#i WANT to love and support her and she is making it very fucking difficult!!!!!!

[causeimasinger]

ft ice spice. she is hyping an artist her nasty ass bf made disgusting comments about. this is so.. beyond tone deaf i am just…… sad i am SAD. i’m assuming we’re finally getting hits different on streaming but at what fuckin cost

[marinecorvid]

blorbos from my brain

[phagodyke]

ykw actually I am angry + disappointed w them. I've been pushing how I feel aside and trying to make it my own fault so it's all contained but I think theyve just been mean. and they really should know me better ik I try to pretend I don't expect more from them so I feel less hurt when they do things that upset me but we've been friends for years by this point. like come on.

[navree]

"you can't put alicent in a mother's day asoiaf comp because she's not a good mother and that's okay :)" but you have no problem with cersei fucking lannister in it when half her affc chapters are just about how abysmally she fails as a mother to her children so i think you're just a cunt

[scarletcomalies]

the outside world has failed you

Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

Word count: 6,253

Warnings: 18+ content, mention of cockroaches and bedbugs, mention of contract-killing, Natasha x Reader, I criticize the church a lot, blasphemy, caning as a punishment, manipulation, masochism, oral sex, edging, dacryphilia, strap-on usage, hair-pulling, slamming, degrading, angst, fluff.

A/N: Hi! I'm sorry for disappearing, but in so few months, so much has happened. It has taken a toll on me, and I was in no mood for anything, in many ways. I am recovering, though! I love it here and I'm glad I was able to write a little something hehe. Watching AHS Asylum for the fourth time does things to you. 😮‍💨

Sister Wanda Maximoff didn't make your plan to take advantage of the church as easy as you thought it would be.

You were not going to endure another god-awful day in that abyss you called life. You simply could not. Nothing particularly happened, you simply collapsed.

Your job in this economy did not allow you to support rent, food, services, all that went with being independent. So many exhausting hours for so little pay. Just so when you finally returned home, the first thing you saw were multiple eviction notices on your door, reminding you that you were on the verge of being homeless.

So, when you opened your door with push, the inside was not very welcoming either, as the holes in your furniture and under your broken sink were the perfect place for cockroaches to breed in droves, causing you to find a few over here and there. At least they lived rent free, you thought.

You ate microwavable or precooked food, the cheapest you could find, and proceeded to go to sleep, hoping the bedbugs wouldn't cause you any more health problems than you already had from the quality of sleep and food you provided your body with.

And then, you slept four hours, you got up to work, you came back home, you repeated.

Well, the sole exception was your upstairs neighbor, Natasha Romanoff. A Russian immigrant on the run from the authorities for her involvement as an accomplice to Clint Barton, a notorious contract killer. Barton, lacking the courage to face imprisonment with dignity, betrayed his loyal partner, declaring, "If I go down, you go down with me".

Now a fugitive, Natasha cut and dyed her hair blonde and resorted to phone scams to survive. “Fucking cyber education”, you could hear her yell from downstairs, usually followed by the sound of her cell phone hitting the ground (your ceiling). You deduced it was because fewer and fewer people were falling for the bullshit of a $500,000 prize.

The sex with her was good, too good to be true. You weren't happy about her misfortune, but you were grateful to whoever was smart enough not to fall for that classic scam, because you knew that after that, she would get to take out her frustration on you as soon as you got home from work. That was the only means by which you could secrete a little dopamine, a little... happiness.

“I hate this life,” you once commented, clinging to her as she rode out the ground-breaking orgasm she gave you.

“Hmmm, bullshit,” she growled. ”I can't go out and buy fucking cigarretes without the fear of some asshole recognizing me from the wanted signs and ratting me out,” you could feel her back muscles tensing again. “I can't engage in anything too scandalous, legal or illegal, because any false move will take me back to Russia. And don't make me detail what prison is like in Russia,” she added, quickening her movements and panting slightly. Your eyes rolled, and against your will, the need began to simmer inside you once again. “Don't come and tell me your life is difficult. Figure it out! God... damn it!”

“What do you propose I do?” You asked her, once the overstimulation of two orgasms in a row had subsided enough to allow you to formulate something more than whimpers and moans.

“Go to the nuns congregation,” she shrugged, as she buttoned her pants. They were somewhat tight, which made visible the bulge formed by the strap-on she used on you.

“Fuck you!” You exclaimed.

“I'm serious. They love to feel like they're saving souls,” she justified. “Tell them you want to let God into your life, and just like that you get three meals a day and a warm bed. You deserve a chance in life."

Okay, maybe you could have gone on to apply for other jobs and in one of them you might've been lucky to get hired, but your day-to-day life had mentally drained you so much that you didn't think you were capable of making one more effort to survive.

It wasn't fair. The people working in the church enjoyed every comfort simply by feeding people's beliefs in something greater. They stood before crowds reading teachings they often didn't apply to their own lives, but that didn't matter. All they needed to do was make people feel good about themselves for sacrificing one hour of their Sunday to listen. People gave money to the church for this. They granted the church privileges for this, like tax exemption. Meanwhile, you did pay your taxes.

Natasha was right. If a simple practice of a religion was going to give you all that, more than your skills or abilities would, you might as well take it. After all, it was divine justice to privilege yourself from the church that privileged itself from the people.

Everything went smoothly, for you were a master in words and conviction. If only you had the opportunity to go to college, you would be using those skills to build a career of your liking, maybe laws or literature. But there you were, reorienting the reason for the misfortunes in your life to a motive to strengthen your faith. You even talked about a dream where you received a message where God commanded you to serve Him, and you dropped a couple of tears to make it believable. They loved it!

From then on, your days were consumed by correspondence lessons, spiritual readings that stirred nothing within you, and the hollow act of pretending to pray mentally. It was excruciatingly monotonous, devoting yourself to something that doesn’t align with the core of who you were. However, the only solace came from the feeling of a full stomach, the embrace of a bed where you could finally surrender to real rest, and the relief of having left behind the life that once tormented you.

If that weren’t enough, Natasha remained present in your life. There was no love, perhaps not even affection, but there was familiarity. You were each other's person to look forward to after an exhausting, unsuccesful day.

Therefore, every night, she would appear at your window, her wide smile showing beneath the shadow of her hood.

She would fuck you hard, keeping in mind the exciting fact that, despite covering your mouth with her firm hand, a moan could probably be heard if she dared to let go or if you didn't control yourself.

The danger of someone discovering an Aspirant being thrusted deep by another woman whose reward for finding her exceeded a million dollars gave you the most delicious orgasms you had ever had in your life.

All your needs were taken care of, and all you had to do was pretend that this was your calling.

Until Sister Wanda Maximoff noticed your lack of interest. The other Aspirants glowed with marvel, their eyes burning with the will to learn during every lesson. They bombarded her with so many questions that each class stretched at least an extra half hour. But overall, they worshiped her as the living embodiment of what they could only dream to become.

But you remained sitting quietly, your gaze steady but lacking the usual awe radiating from your classmates. It wasn't shyness, for Sister Wanda had taught many shy Aspirants before, it was as if you existed on a separate plane of existence, observing from a distance instead of immersing yourself.

So she deliberately picked on you, persistently directing her questions at you regardless of your ‘fellow’ Aspirants' raised, insisting hands.

What exasperated her the most was your response to her gentle reprimands when you answered incorrectly; your attitude matched, perhaps even surpassed, the apathy you showed toward her lessons. The sole thing you were eager about was to demonstrate how little she mattered to you.

How wrong she was to believe private lessons would change anything. She assumed whatever shit show you were trying to pull would crumble when it was just the two of you, face to face. She thought you showed defiance only because you were among other Aspirants, who would devastate at the sight of their sweet, dear Sister being —justifiably— hard on someone. But no, you were insolent and that was all there was to it.

Unfortunately for you, Sister Wanda didn't have her group of adoring students around to see her now, leaving her free to do whatever she pleased with you.

"Damn you!" She slammed her Bible shut, after she made one last attempt to kindly ask you to make an effort to pay attention. You barely had time to register her words before she was standing—no, looming in front of you. "Listen," she hissed, her breath sharp against your face. The smell of cigarretes was evident. "I don't care why you're here. I only care that you are here. And as long as you are here, you're going to listen to my lesson. You're going to care. And one way or another, you're going to love me for it.”

That was the heart of it, wasn't it? You hadn't knelt, hadn't lapped at her heels like the others, and that was enough to wound her. Enough to make her angry. You could see it in her eyes, controlled fury, a slow-burning arrogance that refused to be challenged.

"Bend over," she ordered, signalling towards her desk with her emerald-green eyes.

You met her eyes, and in that moment, you knew she saw your rage, your disgust, your perplexity barely restrained beneath your clenched jaw.

"Excuse me?" Your voice was trembling of pure impotence, as the room itself seemed to contract around you.

"Bend over," she repeated. “Or… don't. You can always go back to that job—”

And before she could even complete her sentence, you were bent over her desk.

"Normally, I’d let you choose," she mused, her voice thick with condescension. "But you’ve been so bad, you don’t even deserve that.”

The closet doors creaked open behind you. Wooden. Heavy. Old.

The sound pierced the silence, a whistle of something cutting through the air, followed by a firm whip exploding across your flesh.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

It stuck in your throat, strangled by disbelief, both from the action and the inimaginable pain.

Your body jerked forward against the desk, as a high-pitched cry escaped your lips before you could stop it.

The wooden cane struck again, and again, and again.

Sister Wanda was known for being methodical, and her punishments weren't the exception, for she let each strike sink in before delivering the next.

Your fingers clawed at the barnished wood of her desk, intending to stay still, to deny her the satisfaction of seeing you squirm and suffer.

But it was impossible. The burning sensation radiating from your ass across your whole body, had you sobbing openly, with your pride as bruised as your skin.

"Please," you whimpered, choked with pathetic attempts to inhale some air. "I‐I'm sorry, please...”

She hummed with indifference. The same indifference you once gave her during her lessons. Divine justice.

Her cane tapped thoughtfully against your tender flesh, making you flinch. You couldn't take another single one.

"What did Christ say to Peter after the resurrection?” Just another cynical test. You should've seen it coming.

The answer was somewhere within the depths of your distressed mind. But the sting of open skin, made your thoughts slow.

"Well?" she pressed, and the cane lifted from your ass.

"Simon son of John, do you love me?”

Through your sobs, you heard the creak of the cabinet opening again, the soft sound of the cane being returned to its place. Your flesh throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and you knew you wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for days.

With gentle hands that moments ago had wielded the cane, she carefully smoothed down your tunic, her touch now impossibly tender.

"There now, sweet girl," she murmured, her voice honey-like and soothing. Her fingers traced the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of the evidence of your sorrow. "You took your punishment so well.”

Every alert in your rational mind that would dcream at you to stay away was turned off. You knew it when you found yourself melting into her touch, craving the comfort she offered. And she looked down at you with adoration when she found nothing but submission in your eyes, as she cradled your face between her palms.

"Such a good girl for me now, isn't that right?" he whispered, and the praise… the praise had your earlier fear dissolving under her careful ministrations. "This is all I wanted from you, darling, just to see you truly present, truly here with me."

She drew you closer, letting you rest your forehead against her shoulder as her fingers threaded through your hair. The scent of chapel incense and that hint of cigarettes enveloped you, and you found yourself breathing it in deeply, letting it ground you.

“This is what happens when you let yourself be guided, when you submit to proper instruction," her lips brushed your earshell as she spoke. "Will you be good for me from now on?"

You nodded against her shoulder, unable and unwilling to resist the tempting implication she made. If you behaved, you would have more of these precious moments.

And this alone gave you more purpose than anything else since you arrived to the monastery.

You became aware of it in the same way a candle becomes aware of fire, at first, just a taste of heat, then a flame that tangles in the wax until it consumes it all.

You became an active participant in her lessons, a constant presence who made sure to be seen, to be noticed. You knew Sister Wanda liked your enthusiasm, but it wasn't just her approval you sought. You wanted her recognition.

And so, when you weren't taking her lessons, you were reading, studying, making sure your application made you stand out among the other Aspirants. All so that you would be her favorite girl.

She usually saw you reading under one of the garden's trees. You had chosen the one that was the closest to the hall, she noticed. She couldn't miss it if she was walking out of her office. It was adorable.

If she had time, she would stop by your side, looking at the book in your hands. She would take the tome gently, making sure that her slender fingers brushed yours, even if for a second, and her arm subsequently found its around you in an almost unconscious, protective manner.

"Do you have any questions?" She would inquire. And even though you didn't —unsurprisingly so—, you pretended to need clarification, any excuse to let her closeness linger a few seconds longer, not ready to be apart from her yet.

It had taken hold of you. The need of her touch.

Before, reading and prayer were mere obligations, mechanical routines that you did just because you had to. Now, they had become rituals charged with intention, directed towards something greater; her.

If you prayed fervently, if you participated enthusiastically, if you were everything she expected of you, rest assured she would seek you out every time, just to remind you that you did not go unnoticed by her.

"It was so good," she purred, her hand sliding over your lower back.

And, of course, she noticed your every gesture. Every held breath, every tiny tilt of your body in her direction.

She had conditioned other students to obey her in the same way, but they did not respond to her touch as you did that day after she bent you over the desk. Not only did you not flinch, you melted.

They obeyed for fear of being punished again. But, it seemed you had even forgotten all about it.

You didn't look at her with terror. You looked at her with longing.

Sure, it was normal to look for approval. That's all it was. A conditioned reflex, a survival instinct. To make sure you didn't get any more punishment.

But you... you weren't just looking for her approval.

You were looking for her.

And she didn't know which was worse, the reverse effect it had inadvertently caused in you, or the one it was causing in her.

She should have stopped when she had the chance, when she noticed that her threatening attempts to impose fear, meaning by grabbing your face, squeezing your shoulder or resting her hand on your back, for you were, in reality, caresses. Caresses that you evidently lacked throughout your life.

"One way or another, you're going to love me for it," she had established, but the another way was not the one she usually applied, the one she used to know so well.

The admiration of others fed her ego, and gave her that sense of power and control to which she had long ago become addicted. But you had made that seem insignificant compared to what you provided her.

She was fully aware that you didn't want to be like her. Hell, she knew exactly why you joined the congregation.

It was something far more significant than the admiration she had initially tried to kindle within you.

It was submission.

And therefore every slightest caress became a bottomless pit for her, for both of you. And both, without fear, fell.

It was everything you were looking for.

So much so that, when Natasha touched your window, you felt nothing. And you had reached the point of believing that there was no point in continuing to do something that no longer had any meaning for you.

So, as she was about to climb in, you stopped her.

"I'm reading," you said without looking up from the book in your hands, signaling to her that you weren't going to move from there.

Natasha paused for a second, just long enough for doubt to seep into her expression before pulling herself together.

"I can see that. Good for you.”

And still, she walked in. She did so as confidently as she always did, expecting no more permission than she believed belonged to her.

"I can't do this anymore," you stated, firm this time.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, somewhere between mockery and skepticism. She swept her gaze over you, that quick, almost bored assessment. Then, she chuckled.

"What?" She asked in mock disbelief. "Are you going to tell me that you received a calling from the Lord to give yourself to him? Is this what it is? Are you going to practice chastity?”

You denied quickly.

"No, don't be ridiculous.”

It wasn't faith, not in the way she implied. It was devotion, but to someone who was there, who did respond. There was something greater than mindless pleasure, something more real than the filling of your needy hole. You had found someone to exist for, someone who saw beyond the fleeting instant and looked at you, not just what she could take from you.

She tilted her head, with the same expression of one who already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway.

"You met someone else," she asserted.

"No..." it was an instinctive reflex that, upon reaching your tongue, lost its form, dissolving into something uncertain. "Maybe. I don't know."

Had you, really? Wanda hadn't touched you in that way, the way Natasha did, urgently, hungrily. And yet what she did to you had been more than anything you'd ever felt. Her fingers glided over your skin with a lightness that didn't demand, that didn't take. There was something in the way she looked at you, not with possession, but with recognition. As if you were someone, not something.

You didn't know if it was equal, but it was better. Much better.

There was a second of silence. Then Natasha let out a dry laugh.

"Well, I'd be damned," she muttered with a half-smile, not taking her eyes off you. "Just... think about her if you want. I had a long day.”

And you agreed. It was the only way to know if this bordered on a level of attraction that was new to you.

When Natasha fucked you, you closed your eyes, and you imagined those pink lips, those big emerald green eyes, that unseen body hiding under that habit.

No. Not like this.

If you were doing this with Wanda, she'd be stroking your hair. She'd kiss your cheeks. She'd make sure you felt how much she appreciated having your presence beneath her, pleasing her. Overall, she'd make sure you were enjoying yourself too.

Because you were somebody.

You opened your eyes, and you pulled Natasha's hand away from your mouth, with a movement that was not abrupt, but definite.

"Caress me," you commanded.

Natasha frowned.

"You're insane," she panted between thrusts. You didn't blame her for saying it. Maybe you were.

"Do it," you insisted, with the certainty of one who has made a decision with no turning back. "Or this will be the last time.”

She rolled her eyes impatiently. But she agreed. Without love, without affection, with a mechanical manner that barely mimicked what you had asked.

"No, this isn't working," you growled, nudging her gently. You didn't want to make her feel like this was her fault, it really wasn't. You simply began to crave for something she was no longer capable of giving you.

"I agree, let me do my thing," she replied, slamming deeper inside you to reassert her dominance. You knew she knew what you were referring to, the fact that her flings during the night were no longer working for you. But she wasn't going to admit it, because she wanted to keep using you, seeing you.

And no, you had a say in this.

"Natasha, I don't want you anymore!" You exclaimed, perhaps louder than you should have in the middle of the night when everyone was supposed to be asleep.

She pulled back, just enough to glance in your direction, as if to silently confirm the truth of your words. Within the depths of your eyes, she found the answer. Therefore she stepped back with deliberate nonchalance and adjusted her pants, maintaining her composure in the shifting tide of the moment.

You thought she was going to refute, as it seemed very important to her to leave her house, to risk being found just to 'take out her frustrations on you'. She could have looked for anyone, but she wanted you. And perhaps the reason would remain a mystery.

"Call me when that cheesiness wears off," she stated matter-of-factly, and retreated from your room through the window.

And with that, you thought you were off the hook.

You thought.

You were under your tree, your now shelter, when you saw Wanda come out of her office. Her footsteps echoed on the floor, quick and heavy, so different from her usual gait. She was furious, you knew.

You didn't alert yourself, you thought it wasn't about you, that if you were doing what she expected from you, without fail, why would she be angry?

But then, instead of taking the path to the hallway, as she always did, she walkes you. Her eyes showed no gentleness. There was no tenderness in her face. But what had happened? Everything seemed to be in order. Why... this?

In one sudden movement, she bent down and, with a violence that made you lose your breath, she lifted you up suddenly, pulling your hair towards her, forcing you to stumble, to stagger, all the way to her office. She didn't care about your whines, and, your desperate pleas to explain what was happening.

And once inside, the door closed with a clang that chilled your blood, and proceeded to bend you over the desk by slamming the side of your face against it. There were no orders. There were no requests. There was no room for choice.

No explanation, not a single word spoken, like you didn't deserve any of that. It couldn't be real. Not again. Not like this. She was treating you... badly. And you didn't know why, or what you had done wrong.

"I took you for so many things," she began, and the sound of the closet doors where she kept her canes chilled your skin just like the last time. "Insolent, disdainful, opportunist... and I thought I'd fixed you."

You choked, your throat closed up with unshed tears. You didn't understand. You couldn't understand.

The prospect of getting caned didn't even occupy your mind at that moment. It was the torture of knowing that you let her down, that everything you had done, all your effort, had been in vain, that consumed you to the core.

"Y-you did!" you cried, trying to cling to some hope, some justification, looking for some way to explain what you didn’t even know you did. "I've done everything you asked, and more! I don't understand!"

The way she dismissed your words with a curt hum, and proceeded to lift your tunic, was a silent communication that everything you did for her wasn't enough to forgive nor forget what she was about to punish you for.

"Yes," she said, caressing your bare cheeks, which still held the memories of your first punishment. "Except for the fact that you're a filthy slut, fucking a criminal every night in your room."

Your skin bristled at her accusation. She felt it under her fingertips, and that made her more relentless.There was no point in applying those impecable lying techniques that had brought you to this point, if ultimately, your body was at her mercy, and it did not lie.

"Who told you?" you could barely articulate. How could anyone ever dare to touch something so sacred to you?

"No one!" She exclaimed.

It had been one of your fellow Aspirants. She was heading to the bathroom that night, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, when she heard the hushed moans and accelerated breaths through your door.

And when she heard your apparent fling was about to slip out of your window, she followed.

She didn’t go far, just enough to reach Natasha out, grip her shoulder, and turn her around to reveal her identity. That cost her a broken nose. However, it was worth it. So worth it.

Because she hated you, everyone hated you. Why were you Wanda's favorite? You hated her lessons, you were rude to her, and when you started doing what everyone did, you got praised for it?

She was supposed to belong to all of them! Equally. So if she had to sabotage your relationship to take back what was theirs, then so be it.

First thing in the morning, she told Wanda everything.

"I don't understand you, (Y/N)!" She continued, whipping you three times in a row, the contact coursing through your entire body. You could have sworn you felt an electric current run from your head to your feet. And worse than the first time. Much worse. Oh, compared to what you felt now, those moments seemed like paradise. "Here, you have it all!"

Wanda's jealousy, the shadows of her anger, made her apply way more force than she intended to. And from your end, the realization that you had failed the one person who had ever made you feel you were worth anything, who had made you believe you weren't invisible, made you the perfect recipient for her fury.

You were vulnerable, not resistant, for you defeatedly accepted this as just a little bit of the hell you deserved for having disappointed Wanda. Your Wanda.

"You got everything you wanted," she continued. "Everything you wanted in exchange for being my good girl. And isn't that enough? You had to look outside for what you could have here, with me?"

Before you could apologize, or beg for mercy, you felt the touch of her face against the fabric of your panties, where she inhaled deeply.

"I should have known my baby girl wanted to be fucked, hm?" She commented, more softly than before. The scent of your involuntary arousal soothed her unlike any other. "My bad.”

“I… I'm so… I'm so stupid,” you whimpered, your words laced with embarrasment. Your tears had already formed a small, glistening puddle on the surface of her desk, reflecting the dim candlelight.

"Shhh, nothing to be ashamed of," she whispered in your ear. Her body pressed against your back with almost reverent care, as though she wanted to hold you rather than crush you. After all, you were someone fragile, someone precious that deserved protection from the claws of the outside world. "Oh, my darling," she cooed, with a gentleness so sincere that it made you forget, if only for an instant, the trust that had been broken. "No more tears," she commanded softly.

She stuck out her tongue and slid it tenderly over your cheek, gathering the salty trace of your regret.

She extended her tongue, moving it with deliberate tenderness across your tear-stained cheek, collecting each salty droplet that marked your sorrow.

The warm, wet sensation of her tongue against your skin, the taste of your regret, provoked her to elicit a deep, satisfied moan that resonated through her whole body and into yours.

It shouldn't have felt like salvation, but it did. And naturally, you yearned for more, as you did with form of contact that she could offer you.

And, with the same quiet desperation of a sinner seeking absolution, you turned your head, parted your lips, and let the tip of your tongue meet hers. She stilled for a moment, just a moment, before answering you kindly. A gentle meeting of tongues, tentative at first, but then so natural and carefree. Like you had done this a thousand times before. In a previous lifetime, perhaps.

The kiss deepened, her tongue exploring yours with the same careful attention she gave to every aspect of your being. Her mouth moved against yours with a rhythm that spoke of ownership, of belonging, each sweep of her tongue claiming territory that had always been rightfully hers. Not anyone else’s.

The taste of her, sharp and sweet like consecrated wine, filled your senses until there was nothing else. No past mistakes, no future uncertainties, just the perfect present of her mouth commanding yours.

Your heart thundered against her desk, no longer from fear but from the raw intensity of being truly seen, truly possessed. Each sigh you drew was heavy with the innate air of submission you emanated, sweeter than any prayer you'd ever offered. And she inhaled it blissfully.

"Out there, they only know how to take from you," she whispered against your lips. "But here, my precious girl, I'll make sure you get everything you need. No need to look outside ever again."

“Yes,” was the only thing you needed to say, and it was the only thing she needed to hear.

She left a kiss on your cheek, both as a thankful gesture and as a silent assurance before she knelt to the level of her desk where you were still bent over, now in front of her.

You felt her warm breath clash against the sensitive skin between your legs as she pushed your underwear to the side.

She trailed her tongue against your folds, making you gasp at the sudden foreign intrusion. No one has ever tasted you before. Natasha thought it was too intimate.

But screw Natasha. There you had everything you’d ever needed.

Her eyes widened in awe. She had just discovered a flavor so intoxicating, so essential, that she couldn’t imagine life before tasting it. And the last ounce of self-control vanished as she lunged forward, devouring your pussy with the desperation of a starved creature finally set free.

She wanted you to interiorize with every fiber of your being that this was where you belonged, under her ministrations, receiving the divine attention only she could provide.

It was overwhelming, not just physically, but emotionally. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes shut tight and your head struggled to process the intensity of it all.

"Oh, Wanda!" You whimpered, your voice thick with need for more. Always needed more of her, didn't you? The words barely made it past your lips before dissolving into desperate gasps.

It was all too much. The cool surface of the desk against your heated skin, the warmth of her mouth claiming you so intimately, the sting from your punishment mixing with rising pleasure until you couldn't distinguish between the two.

"Tell me where do you belong," she demanded, pulling back just so she could speak. The sudden absence of her tongue made you whine pathetically. You felt hollow inside.

"With you, only with you!" You vowed, proudly. "I've always been yours."

Your admission seemed to ignite something animalistic in her. She growled against your flesh, the vibrations making your thighs tremble.

Your hands fisted helplessly against the polished wood, seeking grounding as your body threatened to collapse under the assault of her mouth.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only her mouth working you with devastating precision, only the building pressure deep in your core that threatened to tear you apart. Your consciousness narrowed to a singular point of pure feeling.

"Give it to me, my sweet girl," she murmured, her words muffled against your flesh.

Your body responded to her command before your mind could process it. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, manifesting itself through your release, and she swallowed every drop of it. She wasn't going to stop until she made sure to dry you out.

Your vision blurred, spots of light dancing behind your closed eyelids as you succumbed completely to her dominance, that didn't seem to cease despite your surrender.

"Oh, p-please..." you gasped, though you weren't sure what you were begging for, to stop or to continue.

Regardless, she didn't stop, didn't even slow down. If anything, your pleas spurred her on, her tongue moving with renewed vigor as she worked you through your release. Your legs shook violently, and if not for her firm grip on your hips, you would have fell down like a ragdoll.

"Mine," she established, finally pulling back to admire her work. Your swollen, pink pussy throbbing with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

A rustle of fabric caught your attention, followed by the cool touch of silicone against your worn out hole. She leaned over you, pressing soft kisses along your spine as she aligned herself.

"My precious girl," she whispered, intertwining her fingers with yours on the desk. You turned your head to meet her gaze, overwhelmed by the tenderness in her eyes.

She pressed forward slowly, letting you adjust to the feeling of being filled. Her other hand caressed your cheek lovingly, wiping away the remnants of your tears. You leaned into her touch, turning to kiss her palm.

"Please, I want you," you breathed, squeezing her hand. "Only you, always you."

She began to move with gentle, measured thrusts, each one accompanied by sweet words of praise and affection.

She leaned down to press her lips against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The new angle made you gasp into her mouth as she hit a particularly sensitive, spongy spot inside you.

"There, my love," she encouraged, maintaining the steady rhythm that was slowly building you towards another peak. "You're doing so good. Always making me so proud."

Her thrusts became more purposeful, but never lost their tenderness. One hand remained firmly clasped with yours while the other wrapped around your waist, holding you close as she fucked you thoroughly.

Your breath hitched as she increased her pace, each thrust now hitting deeper inside you. Her lips found yours again, swallowing your moans as she drove you closer to the edge. The feeling of fullness, of being completely possessed by her, was overwhelming.

Wanda's embrace tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against her body as she continued her relentless rhythm. She delivered sloppy pecks on your lips, gentle brushes against your cheeks, tender touches along your jawline. Despite her agitated breathing, not for a second did she halt her worshipping.

"Let go for me," she whispered against your ear, her accent slipping out.

Her order, combined with the perfect angle of her thrusts, sent you spiraling into another intense orgasm. Your walls clenched around her as waves of pleasure coursed through your body. She held you through it all, her arms secure around your waist, her lips pressing sweet kisses to your temple.

"Good job," she cooed, slowly bringing you down from your high. "You're perfect, absolutely perfect."

As your breathing steadied, she carefully withdrew, turning you in her arms to face her. Her eyes were full of adoration as she cupped your face, thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. She pressed her forehead against yours, sharing the same breath, the same space, the same devotion.

"No more fucking that girl, understood?" she asked. It was clear you were never going to let Natasha lay a hand on you again, not after this. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear you say it.

"No, never again," you assured her. "I know now, I shouldn't look outside what only you can provide for me.”

"Hmm, that's how a good girl talks," she commented, pulling away from you, intending to see your reaction when she told you the following. "Well. It's not like she's going to show up again anyway. While I was fucking you, she was probably heading on a plane back to Russia.”

[becca-e-barnes]

Ma’am, you are deviously incredible 🔥 We’re begging for an exploration of him saying “I love you” while fucking her like he doesn’t 🥹

My brain keeps picking up the storyline a few splendidly torturous hours in when her body’s completely spent & quivering & she’s a blubbering mess & that’s when he picks her up & takes his sweet time positioning her so she can limply yet eagerly watch their reflection has he finally gives her… exactly what her twitching body’s been craving. 🥵

I'm so glad you all enjoyed the thought of this as much as I did because I've been dying to expand on it 😵‍💫 (Part 1 here)

I like to imagine by that stage, he's absolutely desperate too though. He's got to feel your sweet little pussy clench and flutter around him, contracting so tight every time you cum that he swears it's going to be the end of him.

He's been too hard for too long, buried inside your body and he swears he's never felt you this wet or this hot before. It's been fucking luxurious, forcing you to cum against his fingers, feeling how your body's natural reaction is to coax him to drain his balls into you but that alone isn’t enough. He needs more than that.

He wouldn't admit it to you but he can't take any more. His balls feel like they're fizzing; overfull and beyond ready to flood your waiting, overstimulated body.

He arranges you gently, laying you on your front because he doesn't trust your trembling arms to support you. "That's it, good girl." He coos, hearing you whimper and sob pathetically because he needs to slip out of you to slide a pillow under your hips.

"You've made such a mess." He groans, taking a second to appreciate the delicious, inviting, slick little cunt he's about to indulge in. "You're dripping, sweetheart. God, I just know there's no way I'm going to be able to pull out."

His huge hands are gripping your hips and with one sharp, brutal thrust, he's back inside you and you both sob pathetically at the feeling of your bodies being joined again. This is exactly what you've needed but you don't have the words to tell him that. All you can do is whine and will your body not to cum again so soon.

"I meant. What I said earlier." He punctuates his sentence with soft groans, drawing back until he almost slips out of you before pounding back in.

He leans forward, tilting your chin up, making sure you can see the way he's fucking you in the mirror at the end of the bed.

"I love you. And I don't want you to forget that." He sounds sincere, one hand trailing up from the small of your back to right between your shoulder blades and then back down again. It feels intimate and tender but all that is forgotten by the very next thrust.

"I love you. But for now, you're just a mindless. Little. Drooling. Breedable. Cunt for me." He slows his thrusts down, determined not to cum so soon but it's going to be difficult to last until he gets the first couple of loads out of the way.

"Baby..." You whimper, feeling the tip of his cock nudge against your sweet spot, making you shake from overstimulation.

"I know sweetheart, I know. It's too much. But you're being so good for me. You're so perfect. How have no idea how you feel. So wet and warm and I can feel you fluttering around my cock. It's like you're trying to squeeze every last drop of cum out of me. Is that what you want? Because angel, I'll keep this delicious cunt stuffed full of load after load until I have nothing left to give you."

His thrusts are punishingly fast, thumping against your raised ass, half chasing his orgasm, half holding it back.

"And when I do, I'll remind you just how much I love you. And the baby I'm going to give you tonight."

With that thought, he can't stop himself from cumming, his dick twitching inside you as he shoots thick ropes of his seed right against your cervix. You're so cock-drunk you can only rut yourself millimetres back and forth but that's all you need to send yourself spiralling into another orgasm that leaves you trembling and sobbing.

"Fuck, you want that as much as I do, don't you?" He kisses the back of your neck, breathing you in while letting the euphoric rush subside. He notices he hasn't softened in the slightest despite such an intense orgasm but he knows he needs to be gentle with you for a moment before he can get any rougher.

[yolli-es]

this is my first request can we please get a yandere jinx headcanons please

Yandere!Jinx × Reader ❤️‍🩹

Tags: NO spoilers for season 2, abuse, mentions of death

This is my first request too, and I am SO HAPPY!! I've wanted to write about this for a long time, but it was difficult for me. Believe me, I broke my head typing all this.

Jinx lacked tenderness and care in her life.

Vi showed her support and love in Jinx's childhood; Silco did the same thing later... it's still not enough.

When Jinx lost Silko and her sister, who had just come back into her life, she was on the verge of death. Not a day went by without her crying, hysterics, and self-harming. It was horrible, painful, and pathetic.

She also took on a mountain of responsibility for which she was never prepared.

And then you appeared. So serious, responsible, and ready for anything. You came to her office and did all the dirty work.

And also very understanding, kind, and patient.

Having witnessed her breakdown, you were absolutely calm. You did not run away, stayed close and pulled her back together.

Even after Jinx's numerous outbursts at you, even after the hard work and all that crap, you stayed. By her side, with her curse.

You reminded her of Vi with your kindness and Silko with your devotion. All the best in one person.

No, more expensive than them.

How could she not become attached to you?

You are the center of her life, the main object of her attention.

It was becoming physically painful for Jinx to be away from you for longer than 8 hours.

Whenever you worked, she always found a reason to be there, justifying it with help or a simple check on the quality of work.

She also began to keep her emotions in check, often biting her lips until they bled just to keep the voices from getting the better of her.

Jinx pays no less attention to her "work" because she noticed how your eyes sparkle while she creates a new gadget or uses it in action.

Now she does all this for you. Just for you.

Jinx just wanted to seem normal to you. Better than what you had already seen. She didn't want to scare you or make you hate her.

That's why she will never admit that she is following you.

Unfortunately, you're not always willing to share your personal life with the "boss," so she had to take matters into her own hands.

Going to the store? She's in the shadow of the stores. Sitting at the bar? She's taken the table behind you. Sleeping in your house? She's outside the window, and in a couple of hours, next to your bed.

Jinx counted all the moles on your face.

She only felt guilty once, when she was spying on you in the shower.

Jinx knew it was wrong, but she just couldn't say "no" to herself then. Mylo made cruel jokes about her afterward.

But it's your own fault for never locking the doors, isn't it?

Now she knows the exact number of moles, scars, and birthmarks on your entire body.

Your things started disappearing, and yes, it was her doing.

Jinx just wanted to have a piece of you in her home.

But then, when Jinx was so deeply in love with you, something irreparable happened—truly terrible for Jinx.

You find a partner.

You didn't even Fucking tell her. She saw it for herself when you were kissing so dirty at the bar.

Jinx was scared. The voices started screaming.

"You've been abandoned again, traded again."

This is the point of no return. Jinx can no longer hold the boundaries.

She didn't want, no, she couldn't lose you like Silko and Vi. She's not an idiot, and twice was enough.

As soon as you are alone, Jinx knocks you out and takes you to her.

It seemed like she had been preparing for this before, like "just in case."

The first month was terrible. You were struggling and didn't want to listen to Jinx at all.

Jinx didn't even tie you up, leaving you to roam around the room freely. This caused problems, and every time Jinx had to fight you. It was shitty, she got seriously beaten by you every time because she couldn't respond properly so as not to hurt you.

She was understanding and patient, just like you were with her before this.

But as soon as you started talking about freedom, Jinx would break down.

She was so angry, screaming and clutching her head. She even brought a knife with her once.

Jinx even swung at you but never hit you. No, that's too hard. You don't deserve it.

Every time after that, she pulled her hair as punishment.

She didn't really want to keep you here, a secret from everyone. Jinx was crazy, but not stupid, and was perfectly aware of what she was doing. But she also couldn't risk it anymore.

