#laughter among the trees

[cmrosens]

Interview with Suzan Palumbo ~ Skin Thief coming Oct 2023

Check out the amazing work of Suzan Palumbo, interviewed on my podcast this month! #darkfiction #longread #bodyhorror #folklore

Bio Suzan Palumbo is a Nebula finalist, active member of the HWA, Co Administrator of the Ignyte Awards and a member of the Hugo nominated FIYAHCON team. She is also a former Associate Editor of  “Shimmer” magazine. Her debut dark fantasy/horror short story collection “Skin Thief: Stories” will be published by Neon Hemlock in Fall 2023. Her novella “Countess” will be published by ECW Press in…

[winxanity-ii]

DAMNED DEVOTION [3/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( m. receiving oral/handjob; fem. receiving oral; p in v; overstimulation; creampie, wrap before you tap kiddos; breeding kink; degradation/praise kink; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 5.4k a/n: ahhh, i can't believe i finally finished the final part to this little 'devotion' piece. to thank you all for following along with this series i may have gone a little filthy 😅 also, don't know if you guys care to know, but it's my twin (@k-nayee) and i's 20th birthday today, wheeewwww 🎉🥳! i'll see you all in the next update, and don't be afraid to shoot an ask/request or check out my other works! this is a continuation of my previous one-shotS, '𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍' and '𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.' If you haven't read those yet, I recommend starting there to understand the progression of their relationship….

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

It was a bright afternoon, the sun hanging high in the sky, its rays filtering through the branches of the old oak tree that stood at the edge of the courtyard. The air smelled fresh, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant murmur of conversation.

A group of young nuns-in-training, dressed in their modest habits, sat on the grass, their voices soft with laughter. You were among them, sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, your Bible open in your lap, a pencil in your hand as you made notes from the earlier service.

The warmth of the sun on your skin made you feel content, almost peaceful, and you were momentarily lost in thought, the words on the page blurring slightly as your mind wandered.

"Sister ____!" a voice called, breaking through your concentration.

You looked up, startled, to see one of the younger nuns smiling at you, her eyes bright with curiosity. She had a round face, still clinging to the softness of her youth, her cheeks flushed from the sun. Her name was Sister Olive, and she was always one of the more talkative ones, her energy infectious among the group.

"Yes?" you replied, giving her a gentle smile. The group of nuns-in-training giggled amongst themselves, their eyes flickering between you and something—or rather someone—further down the courtyard path.

You followed their gaze and saw Father Charlie walking alongside another priest, his expression focused, his hands clasped behind his back.

The sun seemed to catch on his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the soft waves of his hair. He looked every bit the holy man, yet there was an undeniable handsomeness to him, something that drew eyes wherever he went.

Sister Olive leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Sister ____, does Father Charlie have a wife?"

Your brows furrowed slightly, confused by the question. "Pardon?" you asked, blinking as you looked back at her.

The group broke into another fit of giggles, Sister Olive glancing towards Father Charlie again before continuing. "I heard that priests can be married if they were married before being ordained..." she trailed off, her tone curious, her gaze turning back to you. "I just wondered if Father Charlie was ever married. He seems like he could be, doesn't he?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the implication, and you quickly shook your head, trying to keep your voice steady. "No, Sister Olive, he isn't married," you answered, your tone soft but firm.

The young nuns exchanged glances, and another wave of giggles spread through the group, their laughter light and full of the innocence of youth.

Sister Olive sighed dramatically, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ah, I thought so. He's too serious to have a wife, don't you think? But still... he's quite handsome."

You swallowed, glancing back towards Father Charlie, who was now nearing the edge of the courtyard, his eyes scanning the area as if searching for something—or someone.

You quickly looked away, your heart fluttering in your chest, a strange mixture of emotions churning within you. You knew you shouldn't think of him in that way, shouldn't let the words of the younger nuns affect you, but it was impossible not to.

The memory of his touch, his voice, the way he had looked at you in the confessional—it all came rushing back, making your pulse quicken, your hands trembling slightly as you closed your Bible.

A second later, a shadow fell over the group; the young nuns quickly quieted, their giggles turning into soft murmurs. Looking up, you saw Father Charlie standing before you, a small, knowing grin on his lips.

His eyes locked onto yours, an intensity in his gaze that made your breath catch. He gave a short, polite bow of his head. "Good morning, Sister ____," he said, his voice smooth, almost gentle, before his gaze shifted to the rest of the group. "Good morning, sisters."

The young nuns responded in unison, their voices a mix of giggles and greetings. You looked down at your Bible, mumbling a quiet, "Good morning, Father Charlie," along with the others, your face heating up under his watchful eyes.

You thought that was the end of it, that he would move on and let you be, but then he spoke again, his voice calling your name.

"Sister ____," he said, his tone still polite, but there was something in it that made your heart skip a beat. "I was hoping I could have your assistance with preparing for next week's sermon. I need some help organizing the notes and scriptures. Would you be able to spare a moment?"

You felt your heart race, already knowing that this was a lie, that his request had little to do with the sermon and everything to do with the tension that lingered between you.

Clearing your throat, you forced a smile, nodding as you closed your Bible and rose to your feet. "Of course, Father," you replied, turning to the young nuns. "I'll see you all later."

They nodded, their eyes wide with curiosity as they watched you walk away with Father Charlie. He led you across the courtyard, his pace measured, his hands clasped behind his back.

You followed him in silence, your heart pounding, your mind racing with a mix of anticipation and fear.

He brought you to the sacristy—a room in the church where sacred objects and vestments were kept and prepared for use during rituals.

The room was medium-sized, its thick concrete walls lined with shelves that held ornate chalices, gilded candlesticks, and other sacred items. A large wooden table stood in the center, covered with cloth and a few open books, the sunlight streaming through the small window, casting a warm glow over the space.

The air smelled faintly of incense, the scent comforting yet heavy, reminding you of the solemnity of the church.

You turned around just in time to see Father Charlie shut the door, the soft click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat as he turned back to you, his eyes dark, filled with something you couldn't quite name—something that made your pulse quicken, your hands trembling slightly at your sides.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, and turned back around, your eyes roaming over the various sacred objects lining the shelves. You busied yourself by adjusting the cloth on the table, pretending to study the items, anything to keep yourself distracted from the tension filling the room.

You could feel him behind you, his presence heavy, the air thick with something unspoken.

A shudder ran through you as you felt his hands on your shoulders, his fingers rubbing gently against the fabric of your habit, caressing your shoulders with a slow, deliberate touch. You closed your eyes, trying to suppress the tremble that ran through your body, your breath catching in your throat.

"F-Father Charlie..." you began, your voice barely above a whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.

Before you could say anything more, he spun you around, his hands firm on your shoulders. His eyes were intense, dark, filled with a hunger that made your knees weak. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the way his pupils were blown wide; his lips parted slightly as he looked at you.

"Shhh," he murmured, one of his hands moving up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but there was an intensity behind it that made your heart race. His gaze bore into yours, and for a moment, you felt like you were caught, trapped in the depth of his eyes, unable to look away.

You took a shaky step back, your eyes dropping to the floor as you tried to gather your thoughts. You turned away from him, your hands gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles white as you spoke, your voice trembling. "Father, I... I find myself at war. What we... what we have, it's wrong. It's against everything we believe in, everything we stand for. I can't... we can't keep doing this."

You heard him let out a soft, frustrated sigh, and a second later, his hands were on you again, spinning you around to face him. There was a tension in his jaw; his eyes narrowed slightly, frustration evident in the way he looked at you.

"No," he said, his voice firm, his gaze intense as he held you in place. "No, Sister. You're wrong. This... what we have, it's not wrong. It's not some sin that we need to be ashamed of." His voice softened slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Do you think the love between Jesus and Mary Magdalene was wrong? Do you think He loved her any less because of who she was? Love is not something to be condemned, not when it's real... not when it consumes you the way this consumes me."

His voice dropped lower, almost a groan, his eyes darkening as he stepped closer, his chest brushing against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me. The way you look at me, the way you move, the way you speak—it's made me delirious. I can't think of anything else but you; I can't focus on anything but this need, this hunger for you. You've taken hold of me, body and soul, and I can't... I can't let you go."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing at the intensity of his gaze, the raw need in his voice. You could feel your resolve crumbling, the conflict within you fading beneath the weight of his confession, the depth of his longing.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, a desperate edge to his words. "Please, just let me have you, one last time. If you're sure—if you really mean it, I'll let you go. But please... just one more time."

A soft, almost mousy, "Okay," left your lips before you could stop yourself, the word barely audible, but it was all he needed.

In an instant, he was on you, his lips crashing against yours, his hands pulling you close, his fingers digging into your waist as he kissed you with a hunger that took your breath away.

Your steps staggered back, your body unsteady as he moved with you, following you, his lips never leaving yours. Your back hit the edge of the table, and he pressed against you, his body warm, his touch insistent, his kiss deepening as his tongue slipped into your mouth, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.

His hands moved to your hips, lifting you slightly as he guided you onto the table, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You could feel the intensity of his need, the way his body pressed against yours, his hands exploring, claiming, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

His fingers were frantic as they pushed up your habit, his touch rough, almost desperate. His lips never left your skin, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, across your chest.

You could feel his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, his need evident in every hurried movement, every touch. He kissed you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your soft moans as his hands moved beneath the fabric, lifting it higher, his touch hot against your bare skin.

You gasped when he dropped to his knees before you, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, his hands holding your legs apart. Just as he was about to continue, you panicked slightly, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. "W-Wait," you stuttered, your voice shaky, your heart pounding in your chest.

Charlie looked up at you, his gaze questioning, his breath hot against your thighs. His eyes were dark, filled with desire, and his lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

You swallowed, licking your lips nervously as you avoided his gaze, your fingers still gripping his shoulders. "I... you always... I mean, you always... please me with your mouth," you stammered, your face growing hot, your voice barely above a whisper. "I-I was wondering if... if I could... return the favor?"

Your words were awkward, your innocence clear in the way you spoke, the way your eyes flickered everywhere but at him. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, your voice going quiet. "I mean... if you want, Father..." You finally forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes wide, nervous, and hopeful.

For a moment, there was silence between the two of you, the air thick with tension. You began to worry that you had said something wrong, that you had crossed some line, but then Charlie let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your thighs, his head dropping against them. He muttered something, his voice muffled, and you barely caught the words, "Are you truly an angel, or a devil sent to test me?"

He stood slowly, his hands sliding up your thighs as he rose, his eyes never leaving yours. When he reached you, he cupped your face, pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss. His lips moved slowly against yours, his tongue teasing, tasting, and when he finally pulled away, he left a soft peck against your lips. His eyes were softer now, the intensity replaced with something gentler, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip, his touch tender.

Then, his expression shifted, his eyes darkening, a low, commanding tone entering his voice as he spoke. "Get on your knees," he said, his voice almost a growl.

You felt a shiver run through you, your body reacting instinctively to his words. You stared up at him, your heart pounding, your pulse quickening as you saw the way his eyes had darkened, the hunger there almost overwhelming. His breathing was shallow, his gaze so intense it made your knees weak.

Slowly, you moved, slipping off the table, your feet touching the ground as you lowered yourself to your knees before him. You didn't break eye contact as you descended, your gaze locked on his, the intensity of the moment making your heart pound.

There was something electric in the air, something that made your skin tingle, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

Father Charlie's eyes were dark, his gaze fixed on you, his lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling as he watched you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between you almost unbearable.

You knelt there, looking up at him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting, anticipating.

Slowly, Charlie's hands moved beneath his robes, the rustling of fabric almost deafening in the silence of the room. You heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him, expecting him to pull his robes up and over his waist, but instead, he began slipping off the entire robe, his movements slow, deliberate.

Your gaze was drawn to his chest as the robe slid off his shoulders, revealing smooth, tanned skin, the muscles beneath rippling with each movement. He pulled the robe over his head, his arms flexing, the fabric falling to the floor behind him.

Your eyes trailed down his body, taking in every inch of him—the broadness of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell, the dark hair that started at his navel and led downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of his unbuckled trousers.

There was a dark line of hair, a happy trail that made your breathing stutter, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

Charlie's eyes never left yours as he reached down, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch gentle, almost affectionate. His thumb caressed the bottom of your face before his hand shifted, his fingers gently squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered slightly. His eyes darkened, his lips curling into a faint smile.

"Pull it out," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. He dropped his hand away, his gaze heavy as he watched you.

With shaking hands, you reached up, your fingers trembling as they found the button of his trousers. You fumbled for a moment, your breath shaky, your heart pounding in your chest.

You unbuttoned his trousers, your fingers brushing against the zipper, pulling it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. You tugged the fabric down his hips, the trousers falling to his ankles.

Your eyes widened as you saw the large bulge straining against the fabric of his boxers, the outline of him clear, the sight making your breath hitch. Slowly, you reached forward, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, your gaze fixed on him.

His length sprang free, bobbing slightly before settling against his thigh. You couldn't help but stare, taking him in. The veins along his length stood out, thick and prominent, the head flushed a deep pink, glistening slightly.

You swallowed hard, your eyes tracing every inch of him, the reality of it sinking in. He was bigger than you remembered, the sheer size of him making your breath catch, your heart pounding even harder.

That... that was inside me...

Your cheeks flushed at the memory, the thought of it making your thighs press together, heat pooling in your belly.

"Sister," Charlie's voice broke through your thoughts, his tone soft but commanding. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his gaze, his dark eyes watching you intently. There was something in his expression, a mixture of desire and tenderness that made your breath catch. "Give me your hand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated for only a moment before you extended your hand to him, your fingers trembling slightly. He took it gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you watched as his other hand moved down his chest, his fingers gliding over his smooth skin, tracing the lines of his muscles before finally wrapping around his length.

He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as he began to stroke himself, his thumb rubbing over the sensitive tip. His eyes never left yours, watching your reaction, his lips parted as he sucked in a breath, a shudder running through his body.

The sight made your mouth go dry, your eyes widening as you watched him, unable to look away. After a few seconds, he shuddered your name, his voice rough, needy. "Touch me," he panted, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze filled with desire.

You allowed him to guide your hand, wrapping your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, his grip firm. A low, broken moan left his lips at the contact, his head tilting back slightly, his eyes closing for a moment.

You could feel the warmth of him, the way he twitched in your hand, the weight of him almost overwhelming.

Sitting up on your knees, you moved closer, your other hand resting on his strong thigh to steady yourself. Your thumb unconsciously brushed against his leg, the muscles tensing beneath your touch as you focused on holding him in your hand.

You looked up at him, your eyes questioning, unsure of what to do next. Charlie's gaze dropped to meet yours, his thumb reaching out to pull down your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he dipped it into your mouth for a brief moment. He let out a soft sigh, his voice almost a whisper. "Open wider," he instructed, his eyes fixed on you. "Drop your tongue, just like you're about to eat a popsicle."

You followed his instructions, your jaw dropping open, your tongue hanging out slightly, your eyes still locked on his. He hummed in approval, guiding your hand up, moving his length towards your awaiting tongue.

The tip of him brushed against your tongue, the taste salty, musky, as he rubbed the head across the surface, letting out an appreciative hum. He did this for a few seconds, his eyes watching every reaction you made, his lips curling into a small smile.

Slowly, he pushed himself further into your mouth, just an inch or two, his breath hitching as he watched you. "Close your lips around it," he murmured, his voice strained. "Suck."

You closed your mouth around him, your lips sealing around the head of his length, your tongue pressing against the underside. He let out a deep groan, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you in place. "Just like that," he whispered, his voice thick hoarse. "That's it... good girl."

You began to suck gently, your cheeks hollowing as you moved your head slightly, taking him in just a bit more. The taste of him filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.

His hips jerked slightly, a low moan escaping his lips as he watched you, his eyes dark, filled with lust. He guided you slowly, his hand on the back of your head setting the pace, his breathing growing more ragged with each passing moment.

"Use your tongue," he panted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Swirl it around the tip... yes, just like that." You did as he instructed, your tongue moving over the sensitive head, and he shuddered, his grip on your hair tightening, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. "God, you have no idea what you do to me," he muttered, his voice strained, his eyes locked on yours.

You continued to move, your hand stroking the base of him as you sucked, your other hand still resting on his thigh, your thumb brushing against his skin in a soothing motion.

His breaths came in short gasps, his chest heaving as he watched you, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted. He whispered your name, his voice filled with need, his hips rocking slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

"You're perfect," he groaned, his head tilting back, his eyes closing as he lost himself in the sensation. "So good... just like that. Don't stop." His words were slurred, his voice thick with pleasure, and you could feel him throbbing in your mouth, the taste of him growing stronger as he neared his peak.

His hips began to move more, his breathing turning into short, desperate gasps, his hand guiding you, holding you in place as he chased his release. He muttered your name, his voice breaking, a mixture of moans and whispered praises filling the room as he lost himself to the pleasure.

When he finally came, the taste of him filled your mouth, his hips jerking, a deep groan escaping his lips as he held you there, his fingers tangled in your hair. He panted heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you, his eyes dark, filled with something raw, something possessive.

Charlie reached down, his hand wrapping around your arm, pulling you up from your knees with a strength that left you breathless. He yanked you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours, his tongue licking into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue.

He groaned against your lips, his hand moving to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured you, his kiss deep, consuming. His tongue moved against yours, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pulled back slightly, licking across your lips before placing a softer, lingering kiss there.

He pulled away, his eyes locking onto yours, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. Without a word, he lifted you, settling you back onto the table, his hands pushing up your habit, his gaze dropping between your legs as he knelt before you once again. "I need to prep you," he murmured, his voice husky, his hands sliding up your thighs.

His fingers reached between your legs, expecting to find the fabric of your underwear, but instead, they came in contact with your soaked folds. He let out a surprised sound, his eyes shooting up to meet yours, a brow raised in question. You released a huff, your cheeks flushing as you looked away, muttering, "It's laundry day..."

Charlie let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly, his lips curling into an amused smile. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your knee before his hands moved to push your thighs further apart, the stretch making your muscles burn slightly, the sensation both uncomfortable and thrilling. He held your legs open, his eyes fixed on you, watching your every reaction.

Before you knew it, his mouth was on you, his lips pressing against your sensitive flesh, a silent gasp falling from your lips, your eyes closing, your head falling back as your back arched off the table.

The feeling of his tongue moving against you, licking, sucking, made your thighs tremble in his hold, your fingers gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles turning white.

He worshipped you with his mouth, his tongue moving with purpose, teasing your entrance, his lips closing around your clit, sucking gently.

One of his hands moved up, his fingers brushing against your entrance before slowly pushing inside, stretching you, his mouth never stopping, never hesitating. He worked you with a skill that left you breathless, every flick of his tongue, every gentle thrust of his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your orgasm built slowly, a steady climb that made your whole body tense, every nerve ending alive with sensation. Charlie seemed to know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, how to move his fingers to bring you to the brink, his name falling from your lips in a breathless whisper, your body trembling, your thighs shaking around his head.

But just as you were about to fall over the edge, just as the pleasure was about to consume you, he pulled away.

A frustrated whine escaped your lips, your eyes opening, a mixture of confusion and need in your gaze as you looked down at him. He stood slowly, his eyes dark, a small smirk playing on his lips as he watched you, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body aching for release.

Charlie licked his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he reached up, his fingers tilting your head back, exposing the line of your neck to him. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His other hand moved to wrap one of your legs around his waist, his fingers digging into your thigh as he held you against him, his body pressed tightly to yours.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Don't worry, Sister," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll fill you back up and give you what you need." The words sent a shiver down your spine, your core clenching at the promise, a whimper escaping your lips.

Charlie reached between your bodies, his hand wrapping around his length, positioning himself. He rubbed the tip against your clit, the sensation making your body jerk, a gasp falling from your lips.

He moved slowly, dragging the head of his length up and down your slit, teasing you, your body trembling in his arms, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

Then, without warning, he pushed forward, bullying his way into you, the stretch almost unbearable.

You arched further into his arms, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your body struggling to accommodate him. He let out a deep groan, his fingers tightening on your thigh, his other hand moving to grip your hip, holding you in place as he filled you completely.

His pace was brutal, each stroke long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, his hips slamming against yours. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, his voice low, rough, filled with need. "You... You feel so good... so tight around me," he panted, his words broken by soft moans. "I'm going to fuck you, fill you up until you can't think of anything else."

His hips snapped against yours, his movements rough, desperate, his body pressing you down against the table, his weight holding you in place. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Imagine it, Sister," he whispered, his voice dark, almost a growl. "A secret child... a product of our sin, of our blasphemy against the church." His words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your core clenching around him, your body reacting to the forbidden promise, the thought of it pushing you closer to the edge.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your entire body tensing, your back arching as the pleasure consumed you, a silent scream on your lips. You could feel Charlie shudder above you, his thrusts growing erratic, his breath coming in short gasps as he chased his own release.

After a few more brutal strokes, he let out a deep groan, his hips pressing against yours as he came, his body tensing, his fingers digging into your skin.

He stayed there, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he tried to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. You could feel his heart pounding against your own, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

You shivered as he began to pull back, the movement making you wince slightly, your body still sensitive from the intense pleasure.

His softening length slipped out of you, the feeling making you gasp softly, a mix of relief and emptiness settling in your chest. You felt the warm, sticky sensation as globs of his cum poured out, slowly dripping down your inner thighs.

You began to close your legs, thinking he was done, that he would put his clothes back on, but his hand stopped you, his fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, keeping you open.

Charlie lowered himself to his knees once again, his eyes fixed on you, a dark hunger still present in his gaze. Before you could understand what was happening, his mouth was on you, his lips pressing against your sensitive folds.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you felt his tongue, warm and wet, sliding through your slickness, lapping up the mixture of your release and his own. His groans were sinful, vibrating against you, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the taste.

Your brain raced, unsure of what to do or what to say, your body twitching beneath his touch, your legs instinctively trying to close, still overly sensitive from your previous climax. But Charlie's hands were strong, his grip firm as he held your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you open for him.

He was relentless, his tongue moving with purpose, his lips closing around your swollen clit, sucking gently, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

Your breaths came in short, desperate gasps, your fingers gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You could feel the pleasure building again, a slow, steady climb that made your whole body tense, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

You couldn't hold back the soft whimpers and moans that spilled from your lips, your head falling back, your eyes closing as the pleasure consumed you.

When you came, it hit you like a final, blinding wave, your body arching off the table, your thighs trembling in Charlie's hold. A broken cry escaped your lips, your back arching, your eyes squeezed shut.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Your mind was clouded as the pleasure consumed you, the feeling like the flames of damnation licking at your skin. For I am burned by the fire of desire, a sinner in the eyes of heaven.

