ridden out every burning wave of your sacrifice, all that’ll remain is the scorched, luminous aftermath—glowing in vivid, neon-bright confession against the pitch-black of midnight, unmistakably marking you as his one last time.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

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

[bitchface24-7]

This is a really short request but jayvik x reader who like just randomly cut her hair short one day for no reason other than vibes

A SMALL CHANGE - JAYVIK X READER

synopsis: you’ve always had luscious hair. It was the main thing people complimented you on, and you’re starting to hate it. You’ve always wanted to change your hairstyle; try something new. After a minor crash out, you’ve got no choice but to chop it all off. Hopefully, you won't regret it in the morning.

warnings: y'all smoke in this, crash out (no reason in particular described), impulsively cutting your hair, overthinking, your boys LOVE the new look; stop being a silly goose, fluff, pre-established relationship, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/m/f or m/m/m

p.s. I went through a phase for a few years where the longest my hair went was just brushing my shoulders. I had a french bob for a while, I even experimented with bangs that weren't curtain style. I'd love to go as short as Winona is up above but I'd like to re-experience my long hair again before that. Hope y'all enjoy!

Life’s been kicking your ass recently

Nothing has gone to plan. Your work life, social life, hell even some of your romantic life has taken a small hit due to the importance of Hextech and he council breathing down your boys necks.

So one day, when they're out late, and you mean late at the lab, the straw finally broke the camels back. And you crashed out. Hard.

After all this built-up tension, and frustration, you just couldn't take it anymore.

In an oversized t-shirt stolen from Jayce and a simple pair of underwear, you snag your pack of cigarettes out of your bedside drawer. You quickly sit on your windowsill in your room and pop a cigarette in between your lips and start to puff like a train.

It’s not helping you in the way it usually does. You're running your hands through your hair, your leg is bouncing up and down incessantly, your anxiety hasn't wained at all.

As you look out into the distance and see the councillor's tower, you get up and stomp your way to the bathroom. You hastily enter the ensuite and slam your hands into the counter, swiping off all of your toothbrushes, toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant.

You look in the mirror and glare at yourself, inhaling shakily and exhaling the cigarette still gently placed in your mouth. You open the medicine cabinet and grab a pair of scissors, and without even thinking, you grab a chunk of hair.

Snip.

You freeze for a moment. Holy shit. You just… yup. You just cut a good chunk of hair off. Maybe like… six inches? Seven?

Well, shit. You don't have the power to reverse time so… you've gotta fix this. You've always wanted to change your hair, even if others disagreed with you. But you thought you'd be in a salon chair getting this mini makeover, not at three in the morning as you angrily cut your hair without thinking.

So you do just that. You start to cut your hair.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

More and more hair falls into the sink, it's almost a ridiculous amount. It looks like a small dog at this point. A little bit of layering here, face-framing pieces here, you even add some curtain bangs to accentuate your features.

Almost all of your hair is in the sink by the time you're done. You calmly place the scissors down and look at yourself in the mirror, appreciating your work.

The haircut is the shortest your hair has ever been. It stops at the nape of your neck, there are longer layers, curtain bangs, and a nice voluminousness to your hair now. You run a hand through your hair and giggle. It's so short, so light, so different.

You put two fingers onto your cigarette and inhale once more, taking the tobacco out of your mouth and slowly exhaling, you rub one eye with the hand holding the cigarette, aiming the lighted end away from your face and hair. You smile at yourself in the mirror.

You look good. Better than good. You look fantastic! You freeze for a moment when a freight train hits you. Oh god. Viktor and Jayce have no idea about what you've just done. They're gonna come home and all your hair is essentially gone. What if they hate it? What if they think you're ugly? What if they break up with you?

You shut those thoughts down quickly. They're not vain. They won't break your heart over something so minuscule. You put the cigarette back in between your lips and clean up the bathroom. Cleaning the sink by tossing all the hair you can into the trash, the rest going down the drain. You pick up all the care items you swiped and put them back in their respective spots.

You take one last look in the mirror and casually stroll back to your bedroom, finishing the cigarette and putting it out in your ashtray at the windowsill. A light groan escapes you as you stretch and bundle yourself into your bed. You'll worry about Jayce and Viktor's reaction in the morning.

Its now the morning and you completely forgot about what you did until you wake up and run a hand through your hair.

You chopped it all off last night. Oops.

Some noise in the kitchen disturbs your thoughts, so you whip on some comfy pajama shorts and put some slippers onto your feet, the floors are cold in the morning.

Jayce is bustling in the kitchen as Viktor sits at the island sipping his coffee, and reading the newspaper.

Their attention immediately turns to you when they hear you shuffle into the room. They look shocked at your appearance.

“Holy shit babe,” Jayce starts, almost dropping a pan, “Your hair. It looks—”

“Bad.” You nervously interrupt, as your eyes dart between the two of them. Jayce's jaw stays dropped as he checks you out, Viktor lightly shakes his head and smirks “Good. He was going to say it looks good darling. Phenomenal I’d say. It frames your face wonderfully, and it leaves more skin exposed.”

You feel your face heat up at his deceleration and run a hand through your hair, it fluffs up your bangs and it makes Jayce choke a bit as Viktor sniggers. You sit next to Viktor and he immediately places a kiss on your bare shoulder. “See? Oversized shirt, short hair, easy access.”

A small snort escapes you as you lightly slap Viktor in the chest, “You perv.”

“It's the truth! Jayce, tell them!”

Jayce looks at you, eyes big and pleading, “He’s right. I thought you were attractive before but wow… this haircut really suits you.”

You can't help but smile at your two boys. Your mind made you think the craziest thougts. Jumping through fire to get to those conclusions. But you knew they really wouldn't mind, they love you, not your hair.

And they seem to really really like it.

So having a minor crash out at three in the morning and impulsively cutting your hair was a good thing after all. Who knew?

I too have impulsively cut my hair at 3am, the shortest I went was a french bob. I'm currently growing my hair out after having it short for three years. I want long hair again for a while before doing a big chop like the one up above.

[contrarianwitt]

random thoughts rereading trk part 1:

the prologue will always kill me… “this was the year he was going to die” gansey that is making me want to die wtf

the fact that gwenllian is described as putting a bunch of shit in her hair and wearing a bunch of different layers and blue keeps complaining. babe the only difference is that she’s tall

okay we do basically get confirmation that blue amplifies ronan’s dreaming! i wasn’t sure whether it was implied or stated

the money i would pay to get the scene where blue threw that guys (his names holtzclaw?) backpack over his car. like what even happened before that

“ronan’s jealousy of henry was visible from space” king he said three words to gansey. you’ll live. no wonder adam thought you were such an asshole at first i can’t even imagine

Adam “i usually don’t take sides but that’s bullshit” Parrish putting ronan in his place during the gansey v lynch divorce argument

uhhh i forgot just how much adoration adam has for gansey like at the end of the day adam really just loves him huh

“Adam rejoined Blue in the other side of the vehicle. He took pains to stare at neither her breasts nor her lips” yk what adam thanks for being honest bc yk gansey is repressing that shit! love how teenage boy adam is compared to the rest like he hides nothing

adam immediately clocking blueseys secret relationship so casually is so funny to me he’s really like “yeah i know you guys are dating and i know ronan is in love with me. so what”

matthew playing “lacrosse or some shit” is confirmation that aftg exists in this universe and that he plays exy !! no further comments

part 2 of trk reread

[420days]

OH BABY! | ROMAN REIGNS

“Girl, you in here stressing my brother out?” Roman’s sister, Gina asked as she walked into the couple’s bedroom where Tati was sitting on the bed with attitude all over her face.

“No, I just don’t want to go.” Her face and tone immediately softened when she came into the room. Roman’s sister was like the big sister she never had and always looked out for her.

Whenever her and Roman would get into it she would vent to her.

Whenever she needed advice she could call her.

Whenever she just needed to cry she would call her becasue she knew she would be there.

Roman knew the only way she was attending this baby shower was if he called his sister to come and talk with her.

Through the pregnancy she has been feeling nothing but insecure due to the changes in her body. Her face got chubbier, her nose was always swollen, and not to mention she gained some much weight from the twins she was carrying.

She wasn’t feeling anything like herself and hated leaving the house unless she absolutely had to. Roman did all that he could to make her feel better about her self which worked most of the time but today she was being extra stubborn.

“Well why not? You don’t wanna celebrate my nieces?” She stood over her and rubbed her big belly.

“Sister, I look a mess. My hair isn’t even done.”

“That’s nothing. We can fix your hair real cute and I know you have a pretty ass dress. Come on and get up.” She tapped her thigh.

Rolling her eyes she stood up from the bed and made her way into her beauty room where her stuff for the baby shower was already set up.

“Now, how were you doing your hair?”

“I was gonna do a cute side part with layers but I don’t even know anymore cause that’s a lot. The wig isn’t even on yet.” She sighed in frustration.

“Girl, just give me the wig.”

The two of them sat in silence as she installed the honey blonde wig exactly the way Tati wanted it. It didn’t take much for her to get it done and Tati was already feeling better once she looked in the mirror.

“Ugh, I’m hungry now. Is he mad at me?” She asked at she looked in the mirror at her sister in law.

“Mad? No. You just had my poor baby brother stressed out. He called me like ‘can you please come get your sister” She laughed.

Picking her phone up from the vanity she sent him a message telling him she was hungry. In a matter of seconds he responded saying he would bring her something up. After a few minutes he walked into the room and handed her the food he made.

“Thank you my baby.” She ran her hand over her husband’s beard and tried to butter him up. She knew he was slightly annoyed with her from earlier even if he didn’t want to show it.

“You’re welcome. You look pretty.” He glanced over at her and admired the glow she had. It was much different from the way she looked this morning.

“Thank you, I’m sorry for being a brat earlier. I’ll make it up to you later… hopefully” Tati giggled as he rubbed small circles into her big stomach

“Don’t worry about it baby.” He kissed her lips.

“Y’all better not be disturbing my nieces while y’all are being grown and nasty.” Gina spoke up.

“They’re in the way anyways. I mean we don’t do anything that would affect them. We do other things.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Ew girl! I don’t wanna hear that.” She sucked her teeth and the three of them busted out laughing.

“You’re wearing these heels?”

“I’m gonna wear them when we go in but best believe I’ll be wearing these anywhere else.” Tati held up furry white slides that showed her freshly painted toes.

“Yeah cause my brother was gonna be on you about those too.” She mumbled and Tati glanced over at Roman who just shook his head at her.

“You ready to go?”

“Mmh, let’s go.” She nodded her head.

tags: @bebesobrielo @trentybenty @amandairene88 @kiki1704 @paigereeder @uceyliyahh @skyesthebomb @yeaiamme2

[lovegalor333]

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

woman crush wednesday pt 2 (previous part)

summary: you and paige finally go on the long awaited date

content warnings: none!

It had been three weeks since your first phone call with Paige and since then, it has become a nightly occurrence. Talking and giggling into the early hours until sleep eventually takes over. You have fallen asleep on FaceTime a few times too, waking in the morning to Paige silently getting ready for her day.

You both had busy schedules but they had finally aligned and Paige was coming into the city to see you for the first time. Even though you felt like you knew Paige decently well after hours of calls, you were still nervous. Meeting someone for the first time spiked your fight or flight. What if you wasn’t how Paige had imagined you? What if seeing you in real life made her feel differently?

You settled your nerves with a small glass of wine as you got yourself ready. It was a crisp autumnal evening in New York City and you both had decided on getting a coffee from your favourite place and walking around Central Park would be perfect for your first date.

You and Paige were similar in the sense, you were both really simple girls. You enjoyed being home and didn’t care for the lavish things in life. You were looking forward to just spending time with Paige, talking to her and being able to look in her eyes as she stood in front of you, rather than through a screen.

Paige was getting to your apartment at 5PM and it was almost that time so you applied a final layer of lip balm, a few spritz of your favourite perfume and readied yourself to leave.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket, Paige was here.