What if you run away? What if you find someone again?

Jinx was just afraid of losing you. The thought made her shake and feel sick.

You didn't understand why she was doing this to you. You really loved Jinx, and now you're getting this?

Once you realize that Jinx is just scared, everything becomes easier.

Still, you came to work here just for her. A stupid affair in a bar shouldn't have hurt your baby blue so much.

When she came to you and heard a declaration of love instead of the usual "get lost," it made her freeze. And then smile.

She didn't believe it.

And then you stopped fighting with her, being rude, and seemed to be okay with Jinx's extra touching.

The moment of realizing that it was not a joke was the happiest and, at the same time, the most frightening.

Now she had no room for error and she thought about all the possible future failures. And then you kissed her and Jinx immediately melted. She managed to focus on you and not on her mistakes.

She had never done this before.

Finally, your relationship has become official.

It took you another week before you could finally get out of there. Jinx still didn't trust you completely, even though she tried.

Jinx's house is your home; if you need something, then she needs something too; if you go somewhere, then she goes too.

Jinx was also very clingy. Before, she held herself back and didn't allow herself to touch you unless absolutely necessary. Now, she can do it as much as she wants. She doesn't care where you are, when, or why; there is no wrong time for a hug, a kiss, or a light slap.

Finally, Jinx can ask you the weirdest, stupidest, most personal, and most lustful questions. You are a couple, after all, and that means she has the right to know everything about you.

And it doesn’t matter that she already knows most of your stories.

Jinx adores you and would do anything. But now she didn't trust the people around her at all.

Suspicious meetings with someone better than Jinx will be seen as blatant betrayal in her eyes. And believe me, she won't let it go that easily.

At times like these, she regrets that she gave you back your freedom.

At first, Jinx will be angry. She will definitely start a showdown, possibly right there on the spot.

Often this went beyond the boundaries of ordinary conversation, and Jinx just shot their limbs.

It's their own fault. Everyone knows Jinx, what's their problem?

But when you explain yourself, Jinx finally lets you see her real emotion.

In fact, Jinx is not confident at all. All the important people have left her; she won't survive another time.

Therefore, you are no longer allowed to communicate with anyone other than her.

A relationship with Jinx will be suffocating, but she will never make you feel lonely, unloved or unfulfilled. She also takes care of all your basic needs.

Jinx is one of those yandere who will resort to any manipulation and tricks just so you don't leave her. Otherwise, she will break, and you will definitely know about it.

Your first sex will happen very quickly. What you expected from a touch-hungry girl?

Jinx has no experience at all, so she makes up for it with her energy. She kisses you, bites, pinches, and licks absolutely everything.

She will definitely leave hickeys on you. It's inevitable. 

When it comes to penetration, she suddenly becomes quiet and slow. She is just a little awkward and very scared. 

What if she hurts you? Or is it unpleasant? Or maybe you already feel disgusted by her? 

Kiss her, and it will give her confidence. Jinx will definitely squeeze her legs while you do it. 

When her hand finally reaches your pussy, it will trigger for her. 

It means so much more to her. 

Jinx's hand does a very good job of getting two fingers in at once and pressing on your clit. This is definitely too much for you, so Jinx will have to lean on top of you to keep you from pulling away from her. 

Kisses, kisses, kisses. There will never be enough. 

Jinx will also be very loud. She won't mind at all if everyone knows how good and pleasant it is for her to be with you. 

For the same reason, she will not kiss you on the lips; this will drown out your pleasant moans.

After the first time, Jinx is unstoppable. Now she's ready to fuck you anywhere and anytime. 

Often her initially innocent touches develop into hot sex.

Once you did it against a wall and Jinx held you. It surprised you, but she said that any of her guns would be heavier than you. 

Jinx is also not against experimenting in bed. 

Shibari is her favorite, and she gets better and better at it every time. 

But still, Jinx will never share you with someone. Don't even ask; the thought of it seriously pisses her off. 

Jinx loves to whisper in your ear, "You belong to me.". 

Do the same, and she will definitely get an orgasm.

Touch her as much as possible.

It might be a little rough; it's okay if you touch her. 

Playing with her hair not only calms Jinx down but also turns her on. 

No matter how wild and wayward Jinx is, she will always listen to you. She will definitely notice if you don't like something. 

Ask Jinx anything, and she will do it. 

Spank you? Jinx will make you count. Choke you? She'll be gentle with that. Threesome? NO.

Jinx adores and loves you and is very dependent on you. Sex is one of her ways to show you this. 

I honestly think that Yandere!Jinx is canon Jinx in relationship. I'm also not sure that I wrote everything I wanted to.. I had to miss sleep but I'm just so happy for your support. Thank you. 🥹

[cxffecoupx]

soonyoung as a girl dad

girl dad! soonyoung fluff, smut (just a lil), requested warnings: reader has a womb, soonyoung absolutely whipped for his baby girl, mentions of him wanting a lot of kids, sex (again, i tried) wc: 925 author's notes: thank you, anon, for requesting this, because i loved it way too much. i got carried away a lil heh, but i hope you enjoy this. (and i might do a boy dad! soonyoung too, maybe)

girl dad! soonyoung who starts jumping up and down in excitement when he sees his little baby girl. he is emotional of course, but his happiness somehow overpowers with the way he keeps smiling giddily and kisses the little baby in his arms. runs over to you to tell you how adorable she looks with his eyes and your smile, but he talks so fast that you cant really keep up with him, but just keep smiling because his happiness is so damn contagious.

girl dad! soonyoung who is always so ready to shopping for baby items. he was so so excited to buy a little rocking cot for the baby before the delivery. now he buys a ton lot of plushies and toys, and you only notice at the checkout that most of them are tiger shaped ones.

girl dad! soonyoung who disappears almost immediately when you enter the clothes shop, only to return 10 minutes later with not one, not two, but three matching tiger onesies, complete with hood and all. you dont even argue with him because you know he's been waiting for this. hell, he'd been planning this ever since he's fucked a baby into you. buys a LOT of more matching clothes, but he's always eyeing the onesies with the brightest of smiles.

girl dad! soonyoung who is always around you and the baby, cooing and giggling at her while telling you jokes. he has his hands interlinked with you whenever you're together, and you know he'll he around to offer you as much help and support you need during this difficult time.

girl dad! soonyoung who learns from his mom, how to take care of your baby. learns about how to feed her, when to feed her, how to burp her, how to change her diapers, how to know why she's crying. he rushes over whenever she starts crying at night, but not before telling you to go back to sleep and that he'll handle it.

girl dad! soonyoung who dresses her up in her tiger onesie when his friends and family come over to meet her. when they arrive, they find the door open and the first thing they see when they enter is two and a half tiger looking people. jihoon asks you to blink twice if you need help, and you cant help but shake your head and sigh watching soonyoung keep up his tiger persona.

girl dad! soonyoung who feels like she grew up within the blink of an eye, and starts missing her baby days when she becomes one year old. but at the same time, he starts to learn how to tie and braid her hair, starts to buy more fashionable clothes for her because to him, "she's either going big or going home". his words, not yours.

girl dad! soonyoung who starts trying for his next baby right after his first child hits one year. he had already told you how he wanted to have a football team of children with you, and although you scoffed at him then, you did discuss to have at least 3 children. "the rest", he said, "we can decide later".

soonyoung who, although swears he loves his baby girl, is absolutely ecstatic when he learns that his mother has volunteered to babysit her for one night. and he promises to take full advantage of it. he pushes your face down into the mattress the second you agree to have more kids and thrusts in deep to make sure that you're pregnant by the next day. his low groans elicit louder moans from you, and he's never been more thankful for his mother, he thinks later.

girl dad! soonyoung who dances with his daughter every single day. it started very unexpectedly though. you were all in the living room and watching music videos until a song came up and your daughter started throwing random moves outta nowhere. this was enough for soonyoung though, to jump up from the couch and hold your baby's hands and dance with her. it didnt take long before they pulled you in too, just three people goofing around in their living room.

girl dad! soonyoung who, even though has a passion for dancing, never forced your daughter towards it. agreed, that seeing his daughter dance to songs makes him feel very proud. and although he'd love to see his daughter has a dancer like he is, he never ever wants to push her to something she doesnt like. which is exactly why he's over the moon when she asks him to take her to his dance studio or practice rooms.

girl dad! soonyoung who is always at the front row seats whenever your child's school has any programs. he's always the first to jump from his seat and give a standing ovation for anything your daughter does on stage, whether it be a dance performance or a speech or singing. he's just very very proud of his baby girl, forever.

girl dad! soonyoung who had a lot planned for his family before his marriage. and even though it doesnt always happen according to them, he's happy for the most adorable daughter who unmistakably takes after him (except for his obsession with tigers tho, which makes him pout), and for the most beautiful wife who he continues to love every single day. he's happy for this small family that he has now, but he's even happier looking forward to expanding it and maybe even have a football team of children. whatever you're up for.

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — six

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 35.5k 

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — you and mark aren’t together anymore, but somehow you’ve grown closer than ever. every moment you share feels more intimate, blurring the line between friendship and love. but secrets, old wounds, and buried pain threaten to tear you apart again. campus tension, a difficult practice, and an eventful party only add to the strain. now, you’re left wondering if closeness is enough to mend what’s been shattered.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, phone sex, sexting, explicit themes, lots of pent up frustration and tension, really angsty chapter (get tissues), y/n bit of a girlboss in this i fear, mark and y/n have difficult conversations, he’s very needy and messy in this, mark this chapter will make you realize all guys are the same and only want pussy😭, for once y/n is emotional support queen, emotional outbursts from mark, mark is quite cold and distant this chapter at times, horny mark, mark who tries to use sex as a distraction and escape tut tut, in general mark will give you whiplash this chapter, i delve into a side of him that you haven’t seen before, yn finally not taking people’s shit for once!, karina is hot as always, karina and jeno… yeah, y/n and jeno are shippable in this i fear, don’t take them seriously, they’re just besties who don’t know how to stop flirting!, but in all seriousness, jeno is 🥺 the best fucking brother and friend ever, college party scene ofc, mentions of pills, drug dealing, stay safe !!

authors note — the finale is 80k words. i’ve decided to split it into two parts. it’s all written but i’m uploading this now and part 7 next week. the finale is connected, meaning part 7 takes place exactly where part 6 ends… enjoy, this is gonna be one hell of a ride.  

[fic ml]

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

The apartment feels unnaturally still, like it’s holding its breath alongside you. The faint hum of the city outside, usually a comfort, feels distant tonight, muffled by the thick tension hanging in the air. Even the soft glow of the string lights draped over the windows seems dimmer, their warm hue failing to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. You sink into the couch, the plush cushions swallowing your frame as if they could somehow shield you from the weight pressing on your chest. 

The faint scent of vanilla—Karina’s favorite candle—lingers in the air, too soothing for a night like this. Across from you, Karina sits perched in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat settling in for the long haul. She doesn’t say a word, but her watchful eyes, softened by concern, flicker to your face, scanning it like she’s searching for a crack in the silence. Her fingers absently play with the hem of her oversized sweater. Her face is unreadable at first, but her furrowed brows and the way she bites her lip betray her concern. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, just waits in the silence that feels like it could swallow you both whole.

Finally, you let the words fall, heavy and raw. Her eyes widen slightly as she leans forward, sensing the shift before you even finish speaking. When you tell her everything, she’s silent at first. Completely still. You can almost hear her mind racing as she processes it all, her gaze flickering between sympathy and disbelief.

“So… it’s over?” Her voice is tentative, the words breaking the silence like a stone dropped in still water.

You hesitate, your throat tightening as the memories of last night replay in your mind—You tell her everything—how the argument had been the breaking point, how the two of you had finally laid everything bare, resolved what you could, communicated in a way that you hadn’t in weeks. But even with the air cleared, the weight of it all had remained, and you’d come to a mutual understanding that, for now, you had to let go. The words still feel foreign on your tongue, too final and jagged to fully accept but you force yourself. “Yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “We broke up.”

Karina’s face shifts immediately, her lips pressing into a thin line as she takes it in. There’s no hesitation in her reaction. In a heartbeat, she’s up and crossing the small space between you. She sits beside you on the couch, her warmth engulfing you as her arms wrap around you tightly. It’s not a gentle embrace—it’s firm, grounding, as if she’s trying to hold you together while you unravel. “Oh, babe,” she murmurs, her voice thick with empathy. “I’m so sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

Her words hit you like a dagger, and your already wobbly composure crumbles further. Your throat tightens, your chest feels heavy, and Karina’s embrace, meant to ground you, suddenly feels too much—too close. You squirm, shifting uncomfortably in her arms, desperate for a sliver of space to breathe. She notices immediately, her head tilting as if to ask, Really? But instead of loosening her hold, she only pulls you closer, squeezing tighter.

“Oh no,” she says dramatically, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “You’re not getting away from me that easily. I’m your emotional support bestie, and you will accept this hug whether you like it or not.”

“Karina, stop,” you groan, trying and failing to push her away as she holds on for dear life, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“You don’t need to breathe. You need to feel the love,” she says, completely unbothered, patting your back with mock seriousness.

You huff, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips, and Karina seems to sense the crack in your armor. She finally lets go, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with deliberate gentleness. Her teasing melts into something softer as she studies you, but the twitch of her lips hints at trouble.

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with a familiar glint. “You’re doing what’s best for you both right now,” she says carefully, her tone sincere, but her smirk betrays her. “But if I know you—and him—this isn’t over. Not for real.”

You glare at her, though it’s half-hearted. “Don’t,” you warn, but she only raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“What?” she says innocently, leaning back into the armchair, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, you two are like… inevitable. A little break isn’t going to change that.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the armrest, cutting through the tension. Karina’s grin only deepens as she wiggles her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying herself. “And that, my friend, is called perfect timing.”

You grab it instinctively, expecting anything but the name that flashes on the screen.

mark — y/n, are you awake? mark — i need u mark — y/n.  mark — five missed calls.

Your heart stutters as the notifications glare back at you, each one a tug on the fragile strings holding you together. The urgency in his words is unmistakable, a magnet pulling your thoughts entirely to him. Your chest tightens as your thumb hovers over his name, your breath catching in anticipation.

“Karina,” you murmur, your voice almost trembling as you break the silence. “He’s—he’s texting me.”

Karina leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the messages on your screen. Her expression softens, concern flickering in her gaze, but it’s soon overshadowed by something else—a mischievous glint you don’t trust. “What does he mean, ‘I need you’?” she asks, her tone caught somewhere between genuine worry and playful curiosity. Before you can answer, her gaze flicks toward the door, and a sly smile tugs at her lips. “Actually,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement, “I know exactly what he means.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina, now is not the time for this,” you say sharply, though your voice wavers under the growing weight of the moment.

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” she replies breezily, leaning back against the armchair as if she’s already won this round. But before you can fire back, a sharp knock echoes through the apartment.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and your head snaps toward the door. “No way,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. Your eyes dart to Karina, who looks far too smug for your liking.

“Oh, way,” she says, practically bouncing up from her spot on the couch. “And you’re welcome,” she adds, her tone dripping with self-satisfaction as she strides toward the door with all the confidence of someone about to deliver the punchline of a joke they’ve been sitting on for hours.

“Karina, don’t—” But it’s too late. She swings the door open in one fluid motion, stepping aside dramatically as if presenting the answer to all your questions.

Mark stands there, disheveled and strikingly vulnerable, the faint glow from the hallway light catching on his features and casting soft shadows across his face. His hoodie is slightly wrinkled, the fabric clinging to him in places as if it had been tugged and twisted during his anxious movements. His joggers hang low on his hips, the waistband slightly skewed, like he hadn’t bothered to fix them in his rush to get here. His hair is a wild mess, strands sticking up in every direction, as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. And his eyes—those familiar, piercing eyes—are a storm of exhaustion and unspoken desperation. They meet yours instantly, and your chest tightens at the sight of him.

“Mark,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips so softly it’s barely audible, like a prayer you didn’t even realize you were saying. The breath catches in your lungs, and for a moment, you don’t move, the sheer presence of him freezing you in place.

His hand rakes through his hair again, the motion rough and frustrated. “I need you,” he says again, his voice low but steady, the weight of those three words heavy with meaning. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter, his gaze locked onto yours as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

You take a small step back, your hand still resting on Mark’s forearm as the question tumbles out, unbidden. “Did you finally tell—” Your voice cuts off mid-sentence as the weight of his gaze shifts, his eyes flickering briefly to the side. You follow his line of sight and immediately catch Karina, still perched on the bottom step of the staircase, her head tilted with blatant curiosity. Her chin rests on her hand, her eyebrows raised as though she’s watching the climax of a particularly juicy movie.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. It’s enough to make your stomach twist. The memory of his earlier plea echoes in your mind: Don’t tell anyone—not until I’m ready.

Karina notices the shared glance between you and Mark and suddenly seems to realize she’s been caught. She sits up straighter, blinking innocently. “What?” she says, her voice far too casual, but her wide eyes betray her interest. “I’m just… here for moral support.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina,” you murmur, a quiet exasperation lacing your tone. Mark doesn’t say a word, but the sharpness in his eyes speaks volumes.

She groans, throwing her hands up as she rises to her feet. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, clearly unimpressed with being dismissed. She starts toward the stairs with a dramatic sigh. Her door clicks shut, and the apartment falls into a heavy silence once more. Mark’s shoulders relax, but only slightly, his hand brushing against yours again. You feel the weight of his gaze pull you back to the moment, his expression unreadable but filled with something vulnerable, something raw.

You exhale, finally looking back at him. “Mark…” You step forward instinctively, your movements slow, almost tentative. Your bare feet pad softly against the hardwood floor as you close the distance, and the moment you’re close enough, your hand reaches out before you can stop it. Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his hoodie, and the contact feels electric, grounding, like touching something you’ve missed for far too long.

“Come inside,” you murmur, your voice softer now, almost pleading. You tug lightly at his arm, your grip firm but gentle, and he lets you pull him over the threshold, his body following yours as if he’s been waiting for this, for you, all night. The door clicks shut behind him, but you don’t let go of his arm. Instead, you pull him deeper into the apartment, leading him into the warm light of the living room.

Your hands shift, one sliding down to his wrist while the other lingers on his forearm. His skin feels warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and your thumb grazes the edge of it absentmindedly, as if trying to ground yourself in the reality of him standing here, in front of you. You don’t know if you’re holding him or if he’s anchoring you—it feels like both.

When you stop, he’s standing so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with something distinctly him—something familiar and comforting. Your eyes roam over him, taking in every detail: the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he looks at you, the slight redness in his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. You reach up without thinking, your hand brushing against the side of his face, your fingers lingering just below his jaw. His stubble feels rough against your skin, and the contact makes your stomach flip.

“Talk to me,” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a question or a greeting—it’s an acknowledgment. A reminder that he’s here, and so are you. The intimacy of the moment feels overwhelming, as if the weight of everything unsaid hangs in the air between you.

His eyes soften for a fleeting moment, just enough for you to catch the vulnerability behind the storm raging in his expression. Slowly, his hand rises to cover yours, his palm warm and steady against your knuckles. The contact feels grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you, and when he leans into your touch—just slightly—you can feel the tension in his body begin to ease. His exhale is shaky, like he’s finally releasing a breath he’s been holding for hours, and it pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admits, his voice low and raw, the words heavy with meaning. It feels like a confession, like he’s laying a piece of himself bare for you. “I tried, but I just—” His voice falters, cracks under the weight of his emotions, and he looks down, his grip on your hand tightening as if afraid you might pull away. “I need you, Y/N. I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a wave of emotion crashing over you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your throat tightening as his words settle deep in your chest. Slowly, your thumb brushes along his jawline, your touch gentle against his tension. “I’m here,” you whisper softly, and somehow those two words feel like a promise—one you’re both desperately trying to hold onto in the chaos of everything.

But the moment doesn’t last. Reality crashes back in like a cold wave as your thoughts shift. “Did you tell Coach?” you ask abruptly, your tone sharper than intended as your hand falls away.

Mark’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering as he fights to hold back whatever storm is brewing inside him. His gaze drops to the floor, his shoulders stiff with tension, as though the weight of your words has settled squarely on them. The silence between you feels heavy, stretching for a moment too long, and yet the guilt etched across his face tells you everything before he even opens his mouth. It’s in the way his brows knit together, in the way his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides, as if he’s grappling with something he can’t quite articulate. When he finally exhales, the sound is low and strained, carrying with it an apology he hasn’t yet spoken but that you can already feel in your chest.

“Mark,” you press, your voice rising with worry and frustration. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t respond right away, his head bowing further as he takes a hesitant step closer. His eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and pleading, meet yours. “Y/N, I—”

“No,” you cut him off, taking a step back. Your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions, but the edge of frustration sharpens it. “Your health is not a game, Mark. This isn’t something you can keep putting off like it’s not a big deal. Do you know how scared I am for you? How helpless I feel every time I think about what could happen to you?”

His shoulders sag under your words, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. “I know, okay? I know,” he says, his voice strained. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest as you glare at him. “But you still haven’t told Coach, have you?”

“Y/N.” His voice is soft but carries an urgency that demands your attention. He takes a tentative step toward you, his gaze searching yours for an opening, for understanding.

“Mark,” you interrupt, your tone sharp, though your heart clenches at the look on his face. “If you don’t tell Coach, then I will. I mean it.” Your voice wavers slightly, but the resolve in your words is clear. You’re not letting this go, not when his health is on the line.

He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “That’s what my best friend keeps telling me,” he says, almost like he’s admitting defeat.

Your brows furrow, confusion cutting through your frustration. “She knows?”

Mark nods slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. She's known for a while. She found my medication… or, well, the full packets of them. She put two and two together and realized I haven’t told Coach, and that I haven’t been taking any of it. Even though I’m supposed to.” His voice drops, laced with guilt, and you can see the weight of his own choices pressing down on him.

“Mark,” you murmur, the sharpness in your tone softening. You step closer, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “Do you even realize how much this scares me? I can’t—I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you. You mean too much to me.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you press your lips together, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, or how much you want to push through this on your own. You can’t. You need help, and I can’t just sit here and watch you ignore this.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unspoken. His hand brushes over yours, his thumb running across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “That’s why I came here to you,” he says, his voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in it.

Your chest tightens, your voice soft but firm as you respond. “Mark, this isn’t just about me being here for you. It’s about you taking this seriously. You can’t keep putting this off, thinking it’ll just go away.”

His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide and searching your face. “Y/N, don’t,” he pleads, taking another step closer. “I promise I’ll do it. I came here to tell you that I’ve made up my mind. I just… I need you with me. I can’t do it alone.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in your chest. You know how hard this is for him, how deeply he struggles with the idea of vulnerability, but that doesn’t make the fear you feel for him any less intense. “I’ll be there,” you say softly, your tone steady but firm. “Coach needs to know, Mark. And so do your parents, your doctor—people who can help you. This is your health, and it’s too important to keep brushing aside.”

“And I will tell him,” he promises, his voice soft but filled with determination. “I swear to you, Y/N. I’ll do it. Just… be there with me.”

You nod, a sense of relief mixing with the overwhelming love you feel for him. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly. “But I’ll be prouder when you actually do it.”

His hand moves to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. His touch is steady, grounding, but there’s a nervous energy in the way his fingers linger, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering, raw. “You’re the reason I’m doing this,” he murmurs, the words almost trembling on his lips, yet spoken with certainty. “You make me want to be better… to take care of myself.”

Your chest tightens as his words sink in, the weight of his sincerity nearly overwhelming you. You lift your free hand to his face, letting your palm cradle his jaw as your thumb traces the faint stubble along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, leaning into your touch as though he’s been starved for it. The vulnerability etched across his face makes your heart ache in ways you can’t put into words.

“You’ve got to take care of your heart, Mark,” you say softly, your voice trembling as you press your hand just a little firmer against his chest. “Your heart… it’s what makes you, you. It’s why you care so deeply, why you give so much of yourself, why—” Your voice catches, your words faltering under the weight of your emotions. Your eyes lock onto his, and you feel the sharp ache of vulnerability settle deep in your chest. “I can’t stand the thought of it failing you. Not physically, not in any way. I can’t lose that part of you. I just… I can’t.”

Mark’s lips twitch, a faint smirk playing at the corners as he tilts his head, the teasing glint in his eyes softening the heaviness of the moment. “You’re getting awfully poetic on me,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with warmth. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch grounding. “Didn’t know you thought about my heart this much.”

The shift in Mark is so sudden it feels like emotional whiplash, but you don’t flinch. You know him too well for that—know how he clings to humor when reality cuts too deep. The teasing edge in his voice, the way his lips twitch with that familiar smirk—It’s his shield, his way of reclaiming control when everything else spirals beyond his grasp. You’ve seen this before, and you’re ready for it, prepared for him to use you as his distraction. It doesn’t surprise you when his thub brushes over your knuckles with a deliberate slowness, his gaze darkening with something playful, something just shy of dangerous. It’s a dance you’ve learned by heart—the way he turns vulnerability into teasing, the way his sarcasm softens the cracks he won’t let you see fully. And even as his smirk deepens, his thumb still lingers against your skin, grounding himself in you while pretending none of it matters.

Your cheeks grow warmer under his gaze, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside you. “Stop that,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you intended, almost drowned out by the sound of his steady breathing. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, as if betraying your words. “Stop teasing me,” you add, pouting, though the way your voice falters ruins any attempt at firmness.

His gaze softens, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there’s a quiet heat simmering in his eyes. “You make it so easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, the teasing laced with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes against your knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he’s savoring the moment. “You know I can’t help it when you look at me like that,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, warmer, each word drawing you closer.

“Like what?” you whisper, your voice soft but unwavering as you hold his gaze. “Like you mean the absolute world to me? Because you do, Mark.”

His breath hitches, and a quiet groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut for a brief second before locking back on yours, filled with a raw, unguarded softness. “God,” he mutters, almost like he’s cursing himself for the way you undo him.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, not from nerves but from the intensity crackling between you. Your eyes stay locked on his, refusing to waver.

“You’re fucking with me, baby,” he murmurs, the nickname slipping out, his tone rougher now, like he’s grappling with the way you’ve stripped him bare.

“I’m not doing anything,” you reply innocently, though the small tilt of your lips betrays you. 

“Oh yeah? You’re the one who keeps pressing your hand here—” His hand presses a little firmer over yours, trapping it against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat vibrates under your palm, grounding the moment, “—telling me how much my heart matters. Making it sound like it’s the most important thing in the world.” His voice drops into something almost hypnotic, laced with a teasing edge that sends a shiver through you. His eyes flick to yours, dark and intent, but behind the heat lies an unmistakable softness, a tenderness that slips through and holds you there, captivated.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a kiss so soft to the back of your hand that it makes your breath catch. He lingers there, the warmth of his lips sinking into your skin, before lowering your hands and resting them under his chin, cradling them gently as if you’re something fragile he refuses to let go of.

“That’s because it is the most important thing in the world for me,” 

His breath catches, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then, his lips twitch into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something deeper, something only you can give him. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even have to try.”

“You’re the same for me,” you whisper, your voice soft but heavy with meaning as your fingers thread through his hair. He exhales sharply, leaning into your touch, the vulnerability in his gaze unraveling something deep inside you. “Can we get more comfortable?” you murmur against him, your eyes dark and laden with a hidden message that makes his breath hitch.

The question slips out before you can retract it, instinctive and unguarded, because you need him just as much as he needs you. Around Mark, your self-control has always been fragile—something the two of you indulge and dismantle in equal measure. You’ll allow him to use you as his distraction tonight because it’s the only way you know how to meet him in moments like this, when everything feels too raw and too real. 

He nods softly, his hands sliding to your waist with purpose, steady and unhurried. His fingers curve firmly against your sides, and with a gentle but deliberate pull, he guides you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. The press of his hands doesn’t falter, holding you close as though making sure you won’t slip away. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate lines over your hips, grounding you in the warmth of his touch as he shifts you just enough to align your bodies perfectly. The soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the press of his thighs against yours add to the intimacy, his hands lingering at your waist, strong yet tender, as if savoring every inch of closeness he’s claimed.

Your palms slide over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until they cradle his face. His skin is warm under your touch, and you take a moment to just feel him, the closeness erasing the tension that’s been building between you. You don’t care that you’ve just broken up. None of that matters right now. What matters is the way your bodies gravitate toward each other like magnets, the way his eyes soften and darken all at once as he looks at you.

You crave his space, his warmth, the way his presence grounds you even when everything feels unsteady. The heat of him beneath you is intoxicating, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to move, not to grind against him the way you’ve been used to. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as you try to steady yourself, your hands still framing his face.

“I’ve never cared about anyone like you,” you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “Never cared about wanting to keep them safe, to keep them away from harm. I’ve never felt this before.” You pause, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you lean in closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Every time I think about what you’ve been dealing with, it gives me agony.”

“But you don’t have to face any of it alone. Ok?” you continue, your voice breaking slightly as your emotions spill over. “I never want you to get that idea. This isn’t only your burden to carry. When you push yourself too hard, when you refuse to take care of yourself… it ripples outward. It hurts everyone who cares about you, whether you see it or not. You think you’re sparing us, but you’re not. We’re in this with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your words trail off, leaving a charged silence between you. His gaze softens, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a quiet understanding he doesn’t voice. The pad of his thumb brushes over your skin again, slow and deliberate, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm. His breath, warm and steady, ghosts across your lips, and you can feel the unspoken tension thickening the air around you.

“So what is it, hmm?” His voice softens, but the teasing edge remains, a challenge hidden behind his tenderness. “What are you trying not to say?” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again, the moment hanging like a thread between you, waiting to snap.

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you falter, your fingers trembling under his touch. “I’m just trying to get you to take care of yourself,” you say quietly, deflecting, though your voice wavers under the weight of his attention.

Mark’s smirk deepens, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studies your face. “Take care of myself, huh?” he echoes, his voice dipping lower, smoother, like he’s testing the words on his tongue. His thumb continues its slow, deliberate stroke over your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “You sure about that? Because it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

He leans in closer, his forehead almost brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of teasing and tenderness, his gaze flickering down to where your fingers rest against his chest. “And you still can’t stop pressing your hand right there—like you’re trying to feel every beat, like you’re afraid to let go.” His lips hover near your temple, so close you can feel the ghost of his words as he speaks. “So tell me, Y/N… is it just about me taking care of myself, or are you trying to say something else?”

The heat in his gaze makes your chest tighten, a pressure building that feels both overwhelming and irresistible. His voice, soft but insistent, wraps around you, pulling at something buried deep within—a feeling so profound it leaves you breathless, yet fragile enough that naming it feels impossible. It’s in the way his eyes hold yours, unrelenting, as though he’s reaching into the parts of you you’ve kept hidden, the parts you’re not sure anyone is supposed to see. 

You huff, your chest rising and falling as you cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him with mock irritation. “This is so unfair. I just opened my heart to you, being softer than I’ve ever been, and you’re just… sitting there. Like it doesn’t even matter.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. His silence only fuels your frustration, and you shift, trying to push off his lap. “Fine, whatever,” you grumble. “Clearly, I’m wasting my—”

Before you can finish, his hands glide to your hips, his touch warm but deliberate as he steadies you. His fingers press gently into your sides, guiding you back into place with a quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. 

Then his lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and uneven as he leans closer, pressing himself against you. The way he tilts his head, the deliberate slowness of his movements, carries a weight you can’t ignore. The heat of him radiates against your skin as his nose brushes along your jawline. He whispers into your ear, it’s soft, almost reverent, his words slipping into the space between you like a quiet plea. 

He tells you how much he needs you—not just now, but tomorrow morning, and every moment after that, how you’re the only thing keeping him steady when the world feels too heavy. His voice trembles, each word carrying a weight you can’t resist, and in that moment, your resolve shatters, breaking apart under the raw intimacy of his touch and the quiet desperation in his voice.

Your throat tightens in annoyance. The look in his eyes—steady, raw, and searching—pulls at something deep inside you. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. “Stop trying to make this about me. This is about you, about you taking your health seriously. I need you as much as you need me but I need you safe and healthy.” You whisper, your voice trembling but edged with a quiet, desperate plea. Your thumb brushes over his chest absently, like you’re trying to soothe the ache you know lingers there for both of you. “This isn’t a game to me, Mark. You’re not a game to me.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies you, his gaze softening but never wavering. “And you think you are to me?” he asks, his voice low and intimate, the question so quiet it feels like it’s meant to echo only between the two of you. His fingers tighten subtly on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of his body sinking into yours.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand trembling against his chest. “No,” you admit, your voice barely audible, each word heavy with emotion. “But I can’t—Mark, I need you to stay. I can’t handle losing you. I can’t.”

His lips part like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves closer, his forehead brushing against yours with a tenderness that feels almost unbearable. His hands slide up, his thumbs grazing along the curve of your sides before settling on your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid to lose.

“You’re not losing me,” he whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret meant only for you. His breath brushes against your lips, warm and steady, as his hand moves to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in slow, tender circles. The closeness between you is overwhelming, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the faintest brush of his nose against your skin sending a shiver through you. “You mean everything to me, Y/N,” he breathes, his words trembling with emotion, his lips ghosting over yours without closing the distance. His fingers weave into your hair, his touch deliberate and soothing, like he’s trying to hold you together. “I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice breaking with quiet sincerity as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and reverent.

You hesitate, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words and his touch, by the way his touch lingers on your waist like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. “I don’t… I don’t know how to be okay with how much I care about you,” you confess, your voice cracking under the weight of the vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to hide. 

His hands tighten on your waist, his grip grounding yet gentle, as though he’s keeping you steady while drawing you closer. His forehead remains pressed to yours, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “I’m here because of you,” he says softly, his voice rich with certainty, each word deliberate. “Because no one else sees me the way you do. No one else pushes me to be better, even when I don’t want to be.” His thumb brushes over your hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, the intimacy of the gesture speaking volumes.

You feel the weight of his words settle over you, warm and steady, much like the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. For a moment, your voice fails you, breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering. Finally, your fingers press just a little firmer against his chest, anchoring yourself in his presence. “Mark,” you murmur, the faint tremor in your voice revealing the storm of emotions within. “You make it impossible to stay mad at you, I just—” Your voice falters, but you push on, your chest tightening with the raw truth you’re finally laying bare. “I just can’t stand the thought of you going through this alone. You always carry so much, like you have to handle everything yourself, but you don’t. You don’t have to.”

The quiet between you stretches endlessly, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of his skin anchoring you to the moment, and you let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, steadying yourself. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and familiar, drawing you closer to him even as your chest tightens with the words you’ve been holding back.

“Stay the night,” you murmur, your voice soft and full of hesitation, yet carrying a thread of longing that makes his gaze flicker. The words hang between you, delicate and charged, as his fingers brush along your waist with an almost absentminded tenderness, his touch grounding and impossibly gentle.

His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable flashing across them as he leans in closer, the space between you shrinking until his lips are a breath away from yours. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his touch featherlight but deliberate, sending a shiver racing down your spine. His forehead tilts more firmly against yours, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw with an intimacy that leaves your heart racing.

The tension between you tightens, and you can’t help the way your breath catches, but before he can close the distance, you pull back, your voice a quiet plea. “Not like that,” you whisper, the words trembling as they fall from your lips. The moment breaks, just barely, and the heat rushing to your cheeks betrays your resolve.

He groans softly, low and frustrated, tilting his head as if trying to regain the connection you’ve just disrupted. His hand remains firm at your waist, his thumb still caressing your jaw, as his darkened gaze searches yours. “Y/N,” he mutters, his voice dipped in exasperation, though it softens into something gentler, something tender. “You can’t just say that and then do this to me.”

You bite your lip, caught between the flurry of emotions swirling in his eyes and the teasing edge in his voice. “I mean it,” you murmur, your tone quieter now, though the faint tremor in it betrays your resolve. “Not like that.”

A small, exhausted chuckle escapes him, his breath fanning across your skin. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, his voice dipping low, the teasing laced with a softness that makes your stomach flip. “Not like that.”

You roll your eyes, the action lighthearted despite the heavy air around you, and curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer again. His forehead brushes yours, his nearness calming you even as it sets your nerves alight. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” you say quietly, your voice steadying. “And I’m glad you’ll be here tonight. At least this way, I can make sure you actually tell them.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, his hands still resting on your waist, his grip warm and steady. His gaze roams your face, lingering on every detail—the curve of your lips, the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes meet his without hesitation. His thumb lifts to your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your breath hitch, the weight of it impossible to ignore.