And you weren't sure if you minded at all.

A/N: ya know, i think my smut has gotten better, what do you guys think??? and to answer the upcoming question(s) i know will be asked: yes, this is the final part, i won't be continuing the 'Devotion' series/making it into a book 😔 i know, i know. i promise i want too, but knowing me, i tend to bounce around/start new projects out of nowhere, so if i didn't spend weeks planning before hand, it'll grow cold eventually, and i don't wanna put you guys through that 😩 but never fret, i will continue writing for father charlie 😝, he's just too versatile not to. see you guys soon ❤️❤️❤️.

[evilgwrl]

Neighbour!Simon Riley x Reader

Girl Next Door (Six)

CW: You’re approached by a drunk man who grabs you, nothing violent

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter

The sky settled with a midnight blue, a murder of crows digging among the trees before burrowing away into secluded nests. It had been a multitude of days since you had seen Simon, practically barging out his front door with only a squeak of goodbye after the previous unfortunate incident.

You were constantly distracted. Your brain was plagued by the thought of him, and you felt like you were going to spiral, the whine of anxiety in your stomach doing you no favours. You pondered on the thought of knocking on his door, apologising for ignoring him, yet didn’t.

You headed to the bar instead.

The night air was balmy, the breeze kissing your skin as you walked in. The clinks of glasses and the exaggerated commotion of laughter bounced from the brick walls, faux vines hanging from the indents in an attempt to brighten the grimy room. There was a permanent stench of yeasty beer and cheap wine, couples canoodling in the corner or stumbling out of the toilets, rubbing their noses.

The lights were dim, barely able to see your own feet as you weaved through the throng, bodies pushing up against you as you searched around for your friends. You settled once you had the familiar voice of your long-term friend, Tamara. Your legs hobbled over to their table, ringlets of water staining the wood, multiple drinks already strewed out and consumed. You took in the two men you had never seen before, noting that one must be her new boyfriend she was gushing about.

“There you are!” She cooed, her arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, the soft ringlets in her hair rubbing against the side of your face, “This is the guy I was telling you about, Max.”

Max stood tall, offering you a polite handshake as you introduced yourself before he nudged the man next to him. The man was handsome, a boyish grin on his face as he extended a hand out to you. You feel a flutter of nerves but push through, engaging in light banter as you return his grip, mumbling your name out. You began to relax under the crowded atmosphere, scoffing down a shot that Max’s friend, who you now know as Louis, had shouted.

You listened to the story of how Tamara and Max met, bustling with laughter as you were fed drinks, the camaraderie drawing you in. The ambience embraced you with a warm glow, a soft smile on your face as you chattered amongst the group, mind fuzzed over with the alcohol that slurred through your bloodstream.

“The next rounds on me, what are we after?” You blurted, standing abruptly as you toppled slightly, Louis’ arm grabbing hold of you in a tight squeeze to catch you. He was sweet, offering you polite nods all night while you spoke, eyes lingering on you a little too long, but he wasn’t what you wanted. Not right now. Not after Simon.

Tamara huffed out, “4 shots,” before she attended to her boyfriend in a drunken matter, smoothing his hair down as they giggled amongst each other.

“Do you need me to come with you?” Louis yelled over the music, his lips curled in a grin before you shook your head, promising him it would only take a minute. You stepped away, huffing out a loud breath as you regained composure, eyes fluttering under the influence as you mingled between crowds to reach the bar. You needed a moment to reprieve, slightly overwhelmed by the severity of people, the damp smell of sweat and alcohol burning through you.

The bar was cooler, the marbled surface offering you a moment of solitude as you ordered the shots, resting your head in your hands as you waited. It wasn’t hard to feel a presence beside you, the scent of hair gel and poorly sprayed cologne blinding you as you felt a hand brush against your waist.

“Hey there beautiful.”

His voice was garbled, alcohol staining his breath as he gulped down the remainder of his beer, eerie eyes watching you with a perverted intensity. His hair was slicked back, brows furrowed as he scanned your face, hazel eyes practically consumed by his pupils as you noted the white residue that stuck to his flared nostrils.

“Can I help you?” Your voice was uneasy as you stared at the bartender, tapping impatiently against the exterior.

“Just wondering what a girl like you is doing here alone.”

You cringed. “I’m not alone but thank you anyway.”

Your lips curled in a polite smile as the bartender handed you the shots, a sigh of relief leaving as you nodded goodbye to the odd man. Talons dug into the flesh of your forearm, turning you around in a huffed frenzy as his face was still.

“I wasn’t done talking to you.”

“Look, I’m here with my friends, I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not interested.”

The warmth of the bar slowly begins to suffocate you as your eyes dart around the room, anxiety penetrating through you as you desperately attempt to get Tamara’s attention. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he insists, his tone shifting from casual to demanding. You felt stuck in place, his grasp coiling around you in a bruising grip. Your tongue was wedged in your throat, eyes widening in fear as you attempted to pull away, the shots slopping around in the tall glasses, liquid rolling down the back of your hands in a sticky mess.

“Please let me go.” Your tone was mousy like it was trapped down your oesophagus, losing all confidence.

“I believe we were having a conversation.”

“I believe she said to let her go.”

Your eyes flickered to the man behind him, face clad in a worn balaclava, eyes impossibly dark as a hand clad itself on the stranger’s shoulder, knuckles an ivory white.

“Sim-“

“Listen, man, we were having a simple conversation so get your hand off my fucking shoulder before we have a problem.”

You watched as your neighbour turned him around, a knee pressed against the man’s thighs as he held him by the collar, fingerings lacing the Adam’s apple of his neck, almost tracing the arteries as the stranger stilled.

“We gonna hav’ a problem?” Simon spat, tone an icy low as the man shook his head, rustling himself out of the Lieutenant’s grip. You watched your neighbour for a moment, lips pursed before you furrowed your brows.

“What are you doing here?”

“Friends from m’ task force are in town; you know that,” he smirked, testing the waters between you as almond eyes looked you up and down. Your skin was on show, an iridescent glow settling amongst it with a shining hue, the rest of you covered in a black one-piece, an expensive-looking necklace hanging low above your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you for being my knight in shining armour,” you chortled, jabbing him in the ribs slightly. It was impressive how hard his chest was.

Simon was admiring you, your eyes radiating a toxic that drew him in, poison spreading through his body like wildfire, and he allowed it.

“Let me take you home.”

“But my friends-“

“Let me take you home, Y/N. Please.”

Simon felt pathetic, his tone lacing with a gentle whine as he pleaded you with his eyes, the brown softening into a deeper shade. You liked it. The ride home was peaceful, the benign muse of the radio playing as one of his hands gripped the wheel, another at the gears.

“Y’ alright? He didn’t hurt you did he?”

You let out a ‘hm’, slightly confused before the gentle throb in your arm reminded you. “I’m okay, he was just a drunk guy.”

Your head rested against the window, the zip of trees blurring into a static mess, the dim headlines occasionally piercing through closed eyelids as you huffed out a clement breath. Your cul-de-sac welcomed you with a silent wave, all the houselights a mute shade of nothing as Simon pulled into your duplex.  You giggled as you stumbled from the car, buff hands grabbing onto you as they lifted you up the stairs.

Nimble fingers fiddled with your keys, jabbing them into the door in a frustrated manner before you managed to wedge it open, a satisfied grin across your face, eyes blinded with tipsiness as you turned to your neighbour.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” You blurted, covering your mouth immediately as you stumbled over your following words, “I mean in my bed- not with me- because that would be weird to ask- you can say no-“

“Okay. I’ll sleep with you.”

I FUCKING HATE THIS BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE !!!!!!

[moonlitstoriess]

Bound in Silence- Rhysand x fem!Reader part 2

A/n: 8.7k words! Phew! This was definitely a rollercoaster of emotions but, I hope you guys enjoy it!💕

Part 1 here

After surviving her fall, Y/n embarks on a path of healing while Rhysand begins to realize the truth about their bond. As Rhys grapples with guilt and confusion, Y/n must learn to rebuild her life. But when their paths cross again, Rhys will need to fight for her forgiveness, hoping to mend what was once broken.

She shouldn’t have survived.

The wind had howled in her ears as she plummeted from the cliff’s edge, the ground rushing up to meet her, a cold, hard end she had welcomed. The pain, the heartbreak—it had been too much, too consuming. But as the world around her blurred, she felt a sudden, violent impact, not against solid ground, but against something softer—brush and sand.

When she opened her eyes, it was not death that greeted her but the harsh light of dawn streaming through the trees above, the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the distance. She lay in a thicket, a tangled mess of branches and brambles that had broken her fall, offering her an unexpected refuge.

Her body ached with bruises from the impact, sharp pain flaring in her ribs and a throbbing headache pulsing at her temples. She felt the grit of sand embedded in her skin and the taste of salt on her lips. But she was alive.

Y/n struggled to sit up, her hands trembling as she pressed against the ground for support. Panic surged through her. The memories of the cliff, of the choice she had made, washed over her like a tide pulling her under. Had she really leapt to escape the torment of her heart? The betrayal she felt was still fresh, the sting of Rhysand’s indifference cutting deeper than any physical wound.

As she surveyed her surroundings, a dense forest framed her, the trees standing tall like silent sentinels. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and the distant sound of waves served as a haunting reminder of the world she had tried to leave behind. But where was she? She had no idea how far she had fallen or where this path might lead.

Y/n took a moment to catch her breath, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs. She was alone, utterly alone, with no family to return to, no familiar faces to seek comfort from. The weight of that truth settled deep in her chest. She had thought—foolishly—that Rhysand had been her salvation, her anchor in that hellish place. But in the end, she had meant nothing to him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she wobbled unsteadily, pain radiating through her ribs. The instinct to survive propelled her forward, one shaky step at a time. She didn’t know where she was going. The road ahead seemed just as empty as the one behind her.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Each step felt heavier, and with every movement, she fought against the urge to collapse back to the ground. The memories of Rhysand—their stolen moments, their laughter, and the warmth of his presence—crashed over her like the waves she could hear in the distance. He had made her feel seen in a way she had never experienced before, and now that light was extinguished.

As she wandered deeper into the forest, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows among the trees. Y/n found a small clearing where she sank to the ground, her body protesting at the sudden relief. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of nature surround her, searching for solace in the rustling leaves and chirping birds.

What she realized, in that moment of stillness, was that surviving wasn’t enough. She needed to reclaim herself, to remember who she had been before the darkness took hold. The journey ahead would be long and fraught with challenges, but the thought of facing them alone no longer filled her with dread. Instead, it ignited a flicker of determination.

“Whatever lies ahead,” she whispered to the trees, “I will find my way.”

With that resolve, Y/n pushed herself back up, brushing the leaves from her clothes and glancing around. The forest was alive with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves, and she couldn’t help but feel that life, despite its challenges, was still worth fighting for.

She pressed on, each step feeling heavier than the last. The forest wrapped around her like a shroud, the branches swaying gently as if whispering secrets she couldn’t quite grasp. She staggered through the underbrush, branches snagging her clothes and tearing at her skin, but she hardly noticed. The pain in her ribs was a constant reminder of her fall, pulsing with each movement, and fatigue settled in her bones like a thick fog.

She tried to focus on the path ahead, but her vision began to blur, the edges of her surroundings fading in and out. She needed to find shelter, a place to rest and gather her strength. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around her, urging her to give in to the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

With every step, Y/n felt herself growing weaker. Her legs trembled, and the world spun slightly around her. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a gasp. Panic surged through her as she fought to regain her breath, but the pain from her injuries was overwhelming. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, feeling utterly defeated.

Then, as she struggled to push herself back up, she heard voices in the distance, their laughter ringing through the trees. At first, she thought it might be a cruel trick of her mind, a hallucination born from the exhaustion and pain. But as the laughter grew closer, a flicker of hope ignited within her.

“Did you hear that?” one voice said, clear and bright. “I think someone’s out there!”

Y/n’s heart raced, a mix of fear and hope flooding her veins. She wanted to call out, to let them know she was here, but the words caught in her throat. She could only lie there, trying to steady her breathing as the voices approached.

Moments later, a group of travelers emerged from the trees, their expressions shifting from joviality to concern as they spotted her on the ground. They were a motley crew—rough and worn but with a kindness that seemed to radiate from them. The tallest among them, a woman with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes, rushed forward.

“Oh, gods! What happened?” she exclaimed, kneeling beside Y/n. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Y/n tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked up at the woman, her vision swimming as darkness crept at the edges of her sight.

“We need to get her out of here,” another voice said, a man with a thick beard who stepped forward. “She looks injured. We can’t leave her like this.”

The group quickly moved around her, their chatter fading into a distant hum as Y/n felt herself drifting. Hands gently lifted her, and though every movement sent jolts of pain through her body, the warmth of their concern began to wrap around her like a comforting blanket.

“Stay with us, okay?” the woman said, her voice soothing. “We’re going to help you.”

Y/n wanted to cling to those words, to believe that perhaps this was her chance to find solace. But the world began to fade, the faces of her rescuers becoming blurry as she lost her grip on consciousness. Just before the darkness took her, she felt a warm hand clasp her own, a connection that anchored her for one fleeting moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velaris was a sanctuary, hidden from the world and its chaos, but even its beauty couldn’t soothe the turmoil within him. Rhysand leaned against the balcony railing of the townhouse, staring out at the starry sky, yet his thoughts were far from peaceful. Feyre was with Tamlin in the Spring Court, and every moment spent thinking about their time together made his chest tighten with frustration.

He had felt so powerless during her trials, watching from afar as she struggled, battling her fears and doubts. His heart had raced as he witnessed her strength, yet it ignited a fury within him that simmered just below the surface. Tamlin didn’t deserve her. He was blinded by his love for Feyre, unable to see the darkness creeping into their lives, a darkness that Rhysand feared would swallow her whole.

“Damn it, Feyre,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. “You don’t belong there.”

The weight of the Night Court’s responsibilities pressed heavily on him, and he found himself retreating deeper into his thoughts. The war with Amarantha had left scars that would take time to heal. But all he could think about was Feyre’s laughter, the way her eyes lit up in defiance, and the warmth that enveloped him when she was near.

Suddenly, he felt a pang of icy cold hit his chest, a feeling of.....nothing overtaking him. Rhysands body shuddered. He could now feel a string of sorts a....a bond. A bond with her, with y/n. But why was it so empty?

A shiver ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes, reaching out instinctively through the bond he shared with Y/n. Instead of comforting warmth, there was nothing but an oppressive silence. It was as if she had vanished, leaving a void that echoed with despair.

Since when did I have a bond with her? The thought sliced through his mind like a blade. He had dismissed their connection, buried it under layers of his feelings for Feyre. But now, the absence of Y/n felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder of what he had ignored for too long.

Panic surged through him as he searched for any hint of her presence, any sign that she was safe. But all he felt was the chilling silence, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy that had once flowed between them.

“Y/n,” he breathed, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. “Where are you?”

He pushed himself away from the balcony railing, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed to know what was happening, to understand why the bond felt so strained, so distant. A part of him clung to the hope that she was simply out of reach, that she was safe and sound somewhere beyond his grasp.

But the gnawing sense of dread would not let him rest. He was tied to her in a way he had never fully understood, and now that connection was fraying at the edges, unraveling into something that filled him with an ache he couldn’t quite place.

It hit him then, like a thunderclap in the stillness of his thoughts: Y/n was his mate. The realization sent shockwaves through him, unraveling the tension in his chest and filling him with a potent mixture of dread and yearning.

She mattered. She had always mattered, perhaps more than he had ever let himself admit.

As he stood there, the weight of his decisions began to settle upon him. He had taken her for granted, focused solely on his feelings for Feyre while ignoring the depth of his connection with Y/n.

He had to find her. He had to understand what was happening.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n awoke in a small, dimly lit room, the soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps moving outside the door barely reaching her ears. Her body ached, every movement sending sharp reminders of her injuries. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand gently pressed her back down.

“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Y/n blinked, her vision clearing enough to see the woman from before—the one with long, dark hair and kind, blue eyes—sitting beside her. “You’re still hurt. Your ribs were bruised, and you were half-frozen when we found you. You need rest.”

Y/n grimaced, ignoring the throbbing pain as she forced herself into a sitting position. She wasn’t used to lying still. “I’m fine,” she muttered, but her body betrayed her words, her legs too weak to support her even if she tried to stand.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Lira, smiled gently. “Stubborn, aren’t you? It’s alright to let someone help you.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked to the door. The laughter of children and the hum of distant conversations filtered in from outside. She frowned. “Where am I?”

“A village,” Lira said, watching her carefully. “Small, but we’re a close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone here. We help each other, share what we have.”

Jealousy flared in Y/n’s chest, sharp and uninvited. A place where people lived in peace, helping one another without a second thought. It was so different from the life she knew—so far from the chaos and heartbreak that had led her here.

Y/n’s voice was rough as she asked, “How long was I out?”

“A few days. We did what we could to help you recover. But you’ve still got some healing to do.”

Silence fell between them. Y/n’s gaze remained on the door, but her thoughts were far from the village. Her mind returned to the cliff, to the crushing despair that had driven her to jump. She had wanted the pain to end—had thought it would, but here she was, still breathing, still hurting.

Lira’s voice broke through her thoughts. “How did you end up in that forest? You were in pretty bad shape when we found you.”

Y/n hesitated. She didn’t owe this woman her story—didn’t owe anyone anything anymore—but the weight of it pressed down on her, and maybe, just maybe, telling a small part of it would help ease the burden.

“I had a mate,” Y/n said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lira’s brow furrowed in sympathy, waiting for more. “He chose someone else.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were the truth. Rhysand had never even known. Never knew that she had felt the bond snap into place, that the invisible thread between them had formed. It didn’t matter now—he had chosen Feyre, and that choice had shattered her.

Lira’s eyes were filled with gentle curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Y/n shook her head, her throat tight. “It’s… complicated. He never knew, and by the time I realized, it was already too late. He… he was in love with her.”

Lira was quiet for a moment, processing Y/n’s words. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That sounds… painful.”

Y/n didn’t respond, her gaze distant, as if she could still see the edges of Amarantha's court from where she sat. The love she’d seen in Rhysand’s eyes when he looked at Feyre had been undeniable. He had never looked at her that way, not even close.

“Maybe we can contact your family?” Lira suggested, trying to be helpful.

Y/n’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering to Lira’s kind face. “I don’t have anyone.”

“No one at all?”

Y/n shook her head, a cold emptiness settling in her chest. She had no family left—no home, no place to return to. “It’s just me.”

Lira sighed softly, her brow creasing in thought. “Then stay here with us,” she offered, her voice warm. “At least until you’re healed, and after that… you can decide where you want to go.”

Y/n’s instinct was to refuse immediately. She had seen too much, been through too much, to believe in the kindness of strangers anymore. She didn’t trust it—not after what she had lost. And yet… this woman, this village… they didn’t know her, didn’t know what she carried, and still, they had taken her in.

“I don’t know if I can,” Y/n said, her voice barely audible.

“Why not?” Lira asked gently. “You’ve been through something terrible, that much is clear. But there’s no need to face it alone.”

Y/n glanced at her, doubt gnawing at her insides. Could she trust these people? Could she allow herself even a moment of peace in this quiet village after everything?

Lira smiled again, softer this time. “Just think about it. We’re not going anywhere.”

Y/n gave a small nod, her mind already spinning with the enormity of her situation. She had nowhere to go, no plan for what came next. Maybe, for now, she could stay here—just until she figured out what to do.

~~~~~~~~

Rhysand’s mind raced, the weight of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. Y/n was his mate. It wasn’t something he could dismiss anymore, not after the sudden void he felt through the bond. For so long, he had tried to push aside the connection, telling himself that Feyre was his priority. And yet, here he stood, drowning in guilt and confusion as the truth settled in.

She had always been there, a steady presence in his life—loyal, fierce, and strong. He had admired her, even cared for her, but it wasn’t until now that he understood the depth of that connection. And now, she was gone. Or worse—hurt.

“Mother above,” Rhys muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He had been so blinded by Feyre, so consumed by his need to protect her, that he had failed to notice what had always been right in front of him.

The bond had been subtle at first, an almost imperceptible tether that he had never fully explored. But now? Now it was like a raw wound, aching in a way that made his chest tighten. He couldn’t feel her—couldn’t sense her. She was gone from his awareness, and that terrified him more than anything else.

Rhysand clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling into a panic. What if something had happened to her? The Night Court had always been a place of sanctuary, but the world beyond Velaris was filled with dangers—dangers that Y/n, in her current state, might not be able to fend off.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.

Turning away from the balcony, Rhys stormed back inside the palace, his steps quick and determined. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. He needed to find her, to reach her through the bond, to bring her back if she was in danger.

But how? He had never explored this connection before, had never let himself dwell on what it meant. And now, with Y/n’s presence completely cut off, he wasn’t sure where to begin.

His heart pounded, and the gnawing fear clawed at his insides. He didn’t know if she was safe. Didn’t know where she was. But he would find her, no matter what it took.

Rhysand closed his eyes and reached deep into himself, seeking out the bond, trying to find any flicker of her. He focused on that missing warmth, on the piece of him that felt like it had been torn away. And in the quiet of his mind, a whisper—barely there—flickered. A spark of something. Pain. Despair.

He gasped, the sensation hitting him hard, and for the briefest of moments, he felt her—felt the depth of her agony, the exhaustion, the loss.

“Y/n…” he breathed, his voice low, anguished. Wherever she was, she was suffering.

Rhysand knew he had to act quickly. There was no time to waste. He had to find her before it was too late.

With a sharp breath, he called for his wings, already preparing to leave. He will explain everything to his family later. Y/n—his mate—needed him now more than ever.

Rhysand landed softly in the clearing where he had last seen Y/n, his heart pounding in his chest. The forest loomed around him, dark and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Shadows stretched long in the fading light of the moon, casting an eerie stillness over the scene. His wings rustled as they folded behind him, but his mind was already racing, already searching.

This was where he had last seen her—right here, among the trees and the underbrush. She had watched him and Feyre have their conversation after Amaranthas death. Y/n thought she was hidden within the trees but he felt her, he always felt her presence, one would always feel the presence of one's mate. But he was too much of a fool to realize it sooner.

He moved through the clearing, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for any sign of her. A broken branch, a trace of her scent—anything. But the air was thick with silence, and the bond between them was weak, almost nonexistent now.

"Y/n!" Rhysand’s voice echoed through the trees, but no answer came. His shadows spread out, feeling through the dark, desperate to find any trace of her. But there was nothing.

He pressed forward, moving deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around him. The memories of their time together—of her strength, her resilience—pushed him on, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if she was gone? What if she was hurt, or worse?

He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. He had to find her.

"Y/n!" he called again, his voice strained, raw with desperation. He stumbled through the undergrowth, his boots sinking into the damp earth, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his failure bearing down on him.

But the forest remained silent.

Rhysand reached the edge of a small stream, the water trickling softly over the rocks. He crouched down, running his fingers through the mud, searching for any sign that she had been here. Nothing. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs as the realization began to settle in.

She wasn’t here.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he rose to his feet. The bond was slipping away, unraveling like a thread being pulled loose. He had never let it guide him before, never truly acknowledged its presence, but now, as it faded, the loss felt like a wound he couldn’t heal.

He had to keep searching.

Rhysand pushed further into the forest, his movements frantic now, his wings twitching with the urge to take flight again, to cover more ground. The trees blurred around him, the shadows twisting and bending as his magic flared, but there was no trace of her.

No warmth. No bond. Nothing.

Hours passed in a haze of desperation and despair. The moon climbed higher in the sky, casting pale light through the canopy, but it did little to ease the gnawing fear growing inside him. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Rhysand felt hollow, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with every step.

He was running out of time. Out of hope.

When he finally made the decision to return to Velaris, his wings were heavy, his body exhausted, but his mind couldn’t rest. The flight back felt longer than it should have, his thoughts spiraling into darker and darker places. What if she was gone for good? What if he had missed his chance—missed her?

The moment he landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, the emptiness hit him like a tidal wave. He dropped to his knees, his fingers curling against the cold stone as he tried to catch his breath, tried to steady himself.

But the bond was still faint. Almost gone.

He stood slowly, his mind racing. He had searched where he last saw her. He had searched the forest. But there was one more place she could be—her home. The Dawn Court. She was from there, had roots there. Maybe she had returned, seeking refuge among her people.

It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.

Rhysand straightened, determination burning in his veins. He would contact Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. He had to know if Y/n was there, if she was safe. But for now, all he could do was wait—and that waiting felt like a slow, torturous pull on his very soul.

She was his mate. And she was gone.

The thought settled into his chest like a cold, hard stone, and Rhysand knew that until he found her—until he brought her back—there would be no peace. He would flip this world upside down to find her.