Your stomach fluttered as you rode the elevator down, you took in a few deep breaths and checked your reflection in the mirror. You had kept your outfit simple and makeup to a minimum. Paige was used to seeing you on stage or red carpets, you wanted her to see the real you today.

The elevator opened and there she was, in all her glory. She looked even better in person if that was possible, she looked like a goddess through the FaceTime camera but the way her eyes shone and skin glistened while she was just metres away from you had you lost for words. Her hair was down and straight, tucked behind her ears and she was wearing khaki pants with matching trainers and a pink and brown shirt. Why were you already imagining yourself wearing it? It would hang on your body oversized and it would probably smell like her.

“Hello Y/N.” Paige breaks your daydream, a smile spreading on her face as you walk towards her.

“Hi Paige.” You say shyly and she opens her arms for a hug and you step into it so naturally any nerves you had vanish within seconds.

“You look gorgeous.” She complements as you pull apart and you feel your cheeks heat up even though she’s said that every time you’ve been on video call even when your half asleep with messy hair and in your pyjamas.

“Thank you. You look great. I’m not used to seeing you wear a shirt.” You joke as most of the time, Paige calls you post practice and she’s almost always in her sports bra.

“I can take this off but let’s get that coffee first.” She says cheekily and her hand falls to the small of your back as she leads you out of the apartment building.

You and Paige argue over who’s paying for your drinks as the barista watches you both grapple to reach the card reader.

“It was my suggestion. Let me pay.” You state.

“I’m taking you on a date. Let me pay.” Paige quips back.

“But you traveled into the city. Let me.”

“Y/N put the damn card away. I’m paying.” Her voice is assertive and dominant and her arm stretches over you to tap her card.

“Thank you.” You say as you collect the drink, “You’re welcome but never do that again. As long as you’re with me, everythings on me.”

“Paige-“

“No arguememts, gorgeous.”

Yes ma’am.

The walk to Central Park is quick and filled with lighthearted chatter, between you and Paige. She reaches out to touch you multiple times. Her hand grazing your cheek to move a piece of hair, a protective arm around your waist as you cross the road and each time you felt your skin tingle and then a sense of longing once the moment was over.

“I’m glad you’re here.” You say as you find a secluded bench to sit on together. You sit so close, your legs are touching and Paige places a hand on your thigh, “I am too. Sorry it told so long for me to figure out.”

“It’s OK, I know you’re busy. I am too. But what do they say? Distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that.” The last bit comes out of your mouth without you realising.

“Your heart is fond of me?” Paige asks, the corners of her mouth curving up slightly and you feel a blush creeping onto your face.

“I didn’t- I don’t-“ You stutter out, unsure of how it would make Paige feel.

“No. Don’t backtrack. My heart is fond of you too. I wouldn’t spend every night speaking to you or I wouldn’t have drove three hours here if it wasn’t.”

“Really?” You ask, averting your gaze because it felt weird hearing that from someone. You weren’t a relationship girl, in fact you’d only ever been in one relationship and it was so far from perfect, you didn’t think people like Paige existed.

“Yes really, gorgeous.” Paige confirms, lifting your chin so you’re looking at her again.

“I thought maybe I was being too full on. I know people don’t like that.” You say, now looking into her eyes. Her blue, blue eyes.

“I’m not people. I’m Paige and you could never be too full on with me.”

“In that case…my heart is definitely fond of you.” You admit, now mirroring Paiges soft smile.

The air is charged as you sit looking into each others eyes, Paiges hand still firmly rested on your thigh. She glances down and your lips and you glance down at hers. Her tongue pokes out to run across them and your breathing hitches at the way they look, so plump and wet, slightly apart and you begin to lean in as she does the same.

Paiges hand leaves your thigh and finds your neck as your lips meet in a needy but gentle kiss. She pushes into it, her tongue slipping into your mouth and you moan at the sensation. You’ve thought about this moment, dreamed about it so many times but nothing could have prepared you for how it felt. Her fingers tangling into the back of your hair, her soft skin under your fingertips, her scent the only thing you can smell.

You’re both left red cheeked and slightly breathless and you can’t help but giggle at each other and as you do, the heavens open and rain begins to pour. You gasp at the feeling of water already seeping through your clothes and wetting your skin.

“Typical.” Paige laughs and she grabs your hand pulling you up from the bench and you both start running.

“Where are we going?” You ask trying your best to match Paiges strides.

The rain was heavy, already dripping down your face, blurring your vision and you kept a tight grip on Paiges hand hoping that she would lead the way.

“To find shelter…so I can kiss you again.” Paige breathes out and she looks to you, her hair so wet, it looks a few shades darker.

“We’re already drenched.” You say, her shirt is stuck to her skin, outlining her muscular physique and you can feel rain leaking into your shoes with every step you take.

Paige stops running but you can’t stop fast enough so you bump into her and she grabs your waist, balancing you, “You’re right. We are drenched so we might as well stay right here.” She says and she crashes her lips to yours again. It’s hungrier this time, her hand is firm on your waist as the rain batters down on you both, you grip onto her shirt, pulling her closer, wanting more, needing more.

You don’t care that you’re in the middle of Central Park, in the pouring rain. You care that you’re with Paige, finally and it’s better than you ever expected.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: hi i actually hate this 😖 i didn’t write for a few days while i was moving house and i feel like i’ve forgotten how to…

[friend-shaped-but]

Marathi Rukmini Jewellery Breakdown

Ok so I found this art of Krishna and Rukmini by Himanshu Bankar where rukmini is shown in marathi traditional attire and it made me SO SO HAPPY to see that because she's rarely depicted like that! And thenI saw it being shared on tumblr by a lot of ppl who didn't know that whatever clothes/jewellery rukmini is wearing is traditional marathi bridal attire.

So I thought I'd do a deep dive into this painting and talk about her clothes, hair, and jewellery! This is a long post, imma put everything under the cut! Tagging @cyndaquillt because you asking me about marathi miku made me learn a lot more about marathi jewellery, @sharngapani for showing me this image in the first place, and @chahaa-piun-ja for cheering me on!

Hair:

Her bun is a hairstyle called "Khopa" (खोपा) and the gold pin in her hair is called a Juda(जुडा). These can either be gold pins or have strings of pearls attached to them and I'm thinking that the latter is what she is wearing. Then the maang tika is pretty standard across cultures. The golden band between the maang tika and the juda is called a Bijwara(बिजवरा) and it's not used much in the modern day so I did have to do a bit of research to find out what it was.

Images, from left to right: Khopa, juda, and a minimalist maang tika/bindi.

Face

On her forehead, and hanging on either side of her face are Mundavalya(मुंडावळ्या), a forehead ornament worn by Maharashtrian brides & grooms. It is made from pearl & has two pearls strings which stand for the togetherness of bride & groom. Chandrakor is actually my ABSOLUTE fave part about maharashtrian culture it's the crescent moon on her forehead. Then on her nose is a pearl Nath(नथ). She's also wearing Kanpatti(कानपट्टी) aka ear strips on her ears and they're attached to her normal earrings. Fun fact btw the kanpatti in her ears looks a lot like the one my mom has.

Images from left to right: mundavalya+chandrakor, nath, kanpatti(without earrings)

Neck:

Generally what I've seen people wear at their fanciest is three-four necklaces, one right at the throat, one slightly lower, and a couple hanging almost down to mid-chest or upper stomach. Rukmini in that drawing is following that pattern. The choker-style necklace she's wearing in the picture isn't super clear but I think it's a thushi(ठुशी). It is a choker necklace crafted out of gold beads in varying sizes and is adjustable thanks to a soft thread that can be adjusted according to the wearer’s convenience. The next one seems to be a plain golden chain but the fact that she's wearing a mangalsutra at the time Krishna is taking her away is icing on top!

Thushi, mangalsutra and mohanmal in the picture below!

Arms:

There is a shela around her shoulders. These are generally made of silk and worn by brides.

Rukmini is wearing a vaki(वाकी) or bajuband(बाजूबंद).

Maharashtrian women generally wear green glass bangles(I've heard north indians wear red ones someone pls confirm this), and for weddings and festivities they're layered with gold bangles. Today, for everday wear, some people wear only one golden bangle on each arm(like my mom) or they might wear glass bangles(my grandma does this), and only do the gold-glass layering during special occassions.

The names of these bangles differ according to the way they're made and where they're placed on the layering. The thickest gold bangles nearest to the hand are called Tode(तोडे) and they're pair of heavy gold bangles that feature intricate designs that go all around the bangle. Since they keep the layering in place, they're generally smaller than the actual wrist and include a screw and hinge to fasten them. The gold bangles in the middle and back are called Patlya(पाटल्या), are a type of traditional gold bangles and are often decorated with intricate designs on the outside.

She also has a kamarbandh on her waist but ig that's also pretty standard so I didn't include separate pictures

[sare11aa11eras]

Daenerys Missandei Irri and Jhiqui!

[Image Description: A full-length drawing of four people, Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei of Naath, and Dany’s two Dothraki handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. They are standing progressively farther back from the viewer. Daenerys stands in profile, walking forward, talking to someone. Missandei and Jhiqui have their bodies facing the viewer, Irri is angled slightly to the right side of the drawing. Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui look at Daenerys. They are standing on a red carpet against a blank background.

Daenerys wears a purple tokar with a gold fringe. She wears her dragon crown, a gold bangle, rings of various materials, a gold vambrace with purple stones, gold earrings with purple stones, and an elaborate necklace with purple stones. From the necklace and the crown dangle long strings of red and black beads. She wears an anklet and leather sandals. A few golden bells can be seen in her hair.

Missandei wears a knee-length light orchid-color dress. It hangs loosely around her. Her dress is trimmed at the hem with purple and blue beads of different lengths. She wears sandals similar to Dany’s. She wears a large V-shaped piece of jewelry similar to a collar around her neck and over her collarbones. It is gold, mostly decorated with purple stones, and a blue butterfly design. Missandei wears earrings with blue butterflies and purple, pink, and yellow stones. She wears a bracelet of alternating pink and yellow stones. Her hair is in braids to pull it away from her face, but is otherwise in an Afro-type style. She holds a tablet and writing utensil in front of her chest. She has an interested expression as she looks up from her writing towards Dany.

Irri wears Dothraki clothes. She wears long trousers, which are blue fabric with a fringed panel of leather along the inside of her leg and groin. She wears leather boots with green, white, and purple painted swirls on them. She wears a dark leather belt around her middle and a belt of gold discs over it. The central gold disc has a green stone. More blue fabric wraps around her chest, either pleated or wrappings. Over this is a painted vest, primarily decorated with blue, green, and white. On her upper arm is an armband with an illustration of a horse galloping in grass. She has leather wrappings on her wrist and opposite upper arm. She wears one visible ring. She wears a leather necklace with a triangular gold pendant and gold triangular earrings. Her hair is in at least three braids, tied off with gold beads. She has bangs. She wears a woven headband of green and blue, with jade stones. Her face is neutral.

Jhiqui also wears Dothraki clothes, although hers do not look practical for riding. Her clothes are primarily fabric of a deep raspberry color. Along the outer side of her trousers is a stripe of leather, fringed at the end, painted with pink and pale purple flowers. On her chest she wears a beaded brooch shaped like a flower, with pink petals and a green “stem”. She wears slippers, in the same material as the rest of her outfit, with a decoration of pink flowers on yellow around the heel. Her vest is laced closed over a green and gold under layer. Her vest is trimmed at the hem with gold discs. Around her middle is a dark leather belt, with a thin belt of gold discs over it. She wears a leather necklace similar to Irri’s, with a circular gold pendant with a garnet stone. Her earrings match this pendant. She wears two rings. Her arm band is gold and garnet. Her hair is worn similarly to Irri’s. She has a bracelet with chips of green jade set in silver on a leather cuff. She has a nose piercing with a gold chain that leads to her earring. She appears to be wearing rouge. She looks mildly interested in whatever is happening. End ID./]

[lessi-lover]

sickness strikes onces more II c.foord x k.mccabe

summary: you wake up sick this morning but you get taken care of ★ sickness strikes once more II k.mccabe x c.foord

you hadn't woken up feeling well this morning. it was something you couldn't quite figure out, but you could feel your face burning and your body ache from head to toe as you sat up in bed.

you tried to convince yourself that you were fine, mam says to mummy all the time that she is not feeling good and that her legs are sore, so why would are you any different? in fact you're exactly like your mam so why should you get an off day? mam never has an off day.

the night before you had felt your tummy begin to become a little sore, but you shrugged it off as something you maybe didn't like that you ate, although when you felt the ache spread to your head you decided that you might have been a little dehydrated.

your mothers probably should have seen the tell tale signs that you were coming up with a little bug the previous night, but the two of them were so engrossed in preparing for the upcoming match that they had missed the way you pushed your dinner plate away in pain, or the absence of you trying to convince them to let you go to bed later.

you groaned when you heard the birds outside chirp obnoxiously, it was unlike any other day because usually you would jump out of bed to watch them out the window, but you couldn't bring yourself to even cover your ears this morning.