Without a word, he shifts his grip, his hands guiding you with a tenderness that feels deliberate. His touch never falters as he adjusts your position, his strength effortless yet measured as he moves you from his lap. You let him, your body pliant in his hold, until you’re stretched over him, your weight resting gently on top of his.

The shift feels seamless, his arms wrapping securely around you as your chest presses against his. His hand finds the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles there, while his other hand cradles the back of your head. His fingers weave into your hair with a gentleness that makes you shiver, his breath warm against your temple as you settle into him.

His body is firm beneath you, steady and grounding, yet his touch is so careful, as though holding you any other way might break the delicate moment between you. The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath yours lulls you, the quiet strength of his heartbeat anchoring you in his closeness. He tilts his head slightly, brushing his nose along your hairline before murmuring, “You make me feel so strong.” His voice is soft, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud, the vulnerability in it wrapping around you like a quiet confession.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. “You’re stronger than you think,” you whisper, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. “But even if you weren’t, I’d still be here. I’ll always be here.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping to yours once again as his eyes flutter shut. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and the closeness is so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe, yet you wouldn’t trade it for anything. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly, the weight of his emotions pressing into every word.

“I do,” you reply, just as softly, your hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palms. “Because it’s the same for me, Mark. You’re my safe place, too.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stay there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside feels distant, irrelevant, as you lose yourself in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands hold you like you’re something precious, and you can feel the unspoken promise in his touch—that no matter what comes next, you’ll face it together.

Finally, he tilts his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now, like he’s drawn strength from your words. “I’ll stay.”

The corner of your lips tugs into a small, relieved smile as you nuzzle into him, letting his warmth surround you. “Good,” you say softly, your voice laced with quiet affection. “Because I wasn’t going to let you leave anyway.”

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The campus feels unusually quiet, the early morning light filtering through the trees and casting soft golden hues across the pathways. The sound of your footsteps, slow and measured, fills the quiet, the rhythm syncing with the soft rustle of autumn leaves at your feet. Beside you, Mark walks in silence, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his brown jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp air. You glance at him, at the faint tremor in his breath, the way his eyes are fixed ahead but unfocused, as if his thoughts are spinning too fast to land on any one thing.

In all fairness, though, you’re pretty sure he’d be a lot calmer right now if you’d listened to him last night. He tried to coax you into riding his cock last night, multiple times, murmuring soft pleas as his hands wandered over your body. Or, at the very least, just letting him fuck you, claiming it was for no other reason than to relieve his stress before the weight of today. “It’ll help me focus,” he had whispered against your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you close. His tone was low, velvety, but you knew better. You knew it wasn’t just about stress relief, not with him.

Because no matter how casual he tried to play it, you know him. You know how seriously he takes everything with you. He wouldn’t just fuck you and leave it at that. He’d slow down, cup your face, and whisper things that always feel like they’re meant to ruin you—how much he needs you, how much you mean to him, words you can’t let yourself hear right now. It messes with your head in ways you can’t handle.

The two of you walk together now, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm as you head toward Coach Suh’s office. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the kind of anticipation that makes your chest feel too tight. You sneak a glance at him, at the way his jaw is set just a little too tight, his teeth clenched like he’s holding something back. His shoulders look broader somehow, weighed down by an invisible pressure, and it presses against you, too, as if his fear and uncertainty have become your own.

Your heart twists, and the protective instinct surges in you, sharp and unrelenting. He’s always been the strong one, the steady one, the one who makes sure you’re okay. But now, seeing him like this, so vulnerable and so human, all you want to do is take that burden from him, to shield him from whatever’s waiting behind that office door.

But you can’t. This is something he has to face himself, and the thought makes you feel helpless in a way you’re not used to. So you do the only thing you can—you keep holding his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a quiet, steady rhythm, grounding him the way he always does for you.

When you finally reach the office, the air seems to shift, the tension thickening. Mark stops a few feet from the door, his hand still clasped in yours, and his breath hitches, barely audible. His gaze drops to the floor, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, and you can feel the fear radiating off him like a tangible thing.

You step closer, letting go of his hand only to place both of yours gently on his cheeks, tilting his face up so he has no choice but to meet your eyes. “You can do it,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady. “I’ll just be right here, outside, when you come out.”

His eyes search yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, he looks younger somehow, like the weight of everything has stripped him of the confidence he wears so easily. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits, his voice barely above a murmur. “What if he says I can’t play anymore? What if—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You have to go in there. You have to hear what he has to say, even if it’s not what you want. You need to know. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, his hands coming up to cover yours, his grip warm and firm but trembling slightly. “I just… I don’t want to do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” you promise, leaning in closer so your foreheads almost touch. “But this is something you have to do yourself. It’s important, Mark. You need to show him that you care enough to fight for this, that you’re willing to face it head-on. And I’ll be here, waiting for you, the whole time.”

He nods, but his breath is still unsteady, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the nerves threatening to overwhelm him. You don’t know what else to say, don’t know how to make this easier for him.

Without thinking, you lean in, closing the small distance between you, and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, barely a whisper of contact, but it holds everything you’ve been struggling to say, every unspoken reassurance, every ounce of quiet support. His breath catches, his chest rising sharply against yours, and for a moment, time seems to stop. The weight of the tension that’s been pressing down on him melts away as he leans into you, his hands leaving his sides to find your waist. His touch is hesitant at first, almost like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, his fingers tighten, anchoring you to him.

His lips part slightly, a subtle sigh escaping into the kiss, and you feel him relax, the rigid line of his shoulders softening. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s drawing strength from your presence, grounding himself in the warmth of you. The moment stretches, intimate and unhurried, as if the world beyond the two of you has faded into nothing.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and filled with something tender, something raw. His lips are still parted, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners, and his hands remain on your waist, holding you as if letting go isn’t an option.

“I—” he starts, his voice low and breathless, but you cut him off with a faint, almost shy smile.

“It’s for good luck,” you murmur softly, your hands brushing against the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers linger for a moment, fidgeting as you try to steady your own racing heartbeat.

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Good luck, huh?” he repeats, his tone teasing, though there’s a warmth in his voice that makes your chest ache. His forehead stays pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours with a mix of affection and curiosity. “What happened to just friends?”

You roll your eyes, though the gesture is light, playful. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, your voice soft but teasing, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Now go. You’ve got this.”

“I’m feeling nervous again,” he quips, his tone light but threaded with that teasing edge that always gets to you. He tilts his head, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to yours, deliberately slow, and far too confident for someone about to walk into the hardest conversation of his life. “Think I can get another ‘good luck’ kiss?”

You roll your eyes, though the way your lips twitch betrays the affection bubbling under the surface. Your hand moves to his chest, giving him a light shove that does nothing to move him. “Don’t push it, Lee,” you shoot back, your tone sharp but playful, though the warmth in your voice softens the bite.

His smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you, that boyish charm now mixed with something deeper, something unspoken. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, like he’s committing every detail to memory—the curve of your lips, the way your hand stays lightly against his chest, the warmth in your expression that seems to calm the storm inside him.

You take a small step back, giving him space but not letting the connection between you falter. “I’ll be right here when you’re done,” you promise, your voice steady, the conviction in it clear.

He nods, his hand hovering briefly over the door handle before he turns back to you one last time, his eyes soft but filled with something resolute. “I know,” he says quietly, his lips curling into a smile that holds all the gratitude he doesn’t say out loud. Then, with a deep breath, he turns the handle and steps inside, leaving you standing there with your heart still racing and his warmth lingering in the space between you.

Mark hesitates outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally turning the handle and stepping inside. The room feels heavy, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights amplifying the tension in his chest. Jeno and Coach Suh are leaning over the whiteboard, markers in hand, deep in conversation about defensive strategies. Jeno, animated as always, gestures to a play diagram, his voice steady and confident.

Despite Coach Suh’s presence, his role as head coach hasn’t officially resumed yet; he is still recovering from his recent operation, the strain of returning to full-time duties too much for him at the moment. Taeyong and Doyoung continue to stand in to lead the team during his recovery, but Suh remains deeply involved, doing everything he can to support the players from the sidelines. Even now, his sharp focus and unwavering dedication are evident as he listens intently to Jeno’s suggestions, nodding occasionally while holding himself upright with visible effort.

“Look, if we shift the zone this way, we can force the turnover,” Jeno says, tapping the board with the marker. “It’ll work, trust me.”

Coach Suh nods, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not bad, Jeno. That could plug the gap on transition. You’re finally starting to think like a leader.”

Mark clears his throat, his voice tight. “Coach, you got a sec?”

Both men turn to look at him, surprised. Suh glances at Jeno and then back at Mark, setting down the marker. “Oh yeah, sit down,” he says, his tone firm but welcoming. “This about the game?”

Mark shakes his head, his grip tightening on the backrest of the chair in front of him. Jeno, sensing the shift in mood, steps back from the whiteboard, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glances at the door, starting to gather his things. “If this isn’t about plays, I’ll give you guys some space—”

“You need to hear this too, Jen,” Mark says quickly, his voice steady but low, stopping Jeno in his tracks. His words hang in the air, weighted and deliberate. 

Jeno furrows his brow, whiteboard pen faltering. “What’s up? You good?”

Mark takes another breath, his voice low and steady, though the weight of his words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. “I can’t play in the state championships… I have a heart condition.”

The room falls silent, the statement cutting through the easy energy from earlier. Jeno freezes, his jaw tightening, and Coach Suh straightens, his expression unreadable. Mark finally sits, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at them, his eyes glassy but determined.

“I have HCM,” he continues, his voice wavering just slightly. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’ve had it for a while, but… I haven’t been taking my medication because I didn’t want it to slow me down on the court. And if I play—” He pauses, swallowing hard, his voice breaking as he finishes, “I could die.”

Jeno’s marker falls to the table with a soft clatter, and he stares at Mark, wide-eyed. “What the hell, Mark?” he finally says, his voice filled with disbelief.

Coach Suh, who’s rarely ever fazed, blinks and shifts his stance, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus, Mark,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Mark stands suddenly, pacing the room, his hands raking through his hair. “I know how selfish I’ve been,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I just didn’t want to leave the game behind. The game… it changed my life, you know? Just like it changed yours. It gave me something to fight for, something to be proud of. And it’s gonna be hard to let it go.”

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. Jeno steps forward, his face softening as he places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “The game can only change you if you’ve got a lot to change, right?” he says quietly, his voice steady but warm. “And, Mark… you’ve already done that. You’ve already become someone people look up to.”

Mark looks at him, his lips pressed tightly together, fighting the emotion threatening to spill over. He nods, but his jaw clenches, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Coach Suh sighs, stepping closer, his voice steady and firm. “Mark, I know how hard this conversation must be for you. It’s not easy to admit this, not to yourself and especially not to us.” He glances at Jeno, then back at Mark. “But you must know, I can’t use you as much anymore. You can still play, and you will—but you’re gonna have to be an impact sub, with limited minutes. No more pushing your body past its limits.”

Mark closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a part of the burden he’s been carrying. “I get it, Coach. I… I’ve been trying to prepare myself for this. I just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

Suh steps forward, placing a hand on Mark’s other shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve already done the hardest part, son. You told us. That’s what leaders do—they face the hard truths and do what’s best for the team and for themselves. And you’ve got a team behind you, no matter what.”

Mark’s gaze shifts between Suh and Jeno, his chest tightening with both gratitude and grief. “Thanks,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno gives Mark a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a small smile breaking through his initial shock. “We’ve got you, man. Always.”

Mark nods again, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Jen. Thanks, Coach.” He exhales, his hands steadying against the edge of the desk. For the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

The hallway feels stifling as you wait outside, pacing back and forth in a futile attempt to burn off the nervous energy coursing through you. Every second feels like an eternity, your chest tightening with the weight of the unknown. Your mind churns, flipping relentlessly between fear and hope, each thought heavier than the last. What’s happening behind that door? Is Mark okay? Did he find the right words? You can’t stop imagining the worst—his emotions spilling over, his voice cracking under the pressure, the weight of it all becoming too much. You glance at the door every few seconds, your gaze lingering as if you can will it to open, waiting for him to come out so you can hold him, comfort him, and be the anchor you know he’ll need.

The air feels thick, suffocating in its stillness, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, hoping it will steady the relentless pounding of your heart. You rub your palms together absently, as if preparing yourself for whatever is coming, though nothing could really prepare you. The weight of his confession feels like it’s pressing down on you too, and all you can do is hope he’s getting the support he needs inside, even if you’re not there to see it.

As you exhale slowly, the sound of footsteps breaks through the tense silence, pulling you from your thoughts. You turn your head sharply and see Mark’s best friend approaching. Her expression is a mix of curiosity and concern, her brows furrowed slightly as her gaze flicks from you to the closed door. Her presence catches you off guard—she doesn’t usually come around unless there’s a game or practice, and there’s no obvious reason for her to be here now. Maybe she was passing by, or maybe she sensed something was off. Either way, the sight of her stirs a new wave of unease in your chest.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice sharp but not unkind.

“I’m waiting for Mark,” you mumble, the words spilling out before you can think them through. “He’s finally telling Coach about his heart condition.”

She gasps, her eyes widening. “You know?”

You nod, shifting uncomfortably. “You know too,” you say quietly, and her silence confirms it. She does.

Before the conversation can continue, the door opens, and Mark steps out. The sight of him hits you hard, your breath catching as you take in the raw emotion etched into his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy with the weight of everything he’s just gone through, and they lock onto yours almost instantly. The message in his gaze is clear and unwavering: he needs you. The sheer vulnerability in his expression, the silent plea for comfort, sends a jolt straight to your chest. He looks utterly drained, like he’s been holding himself together for far too long, and you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You step forward instinctively, your arms already reaching for him, ready to pull him close and hold him until the world feels steady again. But before you can close the gap, his best friend gasps and rushes past you, throwing her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. Mark stiffens at first, clearly startled, before he relaxes just enough to return the embrace. His movements are mechanical, his focus not fully on her, and though the gesture is friendly and comforting, it’s nothing compared to the connection you’re aching to offer him.

“You finally told Coach?” she asks, her voice soft but brimming with pride. “I know how hard it must’ve been, I know how long it’s taken, but I’m so proud of you now that you’ve done it.”

Mark nods faintly, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He looks overwhelmed, his silence speaking volumes, and you can tell he’s barely holding it together. His best friend continues, her voice turning lighter, trying to ease the tension. “I can’t believe it took you months to listen to me and finally tell Coach, but I’m glad you heard me out—”

She pauses mid-sentence, her eyes catching the way Mark’s gaze hasn’t left you. His focus is entirely on you, his eyes soft but desperate as they follow your every move. He’s barely acknowledging her words, his need for you palpable in every subtle shift of his expression.

“Oh,” she murmurs, realization dawning on her. “You didn’t listen to me, did you?” She turns back to him, her tone teasing but affectionate. “Y/N told you to tell Coach, and that’s when you did.”

Mark finally speaks, his voice quiet but steady. “Just made me realize how serious it was.”

His best friend huffs playfully, rolling her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “You didn’t listen to me for five entire months, but all it takes is your girlfriend to tell you once, and suddenly you’re all ears,” she jokes, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You freeze, your lips parting slightly, but the intensity of Mark’s gaze keeps you rooted in place. Neither of you moves to correct her, you weren't his girlfriend, not anymore. The tension in the moment begins to lift, but it doesn’t fully dissipate—not with the way he’s still looking at you, his eyes full of longing and need. Slowly, he breaks away from his best friend and takes a step toward you, his shoulders weighed down as though he’s been carrying too much for too long.

“Hi,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he falls into your arms, letting the rest of the world fall away.

His hug is intimate, desperate, and consuming. His hands grip your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him, as if the space between you is unbearable. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. His body presses into yours fully, his warmth seeping into your skin as his trembling becomes more pronounced. It’s not just a hug—it’s a surrender. He’s letting himself fall into you, letting you hold him together when he no longer can.

Your arms wind around him instinctively, one wrapping tightly around his shoulders while the other threads through his hair. The soft strands glide between your fingers as you hold him close, your touch tender and deliberate, meant to comfort and ground him. You feel his breath on your neck, shaky and uneven, the warm exhale brushing against your skin in a way that makes your chest ache. He tightens his grip on you, his arms encircling your body completely, holding you as close as physically possible, as if letting go would break him.

His weight shifts slightly, leaning more heavily into you, and you adjust, your arms pulling him even closer, steadying him. Your fingers slide slowly through his hair again, each motion gentle and soothing, and he exhales shakily, his breath hitching as he tries to steady himself. Your free hand moves to cup his face, your palm warm against his cheek as you tilt his head back just slightly. You pull away just enough to see him, your gaze locking with his.

His eyes are red and glassy, the sadness in them so raw it makes your throat tighten. His lips part slightly, but no words come out, just the weight of everything he’s been holding in. The way he looks at you—like you’re his anchor, his solace, his safe place—makes you want to wrap yourself around him even tighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. Your thumb brushes along his cheekbone, wiping away the faint trace of tears. He doesn’t respond, but he presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter closed, his face tilting into your touch as if seeking out more of your warmth, your reassurance.

“Can we go?” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and vulnerability.

You nod softly, your fingers still brushing through his hair as you press a light kiss to his temple. “Wanna get some breakfast?” you ask, your voice soft and inviting, a small attempt to bring a little normalcy back to the moment.

He nods again, and this time his hands loosen their grip on you, though they linger for a moment longer before he lets you guide him. Your hands slide down to rest on his shoulders, steadying him as you both take a step back. You keep your touch light but constant, one hand lingering on his arm as you turn to walk with him. He leans into you slightly as you leave, his warmth a constant presence beside you, the heaviness of the moment slowly easing with each step.

──────────────────────────────

The café is quiet, the morning rush having faded into a gentle hum of soft chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine. The sunlight filters through the large windows, painting warm, golden streaks across the small table you’ve claimed by the corner. It feels like a pocket of calm amidst everything, a temporary sanctuary away from the weight of the day.

You return to the table, balancing a tray with his usual coffee order and an assortment of pastries, including his favorite—a pistachio one with its flaky, golden crust and a hint of powdered sugar dusted over the top. His eyes flicker up as you approach, but the usual spark in them feels dimmed, like the exhaustion resting on his shoulders has seeped into his gaze. He offers a soft smile—polite, tired, distant—and it makes your chest ache in ways you can’t quite name.

Setting the tray down, you slide his coffee toward him, the familiar aroma filling the air between you. “Your favorite,” you say softly, trying to infuse some lightness into your voice, but his response is slow. His fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto its warmth as if it’s anchoring him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice low, like it takes effort to get the word out. He takes a sip, his shoulders dropping a fraction, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his frame.

The two of you fall into a silence that feels less like comfort and more like a fragile ceasefire. You glance at him over your coffee, catching the way his gaze lingers on the table, avoiding yours. He picks at the sleeve of the cup, his movements slow and deliberate, like his mind is elsewhere. The golden light catches the faint furrow in his brow, and you wonder if he’s even tasting the coffee.

He reaches for the pistachio pastry eventually, taking a bite with an almost mechanical precision. The crisp layers crackle beneath his teeth, and for a fleeting second, his brows lift in approval. “Mmm,” he hums, but there’s a hollowness in his tone, like he’s performing a version of himself you’ve always known but that he can’t quite summon now. Still, he pushes the remaining pastry across the table toward you, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, offering silent encouragement. The gesture feels genuine, but there’s a hesitation in it too, like he’s searching for something in your reaction.

You pick it up, your fingers brushing the crumbs from its edges, and take a bite where his had been. The rich pistachio filling melts on your tongue, the buttery sweetness almost grounding you. You nod back at him, mirroring his earlier gesture. “You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s good.”

His lips tug into another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You hesitate for a moment before reaching across the table to take his hand. His fingers are warm but tense, his grip firm yet hesitant, like he’s holding back even in this simple touch. You trace your thumb over his knuckles in slow, soothing circles, watching the way his eyes follow the movement rather than meeting yours.

“How did it go?” you whisper finally, your voice careful, breaking the silence. The question hangs between you, heavy and expectant. He exhales slowly, his hand tightening briefly around yours as his other one wraps protectively around the coffee cup, as though bracing himself.

“Probably how you’d expect it to go,” he says, his tone blunt, cutting through the quiet. You know he doesn’t mean for it to sting, but it does, the sharpness of his words settling in your chest.

“Mark,” you call his name softly, a quiet plea for him to let you in, to trust you with the weight he’s carrying. But he doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the table, as though the answer lies somewhere in the grain of the wood.

He sighs then, the sound low and heavy, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains from him. “Coach said he’s proud,” he begins, his voice monotone, devoid of its usual warmth, as if he’s reading from a script. “Said I can’t play like I used to. Limited minutes. Impact sub. For my safety.” Each word drops heavily, stripped of emotion, as though detaching himself from them will make them hurt less.

The flatness in his tone is more jarring than the words themselves, and it leaves an ache in the silence that follows. You squeeze his hand gently, wishing you could reach past the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze lingering on your joined hands. The sadness in his eyes is a weight you can feel, pressing down on your chest. Wanting to ease the tension, you reach for the tray and grab an almond pastry, holding it out to him. “Here. Try this,” you say softly, your tone light and encouraging.

Mark glances at the pastry, his lips quirking upward just slightly as he takes it from you. He bites into it thoughtfully, and a small hum of approval escapes him. “Mmm,” he nods, finishing it quickly, and for the briefest moment, the faint shadow of a smile crosses his face. You watch him with soft eyes, charmed by how endearing he is, even with all the sadness he’s carrying.

But the sadness lingers, etched into his expression, heavy in the way his gaze drifts somewhere beyond you, as though caught in a place you can’t reach. It tears you in two. You call his name, leaning forward slightly to catch his attention, and crack a joke—a bad one, deliberately silly in its delivery, your smile faltering as you wait for his reaction. All he offers in return is a tight-lipped smile, barely there, one that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

You sigh, shifting from your seat to sit beside him on the same side of the booth. Without hesitation, you take his hand in yours again, your other hand resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him in the only way you know how. “I hate seeing you like this,” you say softly, your voice tinged with the kind of vulnerability you usually hide. “Mark, let me help.”

Mark exhales sharply, the sound a mix of frustration and defeat, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand. “There’s not much you can do,” he mutters, his voice quiet, clipped, and carrying a finality that settles like a stone in your chest.

You push further, unwilling to let the moment close on his dismissiveness. “Mark, please, let me in. Talk to me,” you say softly, but the persistence in your tone makes his jaw tighten. His hand withdraws slightly, his shoulders tensing as his gaze darts away.

“Just drop it,” he snaps, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it stung, his words holding an edge you hadn’t expected. His eyes flick to yours briefly, regret already pooling in his expression, but the damage was done.

Your breath hitches, and you pull your hand from his instinctively, your fingers trembling as you place them in your lap. You bite your lip and look away, blinking rapidly to steady your breathing. This wasn’t fair. You were trying, and he was shutting you out.

But as quickly as you withdrew, he reached out again, his hand closing over yours firmly. He clasped your fingers tightly, bringing your joined hands to his lips. The gesture was soft, apologetic, and when you turned back to him, his eyes were filled with unspoken regret. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine, the weight of his earlier frustration melting away.

Your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to come. “I’m just trying to be here for you,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steadying with each word. “You don’t need to snap at me.”

He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he glances down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The silence stretches for a beat, heavy with things unsaid, before he finally exhales again—this time softer, less burdened. “I remember my first game,” he begins, his tone quieter now, edged with a melancholy that clings to every syllable. His voice is still flat, monotonous, but there’s a faint spark of emotion breaking through.

“I was four. Doyoung randomly took me to the river court one day. I didn’t even know what basketball was, but he handed me a ball and told me to try shooting.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, but it’s fleeting, more wistful than joyful. “I made every shot—without even trying. I don’t know how, but it just felt right. The way the ball left my hands, the sound of it swishing through the net… it made me feel special, important, like I was finally good at something that mattered.”

His breath steadies, his voice gaining a quiet rhythm as he continues. “When I was eleven, I joined a little league team. It wasn’t anything big—just kids messing around, learning the basics. But those games changed everything for me. Every time I had the ball, it felt like I mattered, like I could be something more than just a kid abandoned by his father and resented by his brother.”

He falters, his voice catching on the edge of his next words. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Basketball… it’s who I am. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on, the one thing I know I’m good at. And now… now it’s slipping away, and I can’t stop it. I can’t play the way I used to. I can’t push myself anymore.”

The weight of his sadness is palpable, threading through every word, every shallow breath. You want to speak, but he shakes his head slightly, cutting off your attempt. “This condition… it’s not just changing how I play,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s changing everything. My future, my identity… it feels like I’m losing all of it, all at once.”

His eyes are distant, unfocused. “I don’t know who I am without the game,” he continues, quieter now, the monotone delivery layered with rawness. “It’s been everything to me—more than just a sport. It was my escape, my outlet, my home. When my dad left, when everything felt too big or too hard, I could go to the court, and for those hours, nothing else mattered. The river court—it’s where I found myself. Every late night I spent there, every game I played, it was the one place where I didn’t feel like a screw-up or a disappointment. It made me feel alive.”

His voice cracks, and when he looks at you, his eyes are glistening, brimming with raw, unfiltered emotion. “And now it feels like it’s being taken from me. The one thing that made me feel like I was good at something, the one thing that gave me purpose—it’s slipping away. And it’s not just the game, it’s everything tied to it. The memories, the moments, the person I thought I was. I don’t know how to imagine a life without it.”

Your heart aches for him, your chest tightening as you take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing softly over his cheekbones. “Mark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steady with conviction. “You’re not losing yourself. I know it feels like the ground is shifting under you, like everything you’ve built is slipping away, but you are so much more than basketball. It’s a part of you, yes, but it’s not all of you. You’re still the person who inspires everyone around you. You’re still the person I believe in with everything I have. That doesn’t change because the game looks different now.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, his breath uneven as the weight of your words settles over him. And for the first time in the entire conversation, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease, just slightly, like a small sliver of light breaking through the heaviness.

──────────────────────────────

The room is quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the stillness. The bedside lamp casts a warm, muted glow, its light stretching lazily across the walls and pooling on the bed in soft, golden hues. You’re sprawled on the mattress, your knees bent, feet planted, the familiar comfort of the space grounding you. Across from you, Mark stands at the edge of the bed, his movements slow and hesitant as though the weight of his thoughts is pinning him down. There’s a heaviness in his posture—the subtle hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands as they hang at his sides, the way he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.

The sight makes your chest ache. You know he’s holding back, keeping the dam intact even though it’s cracking under the pressure. It’s not like him to hesitate, and that hesitation speaks louder than anything he could say. The air between you feels charged, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Without a word, he steps closer, his presence filling the space between you. His hands brush lightly over your knees, the contact warm and steady, and your heart skips at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. You glance up at him, about to ask what he’s doing, but his expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on you. He presses down on your knees gently, flattening your legs against the mattress, and the quiet determination in his movements keeps you still, anticipation threading through you.

Then, he moves—climbing onto the bed with a slowness that makes your breath hitch. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel a ripple of warmth as his body shifts closer. When his knees settle on either side of your hips, the realization hits you: he’s going on top of you. Your body tenses instinctively, not in resistance but in sheer surprise, your hands pressing lightly into the mattress to steady yourself. The air between you feels charged, intimate, and it sends a rush of something deep and unspoken through your chest.

His weight settles over you, warm and grounding, his body aligning with yours in a way that feels both deliberate and natural. His chest presses lightly against yours as he lowers himself, his head dipping to find its place in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and your arms instinctively rise to meet him, your hands gliding up the curve of his back as though reassuring him that he’s safe here. The softness of his hair brushes against your jaw, and your fingers tighten gently around him, pulling him closer as he nestles into you.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, the sensation of him so close, so heavy against you, making everything else fade away. His arms slide around your waist, locking you against him, and the way he clings to you feels like he’s asking for something wordlessly. His body trembles faintly, and you feel the weight of his vulnerability in the way he holds you, pressing into you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Your fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along his back, silently letting him know that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere.

It’s unusual, this shift in roles. Normally, he’s the one pulling you into his chest, comforting you, shielding you from the world. But tonight, he’s the one unraveling, and the change feels jarring in its unfamiliarity. He looks like he’s carrying too much, his strength fraying at the edges. 

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you feel it—a faint tremble in his shoulders, the way his breaths grow uneven. And just like that, he breaks.

You didn’t expect it—not after the drive to the apartment, when Mark had been so quiet, so unlike himself. He’d barely spoken a word, his blunt responses cutting the air between you, cold and distant. You’d understood, though, and given him space, thinking he just needed time to process. But for him to break this quickly? It catches you off guard, like the world tilting suddenly beneath your feet.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it. The words are raw, unfiltered, and they cut through the stillness like a confession he’s been holding onto for too long.

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you see it—the subtle signs that his composure is slipping. His shoulders tremble faintly, his breaths uneven as he fights to hold himself together. And then, like a dam breaking, it all comes crashing down. His head dips forward, and the first sob tears from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

You stiffen at first, unprepared for the sight. He’s always been the steady one, the one to calm you, to hold you through your tears, to reassure you when you felt like falling apart. Seeing him like this, breaking so openly, sends a jolt through you. You gulp, unsure of how to react, but instinct takes over. You do what he’s always done for you—your fingers thread into his hair, stroking softly, grounding him. You press gentle kisses to his temple, whispering quiet reassurances, promising him over and over, “I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

His sobs wrack his body, his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Tears stream down his face, staining your shirt as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. His breaths come in uneven gasps, his body trembling as he clings to you, letting himself break in a way he’s never allowed before. You feel the hot, damp trails his tears leave against your skin, the shudder of his exhale each time he tries to steady himself but fails.

It takes time, but eventually, his sobs begin to subside, the tension in his shoulders loosening as your hand continues to stroke through his hair. His breathing slows, though it’s still uneven, and his arms remain wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing holding him together.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his tear-streaked face breaking your heart all over again. His eyes are red, swollen, glassy with remnants of his pain. He blinks slowly, trying to form words, but his lips tremble, his voice failing him. You cradle his face gently, your thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks as you wait for him to find his voice.

“I blame myself,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but heavy with anguish. It cracked at the end, shattering the fragile silence between you. “I should’ve taken care of myself. I should’ve listened. The medication… if I had just done what I was supposed to, maybe—maybe I wouldn’t be here now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your heart clenched at the way he was crumbling in front of you. You shook your head immediately, your hands rising to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed against his damp cheeks, and you gently forced him to meet your gaze. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it threatened to drown you too.

“Mark,” you said softly, but there was no mistaking the conviction in your voice. “This isn’t your fault. Do you hear me? This—this was never something you could have controlled. You didn’t ask for this. You couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what you did.”

His lip quivered, his jaw tightening as tears spilled silently down his face. “But I—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice steady, your grip on his face firm but tender. “Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t stupid not to take the medication. It was. But taking it sooner wouldn’t have changed anything about this condition. It’s serious, Mark, no matter when you started managing it. You need to understand that it wouldn’t be less serious if you’d started earlier. What matters now is that you take it seriously now, that you listen to the people trying to help you, that you take care of yourself from here on out.”

His breaths hitched, his shoulders trembling against you. “I just feel like I made it worse,” he muttered, the guilt still thick in his voice.

“You didn’t,” you insisted, your voice softening as you brushed your thumb along his cheek. “This was never something you could have prevented. It’s not about what you didn’t do before—it’s about what you do now. And you’re doing it. You’re making changes, you’re showing up, you’re facing it head-on, even when it scares the hell out of you. That’s what matters, Mark. Not the mistakes you think you made.”

Mark stared at you, his expression unreadable as a single tear traced a slow path down his cheek. His lips parted, trembling slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it made your chest ache. And then, like a dam breaking, his shoulders shook, and the tears came harder. He bowed his head, his hands clutching at your waist as though you were the only thing holding him together

His voice came low and rough, barely audible at first. “I don’t even know who I’m mad at anymore,” he admitted, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s just… so fucking unfair.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak, your heart breaking at the pain etched across his face.

“I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “What did I do to deserve this? I’ve worked so hard, done everything I was supposed to do, and now… now it feels like my body’s betraying me. Like no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I can’t fix this. I can’t stop it.”

His eyes met yours, glistening with tears he didn’t bother wiping away. “I hate it. I hate feeling weak, like I have no control. Like all the things I’ve spent my life building can just be taken away like that.”

His words hit you like a blow, the raw anger and vulnerability in them leaving you breathless. You stepped closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes life is just… cruel. But that doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t take away who you are or what you’ve done.”

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands finally unclenched, rising to grip your waist like he was anchoring himself. “It just feels like I’m losing everything,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve fought so hard, and it’s still not enough.”

“You’re enough,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing against his damp cheeks. “And you’re not losing everything. You’re still here. You’re still you. And you’re not alone in this.”

A shudder runs through him, and he buries his face against your shoulder, his breaths warming your skin. His grip on you is still firm, but now it feels less like desperation and more like trust, like he’s finally allowing himself to let go of the weight he’s been carrying for so long. And as you hold him, you feel it—the unspoken understanding between you both, the promise that no matter how heavy things get, you’ll carry them together.

He presses into you—his head buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist—speaks louder than anything he could say. His grip is desperate but full of trust, as if he’s letting himself fall completely into you, surrendering the weight he’s been carrying. And you welcome it, your touch unwavering, your presence steady, giving him the space to let go in a way he never has before.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. You’re not alone in this, Mark. Not now, not ever.”

For a moment, his body stills, his breathing uneven against your skin. But then his expression shifts, darkening—not in anger, but with something deeper, more raw. The way you’ve been so good to him, the tenderness in your tone, the way you ground him in his darkest moments—it stirs something in him that feels too overwhelming to bear.

“Baby,” he moans, his voice thick with desperation as his hips grind against you, pulling a gasp from your lips. His hand slides down to your stomach, pressing lightly but firmly as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t you wanna feel me here?” he whispers, his tone low, rough, and dripping with need, sending a shiver through you that you can’t suppress.

“Mark.” You give him a quiet warning, but the plea in your voice doesn’t stop him. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s hard, rough, bruising—everything he’s feeling poured into the way his lips crash against yours, the way his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

Your body responds instantly, arching into him as his lips crash against yours, the kiss all teeth and desperation. Your fingers twist roughly into his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low, guttural sound from his throat. His hands grip your waist, almost bruising, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. You know exactly why he’s doing this—why his touch is so rough, so demanding—and you feel the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

For a moment, you give in, letting him drown in you. His hands slide under the hem of your cardigan, the fabric pushed aside hastily as his fingers fumble with the buttons. They pop open one by one, his movements frantic and unrelenting, his touch burning against your skin. He presses against you harder, his hips grinding into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. The sound of his ragged breathing mingles with your own as his mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin until you know it’ll leave marks.

Your breaths hitch as his intensity consumes you, your movements instinctively mirroring his rhythm. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming over you with a desperation that speaks louder than words. But then, under the heat of it all, you feel the crack—the slight tremble in his grip, the unevenness of his breath as it stutters against your skin. It sends a shiver through you, pulling you out of the haze.

You gasp, your hands pressing against his chest as you push him back and break the kiss, your heart pounding in your ears. “Mark,” you say, your voice shaky but steady. His dark eyes meet yours, frustration flashing before confusion settles in their depths.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “We can’t,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “Having sex with me isn’t going to make the sadness go away. It won’t fix anything, Mark.”

His jaw tightens, his breathing still uneven, his hands hovering at your sides like he doesn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter. “Yes, it will,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice breaking with raw desperation.

Your chest tightens at his words, at the raw vulnerability etched into them. You smack his chest lightly, your voice catching as you speak. “No, Mark,” you say, frustration and tenderness mingling. “This isn’t how you fight it. I’m here for you—I always will be—but not like this. You don’t need to lose yourself in me to feel okay.”

You cradle his face, your thumbs grazing his cheekbones as you hold his gaze. “I know you’re hurting,” you murmur, your voice steady yet tender. “I know it feels unbearable, like you need something to make it stop. But this isn’t the way, Mark. Let me be here for you, let me hold you—but don’t use me to numb the pain.”

His shoulders slump, the fight leaving him in a slow, heavy exhale. He doesn’t say anything, he just leans into your touch, his breaths shaky but steadying. Then, without a word, he presses a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as though drawing strength from the closeness. His eyes flutter closed as he rests against you, his body molding into yours like it’s the only place he feels safe. Slowly, you feel the tension ease from him, his breaths evening out as he tries to let sleep take over in your arms, his quiet surrender breaking your heart and mending it all at once.