~~~~~~~

Y/n lay back down, her body sinking into the soft mattress as she stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. Lira’s offer lingered in her mind, but doubt gnawed at her. It wasn’t just the village’s kindness that unsettled her—it was the thought of staying, of settling, when her entire world had crumbled around her.

Her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the memories of Rhysand and everything she had lost. How could she heal in a place like this, where people lived in peace and harmony? She wasn’t like them—she carried too much darkness, too much pain.

Still, there was something about this village, something about Lira’s gentle demeanor that made Y/n want to believe, if only for a moment, that maybe she could find some peace here. Just for a while.

The thought was almost laughable. She had no right to peace.

Lira stood up from her chair, sensing Y/n's internal battle. “I’ll let you rest,” she said, her voice soft. “But if you need anything, just call for me.”

Y/n nodded but didn’t respond as Lira slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The sounds of the village continued to drift through the window—the laughter, the conversations, the gentle hum of a life Y/n had never known.

Her hand unconsciously drifted to her chest, to where the bond with Rhysand had once tugged at her heart. Now, there was only a hollow ache, a reminder of what had been and what could never be. She had loved him—fiercely, silently, and without hope.

And he had never known.

The thought made her chest tighten again, that familiar grief washing over her. She had been nothing to him, just another face from Dawn, another puppet to use and discard. And now… she was nothing at all.

The hours passed slowly. Y/n found herself drifting in and out of sleep, her body still weak from the injuries. In her dreams, she saw flashes of her past—Her life in Dawn, her little trinkets that she would create to make some living, Rhysand. And then, always, Feyre. Her face haunted Y/n, the reminder of who Rhysand had truly chosen.

When she awoke again, it was darker outside, the village sounds quieter now. Lira hadn’t returned, and Y/n was grateful for the space. She needed time to think, to decide what her next move would be.

But even as she lay there, trying to come up with a plan, her mind kept returning to Lira’s offer. A part of her wanted to accept it, to stay here and heal. But another part, the part that had seen too much betrayal, too much loss, didn’t trust it.

Would they still welcome her if they knew who she really was? What she had done?

Y/n sighed, turning onto her side as the fire crackled softly beside her. She wasn’t sure what her next step would be, but for now, all she could do was rest.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The pain was still there—deep and unyielding—but for the first time in a long while, Y/n allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find some kind of solace here.

Even if it was only temporary.

In the days that followed, Y/n grew stronger. Lira visited her often, bringing food and checking on her injuries, but never pressing too much. The village’s quiet kindness was unsettling at first, but slowly, Y/n began to let herself relax, just a little.

She spent most of her time in bed, staring out the window at the bustling village below. Children ran through the streets, and neighbors helped one another with chores and daily tasks. It was a world so far removed from the one she had known that it almost felt like a dream.

And yet, despite everything, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

Each time she looked out that window, she was reminded of what she had lost, of the bond she had ignored for too long. The thought of Rhysand, out there somewhere, filled her with both longing and anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again, but the silence between them weighed heavily on her.

Still, for now, all she could do was wait. Healing, Lira had said. Y/n wasn’t sure if that was possible, but maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Weeks turned into months.

What Y/n had initially believed would be a short stay to recover gradually became something more. She healed, both in body and in spirit, under the quiet care of Lira and the village’s close-knit community. Slowly, the bruises on her ribs faded, the aches in her muscles eased, and her strength returned.

At first, Y/n had kept to herself, only interacting with Lira when necessary. But as time passed, she began to open up, if only slightly. Lira’s patience had been remarkable, never pushing, always offering a hand when Y/n needed it. The woman’s kindness was a balm to wounds Y/n hadn’t realized still bled.

As she regained her strength, she was introduced to more of the villagers. There was Tamir, a kind-hearted farmer who often brought her fresh produce, and Ayla, a weaver who sat with Y/n by the fire on particularly cold evenings, sharing stories about her family and life in the village. They accepted Y/n without question, never asking too much, never prying into her past.

For the first time in years, Y/n found herself in a place that felt almost like home.

It wasn’t easy, of course. The memories of Rhysand still haunted her in quiet moments—his smile, his laughter, the bond she had felt snap into place and left unacknowledged. But in time, those memories dulled, becoming less sharp, less painful.

She had spent so long thinking about him, about what could have been. But now, as the months slipped by, she began to accept the truth. Rhysand had made his choice, and it hadn’t been her. Feyre was his love. And Y/n… she was learning to be alright with that.

It wasn’t that the pain disappeared—it would always be there, in the corners of her heart—but it no longer consumed her. She found herself laughing with the villagers, working alongside them, and even joining in the village’s small celebrations. She was happy, or at least as close to happiness as she’d felt in a long time.

There were nights when the weight of her past pressed down on her, but those moments grew fewer and farther between. The village, with its simple, peaceful life, had given her space to breathe, to heal.

Lira, especially, had become a close friend. They spent many evenings talking, sometimes about nothing at all, and other times about everything. Y/n found herself confiding in Lira, telling her small pieces of her past—the loss, the heartbreak, the weight of being forgotten. Lira never judged, only listened, offering comfort in the form of quiet understanding.

Y/n no longer felt the crushing loneliness that had driven her to that cliffside. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, but for now, she was content to stay in this village, to continue healing, and to figure out who she was without the shadow of Rhysand hanging over her.