"cheeky? are you feeling alright?" your mummy asked you, eyeing you suspiciously as you hadn't even noticed her enter your bedroom, only looking up when you felt her hand rest against your quickly fevering forehead.

"hot." you mumbled and caitlin would have missed it if she wasn't looking at you so worriedly. "oh cheeky." she frowned, brushing the loose strands of sweaty hair out of your face. you see the troubled look replace your mam's bright smile when she approaches you.

"what's wrong baby girl? you feeling okay?" her finger swiping away a few tears that you hadn't even noticed slide down your usually happy face. your head was pounding, your face felt hot and sticky, and you could feel the sweat connecting uncomfortably from your pyjamas to your skin.

"cheeky your foreheads burning up." katie says as she peels off your winter socks and pulls up your pyjama pants. your boiling up so fast that somehow your top has ridden up, your stomach heating up and turning a warm peach colour.

caitlin and katie share a look over your quickly heating up body. you had only been to preschool three days this week, but it's winter now and they pawn it off as a bug you had caught from another kid in your class that probably went in with small symptoms their parents hadn't worried too much about.

you're pretty out of it, and you’re not entirely sure what’s happening around you. the room feels like it’s spinning slightly, and the presence of your mother's hands swiping the small layer of sweat off your forehead is the only thing grounding you.

the cool air against your feverish skin only providing a brief moment of relief from the hot flush running up your spine.

by now you've settled down from the hyper aware child you were when your mumma came in to get you for preschool and you're content enough to let katie feed you the medicine she had run downstairs to retrieve.

"here, this should be a bit cooler cait."

she says, offering a small smile that doesn't quite reach her worried eyes. she hands the top to caitlin who nods as she helps you sit up and carefully peels off your top, replacing it with a lighter singlet she had gotten from the cupboard. it feels like her nature to take care of all your needs when she knows you aren't feeling well, but she can't help but worry because you rarely ever get ill.

your mam is already back in her bathroom, getting more medicine that she would be strictly giving to you at every hour, waiting for a small sneeze from your little body to drop everything and nurse you back to health.

"how about some water, sweetheart?" your mumma asks, already reaching for the glass on your bedside table. you nod weakly, and she helps you take a few small sips, the cool liquid soothing your dry hoarse throat.

katie sits down on the bed beside you, her hand resting on your arm, gently rubbing small circles into the flushed skin. "we should have noticed sooner," she murmurs, more to herself than to anyone else because your still distracted by the tickle in your throat. "i'm sorry, baby girl."

you lean into her hand, seeking comfort of having your skin on hers. "it's okay, mam," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "i should have told you sooner i wasn't feeling good."

as you settle back against your pillows, your mothers fussing around you, you can feel the ache in your body starting to subside just a bit. the care they're showering you with makes you feel a little better, even though you’re still feeling quite miserable.

you manage a small smile, feeling grateful for how your mothers have taken care of you, even when they have training which they haven't yet called in to miss yet. "thank you," you whisper, your voice a little stronger now.

caitlin leans down and kisses your forehead, her smile warm and relieved. "anything for you, cheeky. always.

[blair3writ3s]

And I Can’t Help Myself | Kyle Scheible

Kyle Scheible x F!reader, smut

You and Kyle end up stuck in the same hotel room after a concert, and he tries his best to stay as far away from you as possible. Spoiler, he ends up knuckles deep inside you.

Warnings: confused to lovers. The CLASSIC one bed trope. Cussing, inexperienced reader. Reader calls people “babe” platonically. Kyle speaks French because Timothée does and it’s the hottest thing ever so!! The French is in italics :}

OOC but I don’t care

MDNI

Your extremely rusty, ancient car rumbled down the highway. The steering wheel trembled slightly beneath your hands. Honda Civics, seating exactly five, had almost enough room to fit the band. Almost. You had to make Kyle sit in the trunk.

Luckily, your car was a hatchback, and police officers didn’t have much interest in pulling over a rag-tag car full of high schoolers; blasting Seven Nation Army.

Olive, sitting next to you, shouted the lyrics of the song. Her blonde hair was all mused up from the wind, but it still looked marvelous.

Tony, Miles, and Jake, in the backseat, sang along. Their yelling was completed with air guitar motions and air drumming. With the windows rolled down, it was a madhouse.

Between the loudness of your band; and hair flying everywhere, it was almost enough to take your mind off the show tonight.

Almost.

The car rumbled along, nearing the shabby hotel Olive had booked for us. It was the closest hotel to our venue, and the cheapest too.

Turning down the radio and rolling up the windows, you shouted, your voice laced with excitement, “Guys! We’re almost here. Get your stuff together.”

Olive grinned, exclaiming, “Between your horrible driving and Ky in the back,” Kyle held up his middle finger from the trunk, face blank.

“I thought for sure at least one of us wouldn’t make it.” She laughed, her laughter a bird-like chirping. You swatted at her leather-clad arm playfully, scoffing at her antics.

Glancing in your mirrors, pulling into the parking spot, you locked eyes with Kyle. He had his book in one hand, bass on his lap. Nausea was plastered on his face, likely from the boat-like qualities of the car.

You snickered under your breath.

-

Kyle, face pale and hands sweaty, slammed the trunk shut with a finality that mirrored the nausea etched on his face. Eyeliner was smudged around his eyes, and his eyebrows furrowed into a frown, a sight that would have sent shivers down the spine of any other girl back at home.

Unfortunately, you weren’t too different from them.

“Remind me,” Kyle grumbled, “To never let you drive anywhere ever again.” He said to you, a sarcastic lilt in his voice.

You turned around to face him, slamming your door shut. “Remind me,” I mocked, “Which one of us has an actual drivers license?” You walked over to him, picking your guitar up off the ground, along with your backpack full of essentials.

He cocked an eyebrow at you, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

You turned towards the back windshield of the car, hip bumping the side of his upper thigh. Combing your hands through your layered hair, and adjusting your tank top, you made eye contact with him in the mirror.

“At least I can drive, babe.” You commented, ignoring the prickle of fondness that ran down your spine.

“Sure, chérie,” Kyle said, lowering his voice to match the slight grin playing on his lips.

He promptly turned away, ruffling your hair before he walked towards the hotel, following your band mates inside. Your eyes, despite your best judgement, followed his figure. He was stupidly hot, a kind of hotness that a guy like him shouldn’t get to have.

Not that you would ever, not in a million years, tell him that.

-

“ONE ROOM?? I BOOKED THREE!” Olive screeched, an angry redness was creeping up her neck. She glared at the receptionist, “How do you expect 6 people to cram into one room!?”

The receptionist looked blankly at her, glancing at the lot of us. “I don’t know. But I can assure you that your file only has one room under it.” She clicked her tongue “you’ll have to make do.”

Olive clenched her jaw, eye twitching. “LISTEN HERE YOU-“ She raised her voice further, leaning inwards towards the older woman.

“Oli, babe,” You interjected swiftly, grabbing her arm. “Why don’t you go.. take a walk?” Olive’s jaw clenched, shoulders tense as she stomped out of the hotel. She slammed the glass door shut so hard you thought it would shatter. Luckily, it did not.

Pushing through your band mates to the front desk, you smiled in a friendly manner to the clerk. She did not not return your smile.

“Is there any way to book an additional 2 rooms now? We can pay.” You said, putting on your costumer service voice, that you use at your management job.

“Nope.” She said, voice as monotone as ever. “I’m afraid we only have one other free room, and it only has one double bed.” She flicked her eyes back across the group of us, “As opposed to the two separate beds your other room has.” She finished, glancing down to the computer, clicking away.

“We’ll take it! Anything’s better than one room.” Miles quickly interjected, glancing at you pleadingly.

“It’ll cost $100 for one nights stay, and because you’re just getting it now…$50 extra.” The clerk stated, glancing back up at you.

You turned towards Jake, the manager of the band. He swept his dark hair to the side, swiftly giving you the cash for the room.

You passed the money to the woman, and quickly guided the band up to the rooms.

-

“Ok, boys…and Olive,” You said, putting your hands on your maxi-skirt-clad hips. “Oli and I are going to take the room with the single bed, and you guys are going to have to figure out the other room.” You tossed Tony the keys, turning towards the room directly across the hall.

“Really?” Kyle challenged, grabbing your arm before you entered your room. “What are we, children? Why do all four of us have to get packed into that room,” he said, gesturing the boys standing around him, as well as the door to their room “while you and Olive get plenty of space?” He stated, walking towards the other end of the hallway, and towards the other room.

“I vote we split three for three. It’s much more fair.” Kyle declared, crossing his arms. “What do you think, little Miss Guitarist? ” he really knew how to push your buttons, even when you were both feuding over something as fickle as rooming arrangements.

“I dunno, Mister Bassist, maybe I don’t want to share a room with your annoying ass!” You whisper-shouted, pulling Oli inside of the room and slamming the door behind you.

Kyle, from outside your door, yelled “Va te faire foutre, putain de con!”, banged on your door once, then gave up, going into his designated room.

-

“And I thought I had a flare for the dramatic,” Olive teased, setting her outfit for the night out on the bed. “You and Kyle are on a completely different planet. Especially with him yelling his French” She chirped, laughing at the situation.

“I can’t believe I actually won that fight,” You said lightheartedly. “I thought for sure he was going to kick down the door.” I rolled my eyes, turning towards her.

“I know, right? I mean, he still hasn’t given up with the whole dating thing..” Olive said, nudging you playfully.

“Yeah, yeah.” You sighed, setting your bag on the bed. “He’s a player. I’d rather die than give in to that nightmare” You joked, turning back towards her.

Olive sighed, grabbing your hand softly. “I really don’t think he wants to hurt you-“

You swiftly interrupted her “-I’m going to take a quick shower before I start getting ready, ok, babe? I want to look perfect for tonight.”

“Sure,” she sighed, flashing you the classic; ‘I-don’t-agree-but-I’ll-go-along-with-it’, best friend look.

-

Your clothes clung to you uncomfortably, the grime of the day begging to be washed away. Quickly stripping, you set out a towel for yourself and a hair mask. You took your time in the shower, scrubbing, exfoliating, shaving, moisturizing. You were determined to be ready for tonight, who knew how it would go.

The time flew so quick, it surprised you to hear a rhythmic knock on the door, disrupting your trance.

“What’s up?” You called, scrubbing the last of the hair mask out of your hair.

“I’m going to head over to the other room to practice with the boys,” Olive called through the door. “I want to go over vocals one more time with Miles. And I think Tony wants to assemble some of his drum equipment,”

“Ok! I’ll see you in 30.” You called back, excitement flowing through your veins for the approaching show.

You finished the shower, drying off and blow drying your hair. Tonight, you decided, you were going to go all out. Full glam, you suppose.

The room door clicked open, implying Olive’s departure. You heard some mumbling, but it wasn’t outside the ordinary to hear Olive talking to herself. The door promptly clicked shut.