──────────────────────────────

The glow of Mark’s laptop screen casts soft shadows across his dimly lit room. His desk is a chaotic mess: scattered papers, highlighters tossed carelessly, notebooks with half-finished thoughts scribbled in the margins, and empty coffee cups piled haphazardly in the corner. He sits hunched over, fingers hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight as he forces himself to focus. The weight of the silence around him presses against his chest, and the words on the screen blur as his thoughts drift.

Mark’s restlessness feels like a constant ache, gnawing at him from the inside out. Missing basketball practices to prioritize his health wasn’t a choice he wanted to make, but one he had to. It leaves him feeling untethered, the absence of the game creating a void he doesn’t know how to fill. Basketball was his escape, the one thing that grounded him when everything else felt overwhelming. Now, with his condition forcing him to step back, he feels lost, his body buzzing with energy he doesn’t know how to release.

He throws himself into his music compositions, desperate for a distraction, his fingers moving across the keyboard like he’s chasing something he can’t quite catch. The melodies echo faintly through the room, but they don’t bring him the comfort he craves. He tries to focus, tries to drown himself in the rhythm and flow of creating, but no matter how hard he works, his mind keeps circling back to you.

He wants you to be his distraction. He wants the comfort of your presence, the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs without him having to say a word. He wants the touch of your hand against his, the sound of your laugh breaking through his heavy thoughts. But he can’t have that. Not anymore. Not since you broke up. The thought twists in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, making the space around him feel even smaller.

Mark leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as frustration boils over. His eyes flick to his phone resting on the desk, the screen dark and still. He hasn’t heard from you today, and it gnaws at him, the need to reach out clawing at the edges of his resolve. He exhales sharply, dragging his hands over his face, but the ache doesn’t subside. He’s restless, frustrated, and his thoughts of you shift into something deeper, something primal.

His mind starts to wander, the memory of your voice, your touch, the way you’d look at him when it was just the two of you. He remembers the way you’d cling to him, your body trembling beneath his, the soft moans that would spill from your lips as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. The memories make his breath hitch, his body responding instantly. He clenches his jaw, trying to focus back on the screen, but it’s useless. He needs an outlet. He needs you.

The room feels too empty. Too quiet. Too wrong without you.

He picks up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through your old messages, re-reading the little things: the way you’d remind him to take breaks, the jokes that made him laugh even on the worst days, and the texts you’d send just to check in on him. The space you’ve left in his life feels massive, and no matter how much he tries to fill it with work, it doesn’t stop the ache. He misses you—not just your presence but everything about you.

He misses your laugh, the way your hands felt on his skin, the way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed without him having to say a word. And deeper still, he misses the intimacy you shared—the way you made him feel whole, grounded, alive. The memory of being with you, being inside you, flickers in his mind, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a heat rising in his chest that he tries to suppress.

But the frustration grows. The longing twists into something sharper, more unbearable. His fingers tighten around his phone as he scrolls to your contact, his thumb hovering over your name for a moment before he gives in, typing out a message with unsteady hands.

He presses send before he can overthink it, his breath catching in his throat. The seconds stretch into an eternity, and he wonders if he’s pushed too far, if you’ll ignore him entirely, but then your reply comes through, and his pulse quickens.

His screen lights up with the video, and the world around him ceases to exist. The glow illuminates your body—every curve, every movement, framed so perfectly it feels deliberate, like you knew exactly how to wreck him. The lighting is soft, intimate, and he instantly recognizes the lace thong hugging your hips: his favorite, the one he always begged you to keep on, the one he’d pull to the side just enough to sink into you. His breath falters, his pulse pounding in his ears as his eyes drink you in.

Your hand moves slowly, teasing yourself, your fingers gliding beneath the delicate fabric, and the wet sound of it is enough to send a jolt straight to his groin. Then you moan his name—his full name, breathless and needy—and it unravels him completely. A low, involuntary groan escapes his lips, and his entire body reacts. His chest tightens, his thighs clench, and he feels himself throb painfully against the confines of his sweats. Every detail—the arch of your back, the way your head tilts back in pleasure—burns into his mind, leaving him dizzy with need.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him. His hand moves almost instinctively, trailing down to his waistband as he groans softly, “Baby…” The word slips out in a husky, desperate tone, his fingers brushing over the hardness straining against his sweats.

His resolve shatters completely as your moan echoes through his headphones—a breathy, broken call of his name that feels like a physical pull. He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the slick tip as he takes a moment to steady himself. But the video keeps playing, your movements hypnotic, the sight of your fingers disappearing beneath the lace leaving him throbbing in his hand. He starts slow, stroking himself deliberately, his grip firm, never taking his eyes off the screen. The need to feel closer to you becomes overwhelming, and his free hand fumbles for his phone.

Without breaking his rhythm, he flips the camera to record. The angle captures his hand wrapping firmly around himself, the way his skin glistens, and his chest heaving as he moans your name, raw and unrestrained. His voice is shaky but thick with desire as he speaks into the mic, desperate to pull you into the moment with him.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with need. “You’ve got me so fucking hard, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you—about how tight you’d feel around me, how perfect you’d look under me, falling apart.”

He adjusts the angle slightly, showing the full view of himself, stroking harder now as his hips rock into his hand. The slick sound fills the quiet room, mingling with his heavy breaths. “I’d give anything to be inside you right now,” he groans, his tone breaking with desperation. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Fuck, I’d ruin you. Make you scream my name until you couldn’t think straight.”

He leans his head back against the chair, his grip tightening as his strokes grow faster, his voice dropping even lower. “I miss the way you’d beg for me,” he mutters, his words punctuated by sharp exhales. “The way you’d pull me closer, tell me not to stop. God, baby, I need you so bad.”

The video loops again, and his eyes snap back to the screen—your fingers moving faster, your lips parting in a moan that sends him careening toward the edge. He stutters, his entire body tensing as a guttural groan tears from his throat. His release spills over his hand, hot and messy, his body trembling violently as he moans your name, raw and unfiltered.

As the aftershocks ripple through him, he lets his hand slow, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. His camera is still recording, capturing the remnants of his desperation: his glistening skin, his trembling thighs, the way his hand runs lazily over himself, already half-hard again. He finally angles the phone back toward his face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted as he speaks into the mic.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, his tone rough and drenched with lust. “You’ve got me so desperate for you. I want to feel you, taste you, ruin you all over again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad.”

He ends the recording, his fingers still unsteady, and hits send without hesitation. As the message disappears, he collapses back into the chair, the longing for you still thrumming through his veins, even stronger than before.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him.

He records a quick video, his chest heaving as he grips himself tightly. He angles the camera down, showing every movement of his hand, the glistening tip, the way he’s losing control. “This is what you do to me,” he murmurs into the mic, his voice heavy with need. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Baby,” he groans, the word tumbling out in a husky, desperate tone. His free hand trails down to his waistband, fingers brushing over the growing hardness straining against his sweats. His touch is hesitant at first, teasing himself, as if trying to hold back, but the sound of your voice breaks him entirely. The way you moan his name—soft, breathy, full of need—pulls a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and he can’t resist anymore.

He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the tip, already slick with his arousal. His movements are slow at first, his grip firm as he strokes himself deliberately, never taking his eyes off the screen. He replays the video, memorizing every detail: the way your hand disappears beneath the lace, the way your back arches slightly when you moan, and the way your lips part as if calling out for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice breaking as his hips lift into his hand. His mind is a mess of thoughts, all of them consumed by you. The way you’d feel beneath him. The way you’d gasp when he’d push deeper. The way your nails would scrape along his back as you begged him for more.

“Y/N,” he groans, the sound rough and desperate. His hand moves faster, each stroke slicker as he imagines it’s you, your body wrapped around him, holding him the way only you can. His head falls back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as he lets the fantasy consume him. He sees you clearly in his mind—your thighs trembling as he grips them, your lips parting in a scream as he thrusts harder, deeper, hitting the spot that makes you fall apart for him.

“You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?” he mutters under his breath, his voice dark and thick with lust. “Fuck, I’d stretch you out so good. You’d feel so tight around me, baby. Just like always.” His free hand grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he fights to steady himself, his hips bucking into his hand with increasing desperation.

The memory of your body, the way you’d tremble beneath him, the sounds you’d make—it’s too much. His breathing grows heavier, his strokes faster and more erratic as his body chases the release that only thoughts of you can bring. “I miss the way you’d scream my name,” he growls, his voice breaking. “The way you’d pull me closer, telling me not to stop. God, I’d give anything to hear you beg for me right now.”

His hand moves relentlessly, his hips rocking into his fist as his moans grow louder, rougher. The tension in his body builds, coiling tighter and tighter as he teeters on the edge. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and unsteady. “You’d take everything I give you. Fuck, I miss the way you’d cry for me, baby.”

The final push comes as he watches your face in the video again, the way your lips part as you moan his name. His head tips back, a shuddering groan ripping from his throat as he spills over his hand, his release hot and messy, leaving him trembling. “Y/N,” he moans, your name breaking from him like a prayer, his body jerking as the aftershocks ripple through him.

He sits there for a moment, panting, his body still thrumming with the intensity of it all. Then, with shaky hands, he grabs his phone, flips the camera to record himself. He doesn’t bother cleaning up, the sight of his slick hand stroking himself slowly as he recovers still raw and unapologetic. His voice is low, rough, dripping with desire as he speaks into the mic.

“Look what you do to me, baby,” he says, his hand running lazily along his length, already half-hard again. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad. I want to feel you, taste you, fuck you until you’re screaming my name. You’ve got me so fucking desperate for you.”

As he finishes, his body shudders, his release spilling over his hand as he moans your name one last time, his voice raw and unfiltered. He sends the video to you without hesitation, his heart racing as he collapses back into the chair, desperately waiting for your response, the tension momentarily gone but the longing for you only growing stronger.

──────────────────────────────

The morning light filters through your curtains, soft and golden, as you shuffle toward the front door. Your heart pounds with a rhythm you can’t quite control, anticipation and nerves tangling in your chest. The handle feels cool under your fingers as you pull it open, revealing Mark standing just beyond. He leans casually against the frame, his posture easy, but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes lock onto yours immediately, sharp and unwavering.

He looks good—too good. The warmth of the sun highlights the lines of his jaw and the subtle curve of his smirk. It’s subtle but deliberate, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips as his gaze drifts over you, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, rich, and teasing, like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. There’s a weight to his tone, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

You try—really try—to meet his gaze, but your confidence falters almost instantly. Instead, your eyes dart downward, catching on the worn fabric of his sneakers, the edge of his jeans, anywhere but him. Your body betrays you, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater as if the soft material could anchor you against the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. Your shoulders feel tense, your breathing uneven as you shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but he notices. He always notices. The way you hesitate, the way your lips part as if to speak but nothing comes out. The way your lashes flutter against your cheeks when you glance up at him briefly, only to look away just as quickly, like his gaze is too much to hold.

His eyes stay on you, unrelenting, and you can feel them moving over every detail: the flush creeping up your neck, the way your fingers fidget nervously, the way you can’t seem to stand still under the weight of his presence. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t need to; the space between you feels impossibly small, charged with something electric.

There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something softer, though it’s fleeting. His gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the way you bite your lip when you finally manage a soft, “Hi.” It’s barely audible, but he hears it, the faintest flicker of satisfaction passing through his features before he schools them back into something unreadable.

He knows why. He knows why you’re flustered, still reeling from yesterday.

After exchanging those videos last night, things escalated quickly. The call that followed left you completely at his mercy. Just his voice—low, commanding, and utterly filthy—had you coming undone three more times, each climax leaving you more breathless and trembling than the last. He knew exactly what to say to have you at his mercy, completely undone and helpless to resist him.

The first time, it was his instructions. Precise, deliberate, and spoken with the kind of authority that left no room for hesitation. “Slower,” he’d murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I want to hear every little sound you make.” And you gave him everything, your breath hitching as you followed his commands, your body arching as his words wrapped around you like a tether, pulling you closer to the edge.

The second time, it was his praise. Dark and intoxicating, his voice softened just enough to send shivers down your spine. “That’s it,” he’d growled, the sound thick with approval. “You’re so fucking good for me, baby. Don’t stop now.” And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was the only thing anchoring you, pushing you higher and higher until the wave crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling.

The third time, it was pure desperation—both his and yours. His breathing had grown heavier, rougher, and the way he spoke was almost a plea, laced with need so raw it made your chest tighten. “One more,” he’d rasped, his voice cracking with hunger. “You’ve got one more for me, don’t you? Give it to me.” And you had, your body writhing as you chased the release his words pulled from you, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

Even after the call ended, the sound of his voice lingered, echoing in your mind as you lay there, completely spent. The weight of his control, the way he’d taken you apart and pieced you back together with nothing but his words, stayed with you long into the night, leaving your body humming with the memory.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless. You’re too aware of how your words tremble slightly, the question spilling out before you can stop it.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he tilts his head slightly. “Did you forget?” he asks, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “You asked me to take you to campus. Said you wanted to come in with me today.”

Your brows furrow as you try to remember, the haze of last night still clouding your mind. Then it clicks, and your lips part slightly as the memory surfaces. “Oh,” you say softly, feeling the heat in your cheeks deepen. You lower your gaze again, unable to meet his eyes as the realization settles over you.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of satisfaction in his expression is impossible to miss. He steps aside, gesturing toward the car parked at the curb, his movements deliberate and smooth. You nod silently, stepping out and closing the door behind you, your heart pounding in your chest as you follow him to the car.

Even as you slide into the passenger seat, you can feel his gaze lingering, heavy and deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but the curve of his lips and the subtle clench of his jaw tell you he’s thinking about last night too. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s alive, buzzing with the tension that neither of you can ignore. You can feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on the wheel, in the way your thighs press together, the ache from last night still fresh and impossible to forget.

Mark starts the car, his movements calm, but the tension in the small space between you simmers, unspoken and undeniable. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not when the memory of his voice, his commands, and the way he pushed you to your limits still lingers, heavy and electric, in the charged air around you.

The drive to college is too quiet. The hum of the engine fills the silence, but it feels suffocating. You keep your gaze fixed out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap as Jeno drives, his grip firm on the wheel. He doesn’t seem bothered by the quiet—not at first. He’s calm, composed, but there’s an intensity in the air, in the way his eyes flick toward you at every red light, sharp and unrelenting.

Time stretched painfully, the weight of your unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest, until finally, he breaks the silence. “You okay? Thighs not aching?” he asks, his words deliberate, laced with something dark and teasing.

Your head snaps toward him, your expression caught between shock and indignation. “Why would they?” you quip, your tone defensive, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

He doesn’t respond right away, just smirks faintly, his fingers tapping lazily against the steering wheel as his gaze stays fixed on the road ahead. But there’s something dangerous in the curve of his lips, something dark and deliberate that makes your stomach flip and your skin burn under its weight. It’s not just a smirk—it’s a challenge, a reminder of the hold he has over you, and it’s infuriating how easily he can make your body betray you.

“You don’t remember?” he drawls finally, his voice smooth, slow, and dripping with amusement. The sound alone is enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “Last night. The way you couldn’t stop shaking after the second time. Or was it the third? I lost count.”

Your jaw tightens, heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks as his words sink in. You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds, but his smirk only widens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in a vain attempt to shield yourself from the weight of his teasing.

“And you,” he says, casting you a brief, pointed glance before looking back at the road, his tone dipping lower, smoother, “are still so shy. It’s adorable.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intimate, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your silence only seems to fuel him, his low chuckle breaking the tension, the sound vibrating through the confined space of the car and settling deep in your chest.

Then his hand shifts on the gearstick, a small, casual movement that becomes anything but when his fingers brush against your knee. The touch is fleeting, light enough to be innocent, but the heat it leaves behind is anything but. You stiffen at the contact, your breath catching as your eyes dart to his hand. He doesn’t pull away—of course he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers for just a moment, long enough for you to feel the deliberate weight of his presence before he lets his hand return to the gearstick, his smirk softening but no less smug.

You want to say something, to snap at him, to remind him that you’re trying very hard to keep your composure, but the words die in your throat when he speaks again.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something softer, though the teasing edge lingers just beneath the surface. His gaze flicks toward you again, his eyes scanning your face briefly, and the subtle way his lips curl tells you he can see right through you. “Literally just trying to drive my car.” 

The air between you feels heavier now, every subtle movement amplified—the way his fingers drum against the wheel, the way your thighs press together in an attempt to quell the warmth pooling low in your stomach, the way your breathing has quickened just slightly. You can’t help but think he notices it all. Of course, he notices.

And when his eyes flick back to the road, you catch the faintest shake of his head, as though your flustered reaction amuses him more than it should. The tension simmers, unrelenting, the memory of last night lingering in every unspoken glance, every subtle shift in the confined space between you.

“You need to stop using all your energy trying to fuck me,” you tease, your tone light but edged with something warmer, something heavier, “and instead save it for today. You’re gonna need it.”

He hums softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his expression. “Hmm?”

“You’re going into practice today, right?” you ask softly, your voice careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet. “When you tell them what’s been happening…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’m sure the team’s gonna have a lot to say when you show up.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods once, curtly, his eyes focused on the road. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the single word heavy with something unspoken.

The reminder of practice shifts the mood instantly, a quiet tension settling into the car as you glance at him again. His teasing demeanor falters, just for a moment, and you notice the subtle changes in his posture—the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening against the leather, and the slight furrow in his brow as your words settle in. His fingers, which had been drumming lightly against the wheel, fall still, as though the weight of what he’s about to face has rooted them in place.

You study him closely, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that you’ve come to recognize as a tell for when he’s deep in thought, when the world around him feels too heavy. He’s grappling with more than just today; you know that. Basketball has been his constant, his escape, the one thing he’s been able to rely on through every upheaval in his life. The idea of stepping back onto the court, even with restrictions, has been weighing on him in ways he hasn’t fully admitted.

Mark exhales slowly, the breath deliberate but not quite reaching his shoulders, and you notice how his posture feels too composed, too intentional—like he’s bracing himself against the storm he’s been carrying inside.

The silence stretches again, heavier now, and your chest tightens at the sight of him holding so much inside. You’ve known Mark long enough to see through the mask he’s trying to keep intact. The teasing earlier, the flirting, the smugness, the light banter—it was all a distraction, a way to steady himself against the weight he’s been carrying. Now, his shoulders look too still, his relaxed posture almost forced, like he’s trying to avoid thinking about what’s coming next.

You can’t let him carry it alone. Not today.

“Mark,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet, your tone filled with all the care you know he needs. “I know how much this means to you. And I know how hard it’s been. But I promise you…” You pause, your words trembling. “I’ll be there. If you need help telling everyone, if you need me to steady you, or just… if you need me to hold you after—it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there.”

His breath catches as his hand slides onto your thigh, his palm warm against your bare skin. The contrast between the cool morning air in the car and the heat radiating from his touch is startling, sending a shiver up your spine. His thumb begins to move, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy circles just beneath the hem of your skirt. The motion is subtle, almost teasing, but the weight of his hand feels grounding and possessive, like he’s silently claiming the space he’s touching.

Your heart pounds harder, each gentle press of his thumb making it impossible to focus on anything else. His fingers flex slightly, gripping your thigh as though he’s drawing reassurance from the softness of your skin, the strength in his touch betraying how tightly he’s holding himself together. The heat from his hand spreads through you like a slow-burning flame, pooling low in your stomach and tightening your chest. Every motion feels intentional, the pads of his fingers brushing against you with just enough pressure to make your breathing hitch.

You glance down, watching the way his hand rests against your skin, the way his knuckles disappear beneath the edge of your skirt. The sight alone sends a flush of warmth through you, and you can feel the tension growing thicker in the confined space of the car. His grip tightens briefly, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself, as if he needs this contact to steady the storm brewing inside him.

For a moment, your own hand hovers uncertainly, the urge to touch him back overwhelming. Then, with a deliberate movement, you slide your fingers over his, pressing lightly against his skin. His breath hitches audibly at the contact, and his hand freezes for a heartbeat. You know what he’s thinking—that you’re about to move his hand away. The hesitation in his touch makes that clear. But instead, you push his hand higher, your palm guiding him firmly up the length of your thigh.

His knuckles brush against the fabric of your skirt, the motion slow and deliberate as the material shifts slightly with the movement. His fingers curl instinctively, gripping the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with more urgency, and a soft exhale escapes him, low and shaky. The air between you feels charged now, electric with something unspoken but undeniable, and you press his hand even higher, until the warmth of his palm is nearly unbearable.

The way his fingers spread against your skin, exploring just beneath your skirt, sends a shiver racing through you. His touch feels like fire and restraint all at once—like he’s holding back but not entirely. The tension builds with every shift of his hand, the sensation of his rough fingertips brushing against you igniting something deep within.

You hold your hand over his, not to stop him, but to keep him there, pressing your fingers down as if to say, don’t move. The weight of your touch is grounding, deliberate, and when his thumb drags a slow, agonizing line along the sensitive skin of your thigh, you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t speak, but the way his hand lingers, the way his grip tightens, tells you everything you need to know. His need, his restraint, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as if he’s fighting himself—it all speaks volumes. And as the tension grows, the heat between you feels like it might consume you both, leaving no room for anything else.

──────────────────────────────

The gym hums with life, a constant thrum of activity. Players’ voices echo against the high ceilings, mingling with the dull thud of basketballs hitting the floor and the sharp clap of sneakers gripping the court. The air is thick with energy, an almost electric charge that clings to everything, amplified by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Walking in alongside Mark, you immediately notice how everyone seems to move with purpose—the players warming up, coaches already shouting instructions, and clusters of students loitering on the bleachers, whispering and watching.

Coach Taeyong stands at the far end of the court, clipboard in hand, his brow furrowed as he watches a few of the guys run drills. His stance, stiff and authoritative, screams frustration, though he doesn’t yell like you’d expect. Instead, his gaze flickers over the team like he’s measuring their every move. Nearby, Coach Doyoung leans against the wall, arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His presence is calmer, but there’s a sharpness in the way he observes the players, a readiness to step in the moment something goes wrong. His role feels more protective than demanding, like he’s watching over them, ensuring they stay safe while still giving Taeyong the reins.

Karina spots you the moment you enter, her ponytail bouncing as she waves you over enthusiastically from her spot near the bleachers. You return the gesture with a small wave of your own, but before you can move, your gaze catches on a group of familiar faces. Aisha, Mia, Yeji, and Lia are huddled together near the benches, their heads tilted toward one another as they whisper animatedly. Their eyes dart to you and Mark, lingering for a moment too long, before they turn back to their conversation. You catch snippets of giggles and quiet murmurs, the kind that crawl under your skin and make you hyper-aware of yourself.

Mark seems oblivious to their stares, his focus fixed ahead as his steps slow just slightly. You notice the way his hand brushes against his side, a subtle tell that he’s nervous. You place a hand on his arm, stopping him for just a moment, and his eyes flick to yours.

“If you need me,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach, “I’m right across the court.”

He nods once, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his gaze holds yours for a beat longer than usual. There’s something unspoken in his expression, something almost vulnerable, but before you can linger on it, he pulls away, heading toward the guys gathering near the center of the court.

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening at the way his shoulders seem a little more rigid than usual, before finally turning toward Karina. She’s still waiting for you, tapping her foot impatiently as she gestures for you to hurry.

As you make your way over, you catch another round of giggles from Aisha and her group. They’re still watching, their whispers cutting off abruptly when you glance in their direction. This time, you don’t look away. Your gaze hardens, and their smiles falter slightly, though the smugness doesn’t disappear entirely. By the time you reach Karina, your nerves are buzzing, the weight of their scrutiny settling heavily on your shoulders.

Karina raises an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “What was that about?” she asks, nodding subtly toward the group as you drop into the seat beside her.

You shake your head, letting out a sharp breath. “Nothing worth worrying about,” you mutter, though the tension in your voice betrays you.

Karina doesn’t push, but her eyes narrow slightly, the wheels in her head clearly turning as she takes in your expression. “Did Mark spend the night?” she asks instead, changing the subject with a teasing grin. “Because, babe, you were moaning like a bitch in heat yesterday.”

The comment pulls an unexpected laugh from your chest, but your cheeks burn instantly. “He didn’t,” you admit, the memory of last night flooding your mind. “But we—”

The words die on your tongue when you notice Aisha and her friends again. They’re still watching, their eyes sharp with curiosity and something more—something that makes your stomach twist. Whispering resumes as you turn away, their laughter soft but pointed, and you feel your fingers curl into fists against your sides.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight of their stares. Their giggles cut through the ambient noise of the gym, each one like a needle pricking at your skin. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to. The glances they throw your way, the smug little smiles—they’re enough to make your blood simmer.

Karina notices the shift in your demeanor instantly, her teasing smirk fading as she follows your gaze. “What’s their problem?” she mutters, leaning closer to you. Her tone is sharp now, protective.

“I don’t know,” you reply quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “But I’m done with it.”

Something hardens in Karina’s expression, her jaw tightening as she watches the group. “You should say something. Seriously. Don’t let them get away with this crap.”

Your instinct is to brush it off like you always do, to let it slide and avoid the confrontation. But this time feels different. This time, you can’t push down the irritation bubbling in your chest, the heat rising in your cheeks as their laughter grows louder. You’ve been dealing with their snide remarks and side-eyes for weeks now, and you’re tired—tired of shrinking yourself, tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you.

You stand abruptly, Karina raising an eyebrow as she steps aside to let you pass. The scrape of your sneakers against the gym floor draws attention, but you don’t care. Your focus is locked on them, your chest tight with a mix of anger and determination as you cross the court.

Aisha is the first to notice you approaching, her head tilting slightly, a sly smile curving on her lips. The others follow her lead, their expressions ranging from amused to smug. They don’t speak, waiting for you to make the first move, their silence as pointed as their earlier whispers.

“Do you have something to say to me?” you ask, your voice sharp and steady as you come to a stop in front of them. You cross your arms over your chest, your stance firm.

Aisha shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” you counter, your tone laced with sarcasm. “Because you’ve been whispering and laughing since I walked in.”

Yeji leans forward slightly, her grin widening. “We were just curious,” she says lightly, the edge in her voice impossible to miss. “Did you and Mark break up?”

You nod, your expression carefully neutral. “Yes.”

Yeji claps her hands together, her voice lilting with fake surprise. “I knew it. Told you, didn’t I?” she says, turning to Mia. “He’s fair game now.”

Your jaw clenches, a sharp flare of anger igniting in your chest as her words cut through you. “No, he isn’t,” you snap, your voice low and laced with steel. Your eyes narrow, locking onto hers with a glare so sharp it could pierce through her. The weight of your possessiveness hangs heavy in the air, daring her—or anyone—to challenge it.

Aisha scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you they’d only last a month,” she says, addressing the group as if you’re not standing right there. “Didn’t I say he’d get bored and move on? The fact that I gave them a month but it hasn’t even been a month yet.”

Something inside you snaps, a surge of confidence bubbling to the surface as you step closer, your voice cold and sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. “Funny,” you begin, your tone laced with a biting edge, “you’re so obsessed with Mark, but he wouldn’t even look at you twice, no matter how hard you tried. You could throw yourself at him, beg for his attention, and he still wouldn’t give you a second of his time.”

Aisha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please,” she snaps, her voice dripping with condescension. “You sound so confident for someone who can’t even keep him. Or did you forget you two broke up?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t back down, your gaze narrowing as you take another step forward. “You’re right, we did,” you fire back, your tone steady and unyielding. “But here’s the difference: even when we weren’t together, you still couldn’t catch his attention. And you never will.”

Aisha laughs, short and mocking, glancing back at her friends for validation. “Oh, come on. You act like you’re the only girl he’s ever cared about. Mark’s got a type, and let’s be real—it’s not commitment.” She leans in slightly, her eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “You think you’re special, huh? Like you’re different from the rest of us? Newsflash: you’re not.”

Your gaze flicks over Aisha and her little entourage, each of them faltering under the weight of your words. You step even closer, letting the tension build, letting the heat of your anger—and your unwavering confidence—radiate from you. “Do you know how many girls Mark fucked before me?” you continue, changing the subject, your tone softer now but dripping with menace, making them lean in to catch every word. “A lot. And you know what’s even funnier? You weren’t one of them. Not you, not any of your little minions.”

You smile, slow and deliberate, watching their faces pale as your words sink in. “Do you want to know why?” you ask, your voice low and mocking. “Because you’ve never even been on his radar. Not even once. You’re not his type. Hell, you couldn’t even get his attention if you tried—and trust me, I know you’ve tried.”

You cross your arms, your stance confident and unyielding, your glare slicing through the false bravado in their smirks. “So maybe instead of spending all your time whispering and giggling like middle schoolers, you should focus on yourselves. Because whatever you think you’re going to get from Mark? It’s never going to happen. Not now, not ever.”

Aisha’s smirk slips for a fraction of a second before she recovers, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a casual shrug. “Maybe he just likes a challenge,” she says, her voice light but biting. “If you’re so sure he’s yours, why are you even wasting your breath? Sounds like someone’s a little insecure.”

You step closer still, the space between you practically crackling with tension. “Insecure?” you repeat, your voice like ice. “And for the record,” you continue, stepping closer, “Mark didn’t move on. He didn’t get bored. We broke up because we both have a lot going on, something I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand since all you seem to care about is gossiping like middle schoolers.”

Her expression freezes, her lips parting slightly as if to retort, but nothing comes out. The other girls glance between you, their whispers and giggles suddenly silent as the weight of your words sinks in. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and you feel the tension radiating off them, but you hold your ground. For once, you don’t look away, don’t shrink under their scrutiny.

You don’t consciously decide to cross the court, but something in the way Aisha and her friends are still staring—watching, waiting for you to falter—pushes you forward. It’s not about flaunting anything; it’s about reminding yourself, and them, that Mark has never been theirs to wonder about. He’s yours in a way that’s undeniable, unshakable, and entirely effortless. He doesn’t see them, never has. His attention, his focus, his everything—it’s always been you. And you know, with a confidence that feels rare but earned, that you can have him whenever you want, however you want, because it’s you he chooses every time. So you let your steps carry you to him, your head held high, the weight of their stares dissolving as the distance between you and Mark closes, like the rest of the world no longer matters.

The moment your eyes find Mark, something inside you settles. He’s standing with the team near the far side of the court, his posture deceptively relaxed, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other grips a basketball. He’s mid-conversation with Jeno, his expression neutral, but you know him too well. The slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers across the court every so often—it’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s checking on you, watching without being obvious about it, sensing something’s off even from a distance.

Your chest tightens as you take him in. It’s not just the way he grounds you, the way his presence alone feels like a steadying force—it’s the fact that you know he’d cross the entire gym if he thought you needed him. And right now, you do. Not because you’re upset, not because of the whispers still buzzing faintly around you, but because you’ve had enough. Enough of their giggles, their pointed stares, their pathetic attempts to rattle you. You don’t owe anyone silence or the space to tear you down. You want Mark—not out of weakness, not because you need him to save you, but because you know he’s yours in a way that’s undeniable. 

Being with him isn’t about seeking refuge; it’s about showing them, and reminding yourself, that you don’t have to explain, defend, or prove anything. You’re tired of playing small, tired of pretending you don’t care when every look they shoot your way only fuels the fire. Mark centers you, but more than that, he amplifies you, and right now, you want them to see it—you want them to see him—and know that none of their whispers will ever come close to touching what you have.

As you approach, his head turns, his eyes locking onto yours instantly. You can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, the way his brows knit together slightly even as he straightens, adjusting his stance as if readying himself for whatever it is you’re about to say. Jeno glances at you too, his curiosity evident, but he steps back without a word, giving you the space you don’t even have to ask for.

Mark’s hand drops from the basketball, hanging loosely at his side as he watches you close the distance between you. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. You come to a stop right in front of him, your heart hammering in your chest as the world seems to shrink to just the two of you.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you let your hand slip into his, the motion natural, almost automatic. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and grounding, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly. His touch steadies you, the earlier tension in your body melting away as you feel the weight of his presence settle beside you.

His eyes search yours, his brow furrowing slightly, the faintest trace of worry flickering across his face. “Everything okay?” he asks softly, his voice pitched low, just for you.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward as he lets out a quiet laugh. “Thought you were about to slap her then,” he teases, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

You smile faintly, shaking your head as you let the tension in your shoulders ease. “Everything’s fine,” you reply, your voice steady, though the warmth of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, grounding you, and you let yourself exhale, letting go of the last remnants of irritation. “It is now.”

When you turn back toward the girls, their wide-eyed stares meet you immediately. Aisha and her minions are frozen, their earlier smugness wiped clean, replaced with disbelief and a flicker of something else—something almost uncomfortable. They don’t say a word as you let them see it, the way Mark’s hand fits so easily in yours, the way he holds onto you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. You smile, letting your confidence radiate through the simple gesture, the subtle shift in your posture as you stand taller now.

Let them whisper. Let them watch. You’re done shrinking under their gaze, done letting their shallow judgments chip away at you. This time, you’re the one holding the power, and it feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been giving away. Mark’s hand in yours, his quiet, unwavering presence at your side—it’s all the reminder you need that their words don’t define you. They never did.

“Y/N,” Jeno says, his tone firm but tinged with concern. You glance over your shoulder, and he’s already walking toward you, his gaze flicking between you and the girls. “You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, but there’s no missing the protective edge in his words. “You need me to do anything?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, it’s okay, Jen,” you reply softly, your voice steady despite the earlier tension. “Really.”

Jeno stops just a step away, his sharp eyes moving back to the girls briefly. His expression darkens, a silent warning flashing in his gaze that’s enough to make them look away. But when he turns back to you and Mark, his entire demeanor shifts. His grin spreads wide, warm and easy, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen from him in a while. It’s genuine, approving, and there’s something almost teasing in the way his eyes linger on Mark’s hand wrapped around yours.

“Wow,” he says quietly, his voice softer now as his glance shifts between the two of you. There’s no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of quiet acceptance, like he’s starting to realize how much this makes sense, how natural it feels.

Mark nods at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Jeno just shakes his head lightly, his grin widening as he takes a step back, giving you both space but keeping his presence nearby, protective as always. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer before he turns toward the team, his body language calm but still watchful.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but enough to make him turn his head toward you. His eyes find yours immediately, and without hesitation, he leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and steady against your skin, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. His hand, still wrapped tightly around yours, flexes slightly, like he’s grounding himself in your touch.

The closeness feels almost suffocating in the best way, the air between you heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet. You tilt your head toward him instinctively, your voice soft and intimate as you ask, “You gonna tell the team now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicker downward, his thumb tracing slow circles against the back of your hand. When he finally nods, it’s slight, almost hesitant, but there’s a weight behind it that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to steady himself through the words.

Your grip on his hand tightens, your fingers intertwining with his, holding him there for a moment longer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper, your lips brushing close to his jaw as you speak. The words are quiet, meant just for him, but you can feel the way his body responds—the slight shift of his shoulders, the deep inhale as if he’s taking your reassurance and letting it settle in his chest.

Mark turns slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he lets out a slow, steadying breath. His hand lingers in yours, his thumb still moving in that comforting rhythm, before he finally steps forward. The absence of his touch feels immediate, but the warmth of it lingers on your skin as you watch him straighten his back, his shoulders squaring as he faces the team.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out, his voice louder now, steady despite the weight behind it. You can see the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver in his fingers as he flexes them at his sides, but he stands tall, the air around him shifting as the team begins to gather. You can’t help but follow him with your eyes, your heart tight with both pride and an ache you can’t quite put into words. Even now, as vulnerable as he is, there’s a strength in the way he carries himself, and it’s magnetic.

But you stay rooted in place, your fingers still tingling from where they’d been intertwined with his, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ll be there. Always.

The boys gradually gather around, their movements slowing as they notice the serious set of Mark’s expression. Jeno hangs back slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, already attuned to what’s coming. He doesn’t ask any questions—he doesn’t need to—but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his stance as he braces himself for Mark’s words. Always one step ahead, always ready to offer quiet support, Jeno’s presence feels like a steadying force even before Mark speaks.

Mark glances at you briefly, the silent connection between you giving him the courage he needs as he begins to speak. “I need to tell you guys something,” he starts, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “It’s about why I haven’t been playing as much lately.”