She still didn’t know what would come next, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t running from the uncertainty.

~~~~~~~~

Velaris — One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-two minutes, and forty-five seconds since Y/n disappeared.

Rhysand had counted every second. Every agonizing, suffocating second since he had realized she was gone. He stood on the balcony of the River House, staring out over the Sidra, his eyes dark with the weight of his obsession. A full year, and he was no closer to finding her.

He had sent his forces, his shadows, his spies, to every corner of Prythian and beyond. The High Lords had been contacted—every last one of them, including Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court, where Y/n had once called home. His meetings with Thesan had been civil, yet tense.

“She hasn’t returned,” Thesan had said in one of their many conversations, his voice steady but laced with concern. “If she were here, I would have told you, Rhys.”

But that hadn’t stopped Rhysand from ordering Azriel to watch the borders of the Dawn Court, to scour its lands for any sign of her. He had sent out scouts across Prythian—Illyrian patrols sweeping the mountains, Velaris soldiers keeping their eyes open in the cities, and spies dispatched to the human lands. Nothing.

Nothing for over a year. And it was driving him mad.

Rhysand hadn’t rested in months, not truly. His nights were spent pouring over maps, tracing routes, re-reading reports. He had memorized every possible lead, every whispered rumor of a lone female seen wandering the wilderness. But none of them had led to her.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Cassian had said one night, his voice gentle but firm, as he sat with Rhysand in the war room.

Rhysand had glared at him, his jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “That’s not an option. She’s my—” He had stopped himself before finishing that sentence. She wasn’t his mate, not officially. The bond possibly had never snapped for her, but for Rhys, it might as well have. His heart knew it, even if the Cauldron had not sealed the bond. She was his.

Cassian had only sighed, shaking his head. “Rhys, I’m worried about you. We all are.”

And they were. Amren had pulled him aside more than once, telling him to stop his frantic searching, to focus on the things he could control. But she didn’t understand. None of them did. Y/n had been his anchor in ways he hadn’t even realized until she was gone.

Azriel had been his silent shadow through all of it. The spymaster had spent countless nights by his side, searching with him, strategizing, offering the quiet kind of support that only Azriel could. They didn’t need words. Rhys knew Azriel understood what it felt like to long for someone you couldn’t have.

But there were moments—moments when the weight of his failure pressed down on him so heavily that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had taken to disappearing from the River House, vanishing into the forests outside Velaris, retracing the steps to where he had last seen her.

And then, there was the cliff. Rhys still remembers how when he smelled the faintest remnants of her scent, right there, right at the edge of the cliff, his chest flared with panic as he frantically searched for her but found no trace. Given how faint the scent was, Rhys knew that she wasn’t here recently. But did she kill herself? Did she end up throwing herself off this cliff? Even the mere thought of that made his gut twist, his hands shake. No. She couldn’t have died. No body, no proof. But…..

He stood there, letting the cold wind of the mountains blow past him. The silence that had followed her disappearance.

“Rhys, you need to stop this,” Mor had told him after he’d returned from one such trip, disheveled and exhausted. “You’re tearing yourself apart.”

He had only shaken his head. “I can’t, Mor. I have to find her. I need to.”

Mor had looked at him with sadness in her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

It was the same question Cassian had asked, and Rhys had no answer for it. What if Y/n didn’t want to be found? What if she had left because she wanted to stay hidden from him?

But he refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There had to be another reason—something he hadn’t uncovered yet.

And so, Rhysand kept searching. He kept sending his forces out, kept interrogating every lead, every sighting, every whisper of a female matching her description. He visited the forests, the places they had once been together, hoping for some sign, some shred of her presence.

But there was nothing.

Every day that passed without her only deepened his despair. He had lost weight, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes dull with sleepless nights.

But how could he let go of Y/n? How could he forget her, when every part of him screamed that she was out there, somewhere, waiting for him?

His conversations with the inner circle had grown colder, more strained. They were concerned, but they didn’t understand. Not really. How could they, when none of them had lost someone the way he had lost Y/n?

Rhysand stared out over Velaris, the city lights reflecting off the river below. One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-one seconds.

And still, she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat on a wooden bench outside the small cottage, her eyes watching the children play in the distance. The crisp evening air brushed against her skin, a reminder of how peaceful life had become in the village. Her heart, though, still felt heavy with memories of another life—one she had tried to leave behind.

The soft shuffle of feet approached, and Y/n turned to see Elder Miriam, one of the village’s wisest, sitting down beside her. The old woman’s face was lined with age, her eyes sharp but kind. She had been the one to welcome Y/n when she first arrived, offering a place to stay and a quiet understanding.

“You’ve been here for some time now,” Miriam began, her voice gentle but firm. “Longer than most who come seeking refuge.”

Y/n nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I didn’t expect to stay this long.”

“And yet, here you are,” Miriam continued, her hands resting on her lap. “There’s peace in this village, but I see it hasn’t reached your heart yet.”

Y/n swallowed, feeling the truth of the words settle inside her. “I’m… trying.”

Miriam studied her, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the village. “You’ve been through much. That much is clear. But what are you still holding onto, child?”

Y/n hesitated, unsure how to voice the conflict inside her. “There are people I left behind,” she finally said. “A life I thought I could escape from. But it follows me, no matter how far I run.”

Miriam nodded, her expression thoughtful. “The past has a way of lingering. It’s not something you can outrun. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting, Y/n. It means learning to live with what’s happened, not burying it.”

Y/n bit her lip, fighting back the emotions that threatened to surface. “I thought if I stayed here long enough, I could… rebuild myself. Become someone new.”

“And have you?” Miriam asked, her tone still gentle.

“I don’t know,” Y/n whispered. “Some days, it feels like I’m better. I’m learning to be happy again. But then, there are days where… I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

Miriam placed a hand on Y/n’s shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “You’ve come far, more than you realize. But you must ask yourself—what is it you’re truly afraid of? Is it the life you left behind, or is it facing the feelings you’ve kept locked away?”

Y/n looked away, the truth painful to admit. “I’m afraid of going back,” she said quietly. “Afraid of what it would mean to confront everything I left behind.”

Miriam nodded again, her eyes full of understanding. “The village has been a place of healing for you, and it’s given you time. But time, Y/n, doesn’t erase the things we carry. It only gives us space to understand them. You cannot live in fear of what’s behind you. It will find its way to the surface, one way or another.”

Y/n felt the weight of the words settle in her chest. For the first time in a long while, she realized how much she had been avoiding—not just Rhysand, but the truth of her own feelings.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Miriam said softly. “You’ve survived, you’ve healed. But true peace will only come when you allow yourself to face what’s still left unresolved.”

Y/n took a deep breath, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” Miriam replied with a small smile. “But readiness isn’t the same as willingness. And you, child, have always been willing to face whatever comes. I’ve seen it in you since the day you arrived.”

Y/n glanced at Miriam, the warmth in the elder’s words easing some of the fear that had gripped her for so long. Maybe she wasn’t ready to confront everything waiting for her outside the village, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe all she needed was the courage to try.

“Thank you,” Y/n said quietly, her voice steadier now.

Miriam smiled, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take your time, but don’t wait too long. The world won’t wait forever, and neither will you.”

With that, the elder rose from the bench, leaving Y/n alone with her thoughts, the peaceful hum of the village life surrounding her. For the first time in months, Y/n felt the pull of something beyond this quiet haven—something she had tried to ignore, but that was always there, waiting.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

A week had passed since Y/n had left the village. The cool morning air nipped at her skin as she stood at the edge of the forest, the place that had been her refuge for over a year. The memory of her time there was fresh—both a blessing and a burden—but she had made her peace with it. She had healed, not just physically, but in the deeper places that had been broken for so long.

Her heart was lighter now, no longer weighed down by the constant ache of loss. She was ready to move on, to return to the Dawn Court and begin her new life. A part of her would always belong to the village, to the people she had come to love during her stay, but it was time to face the world again.

The day she left had been filled with quiet goodbyes, but the most difficult one had been with Lira. They had shared a bond—a deep understanding that went beyond words.

“You’ll come visit us, right?” Lira’s voice had been soft, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. She stood in front of Y/n, her hands gripping hers tightly.

Y/n smiled, a bittersweet warmth in her chest. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll come back when I can. This place will always be special to me.”

Lira’s lips curved into a smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Don’t forget us. And don’t forget yourself, either. You’ve grown so much, Y/n. Don’t let that go.”

Y/n shook her head, her voice thick. “I won’t.”

Another villager, an elder Y/n had come to cherish, patted her on the back. “You’ll always have a home here,” he said warmly. “No matter where you go.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words. “Thank you. All of you.”

They stood in a quiet circle, the weight of the farewell settling in the cool air around them. The children she had watched over waved from behind the elder, their faces glowing with sadness and hope.

“Take care of yourself,” Lira said softly, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. “You deserve to be happy.”

Y/n held her close, taking in the familiar scent of the village—the woods, the earth, and the faint traces of fire. “I’ll try.”

With one last lingering glance, Y/n turned toward the path that led out of the village, the weight of their love and friendship carrying her forward. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not this time.

Now, she stood at the gates of the Dawn Court, her heart thudding in her chest. The sprawling palace beyond the gates shimmered under the morning light, and the familiar sight tugged at her—both comforting and foreign after so much time away.

She was different now, she knew that. The woman who had once been so broken, so consumed by heartache, no longer existed. In her place stood someone stronger—someone who had faced the darkest parts of herself and come out on the other side.

Y/n stepped forward, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. A new life awaited her here. She had accepted that Rhysand was not hers, and with that acceptance came freedom—freedom to create something new, something that was hers alone.

As she approached the entrance, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was home, after all. And no matter how far she had run, she was always meant to return.

The guards at the gate gave her surprised looks, but they bowed respectfully, recognizing her. They knew her face, even if they couldn’t comprehend the transformation she had undergone in her time away.

Home. It sounded strange, but as she stepped through the gates and into the Dawn Court’s embrace, she realized how true it was.

She had come full circle.

With each step, the memories of her old life resurfaced, but they didn’t crush her as they once had. Instead, they reminded her of the strength she had gained, the scars she had earned, and the peace she had finally found.

This was a new beginning, and Y/n was ready for whatever came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another miserable day.

He had counted every single second of her absence, the guilt festering in his chest like a poison he couldn’t escape. No matter how much time passed, the ache didn’t ease. The weight of what he had done—or rather, what he hadn’t done—crushed him.

He had searched everywhere, sent emissaries to the furthest reaches of Prythian and beyond. He’d begged, bribed, and even threatened other courts for information. Thesan had been his most trusted ally in the search, offering resources and keeping an eye out. Rhysand had sent his Inner Circle across borders to find her, but it had all led to nothing. Y/n was gone, and the only thing he had left was his regret.

He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. Not during Amarantha’s reign. Not when she had withered under his very nose, and certainly not when she left. His thoughts always returned to those last months. The months he had spent prioritizing Feyre’s safety and neglecting Y/n’s slow unraveling. He had failed her.

He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands, feeling the familiar hollow ache settle deep in his bones, when the door to his study opened.

Azriel stepped in, his shadows swirling around him like an ever-present cloak of darkness. The spymaster’s face was unreadable, but Rhysand knew him well enough to see the urgency in his posture.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice calm, but there was something behind it. Something that made Rhysand sit up straight, a flicker of hope—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in months—stirring in his chest.

“What is it?” Rhysand asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Hope had become a dangerous thing for him, always leading to disappointment.

Azriel paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “Thesan contacted me. His guards… they’ve seen her.”

Rhysand’s heart stopped. For a long, agonizing second, he couldn’t breathe. “Seen… her?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel nodded. “Y/n. She’s back at the Dawn Court. She returned a week ago. Thesan’s guards have been keeping an eye on her from a distance, but she’s home. Alive.”

Rhysand felt the floor tilt beneath him. She was back. After all this time, after every failed attempt to find her, every sleepless night spent tormented by guilt, Y/n had returned. The relief that flooded him was overwhelming, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of doubt so strong it made him dizzy.

“I should… I should go to her,” Rhysand said, standing abruptly. His mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to see her, had to know if she was okay. But then he paused, his hand falling away from the desk. His thoughts crashed into one another, the doubt settling in.

Would she want to see him?

“Wait,” Rhysand murmured, his voice barely audible. “Should I even go?” He turned to Azriel, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I… I wasn’t there for her, Az. Not when she needed me most. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s better off without me?”

Azriel’s dark eyes flickered with something like exasperation, but it was laced with sympathy. “Rhys, are you serious right now?”

Rhysand dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his guilt crushing him again. “I ignored her. After Amarantha, after Feyre… I neglected her. The last months she was with us, I wasn’t there for her. What if she’s moved on? What if she’s better now without me?”

Azriel stepped closer, his shadows swirling around his shoulders. “You’ve been searching for her for over a year. You’ve nearly destroyed yourself trying to find her. And now that she’s back, you’re doubting whether to go to her?”

Rhysand clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “I hurt her, Az. I let her slip away. What if she hates me for it?”

Azriel let out a breath, his eyes softening. “Then you go to her and you tell her that. You tell her how much she means to you, and you beg for her forgiveness if that’s what it takes.” His voice lowered, more gentle than Rhysand had ever heard it. ���You’ve been waiting for this moment, Rhys. Don’t let your guilt stop you from fixing what was broken.”

Rhysand stared at his brother, the weight of his words sinking in. He had been waiting—praying—for this moment, for the chance to make things right. But now that it was here, all he could feel was fear. Fear that Y/n wouldn’t forgive him, that the damage he had caused was too great to repair.

“I will kneel if I have to,” Rhysand said quietly, the words heavy with desperation. “I’ll beg her to forgive me, to let me back into her life.”

Azriel’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Then go. Don’t waste any more time.”

Rhysand nodded, though the fear still gnawed at him. But beneath that fear, a flicker of hope remained. He would see Y/n again. He would kneel, beg, do whatever it took to fix the mistakes of the past.

And maybe—just maybe—he could find a way back to her.

Rhysand stood in silence for a moment, letting the realization sink in. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he saw Y/n, or if she would even want to speak to him. But there was no turning back now.

With a deep breath, he turned to Azriel. “I’m going to Dawn,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart trembled. “I have to see her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Good luck, Rhys.”

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He simply disappeared, winnowing into the wind, his heart pounding as he made his way to the one person who mattered most.

~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat at the small table in her home, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The room was modest but comfortable, much different than it had been a year ago. Before she left, she had been barely getting by, working tirelessly just to make ends meet. She had spent her days repairing small items, doing odd jobs, always tired, always worn down. Back then, the work had been a necessity—a way to survive, not something she took pride in.

Now, it was different.

Y/n’s fingers moved over the smooth wood of the small jewelry box she had just crafted. She had taken up woodworking after returning from the village, and while it wasn’t glamorous, she found peace in the craft. People in the Dawn Court had taken notice of her work, and word had spread. Slowly but surely, she started receiving more commissions, her skills improving with every piece she made.

She wasn’t rich—not by a long shot—but she was comfortable. She didn’t have to worry as much about her next meal or paying for firewood. Her house, which had once felt so empty and cold, now felt like a home again. The work wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about creating something with her own hands—something that others appreciated.

Y/n leaned back, wiping the sawdust from her hands, and looked around her small space. It felt like she had finally found a balance. She was content. It wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself all those years ago, but it was a good life. She was healing, slowly but surely, and for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful about the future.

There were moments when her mind drifted to the past—when memories of Rhysand surfaced, and the pain of what could have been tugged at her. But it didn’t consume her anymore. She had made peace with it, in her own way, and she knew she had to keep moving forward. This was her life now, and she was determined to make it her own.

Y/n wiped her brow, the scent of fresh wood filling the air as she placed the finished box onto the shelf beside a few others she had completed earlier that week. A soft smile tugged at her lips. It was a simple life—one she hadn’t expected to love—but there was a calmness in it that soothed her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

Her hands were no longer idle, no longer weighed down by the burden of survival. Now, when she worked, it was with purpose, and each completed piece felt like a small victory—a testament to her growth, her healing. The dark days when she could barely muster the energy to get out of bed felt distant now, like a different life entirely.

She stepped back from her workbench, glancing around her small home. It was far from luxurious, but it was hers. She had made it feel like home again after being away for so long. She had become part of the local community again, and though life wasn’t easy, it was manageable—and even enjoyable at times.

Y/n sighed, letting the moment settle over her. She was content. She hadn’t thought it possible after everything she had been through, but somehow, she had found peace.

She walked to the window, looking out at the familiar streets. The weight of the past year didn’t feel as heavy as it used to. Dawn had changed for her. Before, it was a place where she had simply existed—barely making it through each day. Now, it felt like a fresh start, a place where she could rebuild herself without the shadows of her past constantly looming over her.

Her thoughts drifted to the village she had left behind just a week ago. It had been hard to say goodbye, but she knew it was time. They had become like a family to her, and the promise to visit would be kept. But she needed to come home—to her own space, her own life.

The memory of her farewell lingered, the promises exchanged that they would stay in touch, that they wouldn’t forget each other. She smiled at the thought. She wouldn’t forget them either. They had been the ones who had helped her when she didn’t know how to help herself, and that was something she would always carry with her.

But here, now, she was finally ready to move forward. Ready to build something new for herself.

Y/n was walking through the busy streets of the Dawn, enjoying the calm, steady pace of life here. She had just visited the market, her basket filled with items for her latest craft project. The sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly at peace.

As she turned the corner, two figures in armor approached her. They wore the unmistakable insignia of the Dawn Court—palace soldiers. Their faces were unreadable, and as they came closer, she felt an uneasy flutter in her stomach.

“Y/n,” one of them said, his voice firm yet not unkind. “You are required at the palace.”

Her heart skipped a beat, confusion surging through her. “The palace? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

The second soldier didn’t meet her gaze, only repeating the first soldier’s words. “We need to escort you to the High Lord. Please come with us.”

Fear and confusion knotted in her chest, but the soldiers gave her no further explanation. They began to walk, clearly expecting her to follow. Y/n’s mind raced with questions. Why would High Lord Thesan summon her? What had she done? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d be needed at the palace.

As they passed through the grand gates and into the opulent halls, her nerves only grew. The palace was more beautiful than she remembered, but she was too anxious to appreciate the elegance of her surroundings. The guards led her through winding corridors until they reached a large, ornate door.

One of the soldiers knocked, and the door was opened from within. They motioned for her to step inside.

She hesitated for only a moment before walking in.

The room was grand, with tall windows casting golden light over the finely furnished space. But it wasn’t the luxury of the room that caught her off guard.

It was the two men standing inside.

One was High Lord Thesan, smiling warmly, his demeanor calm and welcoming. The other was Rhysand.

Her breath caught in her throat. Rhysand? Her legs nearly gave out beneath her at the sight of him standing there, looking tense, his usual smug expression replaced with something far more serious. His violet eyes found hers the moment she entered the room, and she felt every nerve in her body light up with an old, painful familiarity.

Thesan stepped forward first, his kind smile not wavering. “Y/n,” he greeted, his voice smooth. “I apologize for the sudden summons. I imagine this is not what you were expecting today.”

She blinked, still too shocked to speak, her gaze flickering from Thesan to Rhysand and back again.

The High Lord chuckled softly, clearly sensing her confusion. “You are not in trouble, I assure you,” Thesan said gently. “I wanted to make sure you had a chance to… speak with Rhysand. I believe there are things that need to be said.” He glanced between them before adding, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Y/n’s throat tightened as Thesan gave her one last smile and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

And then it was just her and Rhysand.

The silence was suffocating. Rhysand stood a few feet away, his gaze locked on her, an uncharacteristic tension lining his features. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t expected.

“Y/n… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond at first, still trying to piece together how this moment had come to pass. “Sorry for what?” she finally asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“For everything,” Rhysand said, stepping closer, though he still maintained a respectful distance. “For how I treated you before… for abandoning you. I spent the past year searching for you, desperate to make things right. I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I should have told you sooner. You are my mate.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. “I know.”

Rhys’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew? Since when?”

“Since long before you disappeared into Feyre’s shadow,” she replied bitterly. The anger, the hurt, it all came rushing back in full force. “Why didn’t I tell you? Why should I have? Would it have made a difference when you were so focused on her that I may as well have been invisible?”

Rhys flinched at her words, guilt etched deeply into his face. “It would have mattered,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mattered.”

“Then why didn’t you act like it?” Y/n’s voice trembled with emotion, her hands clenching at her sides. “Why was I nothing more than a tool to you when Feyre came along? I watched you—watched as you ignored me, as you barely looked at me. And now, after a year of running and hiding, now you come to apologize? You expect me to just forgive you because you finally decided I was worth something?”

Rhysand’s eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, his normally proud and arrogant demeanor shattered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I came to beg for it, if that’s what it takes. I was wrong, Y/n, in so many ways. But you have to know, you are my mate, and I will do anything to make this right. I will kneel, I will grovel, I will—”

But she shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s too late, Rhysand. You’ve already made your choice.”

Rhys took another step toward her, desperation in his eyes. “Please, Y/n. I never stopped caring. I was a fool. But we can start again, we—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firm, though it cracked with emotion. “You don’t get to come back into my life now and demand forgiveness. I’ve rebuilt myself. I’ve moved on. You should have done the same.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Rhysand standing alone, the weight of his mistakes heavy in the air.

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Determined to win her back, he threw himself into a relentless pursuit of her forgiveness. Every day, he tried to reach her in some way, even if she wouldn’t let him in.

He sent her gifts—delicate, handcrafted items from the finest artisans in the Dawn Court, things that would have brought a smile to her face just months ago. Each time, he watched from a distance as she took them from her doorstep, only to leave them discarded by the door, untouched and unacknowledged.

Rhysand poured his heart into letters, filled with apologies and promises, penned with the kind of vulnerability he had rarely shown anyone before. He would slip them under her door, hoping that maybe one would catch her attention. But each time he checked, the letters remained sealed, never to be opened, reminders of his failure piling up like stones in his chest.

He would linger in the shadows, just outside her home, drawn by the pull of her presence. He watched her move about her day—working on her crafts, laughing with neighbors, sharing stories. His heart ached at how vibrant she seemed, yet he felt like a ghost haunting the edges of her life. Each smile she shared with others was a dagger, a reminder of what he had lost.

In moments of bravery, he approached the marketplace, hoping for a chance encounter. He would linger near the stalls, pretending to browse as she passed by, but she never looked his way. It was as if he were invisible, a figment of her past she refused to acknowledge.

He even tried to connect with the villagers, asking about her and expressing his desire to help her, but they were loyal to her. They would only nod politely, never divulging her whereabouts or responding to his inquiries. They could sense the pain behind his facade, and their protectiveness toward Y/n was fierce.

Days turned into weeks, and Rhysand’s resolve only strengthened. He would find small ways to make his presence known. Sometimes, he would send the occasional flower with a note saying, “I miss you.” Other times, he enlisted Azrael to check in on her, to gauge how she was doing. Each report from his friend was a bittersweet reminder of how far he had fallen from her good graces.

Yet despite all his efforts, Y/n remained steadfastly indifferent. She had rebuilt her life without him, and the fortress she had built around her heart was impenetrable. No amount of gifts or letters could pierce it.

As the seasons changed, Rhysand continued his quiet vigil, each day filled with longing and regret, praying that one day, she would see him not as a shadow of her past but as a man who desperately wanted to be part of her future.

Y/n was kneeling in her garden, the vibrant flowers blooming around her, but her heart felt anything but bright. She was lost in thought, trying to focus on her plants when she suddenly sensed a presence behind her. Her instincts kicked in, and she turned quickly, catching sight of a tall figure with dark wings.

“Who are you?” she demanded, standing defensively, her heart racing.

“Y/n,” he replied, his voice calm yet intense. “My name is Azriel, I’m a friend of Rhysand’s. I’ve been… watching over you.”

“Watching over me?” she echoed, confusion and anger flaring up inside her. “Why? What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Azriel said, stepping forward slightly but keeping his distance, as if respecting her space. “About Rhysand. He’s been… suffering since you left.”

Y/n crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “I don’t want to talk about him. He made his choice.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing, Y/n,” Azriel pressed, his tone earnest. “He’s been lost without you. The gifts he sent, the letters—those were all from a place of regret. He didn’t realize how much you meant to him until it was too late.”

“Regret?” she scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s easy to feel regret when you’ve moved on with someone else, isn’t it? I was nothing more than a passing thought to him while he chased after Feyre.”

Azriel frowned, sensing the pain in her words. “I can’t deny that Rhysand made mistakes, but he has changed. He’s been searching for you for a year. He’s been—”

“Searching?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “How much of a fool do you think I am to believe that? I don’t want to be another one of his burdens or a way to soothe his guilt.”