Thinking nothing of it, you finished your makeup and hair, leaving the bathroom in only your bra and underwear from the day to find your outfit for the night.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and you whirled around, startled to find Kyle; sitting on your bed. A small laugh escaped your lips as you saw his flustered expression. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and his hazel eyes stared into yours blankly.

He mumbled “Putain de chaud”, eyes darting away from yours. The bass that he had previously been strumming was left limp in his lap.

“What gibberish are you grumbling now?” You complained, Turing your back on him. Quickly slipping on a stray sweatshirt Olive had left out, you covered your torso and upper thighs from view. “What are you doing in here anyway?” You inquired crudely, digging through your bag for your clothes.

“Merde, I was just looking for my bass, and found it in here near your guitar.” He said, glancing away from your perturbed expression. “And it was really loud in the other room so I wanted to stay in here, ma femme parfaite.” He trailed off, not making eye contact while saying the last part.

“You can’t just switch into French and assume I understand,” You ridiculed him, pulling your tights on. “For all I know, you just called me a “cunt-bitch -whore” I teased, a playful smile pulling at my lips.

“The world may never know,” he said, lying back on the bed, slight smirk playing on his lips. His hair fell across his forehead, eyes closing, strumming his bass absentmindedly. And for a second, you wanted to kiss him.

-

The band unloaded out your car, hauling the musical equipment towards the entrance of the venue. Pushing through the door, you followed closely behind Olive, trying not to bump your band mates with the case of your guitar. The venue was still completely empty, to your relief. It was big, clearly a party scene. There was a slight haze in the air, from what, you don’t know.

Jake, being the manager, walked across the venue, beginning to set up the -sparse- merch he had designed for the band. It was a typical black band tee, but with the name of your band, “L'Enfance Nue”, sprawled across the upper half.

The rest of us decidedly walked over towards the stage, hauling the equipment behind you.

You hopped up onto the stage, placing your guitar and amp cord close to the center, but a little to stage left. Olive was already in the center with Miles, attempting to plug in their microphones to the questionable-looking amp.

Kyle stood to your stage left, also puzzling over the amp and his bass.

“Fuck this. My plug doesn’t fit,” He grumbled, standing up from his crouched position. Turning towards you, he demanded “Did you switch our cords, belle?”

You rolled your eyes at his antics, flipping your hair over your shoulder. Approaching the amp, you grabbed Kyle’s bass right out of his hands. You briefly glanced over it, noticing the black sheen and the shallow scratches throughout the face of the instrument.

You glanced up at him briefly; making, then quickly breaking, eye contact. His brunette hair had fallen into his eyes, mouth slightly agape, creating an aloof look.

You knew better.

“Oh,” you laughed, pulling the plug out of the socket on his bass. “You had the cord twisted. This side,” you clicked it into the amp, “goes here, and this” you finished the circuit, fully plugging in the instrument, “goes into here! Dumbass.” You laughed, strumming a B7 chord on the bass.

“Give that back, belle!” He demanded, grabbing your hand, which was now attempting a bass line that he plays during one of the songs.

“You can’t even play..” he trailed off, staring at your ring-clad hand. His hazel eyes drifted back up to yours, stopping briefly on your parted lips. An annoying smirk tugged on the corners of him mouth.

The position you two were in hit you like a bus. Your bodies were nearly touching, with his hand grasping yours, and his bass hanging from a strap around your shoulders. To an outsider looking in, you were about to kiss.

Yeah right.

You punched his shoulder with your opposite hand, backing away from him. Kyle scoffed, putting his hands up in surrender. Passing him his bass, you padded over to your own cord and instrument, plugging it in and tuning.

Your fingers played with the knobs on the guitar, adjusting it to perfection. You could feel Kyle’s insidious gaze on your profile, but you decidedly avoided eye contact. An embarrassed redness creeped up your neck, the tension of the room was becoming unbearable.

The lights in the venue began to dim, and the stage lights lit up. The ambiance of the room shifted, stirring your nerves. This was really happening, your first show.

-

The night went by in a haze, but the only thing you could really focus on was Kyle. He was in “the zone”, so to speak.

His hair was in his eyes, mouth hanging slightly open. A light sheen coated his forehead, dark eyeliner smudged around his eyes. He was strumming his bass with quick, ring-clad fingers, body swaying slightly to the beat.

And, despite his fuck-boyness, he looked angelic.

Kyle, finishing his bass line, glanced up at you, smirking. You smiled back, completing your solo at the end of the song.

The crowd cheered, a sound that was simply music to your ears. They loved you, loved the band. You basked in the glow of their cheers, hugging Olive from the side.

Kyle sneaked up behind the both of you, slinging his arm around your shoulder. He was smiling the brightest you’ve ever seen him smile, laughter was pouring from his lips like song.

Olive glanced at you mischievously, a small smirk pulling at her cherry lips.

“Y’all wanna hear some punk-ass French?!” She yelled into the microphone, laughing as the crowd erupted in cheers.

You both pushed Kyle forward, giggling as his face turned a bright crimson.

“Um, hey guys,” He said into the mic. There was a few whoops from the crowd, egging him on. “Nous sommes “L’Enfance nue”!” He said, laughing under his breath. “Nous sommes plutôt cool, alors... ouais. Passe une bonne nuit!” The crowd erupted into cheers and clapping.

You never wanted the night to end.

-

But, like all things, it did.

And now you wanted nothing more than to shower and relax, in your bed, alone.

Alas, Olive decided tonight, of all nights, was the night to make a move on Miles. And so, Olive sat on his lap in the backseat of your car, loudly making out with him.

And when you arrived at the hotel, they had wordlessly claimed the room with the two beds, locking the door swiftly behind them.

-

“Guys!! Really? Come ON!” You yelled, banging on the door. Turning to the group, you sighed, crossing your arms. “What are we going to do?” You groaned, leaning against the wall.

“Well.. I guess I can find another hotel..” Jake said, scratching the back of his head bashfully.

“I’ll go with him!” Tony quickly agreed, following Jake out of the hotel. You turned to Kyle, sighing reluctantly.

-

“Alright" you declared, marching towards the door. "Let's get this over with." Kyle followed, his movements mirroring yours. The small walk down the cramped hallway was filled with a tension.

Neither of you dared to speak. Reaching the door, you fumbled for the key, your irritation evident in your clumsiness. Finally, with a click, the door swung open, revealing a room that was thoroughly unappealing.

The bed loomed before you, a battleground for an uncomfortable night's sleep. With a sigh, you began building a formidable fortress of pillows in the center of the bed. Kyle rolled his eyes at the sight, scoffing at you.

“We’re not children, belle,” Kyle stated, starting to dismantle your fortress.

“‘You could’ve fooled me, Ky,” you said, giving up on the pillows. Grabbing your bag, you walked swiftly into the bathroom, hoping to change into something more comfortable.

There was a certain absurdity to the situation, being forced to share a room with someone who you refused to love.

And unfortunately, your resolve you crumbling.

-

You sat at the small vanity, brushing your hair out. You saw Kyle approaching you out in the reflection, but you refused to make direct eye contact.

You knew what was about to happen.

He touched your shoulder lightly, rubbing circles on the exposed skin.

-

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, his voice still soft. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.” Your voice is soft, too, but it is also nervous, almost fearful.

He knelt down. “Belle, look at me.”

You bit your lip. You didn’t want to look at him. In fact, you were quite sure everyone would be infinitely better off if you never laid eyes on him again, bandmate or no.

You did, though, turning around on the chair hesitantly. He took your hands in his, smiling at you in such a way that your heart fluttered.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” He whispered, clutching your hands. “Your heart is safe with me,” he finished, blushing lightly.

“But I know you,” you told him softly with a slight shake of your head, “And I can’t do this.”

He tensed, his hands tightening around yours. “Why not?”

You shook your head again.

You couldn’t tell him why you refused to allow him to have you, despite him trying so many times in the past. You knew how he felt about you.

But you know how he is, what he does.

“I love you, belle,” he whispered fiercely. “I’ve loved you for months. I want you. I need you.”

“You don’t,” you insisted, yanking your hands away and standing up, backing away from him.

He stepped forward. You turned around, adjusting a table decoration to distract yourself from him.

Then, footsteps.

Hands on your hips.

Being pulled gently backwards.

The firm lines of a male body pressed against you.

The heat emanating from him, seeping through your clothes and into your skin.

“I do,” he said quietly, pulling your hair to one side and leaning down to press kisses into the skin of your neck.

You tried desperately not to whimper.

Logical or not, you wanted him to touch you, and had for a long time.

Kyle’s grip on your hips tightened. “I want you,” he said again. “I need to be yours” Another kiss to your neck. “Please, belle. Please don’t turn ms down. I’ll be good to you, I promise,” he swore. “The best you’ve ever had.” Another kiss, this one open-mouthed.

“I want to fill you,” he murmured. “With me at first, again and again until you’re screaming for it, screaming for me .” He slid his hands up and down your sides, lingering on your hips. “Then I want to fill you with my children.” Another kiss. “And then me again. I’ve been with a lot of women, and I know… I know I’ll never tire of you, never get enough of you.”

You knew he’d been with a great many women, but hearing him say it was like an ice shard in your chest anyway.

“How many?” You whispered, your voice sharp.

“You mean, uh…” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“How many women?”

He didn’t speak for several seconds.

“About seven.”

Another ice shard.

“I see.”

“Does it bother you?” he questioned.

You didn’t say anything at first, but then, “You know it does,”

“But I love you,” Kyle pointed out, winding his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. “I have for so long” You almost scoffed. Then, after a moment, he murmured, “Are you jealous?” 

“Of course not,” you said primly.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shorts.

“I like that you’re jealous,” he told you, nuzzling your neck.

“I’m not,” you snapped.

Kyle chuckled softly, then sighed and said, “I won’t force you.” He stepped away from you. “But I… I need you to know,” he went on, “that I care for you a great deal. I’ll make it special for you. I’ll make it good for you,” he promised. “I can make you beg for me. I can make you burn for me as I burn for you.”

You turned towards him, bracing your hands against the table behind you for fear you’d fall over, shock evident on your face.

“You…” you paused, “you burn for me?”

He stepped towards you again until he was right in front of you, then cupped your cheeks in his hands. “Haven’t you seen the way I look at you?”

You shook your head, eyes wide.

“Let me be yours, belle,” he murmured, gazing longingly at your reddened lips. “Let me make you feel good.” He was leaning towards you slowly, gauging your reaction. “Please. I need you,” he said again, desperate for you. “Say you’ll have me,” he pleaded. “Say you'll let me take you, make you mine.”

“Aren’t I already yours?” You wondered aloud. Realizing your words, you slapped a hand over your mouth, face turning red.

Kyle smirked at you, chucking softly. “If you are mine I am certainly yours,” he responded.

You’d never thought you’d want to belong to someone, but you wanted to belong to him. Your heart and soul have belonged to him for a long time, though you’d never tell him that. What difference did it make if your body belonged to him, too?

You shouldn’t. You should refuse him. He would break your heart, and there’d be nothing you could do to escape him. You couldn’t very well kick him out of the band, could you?

You shouldn’t let him touch you, but with him looking at you that way, you weren’t sure you could refuse. Your resolve crumbled.

He’s already going to break my heart, you realized.

Unintentional it may be, but he will destroy you nonetheless, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. If you let him do as he wishes, at least you’ll have him in this small way. At least you’ll be able to pretend, for a moment, that he’s truly in love with you, too.

You couldn’t refuse him. You wanted this with him too much.

You clenched your eyes shut and nodded slightly. 

Within seconds, Kyle’s hand was in your hair and his lips were moving against yours with barely restrained passion. He wound his free arm around your waist, tilting his head slightly. 

His lips never leaving yours, moving against you with a gentle pressure, he began to untie drawstring that was keeping your shorts on your waist.

Having been the only person to ever see your body since you’d passed that age of 10, you nearly pushed him away from you, nearly swatted his hands away.

He was still kissing you when he slid your tank-top off of your torso. “Tilt your head,” he said quietly, looking into your eyes. You did so. “Move your lips like I do, okay?” You nodded your understanding, and he smiled. “Good. When my tongue touches yours, just do what I do, belle.”