The group falls silent, all eyes fixed on him. Chenle and Jaemin exchange quick glances, their expressions curious but concerned. Doyoung steps forward slightly, his face already lined with worry, while Jeno stays close, his presence steady and grounding.

Mark takes another breath, his free hand brushing through his hair before he continues. “I have a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” he says, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “It’s something I’ve known about for a while, but I… I didn’t take it seriously at first. I thought I could push through it, play like I always have. But I can’t anymore.” His voice wavers slightly, and you feel the faint tremble in his hand as he grips yours tighter.

The gym is completely silent as Mark’s words hang in the air. The team’s faces reflect a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. Jaemin’s brows furrow deeply, his usually calm expression giving way to worry. Renjun’s lips part slightly, his eyes wide, flicking between Mark and Jeno, searching for confirmation that what he’s hearing is real. Chenle’s hand comes up to his mouth, his eyes already glistening, and you see him blink rapidly as though trying to keep the tears from falling.

Mark’s voice shakes as he continues, his vulnerability cracking through the usual strength in his tone. “I thought if I ignored it, I could keep going. Keep playing. Basketball’s been everything to me for as long as I can remember—it’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on. But I can’t anymore. If I push myself, it could…” He swallows hard, the word catching in his throat before he forces it out. “It could kill me.”

The room remains silent, the weight of his confession settling over everyone. Doyoung’s face crumples almost instantly, his emotions clear as his lips part in disbelief. “Son,” he whispers, his voice thick with sadness.

At the same time, Taeyong takes a step forward, his usual stern demeanor replaced by something softer, something almost unfamiliar. “Son,” he says, an unusual fondness in his tone, but he halts when Mark’s gaze snaps to him, cold and deadpan. Taeyong freezes, his mouth closing as if he knows he’s already lost the right to step closer.

Doyoung takes a sharp breath, the sound cutting through the room as his face contorts with distress. “Son,” he whispers again, his voice trembling. He takes a step forward, his hands reaching out slightly, but he hesitates, stopping just short of touching Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his grip on your hand the only thing grounding him. “Because I didn’t want to let anyone down,” he admits. “I didn’t want to let you down. Or the team. Or myself.”

The weight of those words sinks in, and you see Jeno shift beside him. He doesn’t speak, but his hand comes to rest on Mark’s shoulder, the small gesture carrying a silent reassurance that only a brother can give. Mark glances at him briefly, and for a second, you see the tension in his frame ease just slightly.

Jaemin, ever the optimist, steps forward, his voice quiet but firm. “Mark… none of us would ever think that. You know that, right? We’d never think you’re letting us down.”

Chenle sniffs quietly, and when he finally speaks, his voice wavers. “You’re one of the best players we’ve ever had. And not just because you’re good at basketball. It’s you, Mark. You’re… you’re just…” His voice breaks, and he rubs furiously at his eyes, unable to finish.

Renjun places a hand on Chenle’s shoulder, his own expression somber but composed. “We’re a team,” Renjun says firmly, his gaze locking on Mark’s. “And teams stick together. We’ve got you.”

Doyoung’s lips press into a thin line, his emotions barely contained as he steps forward again. “Mark,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I’ve always been proud of you—on and off the court. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

The silence stretches for a moment, until Jeno, ever the steady presence, squeezes Mark’s shoulder again. His voice is calm but firm as he says, “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got them. We’ve got you.”

Mark swallows hard, his eyes flickering around the circle of his teammates. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, and after a moment, you let go, stepping back to let them close in around him. The team moves as one, their voices quiet but filled with reassurance as they offer words of encouragement and solidarity.

You see Chenle’s tears fall freely now, his shoulders shaking as Jaemin pats his back lightly. Renjun murmurs something soft to Mark, his voice too low for you to hear, but the small nod Mark gives in response speaks volumes. Jeno doesn’t leave Mark’s side, his protective stance solid, grounding Mark in a way only he can.

Your gaze drifts to the edge of the court, where Taeyong stands alone, watching the scene unfold with an expression that’s difficult to read. For a fleeting moment, there’s a flash of regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t step forward again. He stays where he is, his figure framed by the shadows of the gym, a silent

You couldn’t help the sting of tears pricking at your own eyes as you watched the scene unfold. The vulnerability in Mark’s confession, the way his teammates rally around him, the unspoken love and respect in every movement—it’s overwhelming. 

The gym echoes with the distant creak of the heavy double doors as the last of the team filters out, their chatter fading into the hallway. The once-bustling court is eerily quiet now, the air heavy with everything left unsaid. Mark stands near the edge of the court, his shoulders slightly slumped, the tension of the day etched into his frame. Beside him, Jeno adjusts his bag strap, his focus on the exit as he steps toward it.

Just as they both reach the door to leave, Doyoung’s voice cuts through the silence, firm but gentle. “Mark. Wait.”

Mark pauses mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he looks over his shoulder. His brows furrow faintly, his exhaustion evident in the way his stance wavers for a moment before he turns fully to face his uncle.

Jeno, sensing the shift in tone, glances back briefly but doesn’t stop moving. His hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the cool metal. Behind him, Doyoung hesitates, his gaze flickering between his two nephews. There’s a visible pause, the air around him thick with indecision as his lips part, then press together again. His expression softens slightly, a mix of something unreadable—maybe uncertainty, maybe regret—before his voice cuts through the quiet, sharper this time.

“Jeno. You too.”

Jeno turns slowly, his brows furrowing as he processes the unusual request. He’s not used to this—being included, being needed in a moment like this. His gaze flickers to Mark, who offers the faintest nod, before he makes his way back toward them, his steps deliberate, his shoulders tense.

Doyoung steps closer, his arms crossed, but his expression is open, softer than usual. “I just wanted to talk to you both. This isn’t something I can say to the team—it’s for you two.” His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of emotion that gives his words weight.

Mark lifts his head, meeting Doyoung’s gaze. “What is it?”

The gym feels cavernous now, the silence amplifying every breath, every subtle movement. Doyoung stands in front of his nephews, his arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to shield himself from the weight of the moment. His eyes flicker between Mark and Jeno, lingering longer than usual, as if searching for the right words.

“This isn’t just about basketball,” he begins, his voice quieter than usual but steady. He takes a step closer, his stance softening as his gaze lands on Mark first. “What you’ve been carrying, Mark—it’s more than anyone your age should have to deal with. Between the expectations, the pressure, and everything with… your dad…” Doyoung pauses, exhaling deeply. “It’s a lot. I know you’ve felt like you had to take it all on alone, but you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Mark swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop slightly, like a part of him is finally allowing himself to believe the words.

Doyoung turns his attention to Jeno, his expression shifting into something softer, almost hesitant. “And you, Jeno. You’ve been carrying your own weight, haven’t you? I see the way you look out for Mark, the way you protect him—whether it’s from himself, from others, or from all the crap life throws at him. You don’t just step up when someone asks you to. You do it because you care. Because you’re loyal. And it’s not just about Mark. You’ve been trying to hold this family together in your own way, even if you don’t realize it.”

Jeno’s brow furrows slightly, his posture stiffening. “I don’t know about all that,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just do what I can.”

Doyoung shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s more than that. It’s the way you show up. For Mark. For everyone around you. And I want you to know, Jeno—I’m proud of you.”

The words land heavily, and Jeno’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly as if he didn’t hear right the first time. He blinks, looking away quickly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… thanks, I guess,” he mumbles, his voice quieter than usual. He glances at Mark, who gives him a small, knowing smile.

“You don’t hear it enough,” Doyoung says, his tone firm. “And that’s on me. But I see you, Jeno. I see the man you’re becoming. And you need to hear that I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

Mark looks up at that, his eyes meeting Jeno’s briefly before flickering back to Doyoung. There’s a weight to his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid.

“You both grew up missing pieces you should’ve had. One of you had your dad, and the other didn’t, but somehow his absence—and all the toxic ways he left his mark—still linger in both your lives. It’s all tangled up in ways neither of you can really escape.” Doyoung continues, his voice trembling slightly. “And I know… I know I can’t change the past. I can’t erase your Dad, the gaps he’s left in your lives. But you’ve built something for yourselves despite all of that. You’ve stayed close, stayed strong—and that’s because of the two of you, not him.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to keep his emotions in check. He swallows hard before looking up, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t feel like strength most of the time,” he admits, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It feels like we’re just… surviving. Like we’ve spent our whole lives cleaning up his mess.”

Jeno shifts beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression hardens for a moment, but the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. “Surviving is strength,” he says, his tone sharper than he intends. “He didn’t give us much of a choice, did he? We had to figure it out on our own.”

But then Jeno’s gaze softens as it lands on Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He exhales slowly, his voice quieter now. “…But you’ve had it worse,” he says, almost as if admitting it to himself. “You grew up with all of his bullshit right in your face, having to deal with his absence and his neglect. I didn’t, well, not in the same way that you did.” His arms drop to his sides, and he shakes his head, glancing away briefly before looking back at Mark.

Mark lifts his eyes to meet Jeno’s, his expression unreadable at first. The words sink in, settling somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. He feels the weight of Jeno’s gaze, the honesty in his voice, and it stirs something raw in his chest.

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as his lips press into a tight line. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low and measured. “Maybe I had it worse in some ways. But it’s not like you came out of this unscathed, Jeno. He screwed both of us over, just… differently.”

The moment feels lighter for a second, but Doyoung’s next words pull them back into the gravity of the conversation. “You’ve both turned out better than anyone had the right to expect, considering what you’ve been through. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of you.”

The air between them shifts, a subtle but significant softening. Mark and Jeno exchange a look, one of mutual understanding, before their attention returns to Doyoung.

As the three of them stand there, unaware of the figure lingering outside the gym doors, Taeyong leans against the frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but the shadows cast over his face betray the regret etched into his features. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches, the distance between him and his sons feeling more like a chasm than ever before.

──────────────────────────────

The mirror reflects two flawless versions of yourselves—both of you radiating confidence and allure in a way that makes the room feel electric. You smooth down the fabric of your dress, a satin black slip that clings perfectly to your figure, its midnight black hue shimmering faintly under the soft lighting. Karina stands beside you, her dress equally stunning—a deep emerald green that compliments her skin tone, the neckline daring and framed by her loose, effortless waves. You both look undeniably good, your makeup sharp and glowing, as if the night was already yours before even stepping out the door.

“God, we’re so hot,” Karina laughs, tilting her head slightly as she adjusts her pose, her phone capturing endless selfies. You laugh softly, your fingers grazing your neck as you glance at your reflection again, momentarily distracted by your thoughts. You fiddle with your phone in your hand, biting your lip in contemplation. Mark’s been on your mind all evening, especially after everything that happened. The idea of sending him a picture flutters into your thoughts—one part wanting to show him how good you look tonight, the other part… well, maybe to remind him of what he still lingers on.

Finally, you give in, leaning subtly toward the mirror to snap a single shot. You tilt your head, letting the delicate strap of your dress slide slightly off your shoulder in a way that feels artfully careless. After a moment of hesitation, you attach the image to the message and hit send, your heart skipping a beat as you wait for his reaction. It doesn’t take long for your phone to buzz.

“Wait, so Mark has a heart condition?” Karina asks, her voice slicing through the soft hum of the playlist you’d put on earlier. Her words pull your gaze from your phone, where Mark’s latest text had left a smile tugging at your lips. She’s standing by the mirror, adjusting her hair with practiced ease. Her eyes meet yours through the reflection, eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity.

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing back down at your phone. “He does. And… it’s been hard on him. He’s upset about it, and I can tell it’s eating at him, even when he tries to act like it’s not.”

Karina turns, leaning a hip against the counter as her full attention shifts to you. Her lips curve into a small smile—gentle but knowing. “Of course he’s upset. It’s a lot to deal with. But you’ll be there for him, won’t you?” Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying seriousness in her question, like she already knows the answer.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation, your fingers idly brushing against the strap of your dress to adjust it. “I’ll always be there for him.”

Karina hums, studying you with a look that feels just a little too perceptive. “I have to say… you two have been spending a lot of time together lately. Are we just going to ignore the fact that you seem very close again?”” She pauses, her grin widening as she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But I don’t hear a single sound from your room when he’s over, so either he’s fucking you so hard you can’t even make a noise…”

You gasp, your cheeks heating instantly. “We haven’t been having sex!” you protest, but Karina only raises an eyebrow, her skepticism loud and clear. You throw your hands up in defense. “Okay, fine! I gave him one blowjob, but that’s it!” Her smirk widens, and you sigh. “It only happened because, when we were still together, I lost a game, and my punishment was to, well… you know.” You hesitate, glancing at her pointed look before blurting out, “And we broke up the next day, but I couldn’t break the damn promise!”

Karina bursts into laughter, her hand flying to her stomach as she doubles over dramatically. “You ‘couldn’t break the promise’?” she repeats, her voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, my god, you’re unbelievable. That’s the dumbest—and most you—thing I’ve ever heard. You broke up, but you still felt obligated to… follow through?”

She wipes a fake tear from her eye, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re telling me you were single, yet you still gave him a goodbye blowjob out of sportsmanship? I can’t—this is too much.”

You glare at her, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “It wasn’t like that,” you mutter defensively, though you can feel your face burning.

Karina grins, stepping closer to throw her arm around your shoulders. “Oh, babe, it was exactly like that. You’re too loyal for your own good. But hey, at least you kept your word, right?” She winks, her teasing relentless. “Mark must’ve been devastated losing you and the perks.”

“Shut up,” you snap playfully, rolling your eyes. “It’s different this time with us.”

Karina smirks, tilting her head to the side as she eyes you. “Different how? Like ‘we’re taking things slow and mature’ different? Or ‘we’re seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off but pretending it’s about feelings’ different?”

You groan, shoving her shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to gauge the vibe here,” she teases, raising her hands in mock surrender. 

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you lean against the counter beside her, your shoulders brushing. The teasing gives way to a more vulnerable quiet between you as you exhale slowly. “It feels more emotional between us now,” you admit, your voice softer, more contemplative. “It’s like… we’re actually talking. Like, really talking. He’s opening up to me about things he’s never talked about before, and I’m doing the same. And, believe it or not…” You pause, your lips curving into a small, almost disbelieving smile. “We haven’t even had sex since the breakup.”

Karina freezes mid-pose, her mouth falling open slightly. She turns to you with an expression that’s part disbelief, part amusement. “You haven’t had sex? Not even once?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “No, not even once. Sure, I can count four different occasions where it nearly happened but it didn’t! That’s so unlike us. And honestly? That shocks me. I thought I’d be the one to break first, but… I haven’t.”

Karina narrows her eyes at you, her teasing grin making a comeback. “What happened to the girl who swore she couldn’t resist going without his cock for more than a day? Who is this new woman standing in front of me?”

You snort, giving her shoulder a playful shove. “I’m evolving, okay? Growth.”

Karina raises a skeptical brow, her lips twitching in amusement as she grabs her bag from the bed. “We’ll see about that. I bet the second you see Mark, you’ll forget all about this so-called growth and be all over him.”

You roll your eyes, following her to the door, grabbing your keys and clutch on the way. “Let’s just get to Jeno’s before you start placing bets on my life choices.”

The two of you head down the hall of your apartment building, your laughter echoing softly in the quiet. Karina adjusts her dress as you step outside, the night air cool against your skin. “You call the ride?” she asks, glancing over at you.

“Already on the way,” you reply, the distant hum of city sounds filling the space between you. Moments later, a sleek car pulls up to the curb, and you both slide in, the buzz of anticipation swirling in the air.

The drive to Jeno’s feels light, Karina scrolling through her phone while you stare out the window, your thoughts drifting. The air smells faintly of bonfires and fresh grass as you step out of the car, the distant thrum of music seeping through the cracks of Jeno’s grand house. The last time you were here, everything changed—shifts in relationships, realizations, breaking points. But tonight feels different. As you approach the house, illuminated by soft golden lights strung across the patio, you feel something lighter, something that settles into you like peace.

Inside, the warmth and noise hit you all at once. People are sprawled across the expansive living room, some leaning lazily against counters, others clutching red Solo cups as they sway to the low hum of music. A chandelier above glimmers like a starburst, casting flickering patterns across polished floors and sleek furniture. The smell of spilled beer and faint vanilla candles mixes with laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

Jeno is leaning against the kitchen island when you see him, his black shirt unbuttoned slightly, the casual chaos of his hair making him look effortlessly cool. His eyes lock onto you the moment you walk in, but instead of looking at your face, they travel downward, tracing every curve and detail of your outfit. His brows raise slightly, and he lets out a soft, appreciative whistle.

“Woah,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you approach him. “Like it?”

“If you and Mark don’t sort out whatever the fuck is going on between you,” he drawls, his grin widening, “then I’m allowed to bend you over the table and finish what he clearly hasn’t started.”

You roll your eyes, though your lips tug into a smirk. “You can still do that,” you counter, your tone light but daring. “Doesn’t have to have anything to do with Mark.”

Karina doesn’t even blink at the exchange; she just arches a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression amused but knowing. “You two,” she mutters, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Always the same.” Her words carry a hint of exasperation, but it’s obvious she isn’t taking it seriously. No one ever did. You and Jeno had this unspoken, flirtatious rapport, one that people had stopped questioning long ago. It was a game you both played—a harmless, teasing dance that never meant anything deeper. 

Her heels click softly against the polished floor as she makes her way toward you both. Every movement of hers is deliberate—hips swaying just enough, her emerald-green dress clinging to her figure like a second skin. Her confidence radiates as her sharp eyes land on Jeno, who doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a smirk that’s half invitation, half dare, his hand casually adjusting the chain at his neck as his gaze sweeps over her like he’s taking in every detail.

“Don’t be jealous, Rina,” Jeno murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans in closer, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it’s meant to unravel her. His eyes flicker briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes, dark and full of intent. The way he moves is subtle but purposeful—like a predator closing in on its prey, confident in the effect he’s having.

Karina raises a brow, her red-painted lips curving into a slow smirk. Her hand finds her hip, the smooth fabric of her dress gliding beneath her palm as she tilts her head. “Jealous?” she echoes, her tone clipped but dripping with amusement. “Please.”

Jeno’s laugh is low, a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest. His arm tightens around her shoulder, his fingers brushing bare skin just beneath the strap of her dress. The casual way he holds her contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes as he tilts his head down, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath is warm, the scent of his cologne sharp and lingering in the space between them. “Come on,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, yet rough enough to scrape against her defenses. “Admit it—you only want my eyes on you.”

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. The air feels heavy now, charged with a tension that’s both magnetic and suffocating. The teasing line between them blurs, and you feel your chest tighten at the intimacy in their exchange. Jeno had changed, right? He doesn’t play with people anymore—you know that. He doesn’t cross lines, doesn’t toy with emotions. But the way he’s looking at Karina right now, like she’s the only person in the room, sends a ripple of confusion and something sharper—something closer to unease—through you.

Wasn’t Jeno seeing Mark’s best friend? You think about the way they were always together, the quiet smiles exchanged in corners of rooms, the way she seemed to be a constant presence in his life. What is he doing? You’re not sure what unsettles you more—the possibility that he’s stepping into murky waters or the fact that you don’t want to stop him.

Because, god, it’s undeniably hot. There’s something electric about watching them—two hot and attractive people. Jeno’s fingers flex against Karina’s shoulder, grounding and deliberate, as if testing the waters. His smirk deepens, his gaze flicking between Karina’s eyes and lips, his head tilting slightly as if daring her to rise to his challenge. “You talk a big game,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing, edged with a quiet confidence. “But I don’t think you’re ready for me.”

Karina’s brow arches sharply, her lips curling into a sly, knowing grin. She steps closer, her movement fluid and commanding, closing the distance between them until there’s barely a breath of space left. Her hand slides up slowly, fingers grazing the cool chain around his neck before curling around it. She tugs lightly, her eyes never leaving his, the challenge in her gaze unmistakable. “Ready for you?” she says softly, her voice low and edged with playful disdain. “Jeno, if I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

The smirk on Jeno’s face deepens, his expression darkening with something primal. His free hand slides from her shoulder to her waist, his fingers splaying against the curve of her back, holding her firmly against him. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her dress, the small motion deliberate, sending shivers down your spine even from where you’re standing. His voice drops to a near growl, the sound rough and full of heat. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his lips just a breath away from hers. “Prove it.”

Before you can intervene with a sarcastic comment of your own, Karina tilts her head and leans in, her lips brushing against his. It’s brief at first, teasing, like she’s testing the waters, but when Jeno doesn’t pull back—in fact, he leans in—Karina presses her lips fully to his, her hand tightening on the chain she’s been playing with.

When Karina pulls away, her lips curve into a victorious smile, her thumb brushing the corner of Jeno’s mouth with a playful delicacy, as if wiping away an invisible smudge. “Told you,” she says smoothly, her gaze holding his, daring him to counter her confidence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t interrupt, crossing your arms as you watch the moment unfold with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. Karina’s fingers stay curled around the chain at Jeno’s neck as their lips clash again, harder this time—hungry and unapologetic, the air between them charged with rough desperation. There’s no hesitation in their movements, no softness, just raw energy that draws your eyes like a magnet.

Jeno doesn’t pull back. His hand grips her waist firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as he tugs her closer, their bodies pressing together in a way that makes the air in the room feel heavier. His other hand moves to cup the back of her neck, his hold firm, possessive. The angle of his jaw shifts as his lips press harder against hers, the kiss growing almost frantic, a battle for control that neither seems willing to lose.

Almost simultaneously, their gazes shift to you. It’s not subtle— Karina’s lips quirk into a knowing smile, her head still tilted as though she’s daring you to react. Jeno just smirks, the sharpness in his expression softening slightly. He doesn’t make the comment you expect—a sly invitation to join in, the usual quip he’d toss your way without hesitation.

Instead, the silence stretches for a beat too long, and you let out a quiet gasp, breaking it. “I thought you were with Mark’s best friend?” you ask, your voice light but laced with genuine curiosity. 

Jeno shrugs, his hand finally dropping from Karina’s waist as he steps back slightly. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before—a flicker of something unspoken. Sadness? Dismissal? It’s hard to place, but it’s enough to make you hesitate. “Well, I’m not,” he says simply, his tone clipped, the kind that warns you not to push further.

Karina, ever perceptive, tilts her head, watching him closely. “That’s new,” she murmurs, though her voice isn’t teasing this time.

Jeno’s shoulders relax slightly, and he forces a grin back onto his face, the sharpness returning as if to push the moment away. “Anyway,” he says, turning to you both. “Who’s ready to get completely fucked up?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, but Karina’s grin returns almost instantly. “Always,” she says, her confidence unwavering as she adjusts her dress.

Jeno pulls a small bag from his pocket, the faint sheen of its contents catching the low, golden party lights. “You two are in for a treat,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with a quiet confidence that sends a shiver through you. His fingers curl around the edge of the bag, tipping it just enough to let a few muted-colored pills spill into his palm. The smirk on his lips is teasing, daring, as his gaze flicks between you and Karina.

Karina doesn’t even blink. She snatches one between two manicured fingers, rolling it thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. “Easy,” she says with a grin, chasing it down with a generous sip of her drink. Her eyes flash to yours, the corner of her lips curling mischievously. “Come on, we’re not driving tonight. No excuses.”

Jeno watches your hesitation, the pill resting between your fingers as you turn it over, biting your lip in quiet contemplation. His smirk sharpens, something teasing and confident flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he steps closer, closing the small distance between you. His presence feels overwhelming, his cologne mixing with the electric hum in the air.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he plucks the pill from your fingers with a deft motion, holding it delicately between his own. He tilts his head, his lips quirking into that ever-present smirk, and you watch, entranced, as he lifts the pill to your lips.

“Open,” he says simply, his tone equal parts playful and commanding.

You hesitate for half a second, your breath catching as you look up at him. But the anticipation, the weight of his gaze, and the steady buzz of the party around you make it impossible to resist. Slowly, you part your lips, your eyes never leaving his.

Jeno slips the pill onto your tongue with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips brushing your bottom lip in a way that feels entirely too intentional. The contact is brief but electrifying, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallow quickly, the pill going down easily, but the heat of his touch lingers far longer.

“There we go,” Jeno says, his voice quieter now, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. His hand lingers for a moment, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if to check if the pill’s really gone—or maybe just to leave you breathless.

Karina snorts beside you, breaking the spell. “Jesus, Jeno. Are you seducing her into taking it?”

“Maybe,” he replies smoothly, leaning back with a laugh, his fingers running through his hair as he follows suit, popping one himself and chasing it with a lazy swig of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

The effect creeps in slowly, like a warm tide pulling you under. The party around you begins to shift, the music deeper, richer, vibrating through your chest like a heartbeat. The lights seem softer yet more vivid, every flicker and hue painting the room in golden tones that feel almost unreal. Laughter and voices blur together into a soothing, rhythmic hum, the buzz settling into your body like a familiar warmth.

Karina’s laugh cuts through the haze, drawing your attention. She leans closer to you, her arm brushing yours, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Feeling it yet?” she asks, her voice soft but full of mischief.

“Just starting,” you admit, the edges of your thoughts beginning to soften, your body sinking deeper into the moment. You glance over at Jeno, whose gaze lingers on you with a quiet intensity, his smirk turning sharper as if he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Good,” Jeno murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the charged air between the three of you. He steps closer, his presence magnetic and undeniable, the heat of his proximity making your breath hitch. Karina tilts her head, her lips parting slightly as she watches him, her expression unreadable but filled with a confidence that makes the moment feel even more intense. The tension between them crackles, thick and palpable, drawing you in even as your chest tightens.

Jeno leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as always. “You know I love when you’re around,” he starts, his voice teasing but edged with something firmer. His dark eyes flick over you, lingering just long enough to make you feel self-conscious. “But how can you come to the party looking like that and you’re not even trying to find Mark? Why are you here with me and Karina?”

You laugh, trying to deflect the tension curling in the air. “I like being around you both?” you say lightly, but even you can hear the waver in your tone.

Jeno isn’t buying it. His grin sharpens, his gaze unwavering as he straightens slightly, his tone turning more authoritative. “Go and find Mark,” he says firmly, like it’s not a suggestion but an order.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding harder as his words settle over you. The weight of them presses down, and you find yourself nodding despite the unease twisting in your chest. “Fine, I’m going,” you mutter, stepping back slightly. Your voice is softer than you mean for it to be, and you glance between the two of them, your pulse racing. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Jeno doesn’t move, his gaze still fixed on you. His dark eyes flicker briefly, something unreadable flashing in them before his grin returns—sharp, knowing. His hand brushes against Karina’s waist casually, the motion almost imperceptible, yet it carries a weight that makes your stomach churn. “Good,” he says simply, his voice low and steady, dripping with something unspoken.

Karina’s gaze softens as she looks at you, her lips curving into a knowing smile that sends a pang through your chest. “Go get him,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with amusement but not unkind. There’s something in her tone, an unspoken understanding that leaves you both comforted and slightly unsettled.

You nod faintly, turning away and slipping through the crowd. The distant thrum of the music fills your ears as you make your way toward the back of the house, the weight of their gazes lingering on your back. You try to shake it off, focus on Mark, but the moment feels etched into your skin, lingering like an unfinished sentence.

The music grows louder as you weave through the thrumming party, every bass drop vibrating in your chest and blending with the growing buzz in your head. The pill Jeno had given you earlier is starting to work its way through your system, softening the edges of the world around you. Colors feel more vivid, the laughter and voices blending into a surreal hum that makes everything feel weightless. Your body feels lighter, like you’re gliding rather than walking, but your focus is sharp—trained on finding Mark.

You follow the location he sent you, his message still fresh in your mind, until you reach the back of the house. The room you enter is quieter than the main party, dimly lit with soft yellow light that pools around the corners. Your steps falter as you spot him, his broad shoulders framed against the glow of the room. He hasn’t seen you yet; his back is to you, and he’s leaning against a high table with a drink in hand. Chenle and Donghyuck are flanking him, their easy laughter filling the space.

Mark looks relaxed, or at least he’s trying to. His stance is casual, his head tilted slightly as he listens to Donghyuck animatedly recount something you can’t quite hear over the music. But you can tell—it’s all a mask. The tension in his shoulders is evident even from here, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. You start to move toward him, your heart pounding faster now—not from the drugs, but from the magnetic pull you always feel when he’s near.

Then you hear your name.

You freeze mid-step, your breath hitching as your ears hone in on Chenle’s voice.

“I don’t get it,” Chenle says, his tone low but not malicious. He glances at Mark, his expression both concerned and confused. “Why are you so hung up on her, man? I mean, she broke up with you, didn’t she? And… I don’t know. It just seems like she’s not fully in it. Like she’s not committed.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting you harder than they should. The high in your veins does nothing to soften the sting, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

Mark doesn’t respond right away, taking a slow sip from his drink before setting it down on the table with a deliberate clink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly, his voice low but firm. “Y/N’s been there for me through everything. She’s committed, more than anyone else ever has been.”

“Then why’d she leave?” Donghyuck interjects, his tone sharper but not unkind. “I’m just saying, Mark, maybe Chenle has a point. You’re putting a lot on her. Are you sure she can handle it?”

Your chest tightens, the weight of their words pressing into you like a stone sinking in water. For a fleeting second, you consider stepping forward, announcing your presence, and shutting down the conversation. But your feet stay rooted to the spot, your body buzzing with a tangled mix of anger, hurt, and the sharp edge of the drug coursing through you. Instead, you slowly step back, slipping further into the shadows as the ache in your chest grows heavier.

You take a moment to breathe, but it feels futile. The high makes everything sharper—every word you overheard echoing in your head, louder, crueler, twisting and cutting deeper with each replay. Your back presses against the wall as your trembling hands rise to cover your face, trying to block out the noise in your mind. For a moment, you want to run, to slip out the back door and vanish into the night, leaving the whispers and unbearable weight behind. But there’s that part of you—that stubborn, unrelenting part—that refuses to walk away from Mark. Not yet. Not again. 

You stay where you are, rooted in place, the ache in your chest steady but not unbearable. And you’re glad you do, because the next thing you hear changes everything.

“Enough,” Mark’s voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation like a blade. There’s a tension in his tone you rarely hear, sharp and commanding. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you talk about her like that.”

A pause follows, heavy and uncertain, before Chenle’s hesitant voice breaks through. “Mark, I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” Mark interrupts, his voice firm now. “You meant it exactly how it sounded. And I get it—you’re trying to look out for me, and I appreciate that, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s trying, Chenle. She’s been through more than you could imagine, and she doesn’t deserve to be talked about like she’s not enough. She is. More than enough.”

His words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. Your heart swells, the heaviness in your chest momentarily lifting as his voice softens, turning raw. “She’s everything to me,” he adds quietly. “And if you can’t understand that, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

You press your palm against your mouth, trying to hold in the sob that threatens to escape. Tears prick at your eyes, this time not from hurt but from the sheer weight of his words. He’s defending you—fiercely, unapologetically—and it feels like a balm on a wound you didn’t realize had cut so deep.

But as much as his words warm your heart, the reality of the situation still stings. You know how awkward it would be if they realized you’d overheard the entire conversation, and a part of you can’t shake the lingering shame of Chenle’s comment. The words, sharp and careless, had burrowed into your mind before Mark could pull them out.

So, despite the comfort Mark’s defense brings, you decide to leave. You step back further into the shadows, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your tears at bay as you slip toward the exit. The sound of laughter and music grows fainter behind you, muted by the ache in your chest.

As you make your way toward the door, the tears you tried so hard to suppress spill free, tracing hot trails down your face. You swipe at them quickly, not wanting anyone to notice, but the sadness feels relentless, bubbling up faster than you can control.

Why is it always like this with Mark? you wonder bitterly. Whenever things feel good—when the rhythm between you feels steady—something always comes along to break it. Chenle’s words replay in your mind, cruel and undeniable: Mark deserves someone who can meet him halfway.

The sting of it runs deeper than it should, and you hate that it feels so true. Not because you don’t care, but because you’ve always been scared you’d never be enough for him, not really. You press your hand against your chest, willing yourself to breathe, to push the hurt down long enough to remind yourself of why you’re here.

You came to see Mark tonight. To be there for him. But right now, the ache in your chest is too raw, the weight of it too much. You need space to steady yourself, to gather your courage before you can face him again. You know you’ll be okay—you always are, eventually—but tonight, you need a moment to yourself.

The party hums around you, the distant thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor, blending with the sound of laughter and muffled conversation. The air feels thick and hazy, amplified by the lingering ache in your chest and the sharp edge of everything you’ve overheard tonight. Your steps are slow, almost reluctant, as you weave through the crowd, your vision still slightly blurred by the tears you’ve yet to fully wipe away.

And then you spot him—Jeno, one of the few people who always makes you feel grounded, no matter how chaotic things get. He’s tucked into a quieter corner of the party, lounging on a couch with one arm draped lazily along the backrest and a joint held loosely between his fingers. The faint glow of a nearby lamp casts a warm light over his sharp jawline and tousled hair, accentuating the effortless confidence in his posture. A faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls upward, blending with the muted haze of the room. His gaze flickers idly across the party before it lands on you, softening slightly as it meets yours.

For a moment, his smirk falters, his eyes narrowing slightly as they meet yours. You know he notices the redness around your eyes, the faint shimmer of tears threatening to fall. But he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he shifts slightly, patting the space beside him in silent invitation.

You sink onto the couch without hesitation, your body pressing into the cushions as you try to steady your breath. Jeno leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes another drag from the joint. The smell of smoke and faint cologne clings to him, comforting in its familiarity.

Jeno notices the tears spilling out in an uncontrollable manner. His body tenses briefly, and then he moves, the gesture slow and deliberate. His free hand reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising gentleness. His touch lingers for a moment, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way that words couldn’t.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. “None of that, okay?”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours. The way he looks at you—steady, unwavering, and far softer than you expected—makes your chest ache in a different way. His thumb grazes your cheekbone, catching another tear before it can fall.

“Here,” he says quietly, lifting the plastic cup back to your lips. “Drink. It’ll help.”

You hesitate for a moment but eventually part your lips, letting him tilt the cup just enough for the cool liquid to touch your tongue. The alcohol burns slightly as it slides down, but it’s a welcome distraction, a way to dull the sharp edges of your emotions.

You let yourself lean closer, your head resting lightly on Jeno’s shoulder. He glances down at you, his movements slowing, his smirk softening as his gaze flickers over your face. His thumb brushes against your shoulder—a small, grounding gesture that feels more comforting than anything else. “Comfortable?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm, the teasing edge in his tone softened by something gentler.

“Very,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A faint smile curves your lips, but it falters almost immediately as another tear escapes, trailing down your cheek. His eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and without hesitation, Jeno’s free hand moves. His knuckles brush lightly against your skin, wiping it away with a touch so delicate it makes your breath hitch. His gaze lingers on yours, steady and warm, before his lips curve into a soft, wide smile that feels grounding in a way words couldn’t.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words settle over you like a balm. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye, catching another tear before it can fall, the tenderness in his movements catching you off guard.

You huff out a shaky laugh, your cheeks warming slightly as you glance away. “You can’t just say things like that,” you murmur, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite the weight in your chest.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich as his arm tightens around your back. “I can and I just did,” he murmurs, his tone playful but steady. “It’s part of the job.”

“What job?” you ask, glancing up at him, your brow arching slightly.

“Making you smile,” he says simply, his gaze dropping to meet yours. His voice softens, a warmth threading through it as he adds, “You’ve got a pretty smile. You should show it off more.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not from sadness. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the small grin threatening to form, but his words have already done their work. For the first time tonight, the ache in your chest loosens, replaced by a flicker of something softer.

Jeno’s hand moves again, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as if daring another tear to fall. “There it is,” he murmurs, his lips tugging into a faint smile of his own. “Told you. Prettiest smile in the room.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, the sound shaky but genuine as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint smoke clinging to his clothes, grounds you in the moment. The party hums in the background, distant and insignificant compared to the calm he anchors you in.

Jeno lets the quiet hang for a moment, his gaze steady on you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your shoulder. “I’m not complaining,” he starts, his voice light, though there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. “I love having you here. But…” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you here? I was expecting Mark to be balls deep inside of you right about now.” 

“I…” Your voice cracks, breaking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I just needed a minute, okay?” The words come out shakier than you intend, trembling with the emotions you can’t seem to control. “I couldn’t face him like this.”

Jeno shifts slightly, turning toward you, his body language open but attentive. “A minute from what?” he asks, though there’s no judgment in his tone—just curiosity laced with concern. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

You exhale shakily, your chest tightening at the memory. “No. Not exactly,” you murmur. “I overheard Chenle talking about me… about us. It wasn’t great.”