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I understand your anger, but you deserve to know the truth. You deserve to hear him out.”

Y/n’s heart raced with conflicting emotions. She was furious with Rhysand, yet there was a flicker of curiosity buried deep inside her. “And what makes you think I want to hear anything from him? What if he’s just going to hurt me again?”

Azriel stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because you deserve closure. You deserve to understand why he acted the way he did. If you don’t give him a chance, you might carry this pain forever. You may think you’ve moved on, but deep down, you’re still holding onto that hurt.”

Y/n’s expression softened slightly, but she quickly masked it with defiance. “It’s easier to keep it all buried, Azriel. I don’t need him in my life. I’ve built something here, a life I’m proud of.”

“I see that,” he said, nodding. “But are you truly happy? Or is there still a part of you that wonders what could have been?”

She hesitated, the truth clawing at her heart. “Maybe I could talk to him again,” she admitted reluctantly, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “But it doesn’t mean I want to forgive him. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to open that door again.”

“Just consider it,” Azriel urged gently. “You don’t have to decide everything right now. But Rhysand is here, waiting for you. He won’t stop until he gets the chance to explain himself. And when you’re ready, you can choose how to respond.”

Y/n turned back to her flowers, avoiding Azriel’s gaze, trying to gather her thoughts. “And what if I don’t want to respond? What if I just want to forget?”

“Then you’ll have that choice too,” Azriel said, his tone calm and understanding. “But know that you can’t run from your feelings forever. If you want to heal, you have to face them.”

After a long silence, Y/n sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Azriel nodded, she could feel the weight of his presence, a reminder that her past was still very much alive, no matter how hard she tried to bury it. She knew that eventually, she would have to confront the truth about Rhysand—and about herself.

The sky was painted in soft shades of dusk, the sun casting its final golden rays over the pristine lake. The place Rhysand had chosen was breathtaking—a secluded spot nestled between the hills, where the water sparkled like diamonds under the fading light. Wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colors contrasting with the deep green of the surrounding trees. It was peaceful, a place that felt almost sacred in its stillness.

Y/n approached the shore, her footsteps slow and hesitant. She had agreed to meet him, but every step felt heavier than the last, like she was walking toward something she wasn’t ready to face. Her heart thudded in her chest, her mind filled with doubts, fears, and anger she hadn’t yet let go of.

And then she saw him.

Rhysand stood by the edge of the lake, his back to her, his wings tucked tightly against him. The sight of him stirred something deep within her—a pang of old pain, old longing, and something new, something she couldn’t yet name. He seemed so out of place here, in this tranquil setting, with the weight of his own emotions heavy on his shoulders.

He turned as she neared, his violet eyes locking onto hers, a myriad of emotions swirling in their depths—regret, hope, desperation. He took a step toward her, but stopped himself, as if afraid that one wrong move might send her running.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t respond immediately, crossing her arms over her chest, her posture guarded. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he looked back at her. “I don’t even know where to begin. I… I made so many mistakes.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, her voice colder than she had intended.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t realize… how much I hurt you. I didn’t realize how blind I had been to everything you were going through.”

“I was right there, Rhys,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Right in front of you, and you didn’t see me. Not once. Not until it was too late.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know, and I hate myself for it. I was so consumed by everything happening with Amarantha, with Feyre… I thought I was doing what was best, that I was protecting you by keeping you at a distance.”

Y/n scoffed, shaking her head. “Protecting me? By ignoring me? By treating me like I didn’t exist?”

Rhysand flinched at her words, guilt flooding his features. “I thought… I thought that if I distanced myself, if I kept you away, you wouldn’t be hurt. That you’d be safer if you weren’t involved in everything that was happening. But I see now that I was wrong. So, so wrong.”

She bit her lip, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—a crack in her armor, however small. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained. ���I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face you, how to admit that I had failed you. And by the time I realized… it felt like I had already lost you.”

“You had,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You did.”

Rhysand stepped closer, his eyes pleading. “But I don’t want to lose you forever, Y/n. I can’t. I came here to beg for your forgiveness, to do whatever it takes to make things right. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve done nothing but hurt you, but I’m asking—no, I’m begging you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her heart torn between the lingering hurt and the raw sincerity in his voice. “And what if I can’t forgive you? What if it’s too late for that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. “Then I’ll accept that. I’ll accept whatever decision you make. But please, just give me the chance to try. Let me show you that I’m not the same man who pushed you away. Let me prove that I can be the person you deserve.”

Y/n’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You hurt me, Rhys. You made me feel like I was nothing.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I will regret that for the rest of my life. But you are not nothing. You never were. You are everything.”

She turned away, her hands trembling as she tried to hold herself together. “This… this is all too much. I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Rhysand closed the distance between them, his voice soft but urgent. “I won’t rush you. I won’t push you. But if there’s even a part of you that thinks we could find a way forward, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She wiped at her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. “And what about the mate bond? You didn’t even acknowledge it, didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, his eyes wide with desperation. “I didn’t know until you were gone, until it was too late. I felt it after you left, like a piece of my soul was ripped away.”

Y/n stared at him, her heart pounding. “I knew,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

His eyes widened, shock and confusion written on his face. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” she said, her voice wavering. “Because you were so focused on Feyre, on everything else. I didn’t want to be another burden for you to carry.”

Rhysand shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You were never a burden, Y/n. Never. I was just too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I hate myself for that.”

Y/n turned back to him, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to accept the bond yet, Rhys. I’m not ready to just… let everything go.”

He nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “I understand. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as it takes, and I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe… maybe if we spent more time together, if you showed me that you’ve really changed… maybe then I could consider it.”

Rhysand’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “Anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Y/n sighed, the heaviness in her chest lifting just slightly. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, Rhys. I’m not there yet. But… I’m willing to see if you can prove yourself.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and filled with determination. “I will. I swear I will.”

She nodded slowly, a small, tentative step toward the possibility of healing. “We’ll see.”

As Y/n spoke those final words, a calm silence settled between them. The tension that had been weighing the air down began to ease, and the light from the setting sun cast a warm glow over the lake, reflecting in soft ripples on the water. Rhysand, still standing close but not too close, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He gave her a tentative smile, one that was full of relief and gratitude. “Thank you… for giving me this chance,” he murmured softly. “It means more than you know.”

Y/n glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before a small smile ghosted her lips. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a lot of proving to do, Rhys.”

His eyes sparkled with a mixture of affection and determination, and for the first time in a long time, a bit of the old, charming Rhys peeked through. “I plan to, darling. You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice behind it, just a faint glimmer of amusement. “Don’t get cocky. This isn’t a victory.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But it’s a start.”

They both stood there for a while longer, just watching the lake, the breeze gentle against their skin. Y/n didn’t pull away when Rhysand took a small step closer, their arms nearly brushing. The proximity felt different now—less suffocating, more… reassuring. As if, for the first time in ages, she wasn’t standing completely alone.

Rhysand didn’t make any bold moves; he didn’t reach out to touch her, respecting the distance she still held. But there was a warmth in the silence, an unspoken understanding that they were no longer quite as far apart as before.

Finally, after a few moments of peaceful quiet, Y/n turned to leave, the conversation having drained her emotionally. She needed time—time to process everything he’d said, everything she’d felt.

As she walked past him, Rhysand called after her gently, “Can I at least walk you back?”

Y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. For a heartbeat, she considered saying no, but then, with a soft sigh, she nodded. “Alright. But just this once.”

Rhysand smiled—genuinely, this time—and caught up to her, falling into step beside her as they began to walk down the path back toward the city. They didn’t speak much, the silence between them comfortable now, and Y/n found herself not minding his presence the way she once had.

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Taglist: @willowpains @theravenphoenix26 @mother-above @bookwormysblog @strawberriesandstories @12idk1234

[skywalkerslvt]

Campfire Secrets- Ellie Williams

❥Pairing: Camp counsellor!Ellie Williams x AFAB!Camp counsellor!Reader

❥Summary: Your growing feelings for your fellow camp counsellor, Ellie, come to light when you both go skinny dipping one night...

❥CW: 18+ smut, fingering, handjobs, skinny dipping, a tiny smidge of thigh grinding, sex in the wilderness, 2.1k words, NOT PROOFREAD

❥a/n: Because it's finally summer, here's a crazy summer camp porn fic about my fav! Just a reminder that my asks/requests are open if any of you horndogs would like to make a request (requests are my favourite thing ever please send stuff)! Hope you enjoy <333

You met Ellie three years ago during your first summer as camp counselors. She had strolled into the staff meeting fashionably late, her hair still damp from an early swim in the lake, exuding a carefree confidence that instantly caught your attention. Her arrival disrupted the serious tone of the orientation, replacing it with laughter and easy banter as she greeted everyone by name, as if she had known them all her life.

You, on the other hand, had been nervous and slightly overwhelmed, navigating a new environment and the responsibilities that came with it. Ellie noticed your apprehension and made a beeline for you during a break, flashing a mischievous grin that instantly put you at ease. “First time, huh? Don’t worry, newbie, I’ll show you the ropes,” she had declared with mock superiority, her voice tinged with playful arrogance that made you chuckle despite yourself.

From that moment, a friendship blossomed between you two, forged through shared duties, late-night conversations under starlit skies, and a plethora of camp activities. Ellie had a knack for turning every mundane task into an adventure, whether it was organizing scavenger hunts, mastering archery, or sneaking midnight snacks from the mess hall. You found yourself drawn to her infectious energy, her quick wit, and the way she effortlessly charmed everyone around her.

During one memorable morning canoeing session, Ellie had challenged you to a race across the lake, her competitive spirit evident in the determined set of her jaw. “Bet I can paddle circles around you!” she had taunted, her paddle slicing through the water with precision. You had accepted the challenge with equal fervor, relishing the thrill of the chase as you navigated the tranquil waters, laughter echoing across the lake.

Evenings were reserved for campfires and camaraderie, where Ellie’s guitar-playing skills and knack for storytelling made her a favorite among campers and counselors alike. You often found yourself mesmerized by her talent, the gentle strumming of strings mingling with the crackle of the fire as she led sing-alongs and shared ghost stories that sent shivers down your spine.

Now, years later on your third summer being a camp counsellor, you couldn’t deny the growing fondness you felt for Ellie. Her infectious laughter and genuine kindness had captured your heart, yet you hesitated to acknowledge the deeper stirrings within you. You cherished your friendship too much to risk it with romantic feelings, afraid to disrupt the easy dynamic you had cultivated together. To make matters worse, this year Ellie was your cabin mate, making your quickly growing feelings even harder to hide. 

One scorching afternoon, with the kids engrossed in making friendship bracelets under the shade of the big oak tree, Ellie turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hey, have you ever explored the waterfall just beyond camp?” she asked, her voice lowered as if sharing a secret. You shook your head, intrigued by her sudden enthusiasm. “No, I didn’t even know there was one.” Ellie’s grin widened, a playful challenge in her gaze. “It’s a bit of a hike, but totally worth it. We should go sometime. Just the two of us.” The idea of escaping to a secluded spot away from the noise and chaos of camp, with Ellie by your side, stirred something deep within you, though you masked your excitement with a nonchalant shrug. “How about tonight?” you suggested. “We have the night off from the campfire.” 

Ellie gave you a mischievous smile, making your face heat as your heart skipped a beat. “Then tonight it is.” You smiled back at her, then got back to work helping the kids tie their bracelets. 

You couldn't wait for tonight, though the day went by painstakingly slow. No matter how you tried to occupy your time, whether it was playing games with the kids or taking naps during your breaks, the night just couldn't come soon enough. 

But when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the camp, you wasted no time seeking out Ellie in the busy camp. You and Ellie slipped away from the cabins, hearts pounding in anticipation. The path to the waterfall was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, the sounds of the camp fading away behind you as you ventured deeper into the woods. 

Ellie led the way, her flashlight casting dancing beams of light that illuminated the trail. The hike was a mix of comfortable silence and easy conversation, the natural rhythm of your friendship making the journey feel effortless. As you approached the waterfall, the distant sound of rushing water grew louder, filling the night air with its soothing roar.

“Almost there,” Ellie said, turning to flash you a grin. The sight of her lit by the moonlight, her features softened by the gentle glow, made your breath catch in your throat. You returned her smile, pushing down the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach.

When you finally reached the clearing, the waterfall was a breathtaking sight. Water cascaded down a rocky cliff, the pool at its base shimmering under the moonlight. Ellie turned to you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight was mesmerizing, but your attention kept drifting back to Ellie, standing there with an expression of pure joy on her face.

“Wanna jump in?” Ellie asked, still grinning. You realized then that in your haste to get Ellie out of the camp, you foolishly forgot to put on a bathing suit before leaving. “Shit! I forgot to bring a bathing suit.”

Ellie shrugged nonchalantly. “So did I. We could just take our clothes off,” she suggested with a grin.

You crossed your arms, giving Ellie a pointed look. “You want to skinny dip?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Your eyes widened at her suggestion, heat rising to your cheeks as you imagined what your coworkers would think if they found the two of you skinny dipping. 

“Ellie, I-”

Before you could finish, Ellie had begun unbuttoning her jeans, stripping down to her underwear and tossing her clothes onto a nearby rock. She gave you a playful look as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her boxers, to which you turned around flustered, your heart pounding in your chest. 

You heard her dive into the pool, water splashing the backs of your legs. You stood there for a moment, caught between your apprehension and the undeniable pull of wanting to join her. You quickly glanced over your shoulder, finding the glimmering water up to Ellie's shoulders. The pool did look really inviting now that she was in it. 

Taking a deep breath, you quickly shed your own clothes, feeling a rush of exhilaration as the cool night air hit your skin. You stepped to the edge of the pool, Ellie’s laughter ringing in your ears, and with one last glance at her, you dove in.

The water was refreshingly cold, enveloping you in its embrace. You surfaced to find Ellie grinning at you, her hair slicked back and her eyes glinting with mischief. “Took you long enough,” she teased.

You splashed her in response, laughing as she retaliated. The playful banter continued as you swam together, the night around you filled with the sounds of laughter and splashing water. You made your way over to the waist deep water under the waterfall, leaning your back against the smooth rock as you faced Ellie, relishing in the feeling of her roaming eyes on your exposed body. 

As the playful splashing subsided, the space was filled with a more intimate silence. The moonlight danced on the water's surface, casting a soft glow over Ellie’s features. She swam closer, her bare chest almost meeting yours as your breaths mingled in the cool night air. 

Ellie’s gaze shifted from playful to intense as her eyes roamed over your face. “You know,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “I've always wanted to do something like this with you.” 

Her gaze heated your cheeks, and you laughed nervously. “You've always wanted to get me naked in a pool like this?” you joked, though your voice was strained from the sudden desire to touch her. 

Ellie chuckled. “Well yes, but that's not what I meant.” Your heart pounded as she reached out, her fingers brushing against your bare waist, sending a shiver down your spine. “Ellie…” you started, but she silenced you with a gentle kiss, her lips soft and warm against yours. 

You melted into her touch, your hands finding their way to her waist pulling her flush against you. The water swirled around you as the kiss deepened, your bodies pressed together in the moonlit pool.

Ellie's hands roamed over your back, her touch igniting a fire within you.

She pulled back slightly, her breath hot against your lips. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, her eyes searching yours.

You nodded, your fingers tangling in her hair. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Ellie's smile was both tender and filled with desire as she kissed you again, her hands exploring your body with a newfound urgency. You moaned softly as her fingers traced the curves of your waist, your skin tingling under her touch. Her leg shifted under the water, her knee parting your thighs as she slid it between your legs, pushing her thigh flush against your heat. You moaned into her mouth at the addicting friction against your clit.

Ellie's hands slipped between your thighs, her fingers teasing your entrance. You gasped, your hips bucking against her hand, craving more. "Ellie, please," you whispered, your voice filled with need.

She didn't need any more encouragement. Her fingers slid inside you, her touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. You clung to her, your moans filling the night air as she moved inside you, her thumb circling your clit with expert precision.

As Ellie continued to pleasure you, you reached out, your hand slipping between her thighs. She gasped at your touch, her hips grinding against your fingers. You mirrored her movements, your fingers finding her entrance and sliding inside, matching her rhythm.

The pool around you seemed to amplify every sensation, the cool water contrasting with the heat between you.

Ellie's breath hitched as you curled your fingers inside her, her grip on you tightening. "Fuck, you feel so good," she moaned, her voice a low rasp in your ear.

You responded with a whimper, your body arching against hers as your pleasure built. The intensity of the moment, the feeling of Ellie's fingers inside you while you pleasured her in return, was overwhelming. Your breaths became ragged, each touch and movement heightening the connection between you.

Ellie's thumb circled your clit faster, her fingers curling inside you in a rhythm that had you teetering on the edge. You mirrored her movements, your fingers pressing and curling inside her, drawing out breathy moans that only spurred you on.

"Ellie," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. "I'm so close."

"Me too," she breathed, her lips brushing against your ear. "Come with me."

Her words sent you over the edge, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out her name, your fingers pressing deeper inside her as you rode out your orgasm.

Ellie followed moments later, her body shuddering against yours, her moans mingling with yours in the night air.

For a moment, you clung to each other, the water soothing your overheated skin as you caught your breath. Ellie's forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady as she pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

"That was.." she started, her voice trailing off.

"Amazing," you finished for her, smiling as you brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She chuckled, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. "Yeah, it was."

“I hate to ask this of you,” she started, giving you a nervous smile, “but if we want to stay in the same cabin, I think it would be best if we kept this between us.” 

You smiled at her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as you wrapped your arms around her. “Well, I suppose we could consider it our little secret,” you replied playfully, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “As long as you can keep quiet at night, nobody will find out.” 

Ellie laughed, her hold around your waist tightening as she nuzzled into your neck. 

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, soaking in the peaceful ambiance of the waterfall and the night around you.

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟐]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.6k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, mentions of abuse/alcoholism

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘

Summer brings longer days and sunrises that spill like molten gold over the horizon.

Kinich sits by the river to watch, washing clothes in the bubbling water and listening to his mother hum nearby. Her voice is lovely like this, carried lightly along the wind, part of her he wishes he would’ve inherited. She has these rare moments of peace sometimes, when she’s among her crops and the weather is gentle, where she’s temporarily able to forget about the house-shaking fights from the night before. Kinich tries not to disturb her in those times; mostly, he learns just by watching her.

His father, on the other hand, stays out later every day—longer days mean more time to gamble, and Kinich is often left yawning by the time the front door slams open. Their Mora pouches grow tighter and tighter, and his mother stops bringing him to the market with her.

One day, she stops going at all.

Then, she stops humming.

Kinich gets used to having the same meals every day—he eats Grainfruit so much that he gets sick of it, and vows that once he has the option, he’ll never eat it again. He stops thinking about making friends and starts thinking about his own survival. When he has some time, he finds ways to make his own fun anyway; he harvests plants to weave into rope, then makes his own swings on the trees nearby. He finds that he likes the feeling of flying through the air, though he hasn’t quite gotten advanced enough to do any true climbing yet.

Every so often, Kinich thinks about the tribe. He can hear them occasionally, on nights of celebration—the firelight and vivacious laughter pierce the night, even all the way out here. He hasn’t gotten the chance to visit the main village in a while, and courier visits are infrequent, not that his parents receive much mail anyway. Perhaps a mountain of bills, if nothing else.

In even rarer moments, he thinks of you. 

It comes on days when his mother locks herself in her room and his father disappears for hours, the quiet desire for companionship. He feels truly stupid even pondering it, but he wonders how you’re doing sometimes. He wonders if you ever learned how to make flower crowns, and if the other kids in the tribe are being nice to you again. 

He wonders if you’re alone, and sometimes, he wonders if he could be too.

“Yanta passed away,” his mother murmurs one day, cutting up a Grainfruit. Kinich’s stomach lurches at the thought of taking another bite of the crop, but he says nothing; he never complains to his mother. Instead, he stands beside her at the kitchen counter on a short stool, carefully grinding grain into flour. “The courier came by today and told me.”

For a moment, Kinich says nothing. Observant as he is for his age, he gauges his mother’s expression—she’d known Yanta a long time, after all. But she doesn’t look sad, at least not truly. Instead, she just looks…resigned.

“I’m sure she’s in a better place now,” he manages to reply.

His mother smiles bitterly. The knife cuts through the soft fruit with too much force, blade hitting the cutting board with a loud thud—Kinich nearly flinches at the sound.

“I’m sure she is.”

They lapse back into silence, and his mother stares out the kitchen window, wistful. He tries not to think about that too much, because he’s unsure how to feel about the implications.

(He knows she’s thinking about somewhere far away, but he wonders if he’s in that vision, too.)

Kinich learns that the price of his mother’s smile is his own usefulness—she smiles when he brings home larger harvests. When he can contribute, she ruffles at his hair and tenderly takes the basket from his hands. He finds that he likes that feeling—being useful, being needed. It’s the reason why he works so hard, the reason why his small hands form calluses, skin turning rough from labor.

A commotion sounds from outside—his father is home. His mother places the knife down immediately, moving on pure instinct. She takes up the cloth by the sink and wipes down her hands. It’s a pitiful thing, full of holes and threadbare from years of use. Kinich thinks he should weave a new one the next time he has a chance; the thought that it might please his mother makes his chest warm.

“Go to your bedroom,” his mother orders, hurried. The flour sits on the counter, forgotten, only half-finished. He looks at it longingly, even as his mother pushes him out of the kitchen.

He just manages to slip into his bedroom by the time the front door slams open, nearly flying off the hinges. Kinich’s eyes flutter shut, lips pressed into a thin line—the losses today must’ve been worse than usual.

“Don’t slam the door! Kinich is sleeping,” his mother argues. There’s a series of groans and squeaks—his father is stumbling into the furniture again, probably making a mess. “What’s got you so upset already?”

“It was the damn orphan kid,” his father slurs, spitting on the floor. Kinich silently seethes in disgust. “She’s always running around our fucking property, guess since she’s got nowhere else to go.”

Kinich isn’t sure who his father is referring to, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. The screams outside the door grow louder, until it feels like the walls of the house will fall from the noise. If he were any younger, he might’ve folded his pillow over his ears in an attempt to block out the noise. He’d stopped doing that years ago, though, having grown used to the chaos.

His mother screams and cries until the daylight disappears completely, and his father yells and inflicts as much damage as he can—both to the house and to his wife. Kinich pretends to be asleep the whole time, grip tight on his blankets. It’s not until the moon rises in the sky, watchful, that his parents tire themselves out, retiring to bed with fresh bruises. 

It’s quiet, at least for a bit.

The next day, Kinich rises with the sun. 

His mother is already outside, and his father is…somewhere. It doesn’t really matter where the man is, only that he isn’t here, and Kinich can enjoy the fleeting peace. The routine comes easily to him in the mornings—he sets about rearranging the scattered dining chairs and dragging the table back into place. It’s a useless endeavor, he knows, considering they’ll probably end up downed again by tomorrow. But there’s something about these small victories, in which he can pretend his house is normal for the day—where he can pretend it’s just him and his mom.

He cleans quietly, humming to himself, then decides against it—it doesn’t sound like when his mother does it.

She comes back inside a few minutes later, not sparing him a word. It makes something sting in his chest, the lack of recognition—he’d hoped she would praise him for tidying up, or maybe ask him to help her harvest. Still, he continues cleaning, grabbing a broom to sweep up the remnants of things his parents had broken in anger. He sweeps up smashed bottles, careful to avoid the glass, before stopping at the mess under the counter. He pauses.

For reasons he can’t explain, the sight makes him inexplicably sad:

The bowl of half-ground flour, shattered into a thousand pieces and flung across the floor.

/

When the air cools and leaves begin to fall from the trees, a ghost appears in the forest.

Kinich first notices it one morning after he goes outside to water his crops and check on their growth. The forest leaves are still full-bodied by this time, but they’re turning; as he walks, the emerald ceiling turns to deep reds, burnt oranges, and pale yellows. Yesterday, the breeze was gentle, but today it nips at his skin—he pulls his thin jacket tighter around himself. 

He’s not a superstitious or fearful person by any means. He’s grown used to being alone over the years, and the creaks of the house and the whispers in the forest don’t scare him like they used to. 

Still, he’s inclined to admit the chill that runs through his blood when he finds the small bag of berries awaiting him. 

It’s placed in such a specific location that he can’t help but feel it’s meant for him—a stone that marks the perimeter of his garden plot. There’s no note, though he checks thoroughly for one, nor any indication of who it might be from. The thought makes him a bit uncomfortable—no one from the village usually comes through here. He tries to pretend it doesn’t bother him, but he finds himself rushing home after the fact.

The gifts don’t stop coming. 

It’s always inconsequential, little things like cheap candies and leaf whistles left on stones. They’re placed in very particular spots—areas around his crops, around his traps, or the trees where he usually sits to be alone. Kinich starts to feel like someone is watching him, and the shadows in the forest seem to loom a bit longer than usual. A collection of tiny trinkets and treats grows in the corner of his bedroom.

It takes three more weeks before he discovers that ghosts are, in fact, not real.

With the temperatures dropping, he decides to visit his crops a bit later than usual that day, when the sun is fully up and provides some semblance of warmth. The thought of the ghost still lays dormant in the back of his mind, but it’s less of a concern—after all, it doesn’t seem to pose a threat.