“What does that mean?” You asked, your voice quiet and rushed as he moved in to kiss you again. “You’ve been calling me that all night”

“Belle?” he questioned. You nodded, and he smiled again. “It means ‘beautiful’.”

You blushed. “Oh.”

And then he kissed you again. Hard. You wanted more, wanted his lips to keep moving against yours, and when you tentatively mirrored his actions, he moaned against you, gripping your hip with one hand and placing the other at the small of your back. When he felt the fabric of your bra, however, he froze.

And you remembered that he hadn’t actually taken the time to look at you in your underwear alone. He pulled back slowly, his eyes sliding down your body.

It was a fairly typical set, black lace and pink stitching that led to a bow in the center. It pushed your breasts together slightly, and hugged your curves closely.

It left nothing to the imagination.

The shapes and lines of your body were visible. The color of your nipples, the slightly curved expanse of your stomach, the slender dip of your waist and the swell of your hips.

Kyle could see every part of you, and he stared at you for nearly a minute, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open just a fraction, before the two of them appeared to snap out of the trance they’d been in; him after seeing your body, and you at the horror of him seeing your body.

You crossed one leg in front of the other and covered your breasts with your arms.

Kyle, on the other hand, was in the process of pulling his shirt off as quickly as physically possible.

“No,” he practically growled as he yanked his shirt over his head and promptly began to unbuckle his belt, shucking off his shoes and socks at the same time. “Don’t hide yourself from me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, as he stripped down to his undergarments (a cotton pair of short pants with a drawstring, which he quickly undid) before sliding those over his hipbones, too, with absolutely zero hesitation.

You didn’t even get a look at his dick, he was on you so fast.

He kissed you roughly, with a groan of, “Belle,” against your lips as he slid the straps of your bra down your shoulders. It caught on the tops of your breasts, and you kissed him back hesitantly. “Take this off, amour.”

He kissed your neck wetly and began to suck on the skin there, and you were lost. Slipping your arms out of the confines of the bra, pulling it off your frame. You allowed him to slide your underwear down your legs, too, so that it pooled at your feet.

And then you were naked before him. Well and truly naked. He stopped kissing you, pulling away from you, panting. “Let me look at you.” When you lifted your arms up to block your breasts from view again, he grabbed your wrists. “No,” he said softly. “No. Tu m'appartiens maintenant.”

You found you quite liked the way French rolled off his tongue. Particularly the way he his mouth moved with every foreign syllable.

“What does that mean?” You asked, forcing your embarrassment at being so exposed from your mind.

He grinned. “It means you belong to me now.”

Yes, something deep inside of you whispered. I am yours.

And then you glanced down at his body for the first time, and…

No. No, this wasn’t going to work. It was not what you’d been expecting at all.

You have masterbated before, and it was indeed pleasurable. But that was two of your fingers, maybe three. Naturally, you’d assumed that a man would be about the same size (and therefore endurable) as your fingers.

Kyle was… Well. He most certainly wasn’t the same size as your fingers. In fact, he was about as thick as your wrist, or very nearly so, and seemed to be close to 7 inches.

Fuck.

This wouldn’t work. No, it certainly would not.

You looked back up at him, scoffing. He was taking a step towards you. You took one back. He raised an eyebrow at you, and you shook your head in response, earning a frown from your newfound partner.

“Nope,” you squeaked, taking another step back.

“Nope? Why ‘nope’?”

“If,” you began, “if that is what you plan on putting inside me, then I’m sorry to tell you, Kyle, but but there’s no fucking way”

He blinked at you in confusion. “Amour.” He said the pet name slowly, drawing out the syllables. “I promise you, it’s not impossible.”

“We can try, I guess,” you conceded, still inwardly skeptical.

Pushing past your worries, you tilted your head to the side, beckoning him back towards you. And when he pressed his body to yours, you felt it against your stomach.

Good god, but it felt even larger than it looked.

“I’ll prepare you,” Kyle promised, one of his hands resting on your hip. “You were made to take me.” He pressed a kiss just below your ear. “I know you were.” And then, he was murmuring French again. “Je vais te faire mendier pour ma bite.”

“What does that mean?” You gasped out as he trailed kisses up your neck and peppered your jaw with them.

He smirked against your skin. 

“It means I’ll make you beg for my dick.”

You whimpered. “Let me make you scream for me,” he said huskily before kissing you again, even more fiercely than he had before.

“Ky,” you gasped out as he laved at your neck. “Kyle, please—“

“I will,” he promised, cupping your cheek and kissing you hungrily. “Spread your legs for me, mon amour.”

You pushed down your nervousness by force and did so, too absorbed in him to ask the meaning of what he’d said. Once your legs were spread, he slipped his hand between them and began to stroke you.

He groaned when his fingertips first brushed against you. “You’re so wet,” he said hoarsely. “God, you must want me as much as I want you.” You didn’t speak, because he was kissing you again. And then he brushed his fingers against your clit, and you knew it was over for you. Your resolve snapped.

He rubbed you with one hand and grasped your breast with the other, stroking your nipple.

A whimper forced its way out of your throat, and he chuckled against your lips. “Does it feel good?” He was still stroking you between your legs, sending sparks of pure electricity shooting through your veins, and the fingers caressing your breast had started to pinch your nipple lightly. “Tell me if it feels good,” he encouraged.

“It— it does,” You gasped out as he trailed kisses along your jaw.

“Je vais te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus bouger, jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus respirer, jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses penser à rien d'autre qu'à moi,” he murmured in your ear.

“Kyle,” you whimpered, “if you— if you’re going to speak French, you have to translate it.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He rubbed you a little bit faster, pinched your nipple a little bit harder. “I said I’m going to fuck you until you can’t move,” he told you lowly, “until you can’t breathe, until you can’t think of anything but me.”

He slid a finger inside of you, and it was insanely better than when you’d tried it on yourself. It was… it was divine. He pulled the finger out again, pumping it a few times and rubbing that spot with his thumb all the while.

A wet squelching sound filled the room that you were embarrassed by, but Kyle seemed to revel in it. “So wet for me,” he groaned, leaning his forehead against your shoulder and sliding another finger inside you.

You clutched at his shoulders, and your hips started to move against his hand. As soon as you became physically responsive, he lifted his head and kissed you desperately, his hand leaving your breast to cup your cheek as you practically rode his fingers.

You panted and whimpered, and when he saw you biting your lip in effort to keep quiet, he pulled your lip out from between your teeth with his thumb, stroking it.

“I want every part of you,” he whispered on an exhale. “I want to hear every sound you make. Don’t you dare hide them.”

Shutting your eyes tightly and letting your head fall back against the wall with a soft thunk, you stopped trying to suppress your whimpers and cries of his name.

“Kyle, Kyle, ah, ah, Kyle—“

“I know, gentille fille,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“Oh, God, Kyle—“ you cried out.

“Trust me, beautiful. Let go.”

You were certain you were going to die. It felt as if he continued, you would die. It felt good, it felt incredible. You didn’t know how he was simply so good, but you were so grateful for it.

“Let go,” he said again, and you fisted a hand in his unruly hair, kissing him with a desperation you hadn’t known you’d had in you. His tongue brushed against yours, and you moaned into his mouth, yearning for him.

You were going to explode after all. This orgasm, it was building inside of you, and with it, your love for him was, too, and he kept thrusting his fingers into you, kept stroking you with his thumb, and you kissed him again, for fear you couldn’t contain the words within you, but then your head leaned back of its own accord.

“Kyle Kyle Kyle please, please don’t stop—“ you moaned loudly, chanting his name like a prayer.

“I won’t,” he promised darkly. “Cum for me, amour.” You cried out again, and he leaned down and bit your neck. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Cum for me.”

“Ah ah ah, oh fuck, Kyle—“ You were sobbing now, and Kyle leaned down to suckle at your nipples, biting them gently. You practically screamed, and then you burst into starlight, and as you did, something emerged from you that you couldn’t have contained no matter how hard you tried.

“Ky,” you were sobbing.

“I know,” he murmured against your breast.

“Kyle, I love you, please, I— I love you, I love you I love you I love you, Fuck, Kyle, ah!” He froze when he heard you say it, but you were already clenching around his fingers, your body convulsing.

He pulled back from you and removed his fingers from within you, still in shock.

“Really?” He finally murmured, tilting your chin up softly. His hazel eyes gazing back into yours.

“Yeah,” you said softly, caressing his cheek. “Yeah.” You repeated louder, a smile tugging at your lips.

-

And they lived happily ever after blah blah blah

-

[chlorinecake]

🎙️ star-crossed lovers 【 薄幸な恋人 】 ⛦

summ✩ry While collabing with your girl group and Enhypen for a special stage, forbidden feelings spark between you and the main dancer upon dorming together

p✩iring idol!niki x popstar!reader ✩ requested ✩

-> PART 2 HERE

genre band au, fluff, secret romance cw swearing, mild bullying, the word ‘sexy’ like once, kissing, girl drama, reader is younger than Niki wc 4.4k

“Ugh,” Serenity groaned as the hairstylist applied yet another thick layer of chocolate brown hair dye to her scalp.

“This gig better bring in some serious bank, because never in my life would I willingly collab with those overrated wannabes,” she exclaimed, taking a frustrated sip from her vanilla latte.

“Hey, people used to call us wannabe's, too, you know,” Haerin said quietly as she tucked her hands under the UV light.

“Yeah, you should be more mature about this, Serenity... like I always say, professionalism triumphs pride," you added, only half-engaged in the conversation as a certain online article caught your attention.

As the band leader, you were always in charge of everything, so Serenity and Haerin were used to you talking to them this way...

“I’m just glad that we're getting exposure,” Haerin smiled, thinking of the countless nights you and your group spent practicing routines and writing songs for auditions, "it's not often that artists like us get opportunity's to perform internationally."

“For real,” Serenity cheered, “Riot Grrlz for the win!”

The three of you put your hands out to make a circle, “Riot Grrlz for life,” Haerin exclaimed, forgetting that her nails hadn't fully dried yet.

"Whoops," she giggled, just as Jade, the oldest of your group, made her way from the bathroom.

“What took you so long in there?” Serenity asked cheekily, “I thought we were gonna have to call the fire department.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jade returned, taking a seat beside Haerin so she could get her nails done, too.

“You were talking to the enemy, weren’t you,” Serenity accused.

“No, Ren, I didn’t go behind your back and sell my soul to the devil for fame.”

“Not that enemy,” Serenity grinned, “I'm talking about Mr. Six Foot Moon Eyes.”

“Oooooo,” Haerin amused, pulling your attention away from your phone.

“Ugh, let it up guys. My crush on Sunghoon is long gone, especially now that we’re gonna be working together. Besides, I would never act so recklessly over romance.”

“Who said anything about reckless romance,” you teased, unintentionally giving Jade a full view of the article your were reading on your phone.

"Nobody,” she began, “but I’m surprised you even heard that over all your internet-stalking.”

You were scrolling through a K-Pop news feed when you came across a post.

It was titled: "Enhypen Rumored By Netizens To Be Collabing With THIS Rookie Western Girl Group."

"Shush," you whisper-yelled at Jade, "unless you’re trying to get our record deals pulled!"

Just last week, your management team made you and your group sign a contract of secrecy, swearing silence regarding unpublicized business projects and associations: this included your upcoming collab with Enhypen that Jade nearly just spoiled.

Although, in all honesty, the blog's use of the word "rookie" bothered you more than potentially breaking any contract rules.

"Relax, boss, it's practically a ghost town in here," Jade defended, drawing your attention to the near vacant salon space.

Ding.

It was an email from your manager.

He wanted to inform you all that your chauffeur would be ready around 2:45am to bring you guys to the airport.

"Jeez," you mumbled to yourself, "looks like I'm not getting much sleep tonight."

“Shit,” Serenity whined, “I haven’t even made enough time to brush up on my Korean yet!”

“Luckily me and Haerin here are bilingual baddies,” Jade giggled, giving the cat-eyed girl a fist punch.