Jeno’s expression sharpens, his jaw tightening slightly. “What did he say?” His voice is calm, but you can feel the subtle tension in it, the way his posture shifts as if readying himself for action.

“It’s not important,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “Mark defended me. But still…” You trail off, your voice faltering as you search for the right words. “It just hit harder than I expected. Like… maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Jeno interrupts firmly, his tone cutting but not unkind. His hand slides to your upper back, grounding you with a steady touch. “You’re not just anything. Don’t let Chenle or anyone else make you doubt that.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I didn’t want to ruin the night,” you admit softly. “I thought maybe giving myself some space would help.”

Jeno leans back slightly, studying you with a look that’s both exasperated and fond. “You think running off is gonna fix things?” he asks, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Mark’s over there probably wondering where the hell you went.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I’m not running off,” you reply quickly, your voice quiet but firm. “I just… I needed to get away for a second. To breathe. It’s a lot sometimes, you know? I’ll find him. I will. I just couldn’t face all of them right after hearing that.”

Jeno studies you for a moment, his expression softening as he takes in the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and nods. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes it’s too much. People say things, and it gets in your head. You just need a second to clear it out.”

You glance at him, your chest loosening a little at the understanding in his tone. “Exactly,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But I’ll go back to him. I came here to see him, and I’m not going to let this… whatever this is, stop me. I just needed a minute to remind myself why I’m doing this.”

Jeno leans back again, letting out a soft, thoughtful hum. His gaze lingers on you, sharp but not unkind, and his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smirk. “Good. That’s good,” he says, nodding slowly. “But maybe don’t make him wait too long, yeah? He’s probably over there thinking he did something wrong. You know how he is.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you glance toward the crowded room. “You’re right,” you admit, though the thought makes your chest tighten all over again. “He doesn’t deserve to feel like that.”

But Jeno’s expression shifts, his tone suddenly sharper. “I think you’re stupid, though,” he says bluntly.

“Jen?” you pout, tilting your head to look at him, your voice laced with half-hearted protest.

He doesn’t hold back. “I just think breaking up with him wasn’t a good idea. You’re making excuses and running away when it gets too much. You and Mark? You’re destined to be together, and you know it. So you need to sort yourself the fuck out.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you huff softly in defeat, unable to find anything to say in response. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it made you sink deeper into his side. You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as a wave of frustration and guilt washed over you. Jeno didn’t sugarcoat things—he never had—and though his bluntness stung, there was an odd comfort in how direct he was. Still, it didn’t make his words any easier to swallow.

“You’re a dumbass,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Disrespecting my brother like that.”

You shook your head, biting back a small smile as you turned your face away. Jeno’s honesty was brutal, but there was something endearing about it, something that reminded you why you’d always appreciated him, even when he pushed too hard. You ignored the sharp edges of his words, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Mark and Jeno were finally embracing their bond.

Their relationship hadn’t always been this strong, but now? There was no denying the love and connection between them. It suited them—the way they teased each other, supported each other, and finally stood side by side as brothers. They’d come such a long way, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride watching them grow into this version of themselves.

“You’re smiling,” Jeno said suddenly, his tone suspicious as he glanced down at you.

You didn’t bother denying it. “I’m just thinking about you and Mark,” you said softly, still leaning into him. “You two are good together. You’ve both come so far.”

Jeno’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he scoffed lightly. “Yeah, well, he’s my brother.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jeno’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t respond, his hand giving your hand a brief squeeze before letting go. The silence between you felt different now—not heavy, but steady, grounding. It was his way of showing you that he believed in you, that despite all his sharp words, he knew you could make things right.

The moment you push yourself off the couch, ready to head to Mark, you catch sight of Karina weaving her way through the crowd toward you and Jeno. Her steps are slightly uneven, her face glowing from the haze of alcohol and drugs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that cuts through the dim light of the party. Your tears must’ve dried up completely because she doesn’t say anything about your face or your mood, her grin wide and unbothered as her eyes flick between the two of you.

“You two look cozy,” she remarks, her tone light but edged with something that feels strangely playful—and something else you can’t quite name. Was it jealousy?

Jeno doesn’t miss a beat. His smirk deepens, his head tilting slightly as his gaze locks onto hers, a teasing glint sparking in his eyes. “You jealous?” he asks, his voice dipping into that familiar lilt, low and smooth, with just enough bite to make it clear he’s not joking.

Karina stops in front of him, her hands sliding to her hips as she leans forward, closing the distance between them. “Maybe,” she whispers, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous, her lips hovering just a breath away from his ear.

Jeno’s grin sharpens, his body shifting slightly toward her, his arm stretching out lazily along the back of the couch as if to invite her closer. “Guess you’ll have to do something about it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, charged with heat that makes your pulse quicken.

You watch them with a heated gaze, frozen for a moment as their exchange unfolds. The tension between them is palpable, electric in a way that’s impossible to look away from. Karina straightens slightly, her hand brushing down his arm before she moves to sit on the other side of him.

The moment she settles beside him, it’s like they slip into an unspoken rhythm, their bodies relaxing into each other in a way that feels both charged and strangely comfortable. Karina angles herself toward him, her fingers brushing casually against his thigh as she starts to talk animatedly, her voice lilting and full of energy. You can’t quite focus on what she’s saying; her words blur into the background as your gaze shifts between the two of them.

Jeno sits back, his posture lazy and inviting, his arm draped along the backrest of the couch. In one hand, he holds a joint loosely between his fingers, and he brings it to his lips occasionally, taking slow, deliberate drags. His gaze stays on Karina as she talks, his lips curling into a faint smirk like he’s humoring her, though you doubt he’s actually listening.

The difference between how Jeno interacts with her versus how he was with you is stark. With you, his touches were light, deliberate, and grounding—friendly and steady. But now, his hand brushes against Karina’s thigh, the contact lingering and deliberate in a way that feels undeniably more intimate. His fingers flex lightly against her skin, the movement subtle but full of intention. His gaze, too, has shifted. Where it was warm and protective with you, it’s darker now, more commanding, his attention locked fully on her like she’s the only person in the room.

Karina leans closer, her laughter soft and warm as her fingers toy with the chain resting against Jeno’s collarbone. He chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand slides further along her thigh, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that feels almost possessive. The air between them thickens, and before you can fully process it, Karina tilts her head, her hair falling over one shoulder as her lips meet his.

Their mouths collide with a hunger that makes the air feel heavy, their movements rough and unapologetic. Jeno’s hand moves to her waist, gripping her firmly as he deepens the kiss, his other hand threading into her hair. Karina responds eagerly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer. Their bodies press together, the tension spilling over into raw, physical connection.

They look like something out of a movie—two impossibly attractive people lost in each other, their chemistry palpable. Jeno’s jaw tightens as he angles his head, his lips parting against hers, and Karina’s hands roam over his chest, clutching at him like she can’t get close enough. The way they move together is fluid, unrestrained, and utterly captivating.

The soft sound of their muffled moans pulls you out of your daze, heat creeping up your neck as you feel flustered by the scene unfolding in front of you. When Karina shifts onto Jeno’s lap, the intimacy of the moment becomes undeniable. Respecting their privacy, you quietly push yourself up from the couch, your resolve strengthening with every step. This isn’t your moment, your place. It’s time to find Mark—time to face him and figure out where the two of you truly stand.

They don’t react to you leaving, their focus entirely on each other, their moaning and gasps fade into the hum of the party as you weave through the crowd, your thoughts already shifting toward Mark and the resolve you’ve finally found to face him. But then, as you glance back one last time, something catches your eye.

Across the room, Mark’s best friend stands frozen, her gaze locked on Jeno and Karina. Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her expression a mix of disbelief and hurt. How long has she been standing there? You don’t know, but the realization makes your stomach twist.

Her gaze flickers to you briefly, and the moment your eyes meet, her composure cracks. She looks away almost immediately, her head bowing as she turns on her heel and walks off, her movements hurried and deliberate. The sight leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the weight of her hurt pressing against your chest. You swallow hard, guilt mingling with confusion.

Turning back to Jeno and Karina, you find them still tangled together on the couch, oblivious to the scene that just unfolded. Jeno’s lips move against Karina’s with an intensity that feels almost detached, like he’s pouring himself into the moment for the sake of the moment alone. His hand grips her waist firmly, pulling her closer as her fingers curl into his hair. The way they move together is electric, charged with pure lust and chemistry, but there’s nothing personal about it—no depth, no connection beyond the physical. It’s borderline, shallow, all heat and no substance.

You sigh quietly, the sound lost in the hum of the party. Why was Jeno like this? You’d seen him care, seen him protect, seen him hold so much more in his hands. But now, he was throwing himself into something fleeting, momentary. Was it just a distraction? And what about his thing with Mark’s best friend? They’d seemed good for each other once, balanced in a way that made sense. But was it truly over? Or was this just another way for him to avoid whatever that was?

The questions swirl in your mind as you tear your gaze away from the scene, your heart heavy but your resolve sharper now. You move forward, your focus shifting fully to Mark. Whatever this is with Jeno, it’s not your battle. You’ve got your own to face.

You moved through the dimly lit hallways, the stark overhead lights casting long shadows that stretched across the polished floors. The ambiance was harsh, almost sterile, with the faint hum of the building’s old heating system underscoring every step you took. The air felt heavier with each turn, the tension inside you mirroring the unwelcoming edges of the space, a mix of unease and determination propelling you forward.

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you frowned. Your heart sank as you saw the notifications: five missed calls from Mark, along with a string of unread messages, all from half an hour ago. The realization hit you like a punch—you’d forgotten to take your phone off Do Not Disturb.

A pang of guilt tightened in your chest. Mark didn’t send messages like these often—he wasn’t one to chase, to beg. But here he was, trying to reach you, and you’d been too caught up elsewhere. Without hesitation, you turned on your heel, determined to find him now.

The living room was the most packed room in the entire party, people crowding the space so tightly that it felt like the walls were shrinking inward. The usual clutter of an apartment gathering filled every surface—half-empty drinks, scattered snack bowls, and someone’s discarded jacket draped over a chair. Groups leaned against the walls, sprawled on the furniture, or chatted in animated circles. A few familiar faces stood out among the crowd, boys from the basketball team. You spotted Soobin near the kitchen, his easygoing smile lighting up a conversation, while Jaemin leaned against the far wall, casually sipping a drink and laughing at something Chenle had just said.

And then, there was Chenle. You hadn’t expected to make eye contact with him, but the moment your gaze locked, your chest tightened. His sharp eyes scanned your face, as though he could see right through the carefully constructed mask you were putting on for tonight. You gulped, forcing yourself to look away quickly, your heart thundering in your chest. There was no way you were dealing with that conversation tonight—not here, not now. You pushed the guilt and uncertainty down, burying it beneath the buzz of the room. This would be a conversation to have later. Tonight was about masking it all, letting yourself get lost in something else—someone else.

As you stepped through the threshold, your breath caught in your chest. There Mark was, seated on the edge of a low couch in the center of the chaos. The dim overhead lights, tinged golden, seemed to spotlight him, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp cut of his jawline and the confident set of his shoulders. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips made your stomach flip. The fitted black tee he wore clung perfectly to his frame, the loose shorts brushing his knees somehow making him look even more appealing.

A basketball rested casually against his knee, his long fingers drumming idly on its surface, while his guitar leaned beside him, its polished body catching the light like a quiet reminder of his many talents. The room seemed to orbit around him, his presence anchoring the space as if he belonged there in a way no one else did.

But he wasn’t alone.

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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[thewritingrowlet]

The Office Romance pt. 1, ft. tripleS Seoyeon, Kep1er Dayeon

tags: creampie, daddy kink

length: 8k+

author's note: It's been a long while since I've written about Seoyeon. So, to rectify that, I'm featuring her in this start of another series (this feels like a bad idea, ngl).

-

“Miss Yoon, to my office, please,” you say into the landline on your desk that’s connected to Seoyeon’s. “On my way, sir.”

Within seconds, Seoyeon appears in front of your eyes, and you lock the door behind her with a push of a button. “Sir?” You shake your head. “It’s not the time for that.” She knows what you’re getting at. “Oppa?” “I miss you, sweetheart.” She looks at you confusedly. “Sorry?” You take a deep breath before continuing your point. “We haven’t spent time for ourselves recently, have we, sweetie—we’ve been so busy with work.”

Seoyeon sits on the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “That’s true,” she sighs, “so, what’s your idea?” You suggest getting lunch together, but she seems hesitant to take you up on the offer. “People will see, though,” she says quietly. You close your eyes as realization hits: only a handful of people (who you trust the most) know about you and Seoyeon, and it’s safer for the both of you to keep it that way.

Without command, tears start flowing out of your eyes, and Seoyeon jumps off her chair in shock. “Huh, what—oppa, are you okay?” You nod. “I-I’m fine; I just realized how complicated our relationship is.” Seoyeon isn’t convinced that you’re fine, so she pulls you onto your feet and hugs you tightly. You put your lips on her forehead, feeling apologetic for bringing this life upon your lovely girlfriend. “I’m so sorry, sweetie—I didn’t mean to drag you into this life like this.”

Seoyeon has been your number one supporter since day one; she’s been by your side through all the ups and downs of the company, unwavering in her approach to this difficult job while maintaining the other side of the coin as your girlfriend. She’s doing all these things for you, and the only things she’s asking in return are your loyalty to her and commitment to the job—on top of appropriate pay, of course.

“It’s a good thing that you’re paying me a ton for this,” Seoyeon tries to lighten the mood. You crack a little laugh. “I’m glad that it’s enough for you.” She looks at you in the eyes. “I mean, with sex on top of it, it’s more than enough.” You smile a little before frowning again when another realization hits. “We haven’t had sex in a week,” you say quietly. Your girlfriend smiles, showing you the incredible patience that you admire her for. “It’s fine, oppa; like you said, we’ve been very busy with work.”

An idea enters your mind. “What do you say we spend this weekend for ourselves, sweetie?” Seoyeon nods enthusiastically. “Sounds great, oppa,” she says, “I must warn you, though: if you don’t touch me at least twice, I’m quitting this job.” “You got it, sweetie.”

Seoyeon asks you to return to your seat, and because you expect that she’ll want to leave your office and get back to work, you unlock the door for her. “I heard that,” she comments, “are you kicking me out, oppa?” You blink rapidly in confusion. “Excuse me?” She leans very closely towards you. “Don’t you want a blowjob first?” Her whispered words give you goosebumps everywhere, and you can’t help but nod. “That’s what I thought.”

Seoyeon pushes your chair backwards a little to make space for her to get on her knees. “Feed me your dick, oppa,” she allures. Without wasting too much time, you unzip your trousers and pull them down along with your boxers, exposing your hard cock to your girlfriend. “Omo, you’re excited to see me, aren’t you?”

You let out a moan when Seoyeon first lets you in her mouth. “That’s really good, baby—fuck, you’re so good.” Much to your satisfaction, your girlfriend starts bobbing her head along your length faster. Your eyes gradually close as your eyelids feel heavy, but that’s when she slaps your leg to get your attention—Seoyeon doesn’t like it when you’re not looking at her during a blowjob. “Sorry, baby; you’re just too good,” you reason.

She’s trying to say something, but because your shaft is lodged in her mouth, nothing but intelligible sounds come out. You see that she’s tapping the back of her head, though, so you guess that she wants you to put your hand there. “Alright, alright, here.” You place your hand on the back of her head, expecting nothing from her in return.

She proves you wrong, however, as she negotiates more of your shaft deeper into her mouth, possibly into her throat. “Good girl, baby,” you utter without thinking twice. Not satisfied yet, Seoyeon fixes her hands on your knees and forces herself to take the entirety of your length, ignoring whatever blaring alarm from her body and brain, and at the same time, taking you closer to cum-land.

“Baby,” you finally manage to say something, “I’m going to cum.” Seoyeon removes you from her mouth momentarily to gather herself. “S-sure,” she says between heavy pants, “one—oh, God, one second, please.” You lift her chin so that you can look right into her big, adorable eyes. “I love you,” you whisper to her, “thank you for making the time for this.”

You can tell that she wants to be kissed but is hesitant to come in for one considering your cock was just in her mouth, so you take the charge and kiss her passionately. “I like that,” Seoyeon quips, “that’s a green flag for me, you know.” You run a thumb back and forth on her cheek. “I love you, sweetie—I love you sooo much.” She smiles, a mix of cuteness and sexiness shown on her face. “Give me your cum, then, sir.”

Seoyeon opens her mouth as wide as she can, and there’s nothing better for you to do than to shove your cock into her mouth. “I’ll give you my cum, baby; don’t worry about nothing.” She closes her eyes when you start fucking her mouth while making sure her teeth are off your cock. “C’mon, Yoon Seoyeon, you can do this—you’ve done this dozens of times,” she tells herself. Thinking that you’re close, she fixes her hands on your knees again to prepare for your semen.

Even though she has prepared for it beforehand, Seoyeon still panics when her mouth is suddenly flooded with your cum. She tries to stay in place and receive everything, but despite her best efforts, it starts leaking out of the corners of her mouth, and she can only hope that it doesn’t land on her clothers. “Should’ve undressed first,” she thinks.

Salvation comes to her as you place a palm under her chin while pulling out at the same time. “Come here, sweetie.” You pull her head closer to you to help make sure her clothes stay clean. “Thank you, baby—thank you for everything,” you say as you clean her face with facial tissues.

“Do you want to spit that out, baby?” Seoyeon shakes her head, and instead swallows your load in one go. You show her a big smile. “You’re such an amazing girl, you know that?” She thanks you for the kind words (and the load). “Do I look okay, though, oppa? Am I too messy?” You run your fingers through her hair to help her tidy up. “Should be okay now, baby.” “Thanks, oppa.” She gives you a peck on the back of your hand. “See you later, okay?”

Seoyeon makes her way out of your office, and as soon as she closes the door behind her, she sees Dayeon, who’s sitting on a chair while hugging a big binder. “You were there a long time, Seoyeon-ah—what were you doing?” “I was just doing my job, Dayeon-ah,” she replies, trying to play it cool. “That must’ve been stressful, because your hair is quite messy,” Dayeon strikes for the second time. Seoyeon’s heart jumps a little, but she manages to deflect once again. “It was a pretty serious matter.”

She can tell that Dayeon isn’t entirely convinced, but whatever is in that binder matters more. “So, is he free now?” Seoyeon nods. “You might want to ring the bell first,” she adds, and apparently, it sounds odd to Dayeon, as proven by the raised eyebrows. “Is that so? Why, is he naked?” It’s getting hard for Seoyeon to stay serene. “No, but he has a lot of work other than whatever is in that thing.” “Sure, he does,” Dayeon presses the bell to your office, “well, see you later.”

Seoyeon watches on as Dayeon disappears behind the door to your office. “You’re not stealing him from me, you bi—” A ding from her phone interrupts her train of thoughts; it’s an incoming text from you, thanking her for making you cum and relieving some stress. “See this? He’s mine, not yours.” She takes a seat on her chair and promptly lets out a deep sigh. “Why are we doing it like this, oppa? Can’t we just tell the world we belong to each other?”

-

Dayeon enters your office with a big smile. “Yes, Miss Kim?” She reaches behind her head and frees her hair from the tie, showing you a rather sexy side of her. “Miss Kim? Really?” She slowly makes her way closer to your desk, and only now do you notice that the first two buttons on her blouse are undone, letting you peek at the white lacy bra she’s wearing underneath. “When are you going to treat me like you do Seoyeon-ie, boss? I don’t want to wait forever, you know.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kim,” you deflect, trying to stay solid under pressure. “Also, it’d be helpful if you'd stop trying to seduce me every time you walk into my office.”

Dayeon places her hands on your desk and bends forwards just enough for you to see her cleavage more freely. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be too hard on me.” She smirks when she catches you looking at her chest. “Don’t you want to touch these plump tits, boss?” You shake your head to both clear your mind and tell her no. “I have a girlfriend, Miss Kim,” you open a card, “please stop.”

You expect her to listen and stop trying to seduce you, but instead, she moves to sit on your desk with her legs slightly parted. “You’re such a good boyfriend, aren’t you, boss? Here you are, working hard at your company while she’s off doing God-knows-what.” “My girlfriend is a hard-working woman, Miss Kim,” you say, not accepting the slander. “So am I, and that’s why you should consider giving me a chance.” She must’ve missed the single most important detail of this exchange, which is the fact that you’re taken, but you just want to stop at this point. “Miss Kim, let’s address whatever you actually came here for, and we can pretend this never happened.”

Seeing that there’s no way to progress, Dayeon jumps off your table and tidies up her clothes. “Fine,” she sighs, “I guess we can talk about work instead.” She places the thick binder on your desk crassly. “These are reports on our trainees, let me know which of these girls you want to choose for debut.” “I need—” Dayeon interrupts by placing a flash drive on your desk. “Here are their practice videos,” she adds.

“Let me know about your thoughts about these girls soon, okay?” Dayeon then makes her way out of your office, and as soon as she disappears behind that door, you let out a big sigh. “Why are we doing it like this, Seoyeon-ah? Can’t we just tell the world that we belong to each other?”

-

“Seoyeon-ah, why are you still here?” Your question snaps her out of focus, making her jump in shock a little bit. “Oh my God, you didn’t have to surprise me like that.” She pats her chest to calm down. “Can I help you, sir?” You show her a warm smile while pointing at the clock hanging on the wall. “This is quite literally not the time for that, is it?” Seoyeon’s face instantly relaxes and her body sinks into her chair, releasing the tension she has been holding for hours now. “You want to go home, baby?” “I still need to finish this thing, though,” she says.

Your heart sinks: you forget how much you rely on Seoyeon for a plethora of things, taking her help and presence for granted more often than you’d like to admit. “We can continue tomorrow, love; let’s just go home, please.” Seoyeon stares at you blankly, possibly contemplating if she wants to finish it tomorrow and go home with you tonight. “Yeah, let’s go home,” she finally comes to a decision, much to your delight.

Seoyeon looks around to make sure there’s no custodian or security guard around, and when she sees that the coast is clear, she takes your hand in yours. “I love you, oppa,” she says softly, filling your heart with some much-needed warmth. “I love you more, baby, and I can’t do anything without you,” you reply, making sure she knows that she’s appreciated. Seoyeon giggles. “Would you consider giving me a raise, then?” “Yes, absolutely; I’ll see what I can do, okay, baby?”

As soon as you step out of the elevator, you see Dayeon hanging out with a security guard with her back turned against you, which gives you enough time to let go of Seoyeon’s hand and pretend nothing happened. Dayeon turns around when the guard points inside where you are.

“Oh, hello, boss,” Dayeon ignores Seoyeon and only greets you, “going home?” You put on a smile and simply nod to her question. “See you tomorrow, Miss Kim.” Initially, she doesn’t say anything when you walk past her with Seoyeon, but as you’re inching closer towards your car, Dayeon opens her mouth. “Do you sleep with your secretary, boss? Is she that girlfriend you spoke of?”

Both you and Seoyeon stop in your tracks, and admittedly, you’re very nervous. “What the hell are you talking about, Dayeon-ah,” Seoyeon comes to your aid, “I have a boyfriend, just so you know.” “You don’t actually think that I’m that stupid, do you? It’s not hard to put 2 and 2 together,” she presses on.

After thinking about it for a moment, you decide to interrupt and just reveal the whole thing. “Yes, Miss Kim, I do sleep with my secretary who is also my girlfriend.” You sigh, feeling somewhat relieved. “So, please stop trying to get to me; I don’t want to cheat on my beloved.” “Yeah, okay.” Dayeon bows while her eyes release tears, “I apologize, sir—have a good evening.” You look at Seoyeon, and she looks right back at you with this flat expression that you can’t figure out the meaning of. “You too, Miss Kim. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

Seoyeon is oddly quiet tonight, visibly tense and deep in thought—not even a flavorful dinner managed to get her to relax. “Love, I hope you’re not thinking about work right now.” She shakes her head. “I’m just thinking about Dayeon-ie.” You stay silent and see if she wants to continue. “How long do you think she has had a crush on you, oppa?” “I don’t know, honestly,” you sigh, “I think the more important question is why me, because aside from my position, I’m just a regular, boring guy—even you acknowledge that I’m a boring person.”

Seoyeon moves to sit on your lap. “Just so you know, dating a boring guy is fun, as odd as that sounds,” she says. Truthfully, you’re glad to hear that, but you’re curious about the reason. “Just think about it, oppa: because you’d rather stay at home and be boring, I don’t have to worry about you running around the city looking for one-night stands or side chicks.” “I mean, yeah, but I also don’t go out much—isn’t it boring for you to stay at home with me a lot?” Your girlfriend shrugs. “I mean, you’re still willing to go out on dates when we have time.”

Now that Seoyeon has brought up that topic, you suggest getting dinner together tomorrow after work, which makes her light up. “Hmm, yeah, about that,” she fetches her tablet from the table, “the dance instructors are inviting you to attend a monthly evaluation tomorrow at 6 p.m.” “Okay, but can I have you after that?” Seoyeon doesn’t answer right away and scrolls up and down on her tablet. “Yeah, you can,” she says, “what do you have in mind?” “Dinner, love—did I not tell you that already?” Seoyeon laughs. “Sowwy, daddy.” “Daddy? What, you horny?” Seoyeon places her hand on her crotch and then yours. “I need a bit of warmup, but you seem eager.” “I’m always eager for you, baby, but do you want it?” You ask to make sure you have consent. “Only if you promise to make me cum.”

In the few years you’ve been dating her, only twice have you not made her cum, both involving you busting early: the first one was because you were strangled by her ass and couldn’t hold it back, and the second one was because you were not in peak condition. Seoyeon expressed her disappointment on both occasions but didn’t let you touch her to rectify your failure. Ever since then, you make sure to make her cum first before you try to chase your own orgasm, and it’s been working well so far.

You carry Seoyeon like a koala, and she circles different parts of your body with her arms and legs. Once you’re close to bed, you pretend as if you were going to drop her, making Seoyeon scream the loudest you’ve heard from her in recent memory—eh, actually, that scream she let out when you surprised her on her birthday was likely louder.

“That was so not funny, oppa,” she whines, “why would you do your girlfriend like that?” “Sowwy, baby.” You gently set her down on the bed. “How about that, love?” Seoyeon looks away momentarily. “I was about to get mad, but let’s be real, how can I get mad at you, oppa?”

You kiss her fleetingly. “You’re so sweet, aren’t you, baby? You’re always so kind and hard-working.” Seoyeon’s boba eyes widen even more while her cheeks are painted pink. “W-what are you talking about, oppa? Why so sudden?” You take a knee in front of her. “Baby, I’m so thankful for you, both personally and professionally; I seriously wouldn’t last a day without you.” She places her hands on either side of your face. “Thank you, oppa,” she says, “life has been very pleasant with you by my side.”

The two of you came to the bedroom to have sex, but here you are, crying to your heart’s content in each other’s arms because you’ve been overwhelmed by emotions. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” you wipe tears off your cheeks, “oh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to make you cry like this.” Seoyeon shakes her head. “W-with you, I-I cry because of the right reasons, oppa.” You chuckle slightly. “Is this a good segue to sex, though?” Seoyeon pecks you on the forehead. “Us crying right now means good emotions, and good sex needs good emotions,” she says.

After calming down, Seoyeon takes off her T-shirt, revealing a black bra that you love seeing her wear the most. “I consent, oppa.” You join her in undressing and let your clothes scatter all over the place. “I love you, sweetheart,” you say softly, “I’m glad to be with you all the time.”

Seoyeon falls backwards onto the bed, and you take the chance to take her shorts and panties off. “Oppa, before we start,” she calls a timeout by placing a finger on your cheek. “Please don’t get in my ass; I’m not in the mood for it.” “Of course, baby—thanks for letting me know.”

You grind your tip against her entrance, and Seoyeon promptly starts moaning. “Vanilla is great, isn’t it, baby?” “Y-yes,” she says, “I-I can feel how much you love me.” “That’s great to hear,” you whisper, “here I go, baby.” “Yes, make love to—oh!”

With little problem, you ease your cock into her pussy, her warm walls hugging your shaft snug. You hear her soft and angelic moans in your ear, and you’re doing your best to keep this tempo that’s nice and relaxed amidst the temptation to go hard and fast.

“Oppa, I love you—I love you so much.” “Oh, I love you more, darling; more than words can express.” Seoyeon lets out a mix of giggles and moans. “Really?” You peck her on the lips before answering. “We’re having sex right now so that I can show you, instead of telling you.” She places her soft hand on your cheek. “Keep showing me, then, oppa.”

You hug her tightly as your shaft moves in and out of her, exchanging moans with each other freely. Seoyeon suddenly lifts her butt off the bed while yelping. “You alright, cutie?” She nods. “J-just goosebumps,” she says. Now that she’s mentioned it, you notice that you also have goosebumps on your forearms. “We’re equal, baby.”

You’ve lost track of time at this point; the pace makes it feel like it’s been hours, but neither of you is showing signs of impending orgasm just yet—at least that was the case, until Seoyeon announces that she’s getting close. “Y-you need to go faster if you want to make me cum, oppa,” she says. “I don’t want to—it sounds exhausting,” you crack a little joke. She lets out a gasp of disbelief, playing along with your joke. “Su-surely you’re not that mean.”

You straighten your posture and fold her in half. “Oh, I’m so ready for this,” Seoyeon approves of the change of position. Once your knees are set, you start pumping into her fast and hard. “Yes, daddy, yes!” She pulls out the kinky name out of her bag. “Fuck me, daddy!”

Your girlfriend is moaning without any care about anything else, while you’re endlessly fucking her; whatever agreement you had about vanilla and making love has been thrown out the window.

“More, more! Make me cum, daddy!” Seoyeon is great at pushing the right buttons at the right time to egg you on. You fasten your grip on her ankles and move your hips as fast as you can while praying that you won’t bust too fast.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby.” “Y-you only no-noticed that now?” You chuckle a little. “Yeah, kind of,” you say, “are we ready to cum yet?” “S-soon, daddy.” “Hard to get, aren’t you, cutie?” Amidst the endless moaning, Seoyeon manages to let out a laugh. “Y-you love me f-for it, d-don’t you, daddy?” “Damn right.”

After what feels like forever, Seoyeon finally announces that she’s ready to cum any second now. “Just a bit more, daddy, please.” You opt to let her legs relax and come in for a hug, having had enough of being rough. “Come on, my love,” you whisper in her ear, “cum for me, please.”

A part of your mind wonders if the slower pace will postpone her orgasm, but no is the answer you’re getting, as Seoyeon asks you to pull out when her orgasm hits, her legs and thighs shaking as per usual. You lie on your side next to her while your hand gently runs on her head. “You’re always so pretty, baby—even prettier when you cum, might I add,” you praise her. She wants to say something back, but her heavy pants prevent her from doing so, hence the nods. “Take your time, baby; we have all night.”

-

You’re getting some looks from a bunch of people when you’re walking through the building with Seoyeon, and you wonder if you’re simply being paranoid. “Baby, is it just me or are they looking at us weirdly?” “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.” Seoyeon picks up the pace of her steps while keeping her gaze forwards.

You invite her to your office before releasing her into the wilderness that is secretary work. “I’m sorry, baby; I just wanted to make Dayeon-ie stop flirting with me.” She sighs. “Yeah, it’s fine; I didn’t want to stay silent while she kept pursuing you either.”

The bell to your door rings, and Dayeon appears soon after. “Hello,” she says, “am I interrupting?” You and Seoyeon look at her in confusion. “No, no,” you break the silence, “please come in, Dayeon-ah.” As she gets closer, you see that her eyes are red—she must’ve spent some time crying. “I-I’d like to submit my resignation letter.” Dayeon places a piece of paper on your desk, sobbing as she does. You quickly scan the letter, and under the reason section, she’s written that “she is no longer able to stay professional at work.”

Aside from her shenanigans, Dayeon is great at her work. As a former idol herself, she has a keen eye when it comes to evaluating trainee candidates, hence how she was able to keep her position this long despite her occasional unprofessionalness.

As thoughts run amuck in your head, Dayeon sobs more and more. “S-sign it, please, sir,” she urges you. You pick up a pen from your shirt pocket, but you can’t bring yourself to sign the letter. “Oppa,” Seoyeon steals your attention, “don’t sign it.” Both you and Dayeon look at her confusedly. “Let her stay, oppa; we need her.” “I-I literally tried to steal your boyfriend, Seoyeon-ah—why would you let me stay?”

Seoyeon holds Dayeon’s hands. “I know you did, but at the same time, you didn’t know that we were dating; I don’t want to punish someone for being clueless,” she reasons, and you think that it’s a reasonable point. “She’s right, Dayeon-ah,” you support your girlfriend’s idea, “you’re a valuable personnel in this company.” You put down your pen and the letter. “Now that you know about our relationship, I hope that you’ll stop chasing me and be able to put your expertise to good use.”

Seoyeon pulls her into a hug, which makes Dayeon burst into tears. “T-thank you, Seoyeon-ah—thank you, boss. I-I promise I will work hard.” Your girlfriend looks at you with a smile and teary eyes, and your eyes are threatening to release tears because of this sight.

Dayeon quickly pulls away from the hug and wipes tears off her cheeks. “S-someone give me orders—please tell me what to do.” Seoyeon whispers something to her ear, and considering how her eyes widen seemingly in shock, it must be something crazy. “What did you say to her, sweetie?” Your girlfriend doesn’t answer while Dayeon makes her way around your desk and kneels between your legs.

“Let me suck your cock, sir.”

You look at Seoyeon, who has a naughty smirk on her face. “What the hell did you just tell her?” She shrugs. “She wanted your dick, so that’s what she’s getting.” You want to say something back, but you’re distracted when Dayeon unzips your trousers. “Look at her, oppa, and tell me she’s not excited right now.” Dayeon indeed seems excited and ready. “Fine,” you decide to play along, “we’re not doing this ever again, just so we’re clear.”

You inhale sharply when you feel Dayeon licking the tip of your cock. “I will make sure you remember this, boss—you can tell me later if I’m better than your girlfriend.” “Just get on with it, please,” you say, oddly eager about getting a blowjob from another girl—a home wrecker.

She parts her lips and slowly negotiates your shaft into her mouth, seemingly (and understandably) struggling with your unfamiliar size. In the corner of your vision, you see that Seoyeon is moving to stand behind Dayeon. “Deeper, slut—if you want to please him, you have to show more effort.” She pushes Dayeon’s head forwards, making her gag on your cock. “Sweetie, be gentle with her,” you say. “Nah, she can take it.”

It is when the gags get worse that Seoyeon lets Dayeon remove you from her throat. “N-not too rough—h-have mercy, please,” she begs. “Do you want to please him, or no?” Dayeon nods weakly. “I-I do, b-but please let me do it at my own pace.” “Fine,” Seoyeon steps away from you and Dayeon, “continue, then.”

Dayeon turns her attention back to you. “W-water, please.” You grab a bottle that has some leftover water from yesterday. “Open your lips, cookie.” Once she opens her mouth, you guide the bottle towards her and help her take a sip. She finishes the water in one go, and unfortunately for her, that’s all you have. “Sorry, I haven’t refilled my water today.” She shakes her head. “I-it’s fine, I-I’ll manage.”

She starts stroking your cock, indicating that she’s ready to go again. “S-sorry, oppa, my gag reflex is so bad.” You rub her face gently. “Do you want to stop?” “B-but Seoyeon-ie said—” “Don’t worry about her,” you interrupt, “if you don’t consent, then we must stop.”

After thinking about it, Dayeon decides that she wants to stop right here and asks both your and Seoyeon’s consent to try again some other time. Seoyeon suggests inviting Dayeon to your apartment on Saturday night, which you have no problem with. “We’ll see you again on Saturday, Dayeon-ah.” “Y-yes, sir,” she says, “t-thank you for the opportunity.” You smile at her. “Now, get yourself tidied up and start working, please.”

While Dayeon gets herself sorted, Seoyeon extends the invitation to attend a monthly evaluation to her, mentioning how Dayeon’s experience might help the company make decisions about these trainees. “Yeah, I’ll be there—thanks for inviting me.” During the exchange, you see that Seoyeon is starting to soften up to Dayeon, which provides you with some much-needed relief.