(And really, he can’t complain about having extra candy every now and then.)

He just about reaches the clearing when he spots a shadowed figure knelt over his crops. Initially, Kinich mistakes it for a wild animal—there’s no shortage of them around here, and they’re always interested in chewing at his plants. He readies himself to scream in an attempt to scare it away, but it suddenly moves in a way that is distinctly human—he freezes where he stands. Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward in the foliage to get a better look.

The figure rises just as his eyes narrow on the small object now laying on the stone.

It’s a crown, woven with jade and gold flowers.

“It’s you,” he breathes, mostly out of shock. You jolt like a deer in the headlights at the sound, eyes wide, and there’s a beat of silence before you turn and sprint away. Truthfully, Kinich considers himself a smart kid, but even he feels dumbfounded by the whole situation. It takes him about another second to start chasing after you, an impromptu game of tag with no clear objective.

“Stop!”

You’re quite swift for a child, but Kinich is faster, knows these woods better; he catches up to you with ease, and his fingers wrap around your wrist in a fashion that reminds him of when you first met. This time, you try to break out of his grip, but it only makes him hold tighter. In a panic, your ankle catches on a tree root, and that’s all it takes for both of you to go tumbling down.

Kinich hits the ground hard, tangled in your limbs, and he groans when his shoulder skids in the dirt—instantly, his mind is assessing the value lost in the event of an injury. If he gets hurt, how will he pay for it? How will he hunt? How will he harvest?

The thought just makes him angrier as he straightens to his feet, unsteady and brushing grime off his clothes. You’re a bit slower to rise, still on your hands and knees—Kinich pulls you up by your collar instead, lips curled into a snarl.

“Why are you running from me? Why are you leaving these things?” The words come out in a hiss, frustration boiling over. “Why are you doing this?”

You tear out of his grip, looking just as indignant.

“Because Chief Wayna said you’re lonely!”

Nearby, birds flock away from the noise, a rush of darkness flying overhead.

Kinich flinches at your words—he’s not even sure if it’s true, but the notion of it sends a pulse of lightning through his heart. Lonely? He turns away, fists clenched.

“Well, he’s wrong. So you can go back to the village.”

“I don’t think he’s wrong,” you say, arms crossed. “You’re the only kid out here, right? That would make anyone lonely.”

He thinks of his parents; on an average day, it’s true that they don’t talk very much. But that doesn’t make him lonely—in fact, he thinks he’s doing just fine by himself. Thinking of friends and other things makes him less useful to his mother, and he despises that thought.

“You don’t even know me,” he argues, eyes narrowed, and you huff. 

“I don’t. But that’s why I’m here,” you say. Kinich watches as you squat to the ground, thumbing over the thin petals of the flower crown. “Because I want to know you. I want to be friends. Is that so bad?”

He rolls his eyes. “There’s plenty of other kids in the village. Go play with them.”

You’re more stubborn than you let on, he realizes. Because even as he explains every reason why you shouldn’t be here, your feet remain firmly rooted in place, a pout written over your lips.

“I don’t want to play with them. I want to play with you.”

He’s not sure why the words hit him as hard as they do—you’re just a child who wants to play. Maybe you’re bored with the other kids, or maybe they still don’t like you, but it’s not like you’re coming to him out of genuine necessity. 

(Distantly, he reminds himself that he’s a child too. He forgets that sometimes.)

“...Why me?” he probes, tentative. “Why does it even matter to you?”

You seem to sense that a crack has formed in his resolve, and your expression softens. The wind rushes by as you outstretch one hand, holding the flower crown out to him—an olive branch.

“Because you’re the one who offered to help me back then,” you say, nearly a whisper, “and that matters to me.”

For the second time since he’s met you, Kinich finds himself genuinely speechless. He’s not a talkative person to begin with, but it’s not out of a lack of things to say—it’s out of a lack of necessity. There’s no need to speak in the life he lives, only to move. To survive. But here you are, latching onto him simply because you want his company.

I don’t need friends, he thinks desperately.

Before he can stop himself, he gently plucks the crown from your hands.

You smile.

In the next few weeks after that, Kinich lets you come around, if only for a few hours.

The forest clearing becomes your meeting place—he learns a lot about you among the crunching leaves and bare trees. He learns that you’re an orphan, that your favorite season is spring, that you think his eyes are pretty. You don’t tend to think before you speak, only saying things as they come to mind. In a lot of ways, you’re his opposite. 

He’s not sure what the feeling is that takes root in his chest.

Next, he teaches you what he knows. You had suggested it offhandedly one day, that he might teach you how to weave—that maybe you might be able to do something more complex than flower crowns. He had been a bit hesitant—he doesn’t consider himself an expert, after all—but relented after you asked over and over.

(He always seems to relent when it comes to you.)

He finds that he likes the way your eyes sparkle when he teaches you something new, or when you successfully try something for the first time. You’re overjoyed when you weave your first rope, when your traps come back full, when your first plant finally blooms. Kinich merely watches, a warmth permeating his chest. He starts to crave your company, the way you cling to him, the way you need him. Soon, he starts to think that a small part of him might have needed you too.

Despite his willingness to spend time with you, he’s quite strict with your time—once the sun dips, he’s quick to send you off. 

“Go home,” he says, looking pointedly toward his house. He’s always waiting for something. “And don’t let anyone see you.”

You never disobey, mostly because you have no reason to—ascending the mountain in the dark is difficult anyway, and you don’t want to overstay your welcome.

And though his house still shakes and rocks with screaming every night when he returns, Kinich finds it a bit easier to sleep when he thinks of meeting you the next day.

/

Kinich’s mother disappears on a winter night.

Something startles him awake, and his eyes slide open to see the moon hanging over the inky sky. It’s uncharacteristically quiet, save for the subdued snoring of his father passed out on the couch. At times like these, Kinich misses the warmer months; the river outside has long since frozen over, and he sometimes relied on its steady bubbling rush to put him to sleep.

These days, it’s too cold for you to make the trip down the mountain. The ice makes it far more dangerous to make the descent, and even someone as stubborn as you wouldn’t risk it. Kinich thinks he finally understands what loneliness means.

Winter also means more time spent inside, and forced quarters with his father. The weather seems to take a toll on the man—he skips work more and more these days, citing an ache in his bones. Kinich’s mother works longer days now, desperate to feed them all. He helps as he can, setting traps in the forest to catch wild game, but it’s not enough sometimes. Some days, he sleeps with his stomach empty. 

He sits up in bed, slow.

He’s still short enough that his feet barely dangle above the ground when he swings his legs over the edge, wincing when he first makes contact with the cold floor. It had been snowing when he had first fallen asleep, cheek stinging from the force of his father’s hand. Outside, a blanket of white is settling, still undisturbed by human interference. His footsteps are light, trained from years of practice.

The door creaks open, millimeters at a time, lest he accidentally wake his father. He peeks a single eye out of the crack, observing how the man lays draped over the couch. Several bottles of alcohol lie vacant on the table, emptied down his father’s throat in one of his fits of rage. He’d lost more Mora than usual today—Kinich’s mother had been the unfortunate scapegoat for his anger, and Kinich as well when he came to her defense. 

He slips through the opening in the door, agile, creeping past his father’s sleeping form and into the kitchen. It’s still a mess, as a result of earlier. One of the cabinet doors sits unlatched at an awkward angle, evidence of the fight. Kinich’s fingers twitch to fix it, but decide against it; it would make too much noise, and the cabinet is bare anyway. 

He moves on.

His mother’s bedroom—technically his parents’ bedroom, but the two haven’t slept together in years—is half-visible through a crack in the door, but it doesn’t look the same as he remembers. The bedsheets are smoothed down, his mother nowhere to be seen. He glances out the window again—there are times when she awakens in the middle of the night to take walks, craving temporary silence, but the notion seems unlikely with the current weather.

Kinich eases the door open quietly, exposing the disaster to his eyes.

His mother’s things are strewn about the room in various states of disarray—someone had left in a hurry. The bed frame also sits crooked, revealing a loose floorboard beneath that had been pulled aside. The perfect place to hide something, whether it had been jewelry, Mora, or something else.

A seed of panic plants itself in his stomach. 

He rushes over to the front door, tripping as he goes—he slams to the floor with a cry. A hand slaps over his mouth in fear, eyes flickering over to his father. The man turns over, but doesn’t awaken, so he scrambles to his feet, finally seizing the doorknob and throwing it open. 

Nothing but a starless night awaits him outside—a burst of freezing air surges into the house, but Kinich doesn’t feel it at all. Instead, he stares out into the snowy landscape, gaze following the trail his mother had left behind.

Shallow footfalls leading away from the house—leading away from him.

Kinich is not ignorant; even young as he is, he understands the situation instantly.

His mother had weighed the value of her son and the value of her freedom, and he had not been the final choice.

That night, Kinich doesn’t cry.

Instead, he creeps back into bed, deathly quiet in his footsteps and wincing when the door creaks. A shiver runs down his body; teeth chattering, he slides beneath his thin blanket. His father doesn’t stir, and for once, Kinich doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

For a few minutes, he tosses and turns. It doesn’t help—the dread settles in all the same. There are too many questions and not enough answers to placate him. He thinks of his mother and her smile.

Distantly, he wonders if he can blame her, or even hate her. If he weighed his options, would he have made the same choice? If he had been more useful, would she have stayed?

What more could he have done?

As he falls back to sleep, Kinich wonders how long it will be until spring comes again.

[itsonlydana]

"Flower On My Skin" | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

Thranduil gets his hair braided and thinks too much.

warnings/tags: bittersweet, more fluff tho, swf, King Thranduil needs a break

words: 1,9k

an: this is a gift for the lovely @tigereyesf who always comments on my posts on ao3 🤍 the lyrics are from Noah Kahans song "Your needs, my needs'

+ masterlist +

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Thranduil understands that permitting you to be near him might not be wise. It could very well rank among the least advisable decisions he's made in ages.

But he did, he invited you again and again, sending horses and carriages to transport you ever since he found out you traveled all the way from Dale by yourself whenever he sent a letter.

Until he didn't need to anymore.

Not because you wouldn't come, but because you didn't leave.

Never in a million years would anyone have guessed that the stoic Elvenking would invite a human to his palace on more occasions than his own kind and surely no one would have ever thought that he would start courting them.

Yet here he was, sitting in one of his many blooming gardens, swatting away the hand that was currently trying to gather his hair.

"Stop this," Thranduil's stern voice would've had any other shiver in fear of losing their head, though it only makes you giggle.

"Please, let me braid it again," you stable yourself with your hands on his shoulders and lean over, chest pressed against his strong back.

"No, you little nuisance. I shall not! You know of the meeting I will attend later, we do not have the time."

Even though he can't see your face, he knows you roll your eyes at him, he can feel it in the huff you let out before letting go of him. The warmth of your body disappears as you stand up from the bench and throw one challenging look over your shoulder.

Thranduil watches how you lift the skirts of the gown you're wearing, the finest of silks that you've adorned with little handmade bows from the village, and flop down into the grass. There is not one care on your face that the hems will surely stain and that there are perfectly suitable marmor benches all over the garden and only one of those occupied by Thranduil himself.

You seem to ignore them every time you two spend time out here, he noticed you are much more content with your naked feet buried in the high grass and your hair intertwined with the flowers that grow here.

At first, he couldn't understand the fascination you harbored with nature.

Of course, he had a deep appreciation for the forest surrounding his kingdom, the strong resistance of the trees had been an inspiration for the winding halls, the water flowing through the roots and gifting life and the ever so steady wind reminded someone who lived a thousand years that some things, though they change, never completely disappear.

You, on the other hand, could not be separated from nature in any way whatsoever. There had been the flowers, first only on your side of the bed when he'd invited you to sleep next to him, and one day he woke up to find a vase filled with Astilbe flowers on his nightstand and on his vanity as well.

You also spend most of your day either wandering through the woods (which left him restless and worried until you accepted the sword he had his blacksmith forge for you) or meeting him here in the gardens. He would never tell you but before you, he hadn't walked or maker-forbid, sat there for decades.

Now, he found himself soaking sunshine more days than not, reading Elvish poetry to you while you rested curled into his side with one of his hands brushing your hair, or, chasing you on his Elk through the forest, following the sound of your horse and your laughter.

Your infatuation with nature and the stubbornness of pulling him along made him fall for you, deeply and most ardently and he knew that one day he would need to survive the sight of forests and gardens and flowers without the urge to burn them to the ground for outliving you.

As he watches you examine the colorful flowers and gather them in your lap, he isn't sure if he will be able to contain that anger against the gods if the time comes.

You are oblivious to the dark clouds hanging onto his thoughts, he makes sure that you'll never see the heartbreak he lives through while loving you because he knows, he knows that you would do everything in your power to make him happy.

This is who you are, a human that lives and loves and pours all that you are into those around you, he sees it in the gentleness of your hands cupping the flowers before plucking them, in the way your tongue learned a new language for you wouldn't accept not studying it for an answer if you lived here.

You live to love and love to live.

Thranduil shifts, forgetting that there are guards stationed around the gardens who could see their King doing the unthinkable but he doesn't care.

Not with you sitting a few feet away from him, your dress spilled around you, a full smile on your face as you collect the flowers growing there for you, their little heads turning to you as if you are the sun for them as well, and not just for Thranduil.

If you notice him standing up, you give no sign, you don't even stop humming, and the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at this stubbornness is far too strong to stop it.

"Melethril nîn," he says quietly and his shadow falls over your body. The symbolism and fear of him taking away the sun from you has him clench his jaw. His pain is impatient as if it doesn't know he's going to live longer than he wants to and that it has all the time to break him down.

He quickly shuts those thoughts away behind the sight of you tipping your head back to smirk at him.

This is not the time to dwell on the future, not if he can exist in the moments he shares with you instead of fearing the time when he'll have to think back on them.

"Don't tell me you missed me," you tease.

He scoffs and –surprising you enough to let out a squeak– lowers himself onto his knees next to you.

Eye to eye, he feels much more comfortable, despite the stains that he knows now graze his robes.

"You know," he starts and lets his gaze wander over the flowers in your lap, however, you managed to collect this many of them in such a short time awes him, "the meeting can wait."

You catch onto the meaning instantly, your eyes lightening up even more. The golden rays of the setting sun reflect in them and he reaches forward to cup your face in the palm of his hand and gently leans towards you, capturing your lips in a long kiss that has you gasping.

"Now," Thranduil swipes his thumb over your lower lip, as you separate, tugging playfully at it and giving into another kiss before he continues, "Have your way with my hair, my love. I know you did not collect those flowers for any other reason."

You gasp ingeniously. "You are by far the wisest Elf I've ever met," you say and scoot –maker, he makes a note to get another dress just like this made because surely this will be ruined by the time you leave the gardens– behind his back.

While you gather his hair in your hands, this time without him trying to stop you but relaxing into the soft tugging, you mumble: "So wise, they should make you King."

He chuckles at that. "Ah, but I would need a Queen by my side. Do you know where one could find on–ahhh," his teasing words get swallowed by a sigh as your fingers collect some fine hairs on the side of his head and surely completely on accident run over the shell of his ear to the delicate tip.

"Ooops," you sing and just as his body calms, you repeat the action, even have the gall to scratch the skin with your nails and he melts into a puddle.

His ears burn, not just the one your breath hits but the other one as well and he can feel the blood shoot into his face as well, crumbling the stoic and straight-laced composure of the King who is already on his knees.

"You witch," he presses out between his clenched teeth and hears you giggle. "I should have never told you about that," he murmurs more to himself, trying to regulate his heart beating inside his chest like a wild rabbit on the loose.

You laugh once, a "Pah!" while you tug on his hair, "You didn't tell me," you say and he feels something get pushed inside the braid you are working on, "I found out all by myself."

Thinking back to the night that started this completely outrageous behavior trait of you fiddling with his ears whenever he doesn't pay you enough attention or he says something that teases you a bit too much, he can't tell if you are right or him.

A few years ago he would have shut you down completely because the King would never be wrong but now he grumbles under his breath, agreeing that you must be correct.

Then again, there are many new things that you brought into his life.

He laughs more freely, and not just out of spite of viciously.

He cares more, for you, for his son, for nature and sometimes even for the dwarfs he trades with.

He is formed by you, shaped by your untamable ways of never letting a rainy day ruin your mood.

He is nothing but wax in your hands.

Here, sitting in the gardens and letting you weave flowers in his precious hair, he is no King, he is just a soul yearning for your touch, a flower reaching to bloom in your golden light.

Thranduil's eyes flutter shut as you braid and weave and run your hands over his scalp and through his hair.

He may have fallen asleep, lulled into a trance by the warm sun caressing his face and your voice humming a melody as sweet as any words that you speak, because when you let go of the delicate braids and let them fall into the rest of his hair, he opens his eyes to a pink and purple sunset.

The birds sing their last song and the trees rustle, shaking their branches and leaves as if they would ready themselves for the animals coming to rest in them.

There is a pleasantly chilled breeze that comes with nightfall, one that brings the smell of flowers and grass.

"There," you press a gentle kiss to the skin right behind his left ear, "all done."

For a moment Thranduil is disappointed that you are finished but then he turns to find your smile and all is right.

"Thank you, meldanya," he says, already closing in to express his gratitude with a soft kiss.

You nudge your nose against his, eyes shut in contentment. "Thank you, for letting me. Le ni meleth," you say quietly.

"Always," Thranduil's gaze wanders over you, bathed in rosé and golden hues, the cheeks flushed from the air, your hair wild and untamed, and flowers all over your lap. He grabs a few of them, inspecting the stems and probing them with his sharp nails.

"Let me repay the favor," he effortlessly lifts you, smiling wide at the laugh bursting out of you as he sets you between his legs and onto his robes.

"I want my Queen to wear a fitting crown."

[ohisms]

↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , HISTORICAL 〳 FANTASY edition !   (  a  collection  of  25  settings  based upon the period 〳 fantasy genres ; meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts . WILL be updated .   )

001. the interior of an elegant carriage .

002. seated at a large dining table set with an elaborate meal .

003. the shadowy corner of a lively tavern .

004. the top of a light house during a raging storm .

005. along the dimly lit corridor of a large manor .

006. the damp , dark brig of a pirate ship .

007. the ruins of an ancient structure lost to time .

008. a theater hall brimming with attendees .

009. the bustling streets of a market town .

010. a sun - drenched vineyard .

011. along a boardwalk overlooking the sea .

012. a moonlit cemetery full of weathered graves .

013. on horseback , deep in the woods .

014. a luxurious drawing room smelling of tea .

015. a sprawling dragon roost , hidden atop craggy mountain peaks .

016. a war - torn battlefield .

017. a beautiful cathedral bustling with churchgoers .

018. within a crammed opera box during a performance .

019. an elegant tearoom serving afternoon refreshments .

020. a lakeside pavilion on an especially hot day .

021. a sprawling network of underground catacombs .

022. a hidden glade in the middle of the woods .

023. the deep , dark dungeon of a castle .

024. a market square full of fruit and fineries .

025. a baker's shop smelling of wonderful pastries .

026. the quiet stables of a large estate .

027. on the outskirts of a magnificent water fountain .

028. in a dimly lit library , hidden amongst the books .

029. among the high walls of a hedge maze .

030. at the front desk of a warm , homey inn .

031. under the protection of a gazebo as it rains .

032. on the landing of a busy train station .

033. a gambling hall alight with raucous laughter and drink .

034. a pristine infirmary , mostly empty .

035. on board a huge ship making a long voyage .

+   20  more  setting  prompts :    6 / 01 / 2024

036. in a sunlit garden adorned with blooming flowers .

037. at the edge of a serene forest lake under a starry sky.

038. within a quiet corridor of a castle during a lavish ball .

039. in a bustling blacksmith's forge , sparks flying .

040. on a rocky cliffside overlooking a vast ocean .

041. in a quaint village square during a festival .

042. within a secret chamber hidden behind a bookshelf .

043. in the grand atrium of a luxurious hotel .

044. along a narrow brick alleyway in a crowded town .

045. within a busy marketplace in a desert town .

046. on a tranquil beach at sunrise .

047. in a cozy cottage with a crackling fireplace .

048. at the helm of a majestic airship soaring through the clouds .

049. in a grand library filled with ancient tomes .

050. on a bustling harbor dock as ships come and go .

051. within a magical forest where the trees glow softly .

052. in an apothecary's shop filled with herbs and potion .

053. at a secluded cabin by a dangerously quick river .

054. within the opulent throne room of a powerful ruler .

055. in an enchanted glade where fairies dance in the moonlight .

[poisonlove]

BOO | j.o

Pairing: Jenna Ortega X reader

The Scream set was relatively quiet. We were on a break from filming, and the atmosphere around us was relaxed. Jenna was chatting with Jasmin, offering a shy smile as her headphones hung around her neck and her phone was firmly in her hands. Every now and then, she would glance quickly at the notifications on her screen. She looked perfectly at ease in her little corner of calm.

But I had other plans.

I had found an old Ghostface mask among the scene equipment. It was too perfect of an opportunity to pass up. I knew my plan was a bit foolish, considering Jenna was a horror fanatic and rarely got scared, but she had her guard down at that moment, and I was determined to give it a try. I hid behind a stack of crates, waiting for the right moment.

"I'm going to grab a bottle of water," Jasmin suddenly announced to Jenna with a small apologetic smile.

"Okay," the brunette replied, returning the smile slightly, her fingers drumming on her phone screen.

I seized the moment.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped on the mask and jumped out suddenly.

"Boo!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

Jenna jumped, completely caught off guard. Her eyes went wide, and her phone slipped from her hands, hitting the ground with a thud. For a moment, I was surprised that it had actually worked: I had scared Jenna Ortega! The queen of control looked like she was about to have a mini-heart attack.

I couldn't hold back a laugh as I watched her try to recover.

"Jesus, Y/n!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest and looking at me in disbelief. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

I doubled over in laughter, unable to contain the euphoria. Jenna bent down to pick up her phone from the ground, shaking her head. She started laughing too, but there was a threatening glint in her eyes.

"You just signed your death warrant," she muttered in a low voice, a hint of amusement in her coffee-colored eyes.

I immediately realized it was time to run.

I spun around and took off as fast as I could.

"Get back here!" she shouted, laughing as she chased after me.

Despite the adrenaline of being chased by someone barely over five feet tall, the whole situation was so surreal that I couldn’t stop laughing. I pulled off the mask, which was blocking my vision, and picked up the pace, trying to dodge the set equipment with more agility.

My heart was pounding, and my breath was getting heavier. I could hear Jenna behind me, getting closer. She was faster than I had anticipated. Despite her petite frame, she had incredible determination, and the distance between us was shrinking quickly.

"Oh my God, Y/n! You're doomed!" she called out, her tone both amused and determined.

"Sorry!" I mumbled between laughs.

I turned the corner at full speed and my eyes widened when I saw Amber leaning against a tree, a cigarette between her lips. Her expression immediately shifted to a mix of confusion and irritation as I accidentally bumped into her, causing her cigarette to fall to the ground.

I stopped abruptly, my heart in my throat, and looked at her with concern.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered quickly, my voice barely audible.

"What the hell, Y/n!" Amber snapped, clearly annoyed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jenna appear from the other side, scanning the area until her eyes landed on me and Amber. Her coffee-colored gaze lit up with mischief, and as soon as she started running toward us, panic surged through me, making me let out a startled cry.

Amber raised an eyebrow, lighting another cigarette as she stared at me in disbelief.

"What’s your problem?" she asked, confused.

Then she noticed Jenna approaching rapidly, a sly smile forming on her face.

I didn’t give her time to say another word before I took off running again with all my strength. I needed to find a hiding spot or at least put enough distance between us. But it was too late. I felt Jenna’s hands suddenly grab the back of my shirt with a strong, firm grip. Unable to keep my balance, I tumbled to the ground, dragging Jenna down with me.

We rolled across the ground, our laughter drowning out every other sound around us. The fall wasn’t hard, but the energy of the moment made us lose any semblance of seriousness. Before I knew it, Jenna was on top of me, still laughing, her hair falling messily over her face.

I found myself lying on my back, with her hovering over me, both of us breathing heavily from the chase and the laughter. We locked eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Her dark eyes sparkled with a light I rarely saw, especially on set, where she was always so serious and professional. But now... now there was something different.

Jenna looked at me with an open smile, her adorable dimples fully visible.

"What the hell happened? I was gone for just a few minutes," Jasmin asked in confusion, holding a bottle of water in her hands.

Jenna glanced down for a moment, still chuckling softly. Then she sat up slightly but didn’t completely move off me. Her eyes met mine again, and this time her smile was softer, less mischievous.

"Maybe we can settle this another way?" the brunette suggested, a huge grin still on her face.

A small smile escaped me.

"Like how?"

She let out a light giggle, tilting her head just a bit.

"Maybe with coffee. Or two."

I propped myself up on my elbows slightly, trying to ignore the rapid beating of my heart.

"Alright, coffee it is."

Jenna looked at me for another moment, then stood up fully, extending a hand to help me up. Still laughing, I accepted the offer, but I knew there was something more in that chase, in that little battle of pranks and laughter. Even if it wasn’t spoken out loud, I could feel it in the way she looked at me.

"E allora? Qualcuno mi spiegherà questo?" chiese di nuovo Jasmin, ma nessuno le prestò attenzione.

[midnighvtm4ss]

Omg i absolutely loved rosemary!!! Also the fact it’s based on a Sierra Ferrell song is amazing. That brings me to my request to maybe an Arthur fic based on her song “I Could Drive You Crazy” 🤭🤭🤭 I feel like that song is so Arthur and his darling girl coded

I COULD DRIVE YOU CRAZY

cw: fluff, hunting, pre-canon, two idiots in love, arthur is crushing so hard it’s actually embarrassing

wc: 3,3k

a/n: the way I SCREAMED when I saw your request anon !! i loove Sierra Ferrell she’s one of the few artists i have constantly on repeat. Sorry I took my sweet time replying but I had to make this piece good. This is a little insight on Arthur and his darling girl pre-relationship dynamic ! Thank you for requesting and I hope you like it <3

The late noon sun bathed the camp in a cold, bright light, casting the long shadows of the nearby douglas fir trees stretching all around you as it began its slow but steady descent behind the rolling hills of the Tall Trees region as afternoon approached. The smell of woodsmoke and simmering stew filled the air, mixing with the earthy scent of pine and the faint aroma of freshly turned earth. You stood beside Pearson, by the cooking wagon. Your hands busy chopping vegetables while the man stirred the stew pot, his gruff voice occasionally muttering to himself as he adjusted the few seasonings Miss Grimshaw desperately requested to add into his infamous venison stew. Abigail stood nearby, cleaning the dishes used in the morning. Her laughter light as she shared stories about young Jack with you.

“Jack’s been askin’ after you,” Abigail said with a fond smile. “Ever since he learned how to say your name he’s been saying it non stop. Makes me miss the time when the only things he could say was ‘mama’ and random bubbling noises”

“He’s a sweet kid,”

“Yes, and a spoiled one too. No matter how much I try, he refuses to go to sleep until he hears your voice telling him a goodnight story”

You chuckled, feeling a warmth in your chest at the thought of the boy’s eager face. “I’ll have to think up a good one for him tonight, then.”