“Ahh, watch my nails!!”

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

Your company's fashion crew was experimenting with different concepts, assigning each of your members an individual color to permanently represent: Serenity was teal, Jade was purple, Haerin was white, and you were pink.

Some time passed, an you and your group arrived in South Korea around 3:00pm.

Thanks to the fashion tech your management team hired, it wasn't obvious that you and the girls had been in and out of sleep for the past 13 hours.

You couldn't help but stalk the headlines about your group, as rumors about your Enhypen collab continued to spread like wildfire.

So much for swearing silence and secrecy, you thought to yourself.

South Korean pop media had already seemed to build a vendetta against your group, given that you were young, talented, and most importantly, from the states. The xenophobia of most K-netizens was disheartening at best, but you understood that hate was a part of success.

Besides, you were living the dream of many engenes at the moment — most of them would sell their siblings to be in your shoes right now.

“Ahh! This is unreal!!” Jade cheered excitedly in the back of the limousine. You guys had just left the airport around thirty minutes ago, after getting past the pesky crowd of paparazzi.

“I know right? Korean McNuggets slap way harder than back home,” Haerin added while munching on the salty snack.

“Don't get too comfy, Rinnie. We will leave you here,” Serenity joked.

You hadn't even realized the radio was playing until a certain guitar riff blared from the ceiling speakers.

"Oh hell no," Serenity immediately cringed, covering her ears as you, Jade, and Haerin exchanged knowing look, bringing imaginary microphones to your mouths in unison.

It was Enhypen's song Blessed-Cursed, Jay’s voice singing "We go!" over the radio.

"Go, go, go, go, go, go, GO!!" The three of you cheered, obnoxiously dancing to the choreo while sitting.

Memories of your group (minus Serenity) binge watching music videos at sleepovers resurfaced in your mind.

Usually, you'd only listen to throwback hits like Britney Spears or Rihanna, mostly because Rnb and Pop beats inspired your own art.

Still and all, Blessed-Cursed was one video that the three of you fell in love, way before your upcoming collab was even a thought.

"Don't get mad when I start recording you clowns," Serenity threatened, thoroughly amused by your behavior.

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

Upon arriving outside the Hybe Building, a trio of body guards guided you and your girls to an office room where the seven boys stood awkwardly around a large table.

Part of you still couldn't believe this was all actually happening, despite it being right in front of you.

“Hello! We are Enhypen,” Jungwon bowed as the guards exited the room.

Jay visibly cringed at his leaders words, “I promise we were told to introduce ourselves like that. Please don’t judge us.”

“Well, uhm… H-hi,” you stuttered, feeling a bit nervous, “We are the Riot Grrlz. It’s a pleasure being able to work with you all.”

Niki, the tallest of the boys, caught your attention immediately as he greeted you with a peace sign.

Was he always this cute?, you thought to yourself.

That’s when a lady dressed in all black barged through the glass door on the other side of the room.

“Sorry to interrupt… well, not really. Me and the Enhypen boys are already well familiar with each other, but you ladies can call me Kim,” she greeted, waltzing into the office as if owning the place.

She was a fast talker, so you knew you’d have to pay attention to what she was saying or else you might miss something.

“I hope you made use of each others time and gathered everyone’s names? Phone numbers?”

”We were just in the middle of that before you came in, Miss Kim,” Sunoo clarified.

“Very well then. You have a total of 15 minutes to lock in dorming arrangements. As you’ll see on this clipboard here…”

She paused mid-sentence, holding the clipboard dumbly.

“God, can one of you take this thing already?”

“Oh- sorry,” Heeseung chuckled nervously, taking the clipboard from the fiery woman.

“As I was saying, there are four rooms for the eleven of you to somehow divide. And no, just because you’re all hormonal young adults, none of you get a free pass to break the no-dating rule.”

“No-dating rule? What is this, a detention center,” Serenity mumbled.

Kim cleared her throat, feigning a smile as she glared at Serenity with narrowed eyes, “This is a place of utmost professionalism, Princess Land of The Free. If you have a problem adhering to the rules in place here, you are more than welcome to leave.”

“A-and after that? The fifteen minutes, I mean,” Haerin blurted out shyly.

“All of you will meet back in the main lobby, where you will be guided accordingly.”

Miss Kim turned of her black boots, beelining to the door with powerful strides, “The timer starts now” she called out, closing the door behind her.

And with that began your group discussion of rooming arrangements. Unfortunately, though, things didn’t get off to a particularly nice start.

“Are you effing kidding me?” Serenity asked rudely, screwing her eyes toward a now annoyed Heeseung, “Why can't we just get separate hotel rooms?!?”

“Look, there's no perfect way to go about this," he sighed, crossing out the roommate pairs you all had just agreed on. "So you either humble yourself, or sleep in the bathtub for the next two weeks."

“Really guys, the math is simple,” Jake started, “There’s eleven of us and only four rooms to choose from. Nine of us will be divided in groups of three, and the remaining two will share the last room together.”

"Cool! Me, ____, and Jade can share the first room together!" Haerin obliged with a smile.

"Perfect, and where will I go?" Serenity questioned, mocking Haerin's excitement.

"The bathtub, right?" Jay teased, provoking Serenity to argue with him.

Meanwhile, you attempted to make peace with everyone willing to listen, “Guys, I agree with Jake. We need to make a decision quickly before Kim gets back.”

“Right. Everyone in favor of room number 1, provide a show of hands,” Heeseung said, Jay and Jake raising their hands with him.

"And for room 2?" Jungwon initiated, raising his hand with Jade and Haerin.

A pout formed on Jade's face once she realized that Sunghoon wasn't in the same pair as her.

"3's the magic number, I guess…" Sunghoon offered, Serenity raising her hand with him.

Now it was just you, Sunoo, and Niki remaining.

"I'll group with 3, too. All of our name's start with "S," so it just makes sense that way," Sunoo joined shyly.

"Welp, now that leaves the final room for me and..."

"Me..." Niki spoke with a deep voice, flashing a mysterious half-smile-half-smirk that you knew would haunt your mind later.

"Me and me... the odd one's out! Wow, that's actually perfect!" Jake cheered just as the lady in black strut back in.

“Times up,” she said, taking the clipboard from Heeseung to analyze the finalized dorming plans.

“Hmm, interesting,” she mumbled to herself, tucking the clipboard under her arm.

You all made your way down to the main lobby, just as Kim instructed.

One of the security guards mentioned that Hybe suggested a dinner outing for your group and Enhypen as a way to end the night before you started work the next day… or maybe it was mostly a way to officially confirm the rumors about your collab.

Upon arriving, everyone sat at separate tables, divided according to who they agreed to room with.

Although Niki seemed quiet at first, you and him were giggling the babies the entire time you ate.

“Poor Jungwon. He’s gonna be sandwiched between Jade and Haerin for the next two weeks, his biggest fans,” you joked.

“Nah, Sunghoon and Sunoo have it way worse. Serenity’s attitude is enough to send me running,” Niki chuckled, shaking his head.

"Speaking of running, how come you were appointed leader over your group even though you’re a baby," Niki teased.

"Not you baby-shaming me! I was born in 06', you've barely got any experience on me."

"I've had an entire YEAR to catch up on things, for your information."

"Things like what? Potty training?"

"Pfft, probably..." he replied, going quiet for a second before continuing, "If you ever need help, though, I don’t mind practicing with you after hours.”

"Sounds like fun, but that might be past my bedtime," you pouted playfully, taking one of the fries off his plate.

"Hmm."

"Hmm what?"

"Nothing, I just didn't take you as the type to follow rules," he smirked, taking a sip from his soda.

"I guess it depends on what rules we're breaking. Whether it’s worth it or not."

"So rule breaking is a “we” thing now, huh?"

"Probably..." you smiled, the cool breeze of the foreign air sending shivers down your spine.

Or maybe that had something to do with Niki?

Before you knew it, it was time to head back to your dorms for the night. You knew rehearsals in South Korea were taken a lot more seriously than where you're from, so you needed all the rest you could get.

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

Day one was easy.

The main focus was recording voice samples in the studio, experimenting with different harmonies, and training your vocals as needed.

Now you were on day two, which started with a quick vocal session, leading into the dance rehearsal warm-up right after. After stretching, the studio was split in half, girls taking the left side and boys taking the right.

You all wore numbers on your back. This way, there wouldn’t be any confusion when any of your were being called.

Niki was assigned number eleven, and you had number one.

According to Jake, the numbers were disseminated based on skill level, and out of the 11 of you, that made Niki first place… and you the very last.

As rehearsals went on, your placement was proving to be true.

You were struggling to keep up with the choreography and it was really starting to bug you.

"Are you feeling okay," Niki asked as you sighed for what sounded like the hundredth time.

"Yea, I'm fine, it’s just this footwork is a bit tricky," you admitted.

“Aww, the smallest number for our most inexperienced contributor,” Serenity teased, making a pass at both your age and inability to get this one move right.

“I may be the youngest out of all of us, but I was appointed head over our group for a reason,” you snapped back.

“Yea… and it still shocks me to this day,” she mumbled, Jade and Haerin pausing to listen now.

You scoffed at her ignorance, putting your hands on your hips, “As if you could lead the Riot Grrlz any better.”

Serenity gave you a look that made you wanna drop here right there in front of everyone.

You never understood why she always had an attitude over the simplest things, and given the current work setting, your tolerance for her bull crap was at an all time low.

“Right, the Riot Grrlz. “Rookie Western Girl Group,” huh? And you expect me to be proud of that?”

“With pride of lionesses, of course,” Jade pitched in, leaning down to fasten her shoelaces.

“We should really keep working on our routine, guys,” Haerin mumbled quietly, causing the raging brunette diva to roll her eyes.

Meanwhile, the boys seemed to be getting along rather well with their part of the routine, completely blind to the chaos brewing at their left.

And by the boys, I mean all of them except Niki and Jake, who were both too distracted by your girl drama.

Way to go embarrassing myself again, you thought to yourself

“You’re new to this sort of training, aren’t you,” Jake asked curiously.

“What, did my shitty dance moves give it away?”

You know it wasn’t Jake’s fault, but you were started to doubt your abilities as an artist and performer.

Even Serenity felt as though you were letting your group down.

“You’re not a shitty dancer, ____,” Niki answered, walking closer to you.

“Yeah, Niki’s right. You shouldn’t put so much pressure on yourself,” Jake added.

“Exactly! Just focus on your strengths,” Serenity pitched in, “your vocals, for example. You might ruin the dance routine, but at least you’ll save all the high notes with Heeseung.”

It was clear that you and Niki were equally fed up with Serenity’s toxicity.

“Okay, can everybody clear out for a moment," Niki clapped, causing everyone to back up against the walls almost instantly.

He pulled you by the hand, turning you to face him as he called out to Sunoo, "Put on a random dance track, real quick. Something upbeat, please."

“Gotcha!”

Turning back to you, Niki took your chin in his hand, making your eyes meet his. “Just follow my lead, okay?” He whispered, taking off the bracelet he wore before sliding it on your wrist, “Do you trust me?”

“Niki...” you started, not sure of what he was trying to do.

“I need you to feel the music, ____. Let it control you," he said, stepping away as a short remix of "Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls blared from the radio.

You could hear an amused Serenity and Sunghoon chuckle a bit at Sunoo’s choice of song, but Niki remained serious.

His gaze met the ground before he started freestyling to the song, letting his mind and body get used to the rhythm as he flowed to the beat. You stood awkwardly beside him, not feeling up to dance at the moment.

He caught sight of you standing and nudged your shoulder, "Loosen up, ____," he smiled, finally starting to feel the song himself.

You started by mirroring his movements at first, adding a few steps to make it fit your own style more.

"See? Now you're getting it," he encouraged again, pulling you toward him so you could dance together.

Your friends and the boys cheered you and Niki on while you two danced as if choreographed.

The track ended with Niki's had on your waist, both of your chests heaving from all the action.