It is when Dayeon exits your office that Seoyeon approaches you again. “I love you,” she says, “everything I do for you is out of love, oppa.” “I know, sweetie; I’m always thankful for you.” You and Seoyeon move towards each other at the same time for a kiss. “I’ll see you later, oppa.” “I’ll see you later too, sweetheart.”

-

The clock shows 4:00, which means that it’s time to go to that meeting that Seoyeon has prepared materials for.

“So, to remind you, we’ll be talking about some debut-related stuff with a bunch of people—the important things for this meeting are in this binder.” “Thank you, sweetheart,” you take the big binder from her hands. “You’re attending too, aren’t you?” Seoyeon laughs. “We both know you can’t go through the day without me.” You nod. “I know, sweetie, and that’s why I asked.”

Seoyeon wraps an arm around yours as you walk towards the meeting room with her. “I’m nervous, baby,” you say. “Honestly, same,” she replies, “believe me when I say that I'm glad I’m not the boss of this company.” “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be joining me soon, Miss Yoon.” You try making a joke to suppress the nervousness.

You believe that you have valid reasons to be nervous; the future of this company depends on whether the 5-member group that’s going to debut in January next year succeeds. Not only that, but these 7 trainees who have been spending so much time training at your company are very hopeful about making the debut team—it’s going to be so damn painful for everyone when you announce the two trainees who won’t be debuting in January.

When you enter the room, Min Suhye and Min Suji, the dance and singing instructors respectively, are waiting for you. “Hey, guys,” you greet them, “how are you two doing?” Suji’s face lights up. “We’re doing very well; these trainees have been working really hard and really well recently.” Her words blow tenseness away from your mind. “Well, you guys deserve all the credits; you’ve been tireless with them.” Suji looks at her sister momentarily. “Yeah, actually, we’d like to take a bit of PTO next week or the week after.” You figure that they deserve some much-needed rest, so you agree to let them take leave, and in turn, let the trainees get some rest as well.

After a short wait, you’re joined by the choreographer and music production team. “Hi, hi,” the choreographer greets you, “sorry for being late; I had a discussion with Sihyeon-ie.” “Is she okay?” You ask because you care about these trainees and their instructors. “Yeah, yeah—she just had questions about some choreo details.” You’re glad to hear that people are as serious about this as you are; it would be difficult to proceed if someone were to lose motivation during this long process.

To not waste more time, you start today’s meeting. The production team plugs in their laptop to the speaker and projector, taking the first turn to “speak.” “Which one do you guys want to check out first?” You see on the big screen that there are demos titled A through D, each around 3 minutes long. “We’ll start from the top, okay?”

Demo A immediately catches your attention; it sounds fun and exciting with the uplifting beat, and the supposed chorus part has that banger factor (your opinion, not official production term). Demo B and C sound cute, but C in particular sounds quite generic. “Maybe we can include B as a B-side,” you think. Finally, you arrive at D, which sounds like another title track material. “A or D as title,” you write on your little note.

“I’d like to hear what everyone thinks about each demo,” you start the discussion. The instructor sisters love C but are worried about it coming off as boring, so they vote for D instead. Your beloved Seoyeon, on the other hand, thinks that A should be the title track, like you do. You’re glad that she’s of the same opinion, but you make sure that your face doesn’t show any sign of bias in front of these people.

“I think A is great,” says the choreographer, “we should be able to make a catchy choreo that sticks to people’s minds.” Before casting your vote, you ask what the production duo thinks. “When we were making these demos, we thought that maybe we could include C in the EP; I personally think that it’ll be a fun addition to it, you know.”

After a short discussion, it is decided that A and C will be in the debut EP: A is the title track while C is a B-side track; someone suggests putting C at the end of the play. “Yeah, sounds great,” says production, “we’ll be working on the lyrics soon.” You thank everyone for making the time for the meeting and sharing their opinions on the demos, earning smiles from each present. “I hope you guys remember that you guys are important to me and this company,” you say. You want to say that you’ll be giving them bonuses based on the group’s success but it’s probably best to keep it as a surprise.

Seoyeon approaches you after everyone has left. “Did I do well, sweetie?” She nods. “You always do well, but sometimes I wish you’d show more authority.” You scratch your chin as you think about her words. “I mean, I just wanted to listen to everyone’s opinions first.” She nods again. “Thankfully there wasn’t much disagreement today, but should it happen in the future, you’ll need to be able to take point, oppa.”

Someone’s knocking at the door, so Seoyeon makes her way towards it to check. “Oh, it’s you—come in.” Dayeon appears at the door with a plastic bag in her hands. “Erm, I bought some kimbap for you guys—I-I wanted to get donuts but I don’t know if you guys like sweet stuff.” “Thank you, Dayeon-ah; we were about to get food ourselves.” With a sheepish smile, Dayeon hands the bag over to Seoyeon, who doesn’t seem to be in the best mood, before leaving the meeting room.

“You alright, sweetie?” Seoyeon sighs. “Just wondering if giving her a second chance was a good idea.” “Sweetie,” you hold her soft hands in yours, “you know I would never cheat on you, right? I’ll make sure Dayeon doesn’t get too close to me.” She sighs once more. “Just… don’t leave me for her, please.” You assure her that such thing won’t happen; you love Seoyeon so much and don’t want to see her go.

-

“Oh, hi, Jihyun-ah—going somewhere?” You catch Jihyun, one of the two eldest trainees, leaving the training room. “D-director,” she’s visibly surprised to see you, “I-I was going to get some water for us.” Based on her sweaty forehead, you can tell that she’s been practicing hard. “I’ll get it for you; please return to the training room.” Jihyun seems reluctant to accept your offer, but she doesn’t dare argue. “Yes, director—thank you so much.”

You grab a box of bottled water from the storage and carry it towards the training room where the trainees are. “Good thing you’re fit,” Seoyeon quips. You chuckle. “I know, right.” As soon as you enter the training room, you’re met with bows and hellos from the trainees. “Hi, hi, hi,” you put on a kind smile for them, “Jihyun-ie said you guys needed some water, so here it is.”

You hand a bottle of water to Jihyun, who then passes it over to the other trainees until everyone has a bottle in their hands. You invite everyone to sit in a circle on the floor, and Sihyeon, the other eldest trainee, tries to get a chair for you. “That’s not necessary, Sihyeon-ah; I’m just your co-worker, not your dad,” you make a little joke, making her laugh a little. “Come, guys, let’s just sit on the floor.”

“So,” you start, “how’s everyone doing?” You make sure your tone is gentle in front of these exhausted trainees. “We’re fine for the most part, sir,” Jihyun answers on their behalf. “Most part, Jihyun-ah? Is there something wrong?” Jihyun reveals that Sunbin has been feeling some pain in her right calf because she didn’t stretch properly. “Are you okay now, though, Sunbin-ah?” Sunbin says that she’s feeling better after having applied some ointment on her calf, which brings relief to your heart. Sunbin is the youngest despite being of legal age and is also a big softie, so it stings to hear that she was in a bit of trouble.

“Director, director,” Sunwoo steals your attention. “I-if it’s okay with you, can we have some pizza and fried chicken, please?” You burst out laughing. “Of course you can, Sunwoo-yah—look, do your best for tonight’s evaluation, and I’ll buy each of you a box of fried chicken and two large pizzas to share; how about that?” Everyone’s face lights up as the room is filled with excited cheers—look, Soobin is beaming right now!

As trainees, dietary restrictions can be quite rough on them, so the fact that you’re agreeing to their request brings joy to their hearts. “Order for them, please—buy some for us as well,” you whisper to Seoyeon, who immediately pulls out her phone to order food.

You spend some more time talking with the trainees and are soon joined by the Min sisters and Dayeon, who are here for the evaluation, and everyone starts getting on their feet. “Girls, huddle, please,” you join them in the circle, “you are so close to debuting, and I know you guys have what it takes.” “Thank you, sir,” Jihyun says. “Fighting on three—one, two, three, fighting!”

You and Seoyeon take a seat at the big table with the Min sisters and Dayeon. “We’re ready when you are,” you say. “Good luck, everyone!” The song starts playing after everyone’s gotten to their positions—they’re doing a dance cover of tripleS’ Girls Capitalism, followed by a full cover of Kep1er’s Love on Lock right after.

You put on a serious face as the trainees go through the first cover and nail some important details from the original performers—shit, Sunbin seems to be in discomfort. “Pull through, Miss Jeon; c’mon, you can do this shit,” you say in your head, hoping that it’ll reach her. Your attention is stolen by Jihyun, however, as she steps closer towards the table to make a big impression on you and company. “Good job,” you mouth to her, drawing a small, proud smile on her face.

Sunbin immediately falls seated onto the floor after the cover is finished, scrunching her face because of the pain. You step away from the table to check up on her. “Are you okay, Sunbin-ah?” She nods weakly. “J-just my calf, director.” Jihyun passes you the ointment and you open the cap. “Excuse me, Sunbin-ah; I’ll help you apply some of this, okay?” Only when she nods do you start putting ointment on her leg. You then help her sit on a chair and return to yours. “You can sing your lines while sitting, Miss Jeon,” you say, “everyone else, please proceed as planned—eh, actually, drink some water first."

“You’re so kind to them, director,” Suhye makes a comment. “I don’t want to simply be a boss to them, Suhye-yah,” you reason. Suhye doesn’t say anything back, and you take it as a sign that she agrees with your approach.

The girls move to take their positions for the next cover, and Jihyun is the last person to get ready because she was still taking care of Sunbin. She seems to have also said something to her, and you hope that it was words of motivation or comfort.

The second song starts, so you shake your head to get rid of other thoughts in order to focus on the performance. It’s been smooth so far; Sunwoo and Daeun seem to be more immersed in this cover compared to the previous one—they must like this sort of song more. Jihyun, the always passionate one, is doing her best too, along with Hyeonju, Sihyeon, and Soobin.

Unfortunately, however, Sihyeon’s voice cracks a little, but she manages to stay focused and carry on. You and Seoyeon, in a moment of like-mindedness, quickly put up the OK sign to help assure her that she’s okay. Another thing to note is that Sunbin is giving absolutely everything despite being seated, showing everyone present her perseverance that is second-to-none, and at this point, the best choice of action seems to be debuting all 7 of them.

Once the performance finishes, you start a wave of claps, and in response, the trainees bow in respect and gratitude. “Well done, everyone,” you say, “now, I’ll have your instructors say their feedback.” “I’d like to start,” Dayeon says, so you let her do so. To your surprise, she leaves her seat and starts undressing, thus revealing her idol-like practice attire that consists of sports bra and compression shorts. “Wow, she came prepared,” you think. Apparently, you’re staring too much, proven by how Seoyeon pinches your thigh as punishment.

Dayeon gives Sihyeon some feedback and goes as far as showing examples, and the other trainees start replicating her, taking the guidance seriously. “I understand if you’re not too big on showing your curves, but it’s often necessary,” she adds. “Oh, and don’t forget to make eye contact even when you’re in the center.” After Sihyeon, Dayeon turns her attention to Soobin, who apparently was caught lacking.

“Soobin-ah, I want you to look at me and then compare my moves with yours, okay?” She does this piece of choreography like the pro she used to be—muscle memory goes crazy when it comes to dancers and athletes. Dayeon then tells Soobin to do the same and is quick to see the part that was not good in her eyes. “Right there, stop,” she says, “where’s the detail on that move, Miss Park?” Soobin repeats the piece once more, but she still doesn’t manage to satisfy Dayeon. “Oh, c’mon,” she’s getting heated, “stick your butt out some more when you’re doing those steps, Miss Park.” Soobin does the move again as instructed, and admittedly, that last try looks better. “There, that’s better,” she says, “remember the details, okay?”

Behind the standing ladies, Sunbin is looking at the floor, seemingly in low spirits. “Let’s talk to Sunbin-ie,” you say to Seoyeon, who follows closely behind you as you walk towards Sunbin. “Miss Jeon, how’s your leg?” “I-it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, director.” “Then follow us, please.”

Right as she’s stepping out of the training room, Sunbin starts crying. “P-please don’t fire me, director; I-I know I was wrong for not warming up correctly, but—” Her gust of tears interrupts her own words. Seoyeon promptly hugs Sunbin, making her gasp in surprise. “It’s okay, Sunbin-ah; accidents happen all the time,” she says, “please don’t cry, we’re not punishing you or anything.” “B-but—” Seoyeon doesn’t let her make a counterargument, placing a finger on her lips to stop her. “Just worry about your legs first, and then, I want you to remember this instance and warm up properly next time, okay?” Sunbin nods and hugs Seoyeon more tightly. “T-thank you so much, ma’am,” she says tearily.

-

Seoyeon falls onto bed as soon as you enter the bedroom with her after showering. “God, that was such a long day—it's helpful that dinner was very good.” “Thank you for sticking around until the end, love,” you don’t forget to express your gratitude. “That was me both as your secretary and your girlfriend, by the way.” “I know, love, and I’m thankful for you, like I always am.”

Your girlfriend gathers her might and moves to sit. “If you’re that thankful for me, surely you can do me a favor.” “Sure, baby,” you take a knee in front of the bed. “What can I do for you, baby?” “Why don’t you make me cum, hm?” You chuckle. “Yeah, I’d love to—I thought you were tired, though?” Seoyeon shakes her head. “We can pile on some more exhaustion so that we get better sleep.” “Sure, baby.”

You stand back up and stretch a little. “Wouldn’t want to pull a muscle like Sunbin-ie.” Your little joke makes her laugh. “She’s so cute, isn’t she?” “Yeah, that’s something I wouldn’t say—I don’t want to come across as creepy, you know.” Seoyeon pinches your forearm. “You should be more worried about me, if you catch what I’m saying.” “Oh, I know.” You’re getting impatient to start. “Are we ready to start, or no?”

Seoyeon pulls her T-shirt over her head and uses it to cover her body. “Are you okay, love?” “I don’t like this bra,” she says, “I don’t think I look good in it.” A few questions pop up in your head: which bra is this, why does she not like it, and what did she mean “I don’t look good in it,” because Seoyeon looks good in everything and nothing. “Can I look?” She shakes her head. “Turn around, oppa; let me take this off myself.”

You do as she asks and let her do her thing. “Here,” she hands the bra over. You see that it’s a nothing-out-of-ordinary sports bra. “What’s wrong with this, baby?” “It makes my breasts look flat, and I don’t like it—not when I’m trying to have you between my legs.” You scratch your head as you try to come up with something to say. “Baby, look,” you start, still wondering if it’s a good thing to say. “You are attractive, ‘kay? You don’t need to worry about looking flat or whatever, because respectfully, you are very hot.”

Your girlfriend beams and taps your face gently. “Congratulations, you passed the test,” she says. “Test? What do you mean?” “Ah, don’t worry about it, oppa; just know that it was the correct answer.” You’re speechless, unsure of what to make of this situation. “C’mon, oppa, touch me.”

You’re still stumped even after getting rid of your clothes. “Baby—” Your words are cut off when Seoyeon starts stroking you. “C’moooon,” she picks up the pace, “get hard and fuck me already.” It is when she thinks you’re properly hard that she lets go. “There you go—now please fuck me.”

You pretend like you’re about to kiss her, only to turn her around and have her bend over. You place a palm on her pussy to check if she’s really ready. “You can feel how wet I am, can’t you, daddy?” A mix of gasp and moan escapes her lips when you stick two fingers in her pussy. “I-I’m ready for you, daddy,” she states the obvious.

With your cock in hand, you slowly and gently ease it into her, earning a long moan from her until the entirety of your length is inside. “S-say something, daddy; t-tell me I’m good.” The way you’re bending forwards allows you to hold her tits and say words right into her ears without compromising your pace. “You’re always good, baby; I will never get tired of you,” you say, “you’re such a good person on the outside and a sexy lady on the inside—speaking of inside, you’re also so damn tight all the time.” “T-thank you, daddy,” she lets out a moan before continuing, “t-the way you tended to Sunbin-ie was a-attractive, you know.”

You laugh internally; you say what you said because Seoyeon wanted to be praised, but she mentions Sunbin in her reply. “This moment is ours, love; let’s not bring work to bed, hm?” Seoyeon nods slightly. “I-I’m sorry, daddy.”

As a gesture of accepting her apology, you start moving your hips faster to reach that sweet spot of a tempo. Seoyeon then straightens her back so that only her knees are on the bed, and you do the same in cooperation. “Fuck me like this, daddy.” “You love taking me deep, don’t you, baby?” “Oh, oh, yes, I do; I fucking love it when you’re hitting me deep.”

Seoyeon is active today, moving her hips downwards to meet your thrusts in the middle. You reach around and begin stimulating her nub, making her moan louder and faster. “Daddy, daddy,” she chants, “y-you’re going to make me cum.” “Yeah? Is that so?” Your speech is rather breathy at the moment. She turns her head to the side. “Kiss me, daddy.”

Seoyeon, after taking a few dozens of thrusts from you, suddenly slams her hips while screaming from the top of her lungs—poor girl didn’t have the chance to announce her orgasm because of how sudden and hard it hit her. At the same time, her walls are squeezing your shaft really hard.

You notice that she’s getting weak and threatening to tumble forwards, so you fasten your hold of her body to make sure she doesn’t go face first into the bed. “Great job, love—that must’ve felt good, right?” “A-amazing,” she answers weakly. “You’re also amazing, baby.” You send a barrage of kisses to the back of her head (because you don’t have access to her face) to make sure she knows that she’s appreciated.

“D-daddy,” Seoyeon captures your attention again. “C-cum in me, please.” “Gladly, baby—here I go, okay?”

You start off slowly, savoring your girlfriend’s tightness and warmth to the max since you were busy being fast on her earlier. “I love you, baby; I love you so, so much.” “I love you more, daddy—oh, yes, daddy.” You ask if she can help you get closer to orgasm by grinding her hips against yours, and she does just as you ask. “Oh, you’re amazing, baby; you’re always so fucking amazing.”

With a grunt, you release semen into her core, filling her to the brim and earning a very sexy moan from Seoyeon, who immediately falls onto the bed as soon as you let go of her torso. You slowly retreat from her pussy while placing a hand underneath to catch the excess cum. “Oh, you’re holding it in—good work, baby.” “I-I don’t waste your cum ever, do I?” You peck her in the forehead after flipping her over. “That’s true,” you say.

[borathae]

Sext

↳ Full Art

"Because Taehyung is currently on a business trip, you and he haven't been able to be intimate in weeks. Plagued by unbearable desire, you ask him to send you something sexy. Luckily for you, your husband is an obedient good boy with an amazing artistic sense."

Pairing: CEO!Taehyung x CEO!Reader

Genre: Smut, married life!AU

Warnings: sub!Taehyung, Dom!Reader, sexting, sending of a dick pic, kinda public sex at first because he touches himself on a balcony, phone sex, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, lots of dirty talk, praise, good boy!kink, she uses a vibrator on herself, he uses his hands, she tells him to cum on his own briefs, he is so whiney and needy for her, guided aftercare, they're lowkey so kinky with each other

Wordcount: 4.2k

a/n: i decided to write something for the ihyily!couple again hohoho enjoy besties, this is very horny 💚 i hope you guys are enjoying my stories lately, feedback's been kinda little for all of them so i can't really tell. also big shoutout to all the lovely people who do leave feedback, i see you and love you!!! either way, enjoy my besties hehe

You are on your back, stretching your limbs from you in the middle of your king sized bed and with your eyes glued to the sky light on your ceiling. On normal nights, you would already be fast asleep by now, but because you haven’t been with your husband in a week, you aren’t. 

The bed is too big without him. 

You miss him so much. You miss his cuddles and his kisses and his voice and his scent and his smiles and his jokes and his hugs and his everything. You huff out air in frustration. Yes, you miss his everything. 

You roll your head to the side, flipping your phone to check the time on your clock app. When one of you is on a business trip in another time zone, you always put in the zone on your apps to see what time the other is currently experiencing. 

Taehyung must currently experience early evening hours. The beginning of sundowns, the sound of people driving home from work, the scent of dinner in the air. You want to be with him. Listen to Paris get ready for sleep, eat dinner on the balcony, drink wine and play with him.

You falter for a moment. There it is again. That heavy lump in your stomach. That heavy, hot lump of build up frustration. It has been bothering you ever since the morning, making it difficult to work. If Taehyung was home, he would have already helped you take care of it. You miss him so much. In more ways than one.

Before Taehyung left for his business trip to Paris, you and he weren’t able to have goodbye sex because you were on your period and felt too shitty to be horny. You aren’t on your period anymore and you are paying the price. You keep thinking back to the last night with him where you cuddled instead of fucked. If you could turn back time, you would take him so many times in so many ways that he forgets his own name. 

Your eyes gaze at your home screen. A family pictures of you, Taehyung and your daughter. Nope. You need other pictures, now is Not the time for family pictures. You need to see him and only him. In the kind of ways only you get to see him. You open your pictures and the folder you titled “my stinker”. It contains pictures solely of Taehyung. Be it random candid pics, posed pictures or all the selcas he sends you. There are too many of them and you are currently getting lost in them. 

He is so handsome and cute and pretty and sexy and handsome and, and, and. 

You huff out air. You want to bite his cheek and feel him up, but you can’t. It’s fucking unfair. 

Missing him unbearably, you open your messages next. Your text is typed within seconds.

-          You: do you have time?

Taehyung’s answer comes moments later.

-          My handsome ♡: I do, but why are you still up? 

It is currently one in the morning where you are. You normally fall asleep at eleven, sometimes even ten because being a working CEO and mother is exhausting even with such a supportive and involved husband as Taehyung by your side.

-          You: i can’t sleep ㅠㅠ

-          My handsome ♡: NOOOO why?

-          You: I miss you ㅠㅠ and I’m lowkey horny

-          My handsome ♡: 😪😪 

-          My handsome ♡: I understand your pain

-          My handsome ♡: 😪😪

You wiggle your toes in excitement.

-          You: are you horny too?

-          My handsome ♡: 😂😂 No, I meant that I miss you too 😂😂😂

You huff out air, feeling slightly hot in embarrassment.

-          You: sorry, I misunderstood ✊🏻😔

-          My handsome ♡: 😂😂 It’s fine ♡♡♡ 

-          My handsome ♡: I’m getting horny now that you mentioned it ;)

You feel hot in excitement. He is willing to play into it. God, you are tingling like crazy between your legs.

-          You: are you?

-          My handsome ♡: ;) yes ;)

-          You: fuck baby…

You put the phone aside for a moment to get a toy and some lube. 

You prop yourself up on your backrest and work yourself up with just two fingers first. You get to play with him. The aspect is turning you on to the point where typing becomes difficult to do with one hand.

-          You: I got a toy…

-          My handsome ♡: omg 🥵 are you using it? 

-          You: soon…working myself up

-          My handsome ♡: You’re so hot 🥵😭🥵

-          You: fuck Tae 🥵 where are you?

-          My handsome ♡: Hotel balcony. I’ve got the sun setting and a glass of wine by my side. I’m wearing your favourite sweater ;)

-          You: the green one?

-          My handsome ♡: Yes ;););)

-          You: 🥵🥵 you are seducing me

-          My Handsome ♡: 😂 only you can get horny over a jumper

-          You: Don’t judge me, you look hot in it

You take a few deep breaths. Your touch feels good. Knowing that he is sharing this moment with you really excites you. You crave something again.

-          You: Fuck Tae, send me something sexy please 👉👈

-          My handsome ♡: Something sexy? Like this?

A selfie of him arrives next. He is looking into the camera with half-lidded eyes and his lower lip between his teeth. The golden light of the setting sun gives his hair and skin such a sexy glow to them. On the lower corner of the picture, glimpses of his green sweater are visible.

You bite your lower lip and let out a frustrated whimper. You want to crawl through your phone and eat his entire face. He is so fucking handsome.

You type your answer with shaky fingers.

-          You: I wanna tell you the nastiest things right now…

-          My handsome ♡: don’t hold back ;)

-          You: I wanna fucking sit on your face and ride it till I cream it…I’m touching myself right now, but all I want is your tongue on me…

- You: If you’d be here right now, I’d use your pretty nose as my toy and mark it as mine. Fuck Tae, you’re so sexy…

Taehyung types for a while. Knowing him, your answer surprised him despite your initial warning. He is a little shy cutie after all. You stay online until he finally answers you.

-          My handsome ♡: omg…

You smile, feeling your stomach tingle. All this time of typing and his flustered brain came up with “omg”. If you didn’t need him before, you need him like crazy starting now. Your fingers speed up between your legs. He is so sexy.

-          My handsome ♡: This just made me hard omg…

-          You: Show me fuckk I need to see

You are panting as you wait for the picture. Taehyung went offline, which means he is taking it with his phone camera. He will probably take a while because he is very particular about the kind of nudes he sends you. You have a folder of them on your phone, hidden behind a passcode only you know. He also never sends you nudes without getting asked or warning you, which makes them so much sexier. You can’t wait to see how he is going to show you his pretty cock.

The picture arrives with one singular emoji under it.

-          My handsome: 🥺

It taunts you. Of course he is acting like that when he literally just sent you his dick. You download the picture, opening it with bated breath. One you release in a moan once the view presents itself to your eyes.

He is pulling his beige pants down, exposing his shaft and pubes. His hand is in the picture, his green sweater is as well. The picture is clearly taken outside, judging by the warm, sunset-esque colours. He took it on his balcony.

You try to text him, but then get too needy to do so. You send him a picture back. Two of your fingers buried deep inside you. You are all wet and puffy, presenting yourself for his viewing pleasure. He sees it and goes offline instantly.

A second later your phone rings. It’s him.

You pick up without hesitation.

“Hey there”, you try to sound nonchalant, but your voice is just slightly raspy from arousal.

Taehyung is panting. You know that he is struggling with his words because of you.

“Tae?”

“Can I touch myself, please?” he croaks, sending jolts of excitement through you. He is such a good boy asking for permission like that.

“You wanna touch yourself?”

“Yes. Oh god, you’re so sexy”, he groans.

“Mhm…you’re sexier”, you purr and turn on the toy. You hold it close to the phone so Taehyung can hear.

His breathing speeds up. His chair creaks in the background as he clearly shifts in it.

“Please”, he begs quietly.

“Soon. Listen to me push it inside, yeah?”

“Yes, Madam. Oh god, you’re so sexy, I’m going insane.”

You drag the toy through your folds twice then finally thrust it into you, moaning loudly as it fills you up. Taehyung moans with you, turning you on like crazy.

“Tae…baby…I’m so wet, fuck…it fills me up so good…”

“Can, can I touch myself now?”

“Not yet, be patient.”

Taehyung whines, motivating you to move the toy inside you. God, you love when he is needy for you.

“Mhm Tae… I’m fucking myself with it. Almost feels like you.”

“Oh god, I’m so hard”, he whines, “please can I at least take it out?”

“Are you outside?”

“I am”, he has his sexy voice on. God, you want him so bad. 

“And you still wanna take it out?”

“Yes please, hurts so bad.”

“Poor boy.”

Taehyung whines, breathing shakily afterwards. You take out the toy and thrust it back inside, giving him a delicious moan. You know for a fact that he can hear the vibrations and how wet you are around the silicon shaft.

“Please Madam…” he begs with an obvious pout on his lips.

“How much do you want it?”

“So much. I miss you, please I’m horny too.”

“I love it when you talk like this. Fine, take it out.”

Taehyung thanks you in a breathy moan, lifting his hips so he could pulls his pants over his butt. He lets it punch up under his balls, wrapping his long fingers around his cock. It glows prettily in the sunset light, begging to be touched.

“Now listen to me, okay?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Are you holding it right now?”

“Yes.”

“Feel up your shaft for me, but leave out your tip.”

Taehyung follows your orders, guiding his fist around his length. It feels good, but leaves him desperate. His tip is his favourite spot, it’s so sensitive and reactive. Having to leave it out feels like torture. He breathes heavily into the phone, giving you little whimpers each time his fingers have to stop right under his frenulum.

“For how long do I have to do that?” he asks hopefully.

“Until I tell you otherwise”, you dismiss him and bury the toy deeper, “fuck Tae seriously, this toy feels fucking amazing. It’s hitting the right spots.”

“Oh god.” He ogles his own cock and his fingers right under his tip. Maybe if he controls his voice well enough, you won’t find out that he is touching his tip. His fingers itch in the desire to disobey. One little movement… just one….

“You feel better tough, fuck I’m thinking about you and how you fuck me. You’re always such a good boy for me, Tae sweetie.”

Taehyung moans, moving his hand away from his tip as quickly as possible. What was he thinking? He doesn’t misbehave, he is your good boy. He bites down on his lower lip and keeps his touch focused on nothing but his shaft despite how leaky his tip gets because of it.

“Are you my good boy, Tae sweetie?”

“Yes, Madam. I’m your good boy”, he keens, nodding his head vigorously.

“Of course you are…are you wet for me?”

Taehyung looks at his tip. It is flushed red with pearls of excitement leaking from his slit. If you were here right now, you’d play with it or lick it off of him. Taehyung rolls his head back slightly at the fantasy, whimpering his answer.

“I’m wet for you.”

“You are…” You increase the vibrations, opening your legs further. “Take some of it and taste it for me.”

Taehyung obeys your orders, letting you listen to him as he licks his finger. He moans softly as he does it, acting slobbier than he needs to just so you have something good to listen to. Your breathing speeds up, your heart races. It sounds as if he is between your legs sucking and licking your clit.

“Does it taste sweet, baby?” you ask him shakily.

“Yeah, sweet”, he purrs, flicking his tongue against his own thumb.

“Fuck Tae, do it again.”

Taehyung obeys, licking and sucking on his fingers as if he was feasting on your pussy. You talked about sitting on his face and creaming his tongue and he is hellbent on making the fantasy as real as possible.

“It tastes so good, Madam”, he lulls.

“I wanna fucking sit on you, fuck.”

The desperation in your voice makes him tingle. He is needy too, but you sound feral. If he wasn’t such a good boy for you, he’d tell you a bratty little comment about your state. But instead of teasing you, he begs again.

“Can I touch my tip now, please?”

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

Taehyung acts instantly, wrapping his fingers tightly around his cockhead to pump it. He moans loudly, rolling his head back and closing his eyes.

“Thank you, ah…feels so good…”

“Slow down.”

His obedience comes before his mind can even register what his hand was doing. He slows down, keeping the movements as minimal as possible. The whimper he lets out makes you speed up in return.

“It’s so slow…”

“I know baby, I know. Keep it like this until I tell you otherwise.”

“It’s hard, mhhmmm.”

“Be my good boy, baby. I know you wanna be my good boy.”

“Yeah..good boy…”

You smile in bliss. He is so perfect. Even now that he is so desperate, he still listens. You could probably tell him to stop and put his cock back into his pants and he would listen. Your stomach tingles. What a good idea actually.

“Tae sweetie?”

“Yes, Madam”, he gets out between his heavy breaths.

“Stop touching yourself and put your pants back on.”

“What?” he sounds devastated.

“Go on, you heard me.”

“Why? Please…”

“By my good boy, baby.”

You hear him whimper in frustration followed by agonized sounds of him having to stuff his raging boner back into his pants. You throb around the toy at the aspect. He is such an obedient boy for you. It’s difficult to hold back on your orgasm when he is acting like that.

“I did it. I don’t know why you made me do that, but I did it”, he tells you with the biggest pout ever.

“Send me a pic.”

“Wait”, he is still clearly pouting.

Moments later your phone vibrates. You put him on speaker and open the picture he sent. He actually put his pants back on. The light material stretches around his boner, barely wanting to keep it in. A dark spot has appeared on the fabric where his tip can’t stop leaking.

You laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” he sounds distressed.

“Oh it’s nothing, I’m just laughing ‘cause you actually did it.”

“You told me to”, he is almost sassy in the way he talks back. Sassy but also very frustrated.

“Mhm I did. I was just messing with you.”

“___”, he gasps, making you laugh and moan at the same time.

“Okay, okay fuck stop whining, it’s making me cum.”

“No, you’re so mean. It hurts to have it inside”, he continues whining.

“Fuck Tae, keep talking and I’m gonna cum.”

“I, I…really?” he whimpers.

“Yes, fuck”, you pull the toy out, groaning in agony, “fuck that was so close.”

He takes a deep breath, squeaking as he breathes out.

“Please can I touch myself again? Please?”

“Go inside first.”

“Why do you wanna tease me today?”

“Just feeling like it.”

“Oh god.”

Taehyung keeps the balcony door open, now standing in his hotel bedroom with a hard-on in his pants and his head dizzy in need.

“I’m inside. Please can I touch myself now?”

“Get naked first.”

He puts the phone on speaker and starts undressing. He is in the midst of sliding off his sweater when you stop him.

“Keep the sweater on. I’ll ask for a picture of proof.”

“I’m already naked then.”

“Yes? Good boy. Send me a picture of your cock, keep the sweater in the angle.”

Taehyung obeys your orders, using the sound of your heavy breathing and little moans as motivation. The picture he takes is definitely not his most artistic masterpiece. It is a little blurry because he can’t stop his hands from shaking. Your loud reaction is satisfactory enough however.

“Fuck, look at you. I wanna sit on it. God, wanna fucking choke on it and make it squirt.”

Taehyung feels weak in the knees. It aches not to touch himself.

“Does this mean I can touch myself again? Please? Maybe? Please, please?”

“Soon. Put your briefs on the bed and do it over them, okay?”

He obeys your orders even if he is confused. He lays out his briefs and begins pumping his cock above them.

“I’m doing it, Madam”, he moans, feeling blurry. His touch is electric, his cock so sensitive.

“Good boy. Keep touching yourself. I want you to cum on them and then mail them to me.”

His knees buckle. He has to use the mattress to catch himself and push his own faltering body back into a standing position. He leaks heavy droplets of pleasure, feeling his pulse throb in his cock.

“What?” he squeaks.

“You heard me. Repeat it to me.”

“You want me to.” He gasps and whimpers. “Want me to cum on them and.” He keens your name. “And mail them to you.”

“That’s right.”

“Madam, this is getting me close.”

“I know it is. Don’t stop. Focus your touch on your tip.”

“I am”, he whines.

“Good boy. Keep telling me how close this is getting you.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Good boy, keep going.”

The line fills with your shared moans. He is so loud and breathy while you answer him in purrs and drawn-out moans. You both have your eyes closed, minds racing with images of shared moments together. If you concentrate hard enough, it almost feels as if you were fucking each other right now. As if Taehyung was pumping his cock deep into you, hitting the best spots over and over again.

“Fuck Tae, keep going baby. So good”, you moan, arching your back.

“Can I move my hips please?”

“Whatever you need baby, just keep moaning for me.”

Taehyung chases the pleasure instantly, fucking his own fist as if he was fucking you. He moans louder for you, feeling his sense of reality blur.

“You’re so tight tonight”, he gets out.

“I am?”

“Yeah, so tight. Ah!”

“Just for you baby, my good boy”, you moan, meeting his movements with needy rolls of your hips. Not that he is actually with you, but it feels like it.

You and he are so far gone in the fanatsy, the distance is no longer there. It’s just you and him. 

“Love fucking you, baby. Love it so much…aahmmm….”

“Madam…ah…love it too…”

It is Taehyung who breaks the fantasy first. His instincts told him to open his eyes and look at you and so he did only to be met with an empty bed and his hand around his own cock.

“I miss you”, he whimpers.

You open your eyes to his flushed face only to be met with the ceiling instead. Your stomach tightens.

“I miss you too”, you get out, “Tae, it felt like you were there.”

“For me too”, he confesses, “I’m really close, just letting you know.”

You laugh breathily, “fuck, you’re so good. Such a good boy. Tell me three things you love about yourself and maybe I’ll let you cum.”

“My, my eyes and my hands and my…my nose.”

“Cause I can grind on it?”

“Yeah”, he whimpers, nodding his head vigorously.

“Shit, so hot. Where are you touching yourself right now?”

“My tip. It’s so wet, Madam.”

“So sexy, fuck. Keep talking to me.”

“My, my cock is so flushed. I’m so red at the tip.”

“Fuck, so hot. Ah Tae”, you moan, rolling your eyes back in delight as you bury the toy as deep as possible to draw circles with it. Your voice pitches, only coming out as gasps.

Taehyung speeds up his hand, furrowing his brows at the perfect sounds you let out.

“Are you feeling good, Madam?”

“Yeah…so good…hitting the right spot.”

He exhales shakily, moaning deeply.

“I’m leaking on my briefs, Madam.”

“Shit. Tae. Woah fu-fuck.”

“Close?”

“Really.”

“It’s all over my fingers too. They’re so wet and sticky, Madam.”