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew your attention away from the conversation. You glanced up just in time to see the men returning from their latest job. Dust and sweat clung to them, their faces weary but carrying the unmistakable look of men who had just succeeded at their mission. Among them, a particular figure caught your eyes. Arthur Morgan dismounted with practiced ease, his broad shoulders slumped slightly by the fatigue of the day’s event. Even from a distance, his presence was commanding, a strong aura following him as he led a tired Boadicea toward the hitching post.

Even from a distance, there was something about Arthur that drew your eye—his quiet strength, the way he moved with precise purpose, his steady presence that always seemed to bring a sense of security to the camp. You watched as he handled the reins, hitching Boadicea and patting her dark brown mane, undoubtedly praising her for a job well done.

Was it possible to be jealous of a horse ?

His gaze briefly scanned the camp before it landed on you. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met, and you felt a flutter in your chest. You quickly returned your attention to a particular interesting piece of tomato you had cut, wishing for your burning cheeks to calm.

“Mister Morgan!” Pearson’s booming voice cut through the air, making you wish the earth would swallow you whole. “We’re runnin’ low on meat. Reckon we’ll last two more days with what little I have.” Pearson’s voice lowering to a more quiet tone as Arthur inched closer to the wagon. “Can you head out and bring somethin’ back before it gets dark?”

Arthur looked over at the stew pot, his face churning with an unreadable expression, then back to Pearson with a nod. “Sure, Pearson. I’ll head out now.”

As he turned to leave, something inside you stirred. You weren’t sure if it was the desire to escape the mundane tasks of camp, to immerse yourself in the unknown beauty of the wilderness or, more than that, the desire for a chance to spend time with Arthur, to learn from him, to be close to him. Nonetheless, before you could second guess your action you placed down your knife, stepping forward, the words hurriedly leaving your lips as in fear you might stop them if they took a second longer to pronounce.

“Mister Morgan,” you called out, your voice a little hesitant. “May I come with you?”

He paused, turning to face you fully. A faint hint of surprise washed over his face. His aqua eyes, always so full of depth and intensity, softened slightly as he considered your request. “You sure ‘bout that? Huntin’ ain’t exactly a walk in the woods.”

“I’d like to learn,” you insisted, your heart beating faster as you met his gaze under his worn gambler’s hat. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a gesture that seemed almost shy. He nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s get goin’.”

It took an immeasurable amount of strength to refrain yourself from smiling brightly at the man in front of you. You promptly returned to your cutting station, untying your apron in quick movements. Abigail came closer to you, taking the apron from your hands and putting it on ready to replace you in your work. As you two locked eyes, a knowing smile adorned the brunette’s face, making you flush.

Your steps were quick as you followed Arthur to the hitching post, your Hungarian half-bred just a few feet away from Boadicea. You gently pat her, giving her a stalk of celery you stole from Pearson. Circling around to tighten the strap of your saddle you felt the heavy gaze of the outlaw follow your every move. His muscular form already mounted on his horse. You mounted your horse, not wanting to trouble Arthur and make him reconsider his decision. He cleared his throat before speaking,

“We’ll go through the woods on the left near the lake,” he stated, tutting at his horse to move forward “Mac told me he found a few deer tracks down there.”

You simply nodded, not trusting your voice to give away your feelings.

The air was cooler than the already crisp air in camp. Beneath the canopy of trees, the sun’s rays filtering through the needles of the pine trees in dappled patterns on the forest floor. The smell of pine and earth was much stronger here, mingling with the fresh scent of moss and the faint musk of animals that had passed through earlier. Arthur led the way, silent and sure, while you followed close behind, too occupied by taking in the view to initiate a conversation.

Passing through a particularly steep path Arthur signaled you to stop. He hopped down from his horse, walking a few feet forward before stopping. You copied his action. The ground beneath your boots was soft, a carpet of moss and pine needles that muted your footsteps.

“First rule of huntin’,” Arthur began, his voice low and steady as he crouched down to examine a set of tracks in the soft dirt, “is patience. Animals can sense when somethin’ ain’t right, so you gotta move slow and stay quiet.”

You nodded, kneeling beside him as you peered at the tracks. They were faint, just a few indentations in the earth, but Arthur pointed them out to you with practiced ease. The proximity of him, the way his voice dropped down on to a near whisper, sent a thrill through you that had little to do with the hunt and everything to do with the outlaw beside you.

“There,” he said, his hand brushing against yours as he pointed. “That’s a deer track. See how the hooves dig in? Means it was here not too long ago. We follow these, and we might just catch up to it.”

His touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth on your skin that lingered long after he pulled his hand away. You nodded again, trying to focus on the task at hand, reprimanding your mind for wandering to such thoughts. But it was difficult with Arthur so close, his presence almost overwhelming in its quiet intensity.

Together, you moved through the woods, following the tracks with Arthur’s guidance. You moved in silence. The woods offered you the calm noises of the rustling of leaves, the distant call of a bird, and the soft crunch of your boots on the forest floor. Every now and then, Arthur would pause, his head tilting slightly as he listened for any signs of movement, his sharp eyes scanning the space surrounding you.

Finally, after what felt like hours to you but was probably only a few minutes, you spotted the deer—a lone buck grazing in a small clearing, its head down, completely unaware of your presence. Arthur’s hand came up in front of you, motioning you to stop and you both knelt down behind a fallen mossy log, using it for cover.

He handed you his rifle, his hands steady as they helped you position it against your shoulder. His touch on you gentle, guiding you with the same care and precision he used in everything he did. You could feel his breath on your neck, making the small hairs on your nape stand up. The brim of his hat grazing your hair as the heat of his body so close to yours made your heart beat so violently that you were sure Arthur could hear it.

“Alright,” Arthur whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in even close. “Here’s where it gets tricky. You gotta stay calm, keep your breathin’ steady, and line up your shot. Don’t rush it. As long as we don’t make a sound the deer will be there. Let the moment come to you.”

“Steady now,” Arthur murmured, his voice low and soothing. You took a deep breath, the crisp air filling your lungs. “Just like that. Breathe in… and out. Always pull the trigger on empty lungs”

You tried to focus, tried to steady your breath as he instructed, but the closeness of him, the deep rumble of his voice in your ear, made it difficult to concentrate. You aimed at the deer, your finger brushing the trigger, but your hands were trembling ever so slightly.

“Breathe,” Arthur reminded you, his hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder grounding you, steadying you from the imminent recoil of the rifle. “You’ve got this.”

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest, and then you squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing through the trees.

A second passed where it was deadly silent, you opened your eyes to check on your target but your aim had been off. The bullet whizzed past the deer, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. The deer’s head shot up, and in an instant, it bolted, disappearing into the underbrush before you even had time to lower the rifle.

Your shoulders slumped in disappointment, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Mister Morgan,” you muttered, gloomily handing the rifle back to him.

But Arthur wasn’t upset. Instead, he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes warm as he shook his head with a strange myrth. “Don’t be sorry. You did good for your first try. Takes time to get the hang of it. Deer’s easy to track but a damn tricky target, especially when you’re just startin’ out.”

His words were kind, but you couldn’t help the sense of failure that settled in your chest. You had wanted to impress him, to show him that you could be just as capable as any of the men in the gang, but instead, you had let the moment slip away making a fool of yourself in front of him. You lowered your gaze to your lap, playing with a stray cotton strand of your blouse.

“Come on,” Arthur said, standing and offering you his hand. “Let’s see if we can track somethin’ else. We’ve still got some daylight left.”

You took his hand, feeling the roughness of his warm calloused palm against yours as he pulled you to your feet. The warmth of his touch, the easy way he smiled at you, made it hard to stay upset for long. There was something about Arthur—something steady and reassuring—that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when things didn’t go as planned.

You dusted off your skirt, it definitely wasn’t the best clothing choice for hunting but you had little to no time changing into a more comfortable outfit. You thanked whoever was above that this week wasn’t your turn to wash the camp’s clothes. Karen sure had a great load of work ahead of her.

The two of you mounted back up on your horses and continued deeper into the forest, the trees growing denser as the light began to fade. Arthur was patient, showing you how to look for signs of wildlife, teaching you how to move quietly through the underbrush without making yourself known to the animals you were tracking. His calm demeanor, his quiet confidence, made you feel more at ease, and slowly, you found yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the hunt.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the forest in a soft, amber glow, you spotted something moving in the distance—a wild boar, its dark shape partially hidden by the underbrush as it ate the roots of a bush near a fallen log. You felt a surge of excitement, your heart beating faster as you pointed it out to Arthur.

“There,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you hopped down from your horse. “There’s a boar!”

Arthur followed you down his horse. His eyes followed your gaze as he nodded, his gaze narrowing as he assessed the situation. “That’s a good target. Boar’s got tough skin, but he’s not too fast. You ready to give it another try?”

You nodded, your grip tightening on the rifle as Arthur handed it to you once more. This time, you felt more confident, more focused. Arthur had shown you what to do, had taught you how to read the signs, how to stay calm and patient. You could do this. You needed to do this.

You crouched down behind a bush making sure you had a clear view of the target. Arthur stayed close, his presence a steadying force as you lined up your shot. “Remember,” he said softly, his voice just above a whisper, “breathe slowly, keep your hands steady, and don’t rush it. You’ve got this.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill your lungs as you focused on the boar. It was still rooting around, completely unaware of you and Arthur watching from the shadows. You steadied the rifle, your finger brushing the trigger, and then, with a calmness you hadn’t felt before, you squeezed.

The shot rang out, sharp and clear in the evening air. This time, your aim was true. The boar let out a sharp squeal, its body jerking as the bullet hit its mark. It staggered for a moment, and then it collapsed, its movements ceasing as it fell to the ground.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring in disbelief. You had done it. You had actually done it.

“I did it,” you whispered, a smile slowly spreading across your face as the realization sank in. “Arthur, I did it!” you said turning to face Arthur. You couldn’t believe yourself. You actually hunted down some game. A laughter came up to you, heartily and genuine.

Arthur’s face lit up with a grin, his eyes shining with pride as he clapped you on the back. “Good girl. Nice work. That’s some fine shootin’.”

His praise warmed you more than the fading sunlight ever could, and you felt a surge of joy and accomplishment. But it wasn’t just about the hunt—it was about the way Arthur was looking at you now, with a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he was seeing you in a new light.

The two of you approached the poor boar, and Arthur knelt beside it, inspecting your handiwork with a nod of approval. “Perfect shot,” he said, glancing up at you from under his hat with a smile. “Damn, you’re a natural.”

Your heart swelled with pride at his words, and you couldn’t help but brightly beam at him, feeling a warmth in your chest that had little to do with the successful hunt and everything to do with the man beside you.

As Arthur worked skinning the animal and preparing the boar to transport it back to camp, you found yourself stealing glances at him. Although he was now covered in blood you couldn’t help but find him even more attractive. You watched the way the fading light played across his features, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his plump lips, the intensity in his eyes that seemed to soften whenever he looked your way. There was something different about the way he was acting around you now, a quiet affection in his gaze, a tenderness in his touch that hadn’t been there before.

Once the boar was ready, the two of you began to head back to camp, the weight of the animal stowed on the back of Boadicea as you carried its pelt. The forest was quiet now, the sun nearly gone, leaving the trees bathed in the soft, dusky indigo light of twilight. As you rode, side by side, you could feel the connection between you and Arthur growing stronger with each step, an unspoken bond that neither of you had to put into words growing evermore.

“Thank you for teaching me, Mister Morgan” you said softly, stopping your horse just a few feet away as the camp came into view, the warm glow of the firelight welcoming you back. The distance giving you both one last moment of privacy. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at it.”

Arthur glanced over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t need to be so formal with me now, you can call me Arthur,” he started. “Besides, you’ve got a good eye,” he said, his voice sincere. “And you listen, which is more than I can say for most people in this godforsaken gang. You did real good out there.”

The praise made your cheeks warm, and you ducked your head slightly, feeling a little shy under his gaze. “I had a good teacher.”

Arthur shook his head at that, hiding his face under the brim of his hat as he mumbled to himself something you didn’t quite catch.

“Maybe we’ll do this again sometime,” he said, his tone casual but with an underlying amusement that betrayed his carefree tone

“I’d like that,” you replied, your voice soft as the two of you approached camp, the sounds of the gang's usual chatter welcoming you back. “I’d like that a lot.”

As you helped Arthur carry the boar to Pearson, who greeted you with his usual gruffness but a nod of approval, you couldn’t help but feel that something had changed between you and Arthur. There was a new understanding, a deeper connection, something that went beyond the simple companionship you had shared before when you occasionally chatted while you worked on the camp’s chores.

As the evening wore on and the camp settled into its usual rhythm, you found yourself glancing over at Arthur, who was seated by the campfire, his gaze occasionally drifting your way. And each time your eyes met, there was a spark—a shared smile, a lingering look—that hinted at something more.

And in that moment, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of something special, something that neither of you could quite put into words, but that you both felt growing with every passing moment you spent together.

[chosok-amo]

hey hey!!! I read your social anxiety fic with megumi and just wanted to say first, that it was amazing like actually shit got me tearing up at how sweet it was 😭

And secondly!! Could I maybe request a Megumi x Reader who tends to cling on people she trust's arms alot? But after meeting Megumi she starts to only cling to him. Like full on arm wrapped around his one arm. Sorry if it's too much and have a nice day!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀CLING-CLINK .ᐟ

megumi fushiguro x 𝗳𝗲𝗺! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿.

☆ before meeting you, megumi often sees you around school, always clinging into yuuta's arm, even satoru gojo's arm like when a child learns how to cross the street and have to hold into their parents, until he meets you.

fluff, p.s i'm sorry if i don't make your request good enough, but i hope you like it :)

megumi fushiguro stood in the distance, his gaze fixed on a scene unfolding across the school grounds. the golden hues of the setting sun cast long shadows, creating an almost surreal backdrop. among the students scattered about, one figure caught his attention. you were walking with satoru gojo, clinging tightly to his arm, your face lit up with a radiant smile. gojo, as always, exuded his usual charm, his blindfold hiding his eyes but not the amusement on his face. the two of you seemed completely absorbed in your conversation, oblivious to the world around you.

megumi squinted, trying to place you. you looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite pinpoint where he'd seen you before. the way you clung to gojo's arm so naturally, so effortlessly, stirred something in him. it wasn't jealousy, exactly, but a mix of curiosity. “who is she?” megumi wandered to himself, watching as you laughed at something gojo said. “and why is she always so close to him?”

he had noticed you a few times before, always attached to someone else's arm— mostly your teacher, satoru gojo and the second year student, yuuta okkotsu, always so animated and lively. it wasn't just gojo; you seemed to have a habit of clinging to people. it puzzled him. was it a sign of affection? a need for reassurance? or just a part of your personality?

megumi wasn't one to judge, but he found it difficult to understand. he preferred his own space, his own quiet corner of the world. the idea of being so physically close to someone, especially in such a public setting, was foreign to him.

as he watched, gojo said something that made you throw your head back in laughter, your grip on his arm tightening momentarily. the sight brought a small, involuntary smile to megumi's face. there was something undeniably endearing about your openness, your willingness to express joy so freely. still, the question lingered in his mind. why did you always cling to people like that? was it a habit, a comfort, or something more?

yet he found himself another encounter of you with his senpai, yuuta okkotsu. that day megumi fushiguro stood in the shadow of a tall tree, his eyes scanning the school grounds as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over everything. his gaze settled on a familiar figure in the distance. you were walking with yuuta okkotsu, your arm firmly looped around his as you strolled together.

yuuta, with his kind and calm demeanor, seemed perfectly at ease with you by his side. he wore his usual gentle smile, listening attentively to whatever you were saying. your animated gestures and bright laughter filled the air, making it clear how much you enjoyed his company.

megumi's brow furrowed slightly as he watched. you, always close to someone, always with that same cheerful energy. it was almost like you thrived on the connection, the physical closeness to others. “why is she always like that?” megumi thought to himself, his mind drifting back to the other times he'd seen you, clinging to one, two, max three people around the school. it wasn't just yuuta—he'd noticed you with others too, always the same, always so tactile and open. he couldn't help but feel a bit perplexed.

as you and yuuta continued to walk, yuuta said something that made you laugh, your grip on his arm tightening slightly, just like how you were with gojo. the sight brought a small, involuntary smile to megumi's face. there was something undeniably endearing about your openness, your willingness to express joy so freely and without reservation.

but the same question remained. why did you always cling to people like that? eas it a habit, a comfort, or something deeper?

“maybe she's just really friendly,” he mused, recalling how at ease you seemed with both gojo and yuuta. “or maybe she needs that kind of connection to feel secure,” he thought about the way you laughed with gojo, how your whole face lit up with genuine happiness. then he remembered how relaxed and content yuuta looked with you by his side, as if your presence was a natural part of his day. it wasn't just that you clung to people; it was the way you seemed to bring out something brighter in them, a lightness that megumi couldn't ignore.

“is she like that with everyone?” he wondered. “or is there something special about gojo and yuuta?” the thought nagged at him. he couldn't quite place why it bothered him so much. was it jealousy? curiosity? or simply a desire to understand something so different from his own nature?

megumi fushiguro sat in the shadows, watching you from afar, his mind swirling with a thousand 'what ifs.' he couldn't understand why such a simple thing—someone clinging to another—bothered him so much. it was common enough, something he saw every day, yet whenever it involved you, it gnawed at him. he wonder and wonder why, how, where, and when about you. it's just a simple thing, everyone clinging to everyone, but why does it bother him that much?

“why does it affect me like this?” he thought, frustration bubbling inside him. “why do i care so much?” it wasn't just about you clinging to others. it was how people reacted around you, how comfortable they became in your presence. they acted as if having you wrapped around them was as natural as breathing, as easy as walking, even though it should have been a hindrance. it baffled him how seamlessly you fit into their lives.

how he feel if he's the one you clinging to?

at one point, the one 'what if' crossing his mind, the thought slipped, unbidden, and since that day, megumi couldn't shake it. the curiosity melted inside him, merging with his blood, becoming a part of him. every time he saw you, the question lingered, refusing to let go.

days turned into weeks, and the thought only grew stronger, until one day, fate gave megumi a chance to get to know you. he approached cautiously, his usual stoic expression hiding the turmoil inside. he found you to be warm, bright, full of life. your energy was infectious, your smile lighting up even the darkest corners of his mind.

he worried that he might extinguish your light if he got too close, afraid that his touch might dim your radiance. but then, in a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, you wrapped your delicate arms around his. megumi's heart raced, pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. he'd never felt anything like this before. it was as if a bell rang inside his mind, each beat of his heart echoing with the sound. your touch was gentle, yet it set his nerves alight, a single act of affection that shook him to his core.

in that instant, megumi realized why it had bothered him so much. it wasn't just about the act of clinging; it was about the person. It was about you. the thought of you being close to others had ignited a jealousy he hadn't recognized, a longing he hadn't understood.

and now, as you clung to his arm, megumi swore he could feel his world shift. in that moment, he knew that your warmth, your light, was something he wanted to protect, to cherish. and for the first time, he welcomed the feeling, embracing the connection you offered with open arms.

“fushigurooo,” your honey voice, echoes through the wooden wall of your school. a bright smile reached your eyes, shaping them into crescents as you skipped your way over to him. you were always full of life, a burst of sunshine on even the dullest days.

yuuta was there, but you don't even spare the boy a glance, your arms finds their own home naturally— megumi's arm. the second year and the first year decided to go on break after the training that day, strolling around tokyo for treat with gojo's money.

“fushiguro, how's your day?” you ask him, smiling as you look up at the taller boy. megumi looks down at you, watching how you comfortably clung around his arm, refusing to let go.

smiling, the blue-irised boy answered, “it was good, y/n, how's yours?” he pulled his arm closer to his body, and with his expectation you followed along until there was no void, a distance megumi refused to stand. the tumultuous roads of tokyo, but all he could ever listen to was your sweet voice, telling him about how's your day going. the chaos of the city faded into the background, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you, walking

the streets of tokyo were alive with energy, filled with the sounds of chatter, laughter, and the occasional honk of a car horn. despite the chaos, megumi's focus remained on you. you animatedly recounted your day, your voice a soothing melody amid the city's cacophony.

yuuta walked a few steps behind, giving the two of you space. he couldn't help but smile at the sight, understanding that something special was unfolding. gojo, always the observer, watched with a knowing grin from the back, making a mental note to tease megumi about it later.

as you continued to talk, your hand lightly squeezed megumi's arm. “and then, we tried this new dessert place. you have to come with me next time, fushiguro. the matcha parfaits are to die for.” megumi chuckled softly, his usual stoic expression softened by your enthusiasm. “i’ll keep that in mind. it sounds good.” you beamed up at him, your eyes twinkling. “it really is! oh, and guess what? i found this adorable bookstore tucked away in a side street. they have the cutest stationery.”

megumi nodded, listening intently, savoring each detail you shared. he found himself looking forward to these moments more and more, where he could just listen to you, forgetting about everything else.

the group eventually reached a cozy café, its exterior adorned with fairy lights and flowering plants. gojo, ever the generous mentor, insisted on treating everyone. you pulled megumi inside, your excitement contagious as you marveled at the menu. “what are you getting, fushiguro?” you asked, glancing up at him with those bright, expectant eyes. megumi scanned the menu briefly before deciding. “maybe just a coffee and a pastry. what about you?”

you giggled, nudging him playfully. “you’re so predictable. i think i'll go for the strawberry shortcake and a matcha latte.” as you made your decision, megumi chuckled lightly at your predictable choice. megumi rolled his eyes at your comment, a light smile playing on his lips. “and you’re too extravagant with your tastes,” e teased, his eyes flickering over the menu, scanning the options before settling for a black coffee and a small blueberry tart.

“seriously, always with the sweets.”

as light as a feather, teasing lingering in his voice the moment his soft smile reached you. after placing your orders, you found a cozy corner to sit in. he followed you to the booth, leaning against it casually as they waited to order. megumi noticed how you made sure to stay close, your arm brushing against his side as you continued to cling to his arm. it was a small gesture, but it made his heart race.

“honestly, your sweet tooth knows no bounds,” he teased, eyeing the array of pastries behind the glass display case. “i’m amazed you don’t turn into a sugar cube after all the sweets you consume.”

“oh come on,” you retorted with a small giggle, smacking his arm playfully. “i don't consume that much sugar. it's called enjoying life, you should try it sometime.” megumi chuckled lightly at your retort, his gaze lazily drifting towards the pastries on display. “enjoying life is one thing. drowning it in excessive sweetness is another.” he shot you a teasing smirk, his eyes dancing with amusement.

you rolled your eyes in faux annoyance, giving his arm another light smack. “you’re just being a party pooper. i bet you're secretly jealous because I know how to savor the little things.” megumi chuckled again, enjoying the lighthearted banter. he found himself getting more comfortable as the conversation continued, the ease of your presence making it feel natural. but even with the casual teasing, a hint of affection snuck into his voice.

“jealous? if your sugar addiction? hardly.”

“shut up, just let me be,” you murmur, your voice tender and suffused with warmth. your arms, once wrapped around him, slowly release their hold and slide down to gently grasp his large hand. the warmth of your touch lingers through the fabric of his uniform, yet it ignites a searing sensation within him.

his gaze descends to where your hand clasps his thumb, noting the delicate strength in your touch. the crimson flush on your cheeks deepens as you avert your gaze, trying to hide the tumult of emotions roiling within. his heart quickens as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the connection between you both deepening with each intertwining motion.

in that quiet, intimate moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you. the warmth of your hands melds with his, bridging the space between your hearts, creating a sanctuary of understanding and unspoken promises.

as the minutes passed, the conversation flowed naturally. you talked about everything and nothing, your laughter a soothing balm to megumi's usually serious demeanor. the bustling café seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

when the food arrived, you eagerly shared your dessert with megumi, insisting he try a bite. he obliged, savoring the sweet taste and the way your eyes lit up when he complimented it. “this is good,” he admitted, causing you to grin triumphantly. “i told you so,” you replied, your voice filled with delight. as the day turned into evening, the group eventually decided it was time to head back. you clung to megumi's arm once more, your presence a comforting constant. megumi's mind was filled with a thousand thoughts, each one circling back to you.

and in that moment, he realized that having you by his side wasn't just something he tolerated. it was something he cherished. you were the warmth in his life, the light that made even the busiest streets of tokyo feel like home.

the touch of your hand intertwined with his began to stir something deep within him. the vibrant cityscape of tokyo seemed to blur into the background as he focused on the warmth that lingered between your fingers. it was in this quiet, intimate moment that a profound realization dawned upon him.

he recalled the countless times he had seen you with others—always reaching out, always seeking a connection. it wasn’t merely the physical closeness you sought; it was something far more significant. your gestures were not just idle habits; they were expressions of trust and comfort, woven into the fabric of your interactions.

but now, as he looked down at your hand nestled in his, the truth became unmistakable. since the first time he had encountered you, your warmth and openness had been evident, but with him, there was a different layer of you, how each layer you handed to him with an open heart. you had always clung to him with a special kind of trust, a quiet confidence that set him apart from everyone else.

a sudden wave of humility washed over megumi. the way you rested your hand in his, the way you leaned into his presence, spoke volumes about the depth of your feelings. it was clear now that you saw him as someone steadfast and reliable, someone worthy of your most genuine trust. this simple, yet profound connection was a testament to how much you valued him.

as he felt the gentle pressure of your fingers against his, megumi's heart swelled with a newfound understanding. the touch was more than a mere physical contact; it was an embodiment of the bond that had grown between you. he was the only person you had allowed to be this close, to hold your trust in such a profound way.

he squeezed your hand softly, a tender acknowledgment of the connection that had woven itself so seamlessly into their lives. It was a silent vow—a promise to cherish and honor the trust you had bestowed upon him. in that fleeting moment, as the city’s din faded into insignificance, megumi felt the weight of the trust you had given him and knew it was a precious gift he would hold close to his heart.