Haerin's jaw dropped as she struggled to find the right words or any words to say, “That was…”

“Sexy!” Heeseung smirked while playfully fanning himself, making Niki turn his face in embarrassment.

You could feel your own face getting hot now, too, especially with everyone staring.

"Relax, Rinnie, you're acting like you've never seen a guy dance with a girl before," Jade chuckled.

"N-not... n-never like THAT,” Haerin said with a shocked face, “____, you're amazing!"

"Thanks," you smiled shyly, eyes falling back the bracelet Niki put around your wrist.

"Keep it... it's a good luck charm," he replied softly.

"Alright, alright. You guys can loosen up each other's buttons on your own time," Serenity snapped, interrupting everyone's gawking.

"Right... On second thought, it’s time for our break," Jay called, handing you and Niki a rag for your sweat.

"Great job, you guys. See you in 20," Jungwon added.

"Come on, girls," you chirped, picking up your gym bag as you took a sip from your water jug, heading towards the studio exit.

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

The rest of the day continued according to your work schedule. One vocal practice followed the other as the initially difficult routine felt more natural with each retake.

You also made a stop by Hybe's fashion team, getting your measurements taken so they could design your outfit for the upcoming stage.

Although this was a work trip, you were having a blast in Korea so far. You liked getting to work with the new people and trying different foods. You especially liked being roomies with Niki.

He was super talented, chill, yet flirty at the same time.

No wonder his fans go so crazy over him, you thought to yourself.

“Hey, ____,” Niki called out, jogging to catch up as you made your way from the dance studio after going back to get the pair of headphones you forgot near the water cooler.

“I wanna show you something…,” he announced, “Well, a thing I like to do.”

“Mhm, and what’s that?” You asked playfully.

He chuckled, “Just a thing that I can’t get away with while in idol mode. My secret escape... Are you interested?”

You meditated on his words before answering, considering the early curfew outlined by both your managers, and how it was already 8:00 at night, “It’s getting pretty late, you know… Is it gonna take long?”

He giggled again, this time leaning into you. “Only if you’re indecisive.”

The sounds of your sneakers tapping against the shiny tiled floors bounced off the hallway walls.

Like you said, girls would sell souls to be in your shoes right now: there’s no way you were gonna pass up on a chance to hang out with Niki…

A chance to explore this reckless romance.

“Ok, let’s go, but we have to be back by midnight,” you agreed.

“Ok, Cinderella. We’re not too far from where I wanna show you,” he beamed, fighting the urge to hold your hand as you followed him out of the Hybe Building, clashing into the night.

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

The place was reminiscent of a skate park, graffitied ramp-like walls cupping you and Niki in the surface of the arena.

There were a few other people present, but they seemed more wrapped up in their own little worlds to even look your way…

The moon shined behind the thin clouds of the sky, basking you and Niki’s skin with an ethereal glow.

“This is it!” He gestured with open arms, “my secret escape.”

You tucked your hands in your pockets as it was a bit cold out, “A shared secret place?” You corrected, pointing out the tiny groups of people hanging around.

Niki pushed the hoodie from over his head, revealing his two-toned mane, “I guess you could say that… they’re all idols, here. Just like me. They get why I do this.”

“Why you do what,” you inquired, stepping over a few random rocks that decorated the path.

“Why I dance,” he answered almost immediately, looking you in the eyes, “for myself.”

He took a few steps away from you, swaying to the music that rippled from one of the mystery people’s carry-radios.

Like earlier, you mirrored his moves at first, adding your own adjustments based on intuition.

Feeling.

You had so many more questions to ask, but in this moment, you focused on Niki and the way he moved.

The small groups of people developed into a crowd within a matter of seconds, joining you and Niki along with the music.

Although everyone was doing their own thing, in a strange way if felt harmonious.

Some people danced calmly, others were more wild. Either way, you were starting to understand what Niki meant.

Being able to express yourself away from prying eyes, scornful comments, flashing cameras, or a number 1 sign on your back was invigorating.

The music was still going when Niki grabbed your hand and pulled you to the side, a soft look taking over his features.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, staring into your eyes.

“W-what?”

“I just need to know that what I’m feeling right now is real.”

You took his face in your hands, trying to make yourself feel more in control of the situation, “Niki, I don’t think we should do this. Your manager outlined pretty strict rules.”

He paused before responding, “Remember what you said at the restaurant the first day we met?”

His grip on your hands remained delicate despite how strongly he felt for you.

“About us breaking rules together… only if it’s worth it.”

“Exactly,” he smiled, leaning in, “I knew they didn’t call you a riot girl for nothing.”

His lips connecting with yours like a puzzle piece, both your hearts fluttering as if they’d grown butterfly wings.

You felt like your world was spinning at twice its original speed, but at the same time, the moment felt still.

Niki tilted his head, deepening the kiss as he braced a hand at your waist, pulling you closer before finally letting go.

“I like you, ____. Like, a lot,” he confessed, taking in the dreamy expression displayed on your face.

Your mind went blank.

“Say something? Please,” he urged, taking your hands in his.

A smile wavered over your features as you kissed him back on the lips, feeling as though you both stopped breathing for a moment.

“I like you too, Niki. But isn’t this pretty risky?”

“You said so yourself, risks don’t count if it’s worth it,” he nearly whispered.

“Well,” you began, still holding onto him, “if we’re gonna do this, it has to stay between us… no one else can find out.”

And just like that, you were now secretly dating your roommate / coworker / Enhypen’s main dancer and maknae / one of K-pop’s most sought after It-Boy’s, all in a three days.

Great.

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

You and Niki made it back to you dorm rooms undetected. It seemed like everyone else was either too tired or too busy to notice that you two were out for so long.

Unlocking the door to as quietly as possible, you and Niki took light steps, trying not to disturb anyone or draw attention to yourselves.

Once the door was closed, you both bust out in a fit of laughter for reasons you didn’t understand nor cared to understand.

You didn’t need a reason laugh when Niki was around… it’s kind of just something that started to happen over the last couple days.

“What’s your secret to performing so well?” You asked him, both laying face-up on the lower bunk bed together.

“Hmm, I feel like nervousness is a strength. It pushes you to go forward in a sense…”

“Yeah… I get that. Sometimes, I feel like being calm is dangerous. It puts you in a safe space, when performing should be all about taking chances.”

“Right,” he agreed, resting a hand over his stomach, “Speaking of chances, they’re precious, you know? I never just assume I’ll get another opportunity to dance.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like…” he sighed, trying to find the right words, “Every time I get on stage… in front of those lights… in front of my fans… I perform-”

“As if it’s your last…” you answered for him.

“Yeah, that,” he chuckled, running a hand through his hair, “You know, it’s really nice talking to someone who gets me… the dancer part of me.”

“Of course, it’s really nice talking to you, too, Niki,” you smiled softly.

Breaking the calmness of the moment, he sat up in his elbows, meeting your face.

“Top or bottom?” He asked, referring to where you wanted to sleep for the night.

You crawled over his body, climbing into the upper bunk of the bed and laying down to finally rest.

“Good night, number 11,” you teased, snuggling into the mattress.

“Rest well, number 1. Big day tomorrow.”

🎙️ For my baby, @microwvdstrawb3rri3s, I hope it was worth the wait ~ And yes, before you ask, there will be a second part 💕

⛦ Additional tags for my fellow Niki enthusiasts: @fanficfactoryfoxxx @nikisblkgf @yourmomscuntis2tighy @nikimeows @kimjiho1 @nikipedia07 @nishimuradaniel

🎙️ Feel free to check out more fun reads on the pinned post at my home page ~

@ashgonedash, I still felt bad about forgetting to tag you earlier 👑 so here you go, my love :3

Update: THANK YOU ALL SM FOR 400 NOTES!!

[babybinko]

My second batch of venture bros genderbends are finally done! :D [first set here]

PLEASE LOOK UNDER THE CUT!!! I made all these nice drawings and doodles of them and I want people to see them without this post being super long! :') [My thoughts on the designs and doodles will be under the cut as well]

Okay NOW I'm going talk about my thought process on some of these:

Baby Rusty: I love the baby Rusty, the frilly socks and sleeves were a must. I actually drew her with the original set of genderbends but I turned off her layer and forgot about her 💀

Jonas Jr: not much to say about her, I tried to make her like Rosie the Riveter. Her little bandana has the Venture logo on it :)

Jonas Sr: I wanted her to be a hot bitch, her outfit is maybe a little scandalous for the time era they were in but I think it fits, canon Jonas is a whore. I think everybody would want her and that every celebrity, politician, and anybody with any power would chase after her so badly.

Blue Morpho: I made her so incredibly slay. I fucking love her outfit, I found the inspo for the outfit on Pinterest but I changed it up a bit. Also her gun has the bayonetta butterfly wings on it as a charm because I HAD TO.

Colonel Gentleman: Not a lot to say, I wanted to give her like horse riding esque boots and I gave her a purple flower cause she likes the ladies. I know generally WLW flowers are Violets and Lavender but I wanted to draw a rose so, Purple rose compromise <3

Dr.Boyfriend 2: With my last round Dr.Boyfriend was the only one people had complaints with. I think people wished he was more Masculine and I agree but if I switched up the design too much it wouldn't look like Dr.Girlfriend. I hope giving him armor and making him look like a knight helped him look more masc. I made the sheer wings cross over his chest to make it look like it was holding up the shoulder armor. Also his guild book is insanely high quality because I was procrastinating drawing his armor.

Goofy and Goober (Watch and Ward): I think they ended up really cute, I tried to make their hair colors close to Doc and Jacksons since I heard they are supposed to be like their "main" self inserts. With Ward I had a really specific idea for her hair, I kept thinking about this haircut from my sims and had to do it. It might be hard to see but her ponytail holders have skull charms on them. I also purposely gave them both some sort of ponytail hairstyle so they would match but be slightly different :) (They are absolutely prank calling or trolling their clients on that phone btw)

Shoreleave: OH MY GOD I LOVE SHORELEAVE. I kept turning her folder back on just to keep looking at her when I was drawing the other characters. She is so captivating to me, she looks so soft and human. I want to take a bite out of her thigh. My biggest inspo for her was Cammy from Street Fighter, I felt like her dressing a bit skimpy works for her since canon Shoreleave kinda does. The girls out for the girls.

Alchemist: I love her design so much too. I wanted her to look like some kind of nun or priestess. She looks like if a Zelda fire temple was a person. I kinda gave her like a weird little hime cut under the hood. Also I put the Triad logo on all three of their designs (+ Triana).

Jefferson: Had a lot of fun with her, I didnt change her design much from canon though so there's not much to say. I did give her more flared pants though. Drawing her hair was a really fun change of pace, I very rarely get to draw textured hair.

College Rusty and Monarch Drawing: I love this one, Monarch turned out so hot dude. You can tell what character I like more LMFAO. I made rusty very obnoxious 80s while keeping the colors of the original college rusty outfit. Monarch kind of looks like postal dude but its fine because shes slay.

Hereditary Venture Family Dinner Drawing: This was one of the first drawings I started but the second to last one I finished. I wanted to draw the family doing something together but I think I really truly just wanted to draw Dermott again. 😭 Nobody has said anything if they noticed but I did give hatred the shirt from these edits. (I believe the one on the left is from reddit and the one on the right is by SquashFold on Twitter)

Dermott piercing Dean's ears drawing: Even though its messy its in the top 3 favorites I did, It was also the last one I did. I just love the idea of Dermott giving goth Dean at home ear piercings. At first I didn't know if I wanted to make Dermott giving her piercings at the mall where she works or at home but the mall idea was too much work for a last minute sketch. Dermott is so mean older sister who shoplifts and works at the mall.

Drug bathroom drawing: Another one of my favorites, its based off a specific deleted scene from Invisible Hand of Fate where Pete and Rusty talk at the bar but Pete comes out of the bathroom sniffling at the start. I love the way I drew Pete pushing the hair out of her face and both of their expressions.

Bdsm 21 drawing: Okay first of all, The little devil Monarch was so cute I was screaming, crying, and throwing up while drawing her. I fucking love her, shes the smallest part of the image but my favorite. I also am quite fond of the bdsm 21.