“Tae. Baby”, you whimper, tightening around the toy.

“I can’t stop leaking, Madam”, he mewls for you, jerking his cock loud enough that you can hear the wet mess he makes.

“I’m cumming”, you get out and feel the knot burst. All you can gasp is his name, body shaking out of control as your high takes over.

Taehyung moans with you, scrunching his face in agony from holding back. He wants to cum with you, but knows that you never gave him permission to do. So he is left moaning prettily for you and listening to you floating on absolute bliss.

You come down with curses and shaky gasps for air, ending it with a disbelieved “damn”.

“Fuck, can I cum? Please?” Taehyung begs, feeling delirious in frustration. He genuinely can’t do this for long anymore.

“Cum for me, baby.”

“Yes. oh god yes. Madam, yes. ___, yes, yes, yes”, he chants and breaks with one last squeak of your name, emptying his heavy balls all over his briefs. He twitches and shakes, throwing his head back as your name repeatedly leaves him.

“Good boy. Cum for me. Good boy”, you talk him through it, tingling in your afterglow. Listening to his orgasm is truly the best way to calm down after your own intense high.

“I’m done. Can, can I stop?” he soon begs, sounding stressed. You know that his sensitive cock is burning in overstimulation.

If he wasn’t such a good boy tonight, you would have told him to keep going.

“If you have to. You were such a good boy tonight, you can choose yourself.”

“I’m stopping. Sensitive”, he says and the wet squelching stops. He breathes out shakily, mumbling a ruined, “holy fuck.”

“Mhm, liked it?”

“Yeah, liked it.”

“Did you cum on your briefs?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good boy”, you praise and sigh in contentment, “lie down for me, sweetheart.”

He obeys, letting his head sink into the pillow. He takes one of them and hugs it to his chest. He purrs happily.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah, just missing you.”

“I miss you too.” You sit up to discard the toy and clean yourself. “Do you have a tissue by hand?”

“Yeah, by the nightstand.”

“Clean yourself for me.”

He obeys, giggling quietly.

“I’m sensitive.”

“Be careful, yeah?” you chuckle fondly.

“Yes, Madam. Oh god, I’m so giddy. You fucked me so good.”

“I feel giddy too. You were such a good boy for me.”

Taehyung giggles, snuggling back into the pillows and kicking his feet giddily. He loves being your good boy.

“Do you actually want me to mail you my briefs?”

You laugh, “I think I was just being unhinged there. I feel like it would start to smell funny before it can get here.”

“Right”, he agrees, laughing with you, “oh god”, he exhales, “this was actually so sexy. I’m still dizzy.”

“I’m glad you liked it. I was kinda feeling myself.”

“I was feeling you too. You’re such a good talker.”

You wiggle your toes in giddiness, feeling really good inside. He always knows what the say to make you feel like the sexiest Dom ever.

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You and he smile, hugging the pillows you are holding closer. If you concentrate hard enough, it almost feels as if you are hugging each other.

“Mhm, I’m so comfy. This is exactly what I needed.”

“Me too. I was thinking about you before you texted me. It’s been a week since I left and I kept thinking about our last night together.”

Your heart flutters. You and he are so similar.

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“Tae, I regret not fucking you that night.”

“God, don’t say that”, he says, having to giggle.

You smile, “you’re cute.” A yawn interrupts you.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

“Mhm, yeah.” Another yawn. “I know it’s not really night at your place yet, but can you stay with me as I fall asleep?” you ask him.

“Of course, my sweetheart. Can I tell you about my day?”

“Please tell me. I wanna know everything, my sweetheart. I might doze off in the midst of it though.”

Taehyung laughs, “that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

[larkingame]

so, it's 2025...long time no see.

I'll skip they hi, how are yous and get down to the real meat and potatoes of what I'm here to say. TLDR: Larkin is still being worked on (screenshots + such below) and it's always going to remain a free game, but it's under heavy construction atm. thanks for checking in 🫡

for the two people who want to hear the long sob story that usually comes with these type of posts from online creators: I fucked up my back majorly and was out of work for a long time. I went back to work pre-maturely and! I've fucked it up again. the stress of this, lack of income and the fact that i've been taking a lot of meds to help the injuries (but mess with my ability to stay coherent) has made it really difficult to consistently focus on larkin, writing, social media in general, but it is still getting worked on in bits and pieces.

that said, some back story: I started working on larkin in 2019/2020 and it was really really fun! loved it. had a great time. but then i started posting about it and showed it to other people (and to my surprise they??????? liked it????) which made me put a very large amount of pressure on myself that made it not so fun any more. over time i would go through cycles of it's fun! to it's not fun! and so on and so forth. throughout this time I also had pressure from a lot of people around me (irl) to somehow like. strictly monetize larkin somehow, and as someone who was like VERY INSECURE and obsessed with people like mishka making like insane funds off of her game of the same type?/genre? i gave in to that pressure (if you could not tell by all my occasional dirty deletes of shade towards twc. truly pathetic and if any of yall saw. apologies and thanks for ignoring it.) addressing that: i liked twc when it came out, it was fun for what it was and larkin would not exist without it. so thanks for that miss jenkins and i will probably still passively engage with it on my own time.

but, back to larkin. anyways, the looming pressure of this need to monetize made me hate everything that i was doing and constantly feel like i needed to re-evolve and rework and just, overall not have a fun time with it. throughout the months of november, december and january when i was really missing the days of larkin's existence as an idea when me and my sister would just like walk around our neighborhood and i would just infodump to her about my cowboy vampire ocs. so i found my old larkin notebook and the stickies i made planning plot stuff and avoiding tumblr i just. had fun working on my little cowboy vampire game. like not really thinking about other stuff. and that's essentially it.

so I came to a conclusion: larkin is something i love, and i want to continue loving it. so essentially, i won't be monetizing the game itself. episodes/chapters whatever they end up being in the end will always be free. yay. if you want extra content/want to support me in some way monetarily, feel free to join the patreon, however, I won't really be active on it until i have something substantial to show you game wise. that being said, you can still subscribe for access to the backlog of short stories and art etc. I'm turning off charges each month until i have like a real game for you to play that doesn't make me sick to my stomach to look at or think about. another note: pc players are going to be priority until it's finished. I will have a mobile version but i can't promise you she will be all that pretty.

another note, because larkin is free i can't promise quick turnarounds on anything but what i'll be offering on patreon when i start charging again and additionally: i'm back to making larkin a game for me. i really lost a lot of enjoyment for doing this stuff when i thought about that pressure i put on myself like i mentioned above but also, when i started writing it for other people in mind. first and foremost i am making larkin because i like cowboys, i like vampires, i like horror and religious trauma themes. i'm writing this for me: kc, so i can go on my computer and teehee at all the kissing scenes and make a cool cowboy character with fights. i'm going to make it gay and self-indulgent and basically just have fun with it because it's my game and i am making it and i said so.

all that said here are some of the major things i've done with larkin over this past little while:

updated the website so that it is now useable :)

done a lot of work on the ui:

and i have been rewriting a lot of stuff because I FEEL like it was not good and was not fun for me. THE DEMO FROM LAST JUNE ESPECIALLY. it hurts my stomach to look at.

visually, dan (@tapeworrmart ) has been on his fucking a-game with the art even through my crisis. here's the male ace portrait he put together for me last fall and the art for the main menu:

we also have some more art in the works that i am very excited for because they are in pursuit of new fun features :D

all that said. thanks for the continued support if you're still reading this, appreciate any interest you have in my game.

[pilot-boi]

Got commissioned to draw the most fucked up alternate fusion of the failwives, and also to write a little fic! (Hint hint nudge nudge, I can write for commission now)

The basic premise is that these two fall into the Ever After and are flying around destroying stuff and the Tree merges them into one person to help them understand each other. It doesn't go well at first, but it turns out okay!

Want some art of your own? [Buy Me A Ko-Fi]

(Fic under the cut or on AO3) :]

“Balance is not two forces locked in never-ending battle. True balance finds its own equilibrium. It only requires love, and the patience to see things through to the end.”

-The Blacksmith

Winter remembers flying. And falling. Fire and ice and screaming at someone until her throat went hoarse. She remembers a Tree, for some reason. One significant enough to need emphasis, even in her murky thoughts.

Where is she? Gods her head is swimming. It’s so hot. Why is it so hot?

Someone groans. Someone nearby.

Winter’s military training instantly has her on high alert. She forces her thoughts into order, pulling clarity into her mind by her fingernails. It’s difficult, more difficult than it should be. A burning like frostbite and hunger thrums under her skin, and she wraps mental fingers around the feeling without conscious thought. It’s a familiar sensation, but also not. Like holding hands with a very dear friend.

Holding very still, she listens for any other sign of the nearby person. She can’t be sure if they’re a threat, although with her foggy memories she highly doubts anyone friendly brought her to this situation. So Winter listens, trying to discern the location of the adversary.

Someone is breathing. Soft and shallow, just like her. They’re waiting for her to make the first move, the same as she’s waiting for them.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

There’s a roar of anger and in an instant her body is lurched upwards by her right arm without any input from her. Winter’s eyes fly open and her fingers clench instinctively around the hunger-frostbite feeling. Light flickers past her eyes and ice gathers at her fingertips. She gets a glimpse of fire, a glimpse of dark hair-

-And Winter collapses unceremoniously back onto the ground, her right arm not responding to her movements and very much not supporting her weight. The person yelps, and there’s a coinciding thud when they appear to collapse in tandem.

They both lay there for another moment, clearly weighing their options. The element of surprise is gone, for both of them. There’s no more pretending she’s unconscious, and the other is clearly lamenting the same, based on the litany of curses Winter can hear muttered nearby. 

Female, maybe slightly younger than she is. Quick to act, rash, although not stupid. The other woman waited and listened the same as she did. Smart, but impulsive. With a fire-related Semblance, based on the flames she glimpsed before her limbs gave out.

Winter takes closer stock of her faculties, paying particular attention to her physical aptitude rather than mental. She’s felt the effects of a concussion before, and while the pounding in her head and murky thoughts are leading to that conclusion, in everything she knows about that injury there is never any mention of nerve damage severe enough that it would lead to a loss of limb control.

Starting with her left hand, she tests every finger. Sore, but not broken. She bends it at the wrist, rolling it. All in working order, if incredibly sore, which is good as that’s her dominant arm. Winter does the same with her left hand, the one that failed to catch her, and finds it similarly functional.

Then why did it not respond before? The person beside her has stopped cursing.

Winter opens her eyes slowly, and promptly slams them back shut with a wince as bright sunlight stabs her retinas like a pair of knives. More cautiously she tries again, squinting into the blurry surroundings until they focus into something recognizable.

Palm trees, and clear blue sky beyond them. The sun is nearly directly overhead, and when she curls her fingers she can feel grains of hot sand beneath her fingers.

Strange. She should be wearing gloves. 

Suddenly Winter feels her right hand clench, grabbing a fistful of sand. 

It’s incredibly jarring, she can feel her arm moving, like she’s moving it. She was able to move it before, but once again simple bodily control seems beyond her. It’s like some unseen entity has slipped into her body and is puppeting her like a doll. 

The hand and arm lift into the air, and Winter can feel gravity tugging at them both, can feel the muscles strain with disuse. She can feel every grain of sand trickle from between clenched fingers. Each finger uncurls methodically, not unlike how she tested her hands before, but now the disconnect between movement and conscious thought is so jarring that Winter’s teeth grit together.

It’s like nails on a chalkboard, offensive and nauseating. Without conscious thought, Winter puts all of her willpower into wrenching control of her body back from her unseen puppeteer.

Her arm thumps back into the sand, limp. Hers again, for the moment.

“What did you do to me?” a voice half-craks half-snarls beside her. Fully audible, unlike the muttered curses earlier. Deliberate. Full of choked back rage, but in control. 

It’s a familiar voice, but also not. Poised but terrified, trying to hide its fear, but failing. 

It sounds like her own.

Not trusting her limbs, Winter tilts her head to finally look at the speaker, her adversary.

And Cinder Fall stares back.

A flicker of satisfaction lights in Cinder’s stomach at the look of bewildered rage that crosses Schnee’s face before her mask slams back down. But that satisfaction is nothing compared to the anger and fear roiling in her mind like a firestorm. 

Cinder is no stranger to her own limbs not listening to her. Ruby Rose all but burned away her left arm, and Salem’s offered alternative only obeyed if she made the Grimm flesh fear her. And even then, it would always heed the orders of her Mistress over herself, seizing in pain and flailing out of her control at a thought.

Not that Cinder isn’t grateful. The arm grants her power, and the ability to steal the Maiden powers. Salem gave that to her. It’s because of Salem that she has it. Without her, Cinder is nothing.

But this… this is a step beyond.

“What are you…” Schnee starts to snap back, and then clearly she sees what Cinder noticed as soon as she woke up.

Her body isn’t only her body anymore. She has a passenger, a parasite. Two arms, and two legs, blotchy skin running up the middle like paint smeared together. Two heads on one set of shoulders, and one is very much not her own.

Cinder sees the moment Schnee puts it together. “That place! The Tree, and that woman and-” Her eyes narrow sharp and cold as icicles. “What did you do?”

Cinder scoffs. “So like a Schnee, taking no responsibility, always assuming it must be someone else’s fault.”

“Well forgive me for blaming you, but only one of us is working for a woman hellbent on destroying the world.”

“Oh did the dear General have a sex change? I didn’t know.”

“Don’t play games with me, Fall! ” Schnee pushes herself up on one arm, leaving their shared body awkwardly tilted as she looms over Cinder. Her blues eyes blaze to life, and Cinder subtly melts the sand beside her into a blade. “I understand punishing you, but why that woman decided to drag me into this I have no idea. So what did you do?”

 Cinder scoffs. “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, so blameless, you can’t hide behind your shining Atlas exterior. We all saw what Atlas stands for, what you’re complicit in. You can thank your dear General for that.”

“I’m not hiding, I know my crimes,” Schnee responds, cold as a glacier. “But what I’ve done is nothing compared to you. If this is some sort of divine punishment, then I certainly am not the one to blame.”

“And I am?!” Cinder lurches upright as well, her temper boiling to the surface as she feels the fire-hunger swell. This woman, the nerve, the audacity. Ordered to kill an entire Kingdom, and would’ve followed through while hiding behind her precious orders. And she dares to claim she has a moral high ground? “What have I done that’s so horrible?!”

“You killed my sister!!” Schnee roars, the air turning noticeably colder around them.

Cinder rolls her eyes. “She’s alive, you moron. If we’re alive after falling then your precious sister is.”

“Penny, not Weiss! And it’s only by sheer luck that her blood isn’t also on your hands.”

“Penny?” Cinder barks out a laugh, and tightens her grip on the glass blade beside her. “You mean the General’s synthetic brat? How could she be your sister she wasn’t even-”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare say that Penny wasn’t alive!” A cutlass of ice is at Cinder’s throat before she can blink. Cinder wonders if Schnee even realizes the sword she’s wielding is at her own throat as well. “She was more alive, more human than you could ever hope to be!”

 “Look who’s talking!” The blade at her throat begins to melt. “Perfect prodigal Winter Schnee!” Cinder snarls, spitting the woman’s name like it’s the worst swear she can think of. “Up in your Academy with everything handed to you on a silver platter.” The fire-hunger swells in her stomach, and flames spit from between her teeth. “Your perfect life, your perfect city. You can’t even fathom how rotten Atlas really is.”

And it’s just for a moment, a fraction of a moment, but Schnee’s mask falters. “I know better than most the corruption hiding behind the facade,” she admits, the sword lowering just barely. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

“Neither do you!” Cinder’s eyes narrow. “You call me a monster, but you don’t know the first thing about what I’ve had to suffer.”

“I know enough.”

“Jumping to conclusions about perceived enemies, how very Atlesian of you! The General would be proud,” Cinder spits, and again the woman’s mask slips. Cinder glances down at the sword still hovering by her throat. “Now drop your weapon before I do it myself.”

Winter’s eyes narrow. “Fine, but only if you relinquish the blade that you’ve been hiding behind your back this whole time.” Cinder bares her teeth, but in a distant part of her mind Winter can feel her hand loosen “her” grip on the glass weapon.

With a thought, Winter dissipates her ice cutlass. Anything to avoid that unnatural puppeting sensation of her limbs following someone else’s orders. How could Penny experience that and remain so cheerful afterwards?

No. She can’t think about Penny. It hurts too much. 

Winter sighs and lets her half of their shared body flop back onto the sand. With the adrenaline fading, all the aches and pains are catching up to her. She groans softly as the hot sand eases just a little bit of the pain. Cinder doesn’t relax, even though she lays down, pulled by Winter’s half of the body. The Fall Maiden is still tense, like Winter might strike her at any moment. 

“I’m not going to attack you,” Winter says.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Not exactly fair, since Cinder was the first to strike. “Do you have any idea where we are?” Winter asks.

“No, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“What am I going to do with the information?! If you haven’t noticed, I can’t exactly go anywhere without dragging you along.”

“Whatever.”

The sun is starting to set overhead, and in the branches above them Winter spots the animals coming to life now that the heat of the desert is fading. It’s peaceful, or it would be if her sister’s murderer wasn’t parasitically attached to her body.

No. Still can’t think about Penny.

“If you could shut up, that would be fantastic,” Cinder says.

“I wasn’t even saying anything.”

“I can hear you thinking.”

Winter grits her teeth and resists the urge to strangle Cinder. “Well I can’t exactly stop doing that, can I?” She can feel Cinder roll her eyes, and wonders if the other woman was telling the truth about hearing her thoughts or was just trying to get under her skin. How merged are they?

“Look,” Winter says eventually, staring up at the color streaked sky. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.”

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

“But unless you know some way back to the Tree dimension, we’re stuck like this for the foreseeable future. So we’re going to have to work together.”

“We need to get out of the open,” Cinder says by way of a response, moving to sit up. Winter reluctantly does the same, and they awkwardly get themselves upright. “Whether we’re in that Tree place or Remnant, I don’t want to be around here when it gets dark.”

Winter raises an eyebrow. “We’re both Maidens. What could the local wildlife possibly do?”

“We can’t just be strong, we have to be smart,” Cinder snaps. “We don’t even know if we can stand up let alone fly, this is not the time to try our chances in a fight.” 

Winter can’t stop the look of surprise. Cinder Fall, impulsive and brash as fire itself, recommending caution and thinking through before acting? Maybe Winter does know less about her than she thought. Cinder didn’t answer her proposal, but the suggestion of shelter implies protection for both of them. A truce of sorts, in the face of adversity.

Glancing around, Winter sees nothing but palm trees, sandblasted stones, and waves of desert beyond, nothing that could be used as a shelter. A patch of shadow catches her eye. “Past that clump of palms, there’s an outcropping or an alcove maybe.”

Cinder turns to where she’s looking, without her needing to point, and again Winter wonders just how connected they are. The other woman is silent for a moment, appraising. “We’d at least have our backs against something solid.” She nods. “I don’t see anything better, it’ll do.”

From Cinder Fall, this might as well be a cry of jubilation. Despite their agreement to work together, moving in tandem proves to be more of a struggle than Winter would like. After several failed attempts at standing that all ended with them landing flat back on their faces, the merged Maidens resort to half-crawling half-dragging themselves to the outcropping.

It’s not much of a shelter, nothing more than a nook in a pile of boulders, but it’s better than nothing. They lean gingerly back against the stone, even that short journey wearing them out more than it should have. Winter’s mouth is dry, and her stomach aches. How long has it been since she ate or drank? Will she need to eat and drink more or less now that she’s sharing a stomach?

“We should look for potable water,” Winter suggests, rubbing a crick out of her neck. “It wouldn't be wise to go another day in that heat without hydration. Or food, judging by how rapidly our body is using energy.” 

“I’ve gone longer, it will be fine.”

Winter frowns. “You’ve gone longer than a day without water?”

Cinder shrugs, running fire-warmed hands over the aching muscles in their legs. “And food. It wasn’t fun, but I lived.”

Winter knows what it sounds like to speak from behind a mask of your own making. Cinder may sound casual, but its a facade. There’s a story there. One Winter isn’t sure she wants to poke into. You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve had to suffer, Cinder had said.

“Did you live in Atlas?” Winter asks. Cinder’s motions still, and then she continues more slowly. “The way you talk about it, it seems like you’re more familiar with the city than the average visitor.”

“I am,” Cinder says shortly. A bedroom on the floor in a storeroom, sisters more like torturers, a mother more like a slaver. And Rhodes, the biggest hypocrite of them all. “I lived there a long time ago, I hated it. Then I left and never looked back.” She’ll never have to. The city must have crashed by now, the Glass Unicorn a crumbled mess in the ruins of a destroyed city.

“I did the same,” Schnee admits, and Cinder looks at her in surprise. Amber eyes meet blue, and Schnee holds her gaze calmly. “My father, Jacques Schnee, was a father in blood alone. I joined the military to get away from him, to become strong enough that he could never hurt me again.” She laughs ruefully, her expression darkening. “I can’t believe I actually thought James was better than him.”

Cinder drops her gaze, moving back to mechanically easing the aches out of their shared muscles. Running away to become strong enough to never be hurt again. She hates how it sounds so familiar. She hates that she almost empathizes with Winter, that she understands.

It’s not the same, it’s not the same. Winter is a Schnee, born into privilege and promise. She got to become a Huntress, ran away into the open arms of the Atlas military on a whim. She didn’t have to claw and bite her way out. Run into the open arms of Salem, who used her and lifted her up and hurt her worse than the Madame ever could.

“Did you make him pay?” Cinder asks quietly, “For hurting you?” 

“Did you make them pay?” Winter answers with a question. “Whoever hurt you?”

Cinder’s hands still. The blood on the storeroom floor, the Madame’s neck crunching under her fingers all while her veins sing with electricity. The first betrayal she’s ever experienced, and the one that hurt the most. Born again at the stroke of midnight.

“I killed them,” she says, once again meeting Winter’s eyes. She expects to find hated pity there, expects to scream at her for perceived weakness, but she finds only cool understanding. “My sisters, the Madame, and the Huntsman who trained me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cinder’s eyes narrow. “I’m not weak.”

“I never said you are,” Winter responds. “Were they the ones who kept you from food and water?”

“Yes. I was their servant, if I didn’t work, I didn’t eat.”

There’s a flare of anger in Winter’s cold eyes, and it takes Cinder a moment to realize the emotion is pointed at the Madame. Winter Schnee is angry on her behalf, at a woman she never met, just because she hurt Cinder. Where’s that Atlesian delight in putting down her inferiors?

“Can you make other things out of glass?” Winter asks suddenly. “Other than weapons?

Cinder blinks. “Probably. I’ve never really tried.”

“Can you make a bowl?”

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

A bit dumbfounded, Cinder scoops a handful of sand from beside her and melts it into glass, slowly shaping the liquid into something resembling a bowl. It’s difficult to keep the edges smooth, different from the obsidian blades she’s so fond of, but eventually she’s left with a lopsided bowl in the palm of her hand.

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Winter says, taking Cinder’s hand and moving it closer to herself. It doesn’t feel as unnatural as before, the autonomous movement mitigated by the added visual of someone physically moving her hand. Or possibly by the simple act of human companionship as Winter holds her hand.

Winter’s eyes flare to life, and Cinder’s hackles immediately raise. This was all a trick, an act to lull her into complacency. Winter is going to attack her now, in her moment of weakness-

“Calm down,” Winter murmurs, running a thumb over the back of Cinder’s hand. Cinder hates how the action does actually calm her. “Just watch.” The Winter Maiden inhales and blows a white cloud into the bowl, and when the mist clears it’s full of clean white snow.

Without even needing to be prompted, Cinder knows what to do. Fire flickers past her eyes as she slowly heats up the palm of her hand, not enough to melt the glass, just enough to melt the snow. In just a few moments, all the flakes are gone and clear water sits in the bowl.

“Drink it,” Winter prompts. “It’s for you.”

“You mean it’s for us,” Cinder counters. “My body is your body, don’t pretend this is an act of charity when it’s benefiting you as well.”

Winter rolls her eyes, almost fondly. “Just drink the damn water.”

Cinder stares at it for a moment. Water created from nothing. Ice and fire, both death in their own regards. Diametrically opposed, but combined to create the bringer of life itself. 

Eventually she looks up, meeting Winter’s gaze. Why did you do this? Why are you helping me, after I hurt you? Why do you even care? Why are you aiding your enemy? Why you, why me? 

Cinder’s mind roils with all of the questions and more, but can’t vocalize more than a single word. “Why?” 

Winter is still holding her hand, and the ghost of a smile crosses her lips. The ice queen’s hand is strangely warm. “Because the people who hurt us are gone. So why should we continue to torture ourselves for them?”

There’s no reason Winter should care. Winter doesn’t even know her. And yet she does, a runaway in her own right, running to power out of fear and falling into the same horror she was fleeing from. Cinder and the Madame and Salem. Winter and her father and the General. 

She created water from her very soul, just so Cinder wouldn’t have to be thirsty. 

Cinder raises the bowl to her lips, with Winter’s hand still steadying hers, and drinks. It’s the cleanest water she’s ever tasted, cooling and refreshing on her parched throat. She doesn’t have to look to feel that Winter is smiling.

Fire and Ice. Dark and light. Maybe they’re not meant to destroy each other, not meant to be locked in a battle forever. Water in a glass bowl, two opposed forces combined to create something beautiful.

Maybe even they can find their own balance.

[rei-ismyname]

Havok and Cyclops dysfunction part 1

Hellions was a bit of a goldmine for Summers family drama. Alex had a bit of an episode and reverted to his AXIS inversion persona (not sure if that's the right word, but it seems to have triggered ongoing mental health issues, primarily violent disassociation.) He would have killed a bunch of humans if LOGAN didn't stop him.

Scott turns on big brother mode immediately, which is understandable, and the first time we see any hint of him standing against the Quiet Council. It's a little problematic - what makes Alex exempt from the same treatment as any other mutant? Scott implies he'd violently prevent the council from putting him in the pit if he killed people. He's right to object, as this is a complex issue, a health issue. That applies to everyone else in the dock too, though. For now, he's only willing to stand against injustice that affects those he loves nepotistically. Then fucking Sinister speaks up.

It's so very obvious that Sinister is arguing in bad faith. He already has too much power and any proposal giving him power over the vulnerable is indefensible. Everyone here should be aware of how much trauma this piece of shit has inflicted on Scott, Alex, and many more. Alex kinda thinks he deserves it, though he'll waver on that. Everyone on the council knows exactly what Sinister is, and I think not being more proactive with minimising the harm he could cause and making him redundant were massive failures. They need him for his genetic database and they'd prefer to not have him as an enemy, but he was given too much rope.

Sinister's proposal is The Hellions - the problem children of Krakoa sent on missions that reward their antisocial violence. After Greycrow executes Empath for messing with their heads, Havok argues he shouldn't be here. Kwannon disagrees and flags Alex's 'demons' - despite him coping okay with being at ground zero of Summers brother trauma. His 'demons' disagree too.

In a scenario practically designed to destabilise Alex, Maddie Pryor is there effectively utilising girl power. It's hard to tell how much of a factor magic is here but Alex slips into the role of Goblin Prince quickly. Maddie is pissed off - at Krakoa, at Scott, at Jean, at Sinister most of all. Angry at being used and discarded while her tormentor is rewarded, angry that they made a mutant nation for everyone except her. She plans to take Alex's head and throw it at their feet before overrunning Krakoa with an army of demons and cloned Marauders. Sadly, she gets shot, again.

Alex takes her words to heart and advocates for her resurrection. It's not the only reason, but the point is moot because the council votes no. Scott tried as well, though we only have his word to go off. I like to think he would, but he's not very supportive of Alex here. It's a far cry from his willingness to fight the council on his behalf. I guess a soldier will find violence easier than emotional labour. Honestly, it's difficult to tell where Scott is at here. He's incredibly family oriented in other books, but the good times are always easier than the bad times. This tracks with my experience of needing support from people and not getting it.

A good while later, Mastermind traps the Hellions in illusions of their deepest fantasies and desires. Alex's is ... interesting. Fantasy Maddie is nothing like RL Maddie, but she wants him and only him. That he's about to fuck a robot is grimly humorous and a little sad.

That illusion doesn't last, as it was only there to be yanked away and inverted. I'm skeptical that Alex would find this unpleasant, but it says something that fantasy Maddie is pliable and easygoing. 'Nightmare' Maddie has all the power and is an explicit callback to Inferno.

The illusion starts to break down which Alex interprets as Maddie punishing him by leaving. He practically shouts his insecurities and anxieties at Kwannon and Greycrow. They're not judging him, but he's not fooling anyone. Alex isn't scared of being alone and has no thoughts about being a budget Scott Summers. Totally.

Alex still thinks he doesn't belong in the Hellions, and he's right. Nobody does. However, he's ashamed to be associated with them in public. After all they've been through it's a dick move. Orphan Maker and Greycrow are definitely talking about themselves, but their comments fit Alex pretty well too.

This last one isn't really on theme - I just think it's hilarious. She did indeed eat his hands and him apologising for it is perfect.

I didn't really plan to explore Scott and Alex's relationship here, I just started off with Havok scans I found interesting. As I was thinking of a title, some theme that links these moments, it occurred to me that their relationship gets a lot of focus on Krakoa. It's spread out over half a dozen books or so, but that's for part two. They definitely have issues though - oh yes, and being around Sinister doesn't help.

[1920sladydectective]

Drabble as proof of life lmfao

Promise i will try and update Romans V Elephants soon, am very sick!

Love you Ambessa lovers, thinking of you and all the support you give xoxoxo

It had been blissful, filled with intoxicating fun as you had taken the opportunity by both hands, greedy with the promise of it.

Being loved by Ambessa Medarda was like being loved by a burning, bright star. You would orbit around her, caught in the glow. Showered with endless gifts and trips, the apple of her eye, she spared no expense. The sex was mind blowing, her ability to ruin a body shown daily in your weak ankles as you trapesed about Noxus spending the warlord’s money. Only you would hear that tender, real laugh from blood red lips, her heartbeat calm as you drifted off merged against her. Everything was perfect and fresh, even if the violence could be exhausting at times.

Stars, you learnt, burned out before your very eyes.

One day you were dropped like a hot coal, precious possessions of three years love boxed into crates and placed in a carriage. There was a conversation, if you could call it that, in which you were reduced to the very barest, worst parts of yourself. Her voice, as sharp as her blade, had carved wounds that would never heal. You meant nothing, were nothing, that was clear as glass to you now. She had tired of you, a new pretty brunette already already lingering at her feet with the same awestruck eyes as you had once worn. Back to work, her glare had said, back to being a speck of dust beneath my foot.

Sitting in your father’s bakery, long since dormant after your relocation to Ambessa’s manor, you rhythmically shredded the gentle piles of silk. What was truly valuable you would sell, left with no other choice to finance the reopening of the only livelihood you had, but these were hand made, tailored to you specifically and for that they would feel your wrath. Your training clothes were all that remained, the red turning your stomach as you worked yourself into a fit of exhaustion cleaning and resetting the space. Her life of leisure had not allowed you to idle physically, far too stretched and used for that, but cleaning and cooking were skills that had waned. Ambessa’s pity money had gone straight to a charity, and as such you had less than a week before you needed to open again, unless you fancied starving in an abandoned bakery of course.

Each step towards your old life was another flick of her pretty, glimmering blades. Nightmares plagued you, her safety now a drought in your soul. You hated her, more than anything, and that was why you cradled her old cape in the dead of night as your nose sniffed weakly. If you’d done something different, perhaps you'd still be drinking rose tea and rubbing her feet as she told you a silly battle story, a lie about a scar’s origin. Those doubts only lingered in the dark, shattered by the break of dawn. How dare she twist your own mind against you, make you the aggressor in your misery.

This was her cruelty, her bloody slaughter and you would hold her to it even as it burned your weighted lungs.

It had been two months since she had cut you loose and business was good. Your family name still held weight, your father’s recipes etched into your hands as people lamented the break from such precious sweetbread. What a shame you’d gone traveling, they’d say, and how delightful that you were back. What a fucking shame indeed. Life was hard, your aching body a shell of what it once was, as each Noxian soldier that passed through the streets made you want to cut them limb from limb, send a petulant message of your heartache.

Ambessa found herself pondering the decision each day as she retired to bed, eyes sunken as she stroked your old shawl. It would keep you safe, this distance, as she assessed her options. The Black Rose’s ability to slither into where they please made this difficult, sensitive and exhausting. Normally, your safest position was with her, but since garnering their attention pushing you out of her orbit was the clearest bet. Didn’t mean she had to like it, didn’t mean her mind didn’t replay her cutting words and your broken, desperate eyes every time she closed hers. Love was a fickle mistress and she would rather you shattered and safe than carved out in front of her, dead gazed. The bakery was thriving, according to Rictus, and you had mostly stopped getting drunk in bars so the burn in her heart could be allowed to dull into a continual ache

[astropookie]

Ascendants at different degrees 🦚🦢

my natal mercury is square with transiting mercury 😭 km pls. my mind has been a MESS I can’t and that’s why all my fucking ideas seemed difficult to write. srry if it’s not it.

julianlandini

Ascendant at Pisces degree (12° or 24°)

that’s fucking meee. i have this fairy vibe or they often call me hippie. that sensible and humanitarian side it’s there, the wanting to contribute for the best of others, to make that world they dreamed of basing it on the different perspective of others, of what the other have felt and how they have felt when they witnessed it. since the origin, since the depth of things. the path of their life is about to express themselves and to speak for others? The ones that couldn’t spoke? Bc all their life they have been listening to them, looking from a side the reality they’re scared of. -they’ve been psychologists if you want to call it that way-. They want to give love, they have so much love to give. During a period of their life -mostly childhood- they could have felt isolated from the world, these period of time could have been pretty sensible for them and helped them to “open their eyes”, how the world they thought worked was a lie.

Ascendant at Taurus degree (2°, 14° or 26°)

the difference of a person when the degree of the ascendant changes it’s incredible. There’s two people in my life that have aries rising but the one with taurus is completely different of the other. How a person with taurus degree on their ascendant live or the vibe of their life…they want comfort but at the same time have to have what they want, they’re persistent in to what they want and that’s attractive. I have seen people with this placement having a lot of romantic interactions or situationships, it’s easy for them to attract lovers👅 I’ve noticed they make good use of opportunities, they remind me of a bear bc I want to hug them no matter what. They’re realistic or practical. They indeed are critical with food, they need to take their nap to feel good. They’re like old people, how they point out manners and limits people have to have on their perspective and etc. I’ve seen a lot of people with these placement that had moved to their natal place to other bc of the opportunities. could mean also they are part of a family that can provide them economic support or/but with time they had struggle with it.

Ascendant at Aries degree (1°, 13° or 25°)

they’re pretty erratic, they look fucking mad all the time. They’re impulsive, their emotions, their decisions, they don’t know how they ended up the way they ended up. You can see from aside they’re natural liders. however, their whole life they’ve been fighting for being the liders of their life. there’s people around them that don’t understand limits, that think they have the right to control the aries degree life. these placement have to learn that they have the right to stand up for they want even if others don’t want to or don’t let them. they want to have something build by their own, THEIR thing, if not they’ll feel lost. they follow their heart and not doing it will cause problems in the future.

Ascendant at Capricorn degree (10° or 22°)

I have a friend that has Leo ascendant but she wasn’t giving me the stereotypical explosive energy someone expects from a leo. I did my research 😌 and of course she has a Capricorn degree. She is a very career focused person, grounded and driven by her goals. Also an introvert or priorities the company of the ones she likes the most or thinks is the best. She’s studying to be a doctor, her whole life will revolve around her work, she is devoted and has a BIG heart for her loved ones and the ones that would be part of her path. She looks serious. They’re seemed as reserved bc they’re 🤪 and when you get to know them they’re a beautiful soul. They won’t let anything get into their way when it comes to their career and goals, they’ll risk it all. Around their life they’ve had this introverted behavior or they’re Saturn ruled, which means they know bc they have to experience things, little by little but they have had and have to. In other words, they have seen and been in difficult situations that later -bc they have the power- analyzed the situation in 3er person to comprehend bc if not saturn will do what they do🤭

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❀ Based on my personal experience and what I’ve analyzed in my surroundings.

❀ English is not my first language.

❀ I’m not a profesional astrologer, I just love astrology and I’m willing to learn.

Thank youu. baibaiii🫣🫶🏼💋

Do not copy. Please give me credits.