Quizgirls Pete and Billy: I tried looking up Vanna White dresses to base Pete's outfit off of but I couldn't find one that Pete would actually wear so I just had to make shit up. Billy's design is really basic but the bow in her hair is actually from one of my rejected main Billy genderbends.

Me and The Bestie: I put a lot of effort into this one for no reason. Literally the moment I saw Jonas in the problem machine I thought he should be made of like blue slime. When I was working on this I kept thinking about Momopatchi's Hatsune Microbe drawing so this Jonas was definitely inspired by that. I gave Jonas makeup because she was having a party movie night on gargantua and I felt like she would still have makeup on thats like completely fucked up and deteriorating on her face after many many years. Vendata's outfit was partially based on Marguerite Chapman's from Flight to Mars, never seen it but I was looking up old sci-fi movie costumes to work with and I thought it would look good :)

[teddywesworl]

different anon but re: sex scenes ask, i’m curious to see how you lay out things to outline for continuity of characterization, and what the drive and stakes are in a scene to avoid the sexual archetypes. would you mind sharing what that process looks like for you? really admire your technical breakdowns of writing (yes even and especially when they end up being ‘controversial’)

ok so. I had to take this ask to a word doc to get all my thoughts in order, so that’s your fair warning about how involved my answer is going to be.

First off, I gotta say I always think it’s funny and strange which “takes” of mine get people in a twist, because it’s very frequently the really basic foundational stuff that you would be taught in the first week or two of any introductory fiction writing class. One time, multiple people blocked me on twitter for saying that every paragraph should serve the whole and that readers will get bored if you go on tangents that have nothing to do with the core drive of the story. There was a qrt with the ‘no fun allowed’ robot. I was basically explaining what “kill your darlings” actually means, but even that was too much.

That said, I think the key to continuity of character in sex scenes is very simple: treat sex as any other action, and treat sex scenes like any other scene.

Naturally, that’s easier said than done, because it contains within itself a pair of mandates:

Get your character fundamentals down before attempting to apply them to sex, and

Deconstruct your own relationship with DHSM archetypes.

Yes, sorry, the almost three hour long Contrapoints Twilight video really is the best framework I’ve ever encountered for breaking down cultural norms concerning sex in fiction (and irl tbh), and I think it’s required viewing for anyone who really wants to deliberately subvert those norms.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Step one: character fundamentals.

In the simplest possible terms, good smut is character work. You’re taking blorbo and putting them in a situation. Often, this is a deeply vulnerable situation wrapped up in a lot of emotions. What kind of emotions are they feeling? Do they feel vulnerable? How do they respond to that vulnerability? Are the blorbos boning out of love? Affection? Frustration? Fear of loss? Is it a hatefuck? Multiple of the above? That’s layer one.

Next layer down: are both (or however many) parties here for the same reason, or are their motivations and experiences different? Everyone in a story has their own drives which may be in conflict with one another or, at the very least, play off of one another in interesting ways; the same principle should apply to sex scenes.

Example.

This is from chapter 2 of baseless fabric:

Rook’s fingers bury themselves in Lucanis’s hair, her nails scraping his scalp. “I’ll show you,” she says, and then—oh, yes—tongues and teeth and spit! Rook’s arms around Lucanis’s neck. Arching backs and sweet sighs and a pleasure that fogs Lucanis’s mind. Rook pulls at Lucanis, and Lucanis tries to keep his hips away. He is embarrassed at how quickly he has grown hard; he is alarmed that he could be so forward, so presumptuous as to expose himself in this way and to seek this kind of pleasure in her. Why? asks Spite. It is for her. She came to you for this. Lucanis struggles against this reasoning, though he knows that Spite is correct. That strange despair deep within grows fat on this knowledge. He is still afraid, and it was such long and difficult work to accept that he would never be desired in this way by a person he desired in turn.

Three parties are involved in this scene: Spite, Lucanis, and Rook.

Spite has no sexual attraction or sex drive per se, because he is a non-corporeal entity to whom those concepts are kind of alien, but he enjoys physical pleasure and has an emotional attachment to both Lucanis and Rook, so there’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t enjoy sex. He experiences everything Lucanis’s body does, and he has a front row seat to the inner workings of Lucanis’s fucked up little brain. In the video game as written, one could argue that Spite’s core drive is essentially to help Lucanis first survive and then recover from extraordinary trauma (out of. Spite. literally). He picks apart Lucanis’s fear and self-hatred and exposes all of it to Rook, in full confidence that Rook can fix it.

Lucanis, meanwhile, is a big ol’ demi virgin who (I was just talking w @ofcrowsanddragons about this last night) has come to view his own basic human needs as monstrous. It’s dangerous for him to need anything. Even sleep! He’s had both physical and emotional vulnerability drilled out of him from a very young age! He can’t let anyone know he needs! What if his needs are exploited? What if someone notices he needs something and takes advantage? For Lucanis, I imagine that allowing himself to be vulnerable in a safe, controlled way that feels good, with someone he trusts entirely, would be… woof. Very intense.

Rook is the wild card in terms of fanfic and character study, because, as a customizable PC, she could be anything. And she might be physically undescribed in my fics, but the character choices I’ve made aren’t by mistake; I’m writing about The Lucanis Romance, after all, and that provides opportunities for Rook to play both partner and foil. And so: my Rook is sexually experienced, shameless, and a bit vulgar, and she grew up poor. She’s Lucanis’s opposite in a lot of ways, and she serves to highlight his hangups by contrast. He talks down at himself for “seeking pleasure in her,” while her desire for him is uncomplicated. She wants this guy. She cares for him. It feels good when he touches her. On its own, maybe that’s not super interesting fodder for fiction, but she and Spite force Lucanis to reckon with his irrational self-talk and maladaptive coping mechanisms. She can get away with being a bit two-dimensional, because her main function in the story is to challenge his perspective.

The climax (lol) of the fic is arguably the following line in chapter 3: “The despair of fulfillment, the anguish of joy—he thinks he is not made for such things, and so he fights them, even desperate as he is to submit.” Everything in this first encounter between Lucanis and Rook builds toward that final evolution of the idea that Lucanis fears his own emotional needs and resists their fulfillment.

Et voila: Lucanis’s character is examined and has the opportunity to develop through sex!

Still, I admit, all of this is easier said than done. Character study of any kind takes practice to get a feel for, and writing effective character-driven sex requires that you be aware of your own relationship with culturally imposed norms.

Step two: becoming an archetype understander

Watch the Contrapoints video if you haven’t. Yes, in full. I promise it’s worth it. But if you want to save it for later and keep reading this post now, DHSM stands for Default Heterosexual Sado-Masochism, and it’s an extremely useful framework for understanding how patriarchal romantic and sexual roles are organized.

Natalie Wynn defines DHSM as “a division of sexuality into bipolar roles,” as follows:

She goes on: “In reality, none of these roles are interchangeable or even necessarily correlated. Being masculine does not imply being a top, and neither imply being dominant. […] But in DHSM, these roles are assumed to be bundled together and assumed to belong to the sexuality of men.”

I contend that when we are reading E-rated fanfiction and we cross that jarring threshold from in-character plot to out-of-character smut, we have most often just encountered the author deferring to cultural sex scene-writing norms prescribed by DHSM. And, importantly, the sex scene doesn’t have to be heterosexual for DHSM to be in the room!

One of the most important things you can do as you’re writing sex is to ensure that you are aware of the cultural pressure to conform to this false dichotomy.  Notice I didn’t even say ‘don’t conform;’ there are certainly ways to examine & play with DHSM while nominally conforming to it. However, DHSM is omnipresent as a basic assumption in mainstream romance and romantic subplot, and you may be surprised at the extent to which the average person automatically reaches for it while writing. In fact, once you start seeing it, you may not be able to stop.

One of the things I really like about Lucanis as a character is his relationship to DHSM. He’s an assassin, arguably a professional predator. He is extremely rich, and he ends the story with a nation-shaping amount of political power. He is also, quite literally, possessed. His whole personal arc is about his fraught relationship with agency. His romance arc requires that you, the player, pursue him to a much more dramatic degree than any of the other companions, just to get to the point of acknowledged flirtation. He breaks the assumed role. He looks like the Latin Lover trope sprouted wings; but that’s not him.

This is, frankly, why a large proportion of the Rookanis ao3 tag bums me out: there’s so much fic in there that pulls back toward that assumption of bipolarity, flattening him as a result. Lucanis as an aggressive or dominant lover does nothing for me, because I feel that it misunderstands his approach to intimacy.

Now what?

I’ve just said an embarrassing number of words about writing pornography. But how does one synthesize all this stuff?

Here’s an exercise I recommend:

Pick a pairing of your choice and consider each character’s relationship with the DHSM dichotomy. Deliberately run down those columns above and decide which character more closely matches each descriptor in each pair, individually—if they match either, which they may not! Examine the ways in which that pairing might break bipolarity.

Then, try to come up with a sexual scenario that demonstrates that break in DHSM. This is a valuable exercise because it attacks both points simultaneously: it forces you to think of your character fundamentals, and it directly challenges the archetypes.

To use the same baseless fabric example, Rook is clearly the pursuer, but she’s got an exhibitionist streak, and she very much desires penetration:

She leans back, rests her weight on her hands, and deliberately opens the vee of her thighs. Her chemise drapes across them, and it hides very little. There is a shadow beneath, intensified by the flicker of the hearth, and Lucanis’s eye is drawn inexorably down—

Later in the same scene, Spite's POV refers to the act of penetrating Rook as surrender:

The body knows what to do. The instinct for it is ancient and innate, and the rhythm is made at the conjunction of Lucanis’s flesh and heart and mind. It is surrender, a hopeless exposure of underbelly and throat, and it feels good. Lucanis plants one hand on the table and rolls his hips.

Lucanis also acknowledges, multiple times, that he had his own preconceived notions about how sex is supposed to go, which Rook has challenged. For example:

Rook hums and smiles and closes the narrow gap between them. What begins as a simple press of lips develops into the luxuriant slide of tongues, Lucanis pushing the hem of her chemise up so he can bury his hand between her thighs. Rook hooks a knee over Lucanis’s hip and tugs him in until he acquiesces and thrusts into her. It is all slow and lazy. Soft. It feels the way Lucanis always thought it should, except in the ways he couldn’t have foreseen. His body aches from the violence of the previous day, and Rook’s must, as well; the pleasure cuts through the pain, colors it, transforms it into something almost sweet. Rook’s arms coil around him, and she makes the most beautiful little sounds.

(Uh oh, buddy! That's a little masochistic of you!)

If you are working deliberately to improve your character-driven sex scenes, I strongly recommend starting with short (up to like 3k words) ficlets as practice. Pick a trope or two to toss in for extra “put the blorbos in situations” sauce. Forced proximity! Drunken confessions! Hurt/comfort! Fuck or die! Etc. All great fun. Alternately, sometimes you will simply be possessed by the knowledge that certain characters will have certain kinks. Like Lucanis and somnophilia (you get it, right? I don’t even have to explain why. Isn’t that neat?).

As a side benefit, doing this exercise thoughtfully will make you better at character writing more generally. No, really. Spending this time analyzing characters’ relationships to intimacy will help you understand what makes them tick in so many other ways.

Let me sum up.

So, in summary: good smut is character work, and you need your character fundamentals first. However, cultural norms impose the division of sexuality into bipolar roles. Breaking that bipolarity subverts a subconscious expectation, adds tension and interest, and forces both writer and reader to really think about the characters in front of them.

Does that……. Does that answer your question about process?? I swear I didn’t start with the intent to write two thousand earth words about this. And also, I don’t typically sit down and think to myself “how will I break DHSM today?” I have enough practice at this point (and a deep enough obsession with the function of social power) that my disdain for DHSM automatically inserts itself into basically everything I write. I do think these two pieces (1. character first and 2. fuck DHSM) make up the foundation of how I approach smut, though, so hopefully this has been a useful response!!