[prythianpages]

Goodnight | Azriel

summary: Azriel has a night time confession. The aftermath of me still having Billie Eilish's Birds of a Feather on repeat.

warnings: none, just fluff

word count: 943, short and sweet

a/n: I wrote this a couple of days ago and was hesitant to post bc I felt it was similar to my other Az fic but then decided, wth just post it. So here it is 💙

Shadows rustled among the trees, dancing and swirling, bringing forth a gentle but cool breeze. The tendrils remaining with Azriel curl up around his ear, whispering of the subtle shiver you gave. Without a word, Azriel shrugs his jacket and secures it around your shoulders.

“Oh,” you whisper, slightly startled by his gesture. “But aren’t you cold?”

“I’m fine,” he assures you with a small smile. He’s all too familiar with the chill permeating the air. 

There’s another breeze rustling through the canopy of trees. This time, it’s stronger and colder and some leaves fall, fluttering around you both. Azriel looks up with a glare but the glare is quickly replaced with something softer when the shadows around his neck whisper to him. They tell him of the way you wrapped his jacket around you tighter, a subtle blush rising as the new closeness of the fabric brought his scent to you.

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” you say, glancing up at Azriel. “Things were just getting interesting back there. You could still go back, you know.”

Azriel lets out a snort. “You mean Amren and her bathroom discussions? No, thank you.”

You laugh and Azriel smiles with you. He’s definitely not missing anything back home. Not when you, the greatest subject of his interests, are walking beside him. He noticed when your eyes began to grow weary and participation in the conversations grew less and less. He also noticed the mischievous glint in Cassian’s eyes as his friend glanced between you and him.

“Welcome to our world, tiny ancient one. Everyone poops! Anyway, you want to hear something funny? How about the time Azriel–” 

But much to Azriel’s relief, you had stood up with a small apologetic smile and politely dismissed yourself since you had an early shift the following morning. So, of course, Azriel had offered to walk you home, saving himself from the embarrassment that was sure to follow from Cassian’s words. He made sure to kick Cassian’s boot as he followed after you with a smug look on his face. He also made sure to bring his jacket along with him, noticing you had arrived without one.

So now, the two of you walked side by side. Granted, he could’ve used his shadows to winnow you to your doorstep in an instant. But that would mean cutting his precious time with you short and he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. The quiet night envelops you in its serene embrace and the silence that falls between you is comfortable yet charged with an unspoken tension that neither of you dare to break.

As you reach your door, Azriel’s mind races with thoughts he fears to voice. You turn to face him and Azriel fights the urge to frown. Why did you have to live so close? He sends a silent prayer to the stars above that you might forget about the jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, just so he’d have an excuse to see you again.

"Goodnight," you say softly, your voice like a melody he wished to hear every night, eyes still sparkling with the remnants of laughter from earlier. 

"Goodnight," Azriel replies, his heart pounding. Before he can stop himself, the words slip out so smoothly one would think it was a common occurrence between you both. “I love you."

You freeze, eyes widening in surprise and face contorting into a taken aback expression, trying to process what he just said. It’s then that it hits him as well. His own eyes widen in horror.  

"Um, sorry... I didn't mean to say that."

Your head tilts slightly in question, a gesture he finds absolutely endearing. He feels heat rise to his cheeks, his shadows slithering up his neck as if trying to offer him some comfort. "I mean, I meant it... but I didn't mean it, mean it... You know what I mean?"

Gods, he sounds like a fool. Years of meticulously concealed emotions, years of perfecting an unreadable facade, and now, of all times, he slips?

A sly smile plays at the corners of your lips. "Go home, Az,” you say, teasing and knowing. “And let me know when you mean it, mean it…”

With that, you gently close the door, leaving him standing there, his mind racing and his heart aching. Because what just happened? And what did you mean by that?

No. Azriel couldn’t leave it like that.

He knocks on your door, fist trembling lightly, his shadows whispering encouragement. When you open it, your face is a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He meets your eyes, apprehension and hope swirling together in his hazel depths. 

"I mean it, mean it," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, there is silence. 

Then, your smile softens, your eyes filled with understanding. You step closer, standing on your tip-toes to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Then, I love you too,” you whisper against his skin, your breath warm and sweet, stirring his shadows into a gentle frenzy.

Before you can pull away, Azriel turns his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that sends butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach. He savors the softness and taste of your lips, losing himself in the moment when you’re kissing him back with the same eagerness. He rests his forehead against yours as he pulls away, his shadows swirling between you much like the unspoken emotions between you do.

"Goodnight, Az," you whisper softly, your eyes holding sleep, yet shining with the promise of more conversations tomorrow.

“Goodnight, y/n.”

This time, as the door closes, Azriel feels a warmth in his chest, a genuine, unguarded smile spreading across his face.

a/n: I seem to be in the mood for accidental/in the moment confessions. Sorry 😭

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming 

[awearywritersworld]

the man who embraced wickedness and the woman he used to know

sukuna x reader summary: sukuna is reunited with the only person who ever showed him kindness w/c: 1.25k tags/warnings: heian era!sukuna. angst to fluff. fem!reader. me trying my best to channel an 1800s romance novelist a/n: part 2 to the boy spurned as evil and the girl of his youth. i am once again asking that people check out the artwork by @demonzaemon that inspired these two fics. they also made some artwork inspired by part one, which makes me scream and cry and yell bc it's so wonderful. masterlist

it isn't until nearly two decades after your last encounter that sukuna finally musters the courage to return to the riverside. as he listens to the rush of the water, he hates the way it makes him feel— like the scared, powerless boy he once was.

he won't get too close. instead he stands at the edge of the forest, as if he can hide from his past among the trees.

he decides he must be dreaming when he spots a woman approaching the river, because even though he can see little more than her silhouette, he has no doubt that it's you.

he'd know you anywhere, in this life and the next.

he has no idea how long he stands watching you before he finally gathers the nerve to take a step in your direction.

you look over your shoulder and meet his eye once he's only a few yards away.

the expression that crosses your features is not unlike the one you wore when you first saw him— an earnest sort of wonder.

"it's you," you state as if you've been waiting on him to appear.

"you... remember me?"

"how could i forget?"

you approach him without fear or apprehension, and having you so close after all this time makes his heart race uncomfortably in his chest.

"are you well?" he questions, his eyes trailing down your body before flicking back up to yours. "you look it."

a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, your gaze falling to the ground bashfully. you rock on the heels of your feet before answering.

"i am well enough... and what of you?"

he's not sure that he's being entirely truthful when he replies, "i can say the same, i suppose."

"it pleases me to hear that you have not been suffering all this time. i must admit, i find that my thoughts still wander to you with remarkable frequency."

you laugh lightly at your own confession, fearing he may regard you as strange for it. on the other hand, he's thinking about how the sound of your laughter is the most beautiful thing he's heard since... well, since he last heard it.

"it is not rare for you to occupy the space of my own mind," he returns honestly.

you grab one of his hands, turning his palm up and running your thumb over the faint scar you find there. he hates the way it makes your face fall.

"i am sorry about that night, for what my father did to you. it was my fault for falling asleep—"

"don't," he stops you. "the fault lies only with me. i shouldn't have let him steal you away. i shouldn't have been so utterly weak—"

it's your turn to interrupt him and you press the pads of your fingers to his mouth to keep him from saying anything more.

"that is the farthest thing from the truth. you didn't deserve that. you deserved not one bit of the cruelty the village mercilessly showed you. you were only a boy, sukuna."

when your fingers fall from his lips, he doesn't try to speak. he doesn't trust that his voice won't betray him.

he can't remember the last time he heard his name spoken so familiarly, so warmly. it makes his throat feel tight.

the silence gives you an opportunity to take in the ways in which he's changed over the years.

his kimono and haori are pristine, a far cry from the rags he used to wear.

his frame is more than double the size of your own, and you know he's no longer living on scraps.

he stands tall, his posture straight and self assured, not that of someone who is feeble and frightened.

but you're not referring to any of those things when you point out, "you're different now."

and of course you're right, he just doesn't know how to tell you that the boy you used to spend your days with is gone. that the blood on his hands is no longer his own. that the person standing before you is nothing more than the monster the villagers always claimed him to be.

so he just nods in agreement and your eyes sparkle as you regard him with curiosity.

"i loved you, you know," you tell him sincerely.

your confession is painful to hear, because it reminds him of everything he lost that night.

"i could love you now, too." you reach up and caress his cheek, trying desperately to read the expression he's wearing. "if you'll let me."

for a moment, you think he might agree to your offer, but your hope is short lived.

"this... this was a mistake."

he turns to leave, intending to retreat to the shadows of the forest, but a small hand wraps around his wrist.

"no." your tone is forceful.

if only you knew what happens to most people who dare speak that word in his presence.

he doesn't say anything, so you add, "the only mistake you've made is waiting so long to come back to me."

he's surprised upon seeing the frustrated tears that well up in your eyes.

"we are but strangers to one another." his reminder stings and it shows plainly on your face. "and that is for the best, i assure you. you don't want to know me— to know the things i've done."

"i care not what you've done!" your voice is so loud, it sends a flock of birds fleeing from a nearby tree. "i care not what horrors loneliness may have driven you toward, because when we belonged to one another you were good. you were kind. you were—"

"stop." each of your words is like a knife in his chest, and his voice cracks from the ache of it.

"i will not! if your only intention was to reject me, why come here at all?"

"i don't know—"

"precisely! you want me, just as i want you. my devotion is yours, sukuna! there is no reason for you to reject that which i willingly give—"

"enough!" he barks at you, grabbing you roughly by the shoulders. you don't shy away from him, even in spite of the way his fingers dig into your flesh and his nose flares angrily.

"you believe that because you showed me a sliver of kindness when we were children that i should throw myself at your feet? your devotion means nothing to me! it does little more than inspire my disgust!"

the words taste like poison on his tongue, but he needs you to believe them.

he needs to believe them himself.

he pushes you away, and while it's not harshly enough to send your body flying to the grass, it does make you stumble backwards.

ire burns in your eyes and he thinks he's succeeded in his endeavor, but once he turns to leave, you're grabbing his wrist again and launching yourself against him.

your hands find his face and you pull his lips to yours despairingly. your bodies move together as if you've spent a lifetime in one another's arms.

then, he's pulling away from you. he's calling you a pathetic fool. he's looking at you with animosity.

but just as quickly, his lips find yours again and he grabs at the fabric of your kimono in an attempt to bring your body closer to his own.

you swear his hands tremble as they find a home on the curve of your hips.

once your lips part, he holds your gaze for what feels like an eternity.

resignation seems to dance across his features, but there's something else there too. desire? hope? longing?

you really can't say for certain.

"i am yours, and you are mine."

you're not sure if it's a question or a statement, so you offer him a slight nod of your head. "today and always."

[thewulf]

Entwined Realms || Legolas

Summary: Request: So I thought about this idea with Legolas x reader where the reader is the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn (which makes her princess of Lothlorien and a very high elf) and she is nervous because its commonly known that Galadriel and Thranduil dont like each other (she is still his superior but you get the point) and the reader and Legolas have a dinner or some council or something together with their parents.

A/N: This was one of my favs to write. Just love everything LOTR... please keep them coming! Thank you for the request @lillisummers

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.1k +

TW: Talks of war/death

In the timeless realm of Lothlórien, you, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, walked among the golden trees with a heavy heart filled with the weight of ancient grudges. It had been many years since you last tread upon these familiar paths, for you had spent much of your time in Rivendell, aiding in the healing of those who bore the scars of war.

As a princess of the high elves, you bore the burden of your lineage with grace. Yet the tension between your mother and Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, weighed heavily upon you. The animosity between them was no secret, and you often found yourself caught in the midst of their disagreements. You were torn between loyalty to your mother and the desire for unity among your people after the war of the ring. Your return to Lothlórien had been sudden, called back by your father during the darkest days of the war. The news of battles raging across middle earth had filled you with dread. Yet, you knew that your place was by your family's side, lending whatever aid you could in the struggle against the darkness.

Despite the discord that lingered between your realms you held onto hope, believing in the power of unity to overcome adversity. The memories of Celebrian's capture and torture haunted you still. She drove your determination to see an end to the suffering that had plagued your people for so long.

As you walked beneath the golden canopy of the trees, you found solace in the familiar sights and sounds of Lothlórien. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the branches. They spoke to you of peace and beauty, reminding you of all that was worth fighting for in this world. Your steps carried you towards a familiar spot. The quiet glade where the gravestones of those fallen in battle lay. The air was hushed. The only sound was the soft whisper of leaves and the gentle trickle of water from the nearby streams.

Stopping by the gravestones, you traced your fingers over each weathered stone, feeling the weight of loss settle upon your heart. Here, beneath the earth, lay the brave souls who had given their lives in service of a greater cause. A cause that you had fought for alongside them. Your thoughts turned to Haldir, the gallant Marchwarden who had stood by your side in the darkest of times. His laughter, his kindness, his unwavering loyalty… they were memories that you held dear, memories that would live on long after he had passed from this world. At one point you were convinced you would marry him but that was before he was taken so suddenly from you.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself a moment of silence. A moment to remember those who had been taken from you too soon. Their faces flashed before your eyes, friends, fighters, and loved ones alike. Each one leaving behind an indelible mark upon your soul. And yet, amidst the sorrow, there was also hope. Hope for a future where their sacrifices would not be in vain. Where the darkness would be banished for good and the light would shine so brightly once more. With a silent prayer upon your lips, you vowed to carry their memory with you always, to honor their legacy in all that you did.

As you stood amidst the gravestones, lost in memories and reflections, a soft voice broke through the silence. She was calling your name. You turned to see your mother, Galadriel, approaching with a gentle smile upon her lips. Her eyes, always so wise and knowing, held a depth of understanding that eased the ache in your heart.

"Y/n," she said, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, "I have been searching for you. It is good to see you home again. You look well my love."

You returned her smile, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort wash over you at the sight of her familiar face. "It is good to be home, Mother," you replied, stepping forward to embrace her.

Galadriel held you close, tight. Her arms a reassuring embrace amidst the turmoil of emotions swirling within you. "You have been missed, my dear," she said softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

As you pulled away, Galadriel's gaze softened. Her eyes filled with a mixture of pride and affection. "There is much to discuss," she said, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "But first, I have news that I believe will bring you much joy."

Curiosity piqued, you listened as Galadriel spoke of the upcoming marriage between your niece, Arwen, and Aragorn, the King of Gondor. The news filled you with a sense of anticipation, the prospect of a wedding bringing a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that had shrouded middle earth for so long. "I would be honored to attend," you said. Your heart swelling with love for your family and excitement for the joyous occasion to come.

Galadriel smiled, her eyes sparkling with pride. "I had no doubt that you would," she said, her voice tinged with warmth. "Come, let us return to Caras Galadhon and begin preparations. There is much to do, and little time to waste." She motioned you to follow her.

With a nod of agreement, you fell into step beside your mother. It felt as though the weight of grief and loss lightened by the promise of love and celebration on the horizon. As you walked the golden light of Lothlórien illuminated your path guiding you towards a future filled with possibility.

Too quickly the day of celebration arrived. The grand halls of Minas Tirith were adorned with banners and flowers, filling the air with a sense of festivity and anticipation. You, dressed in your finest elven attire, mingled with the guests. Your heart was aflutter with excitement and nerves for your niece and the King of Gondor. Amidst the bustling crowd, your eyes scanned the faces of those gathered taking in the sight of strangers and acquaintances alike. And then your gaze met that of a mysterious elven stranger across the ornate courtyard who you did not recognize.

His eyes were a captivating shade of blue. They held a warmth and kindness that drew you in, sending a shiver down your spine. For a brief moment it felt as though the world around you had faded away leaving only you and this enigmatic stranger in a universe of your own making. But as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. Broken by the sound of laughter and music drifting through the air you tore your gaze away. Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of curiosity and excitement, heart racing with the memory of that brief but electrifying encounter.

Though you knew not who he was, nor what fate had in store for you. You couldn't shake the feeling that this chance meeting was somehow significant. And as you allowed yourself to be swept away by the joyous festivities you couldn't help but wonder about the identity of the mysterious elven stranger who had captured your attention with a single glance.

As the celebration unfolded you found yourself standing beside Arwen, basking in the glow of her happiness as she greeted guests and well-wishers. The air was filled with laughter and music. The joyous atmosphere infectious as people celebrated the union of Arwen and Aragorn. But amidst the revelry your attention kept drifting back to the beautiful blonde elf who had caught your eye earlier. He stood amidst a group of guests, his presence commanding and his gaze holding a quiet intensity that seemed to draw you in.

Unable to contain your curiosity any longer you turned to Arwen with a hint of nervousness in your voice. "Arwen," you began, pointing subtly towards the mysterious elf, "who is that?"

Arwen followed your gaze, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she noticed your interest in the stranger. "Ah, him," she said, her tone tinged with mystery. "That is Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood."

Legolas. The name echoed in your mind. Though you knew little about him there was something about the way he carried himself, the way his eyes seemed to hold a thousand untold stories that intrigued you beyond measure. As Arwen spoke of Legolas' exploits and noble deeds you found yourself captivated by the tales of his courage and valor. And though you knew it was foolish to be so taken with a stranger, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to him. Something that called to you on a level you couldn't quite understand.

With a grateful smile you thanked Arwen for indulging your curiosity. Though your mind was already consumed with thoughts of the mysterious Prince of Mirkwood. And as you turned your attention back to the festivities you couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of the captivating blonde elf who had captured your attention with a single glance.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere grew more relaxed. You found yourself drawn into the lively conversations and laughter that filled the air.

As if he had known your every thought, he had come right up to you. A charming smile playing on his lips as he offered you a goblet of wine. "Care for some wine, my lady?" he asked, his voice smooth and all too inviting.

Grateful for the distraction you accepted the goblet with a smile, the cool liquid soothing the nerves that had been fluttering in your stomach. "Thank you," you replied, taking a sip and relishing the taste of the rich, fruity wine.

As you savored the wine, Legolas took a seat beside you. His eyes alight with curiosity as he extended his hand in introduction. "I am Legolas," he said, his tone warm and genuine. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

You felt a rush of excitement at the sound of his name, "And I am Y/n," you replied, your voice betraying a hint of nervousness that you quickly tried to mask.

Legolas smiled warmly at you, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he raised his own goblet in a silent toast. "Well then, Y/n, here's to new acquaintances and delightful conversations," he spoke.

As the evening progressed, you found yourself drawn into conversation with Legolas. His easy charm and quick wit putting you at ease. Despite your initial nervousness you soon found yourself laughing and chatting with him as if you had known each other for years. With each passing moment you felt yourself growing more and more enchanted by Legolas. His presence filling you with a sense of warmth and belonging that you hadn't felt in a long time. Not since before your sister had set sail. And as you shared stories and laughter with the captivating Prince of Mirkwood you couldn't help but wonder what adventures lay in store for you both in the days to come.

When the topic turned to your family, you couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension, unsure of how he would react upon learning the truth. "Your parents must be proud of you," Legolas remarked, his voice sincere as he glanced around at the grandeur of Minas Tirith. "To have a daughter as kind and courageous as you."

You smiled, touched by his words. Though a part of you hesitated to reveal your true lineage. "Thank you, Legolas," you replied, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "My parents... they are indeed proud, though our family is not without its complexities."

Legolas cocked his head with curiosity shining bright in his eyes. "Complexities?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for his reaction. "My parents are Celeborn and Galadriel," you confessed, watching closely for any sign of recognition or judgment in his expression.

To your surprise, Legolas' eyes widened in genuine surprise, his gaze softening with understanding. "Galadriel," he murmured, a hint of awe in his voice. "The Lady of Light herself. And Celeborn, the Lord of Lothlórien."

You nodded, relieved by his reaction. "Yes, though our family is not without its challenges," you admitted, your voice growing quiet. "There are... tensions between my parents and certain others in Middle-earth." You knew he knew, and he knew you knew. The two of you were dancing around your parents disdain for the other.

Legolas' expression grew somber. A shadow passing over his features. "I understand," he said, his tone tinged with empathy. "My own father, Thranduil, can be... difficult at times."

You felt a surge of empathy for Legolas knowing all too well the challenges that could arise from strained familial relationships. "It seems we are not so different after all," you said. A small smile playing at your lips.

Legolas returned your smile, his eyes warm and understanding. "Indeed," he said, his voice gentle. "But perhaps together, we can find a way to bridge the divide between our families."

Touched by his sincerity you could only keep grinning at him like a fool. "I would like that, Legolas," you replied. Your heart swelled with gratitude for the bond that was beginning to form between you.

As the night wore on into the wee hours of the morning you and Legolas found yourselves drawn deeper into each other's company. The hours quickly slipping away unnoticed as you laughed and talked beneath the starlit sky. The connection between you grew stronger with each passing moment. A bond of friendship and understanding blossoming into something deeper and more profound. Unfortunately, the celebration began to wind down. You found yourselves reluctant to part ways. The prospect of saying goodbye filling you with a sense of melancholy. "Perhaps we could extend our stay in Minas Tirith," Legolas suggested, his voice tinged with a hint of worry as if you wouldn’t accept. "There is still so much more to see and do. I have not seen this city without war disparaging it."

You nodded eagerly, the idea of spending more time with Legolas filling you with a sense of joy and excitement. "I would like that very much," you replied, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "There is still so much more we have yet to see. You distracted me tonight."

And so, you and Legolas remained in Minas Tirith for longer than planned, seizing every opportunity to steal away moments alone together amidst the hustle and bustle of the city. Whether wandering the streets hand in hand or sharing quiet conversations in secluded corners. Each moment spent in Legolas' company felt like a precious treasure, a memory to be cherished for eternity.

As your extended stay in Minis Tirith came to an end the bond between you and Legolas deepened further than you could have imagined. Your hearts intertwining in a dance as old as time itself. One evening beneath the stars after your going away dinner the two of you sat together in the quiet solitude of the gardens, surrounded by the scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of crickets. The words you had been longing to say spilled forth from your lips.

"Legolas," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "there is something I must confess to you." It truly was now or never for you did not know the next time you would see the elf that had captured your heart so quickly.

Legolas turned to you, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Yes, Y/n?" he replied, his voice soft and reassuring.

"I know this is quick,” you began, your voice soft and hesitant, "And we tend to do this slow, but I must admit... I really like you. More than a friend would."

You glanced away, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as you awaited his response. But when you dared to meet his gaze once more you found Legolas looking at you with a tender smile. His eyes filled with a warmth that mirrored your own feelings.

"Y/n," he said softly, reaching out to gently take your face in his hand, "your honesty means the world to me. I too have come to care for you deeply as well. As more than a friend would."

Your heart soared at his words. A sense of joy flooding through you at the knowledge that your feelings were reciprocated. And as you sat together in the quiet beauty of the gardens you knew that your bond with Legolas was something truly special. It was the beginning of a love story that was just beginning to unfold.

You didn’t want the night to end so you kept your wandering through the gardens. "Legolas," you began, your voice tinged with concern, "what do you think about... our families?"

Legolas glanced at you. His gaze thoughtful. "Ah, our esteemed parents," he replied with a wry smile. "Stubborn as ancient oaks and twice as difficult to move."

You couldn't help but laugh at his analogy, feeling a sense of relief at his lighthearted approach to the situation. "Yes, that's one way to put it," you agreed. A smile playing at the corners of your lips.

"But," Legolas continued, his tone turning more serious, "I believe they will come around in time. After all, love has a way of softening even the hardest of hearts."

You nodded feeling a flicker of hope kindling within you. "I hope you're right," you replied, leaning closer to him. "I just want them to see... how much we care for each other."

Legolas placed a comforting arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer to him. "They will, Y/n," he said softly, his voice filled with quiet confidence. "And until then, we'll just have to prove them wrong together."

As your time in Minas Tirith drew to a close, you couldn't shake the feeling that it was time for your parents and Legolas to meet. Despite the tension between your families, you were determined to show them that love knew no bounds, and that their differences could be set aside in the name of happiness.

On the morning that both of you were to depart you knew what you had to do. "Legolas," you began. Your voice tinged with nervousness, "I know it's unconventional, but... what if you and your father were to visit Lothlórien?"

Legolas blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by your suggestion. "Visit Lothlórien?" he echoed, his brow furrowing in thought. "It's an... intriguing idea, Y/n, but I'm not sure how my father would feel about it."

You nodded, understanding Legolas' reservations. "I know it's a risk," you admitted, "but I believe that if he could experience the beauty and hospitality of Lothlórien for himself, he might begin to understand... and perhaps even appreciate our way of life."

Legolas considered your words for a moment before a smile spread across his face. "You may be right, Y/n," he said, his eyes alight with excitement. "Let's extend the invitation to my father and see what he says."

With a renewed sense of hope, you and Legolas set about preparing for Thranduil's visit to Lothlórien. You knew it wouldn't be easy, but you were determined to show both him and your parents that love could conquer even the deepest of divides. And so, with hearts full of anticipation and determination, you bid farewell to Minas Tirith. You knew that a new chapter of your journey was about to begin.

As Legolas and an initially reluctant Thranduil arrived in Lothlórien, the tension between them was palpable. Thranduil's expression was stoic and reserved, while Legolas wore a strained smile who was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. You greeted them warmly, hoping to ease the atmosphere, but even your efforts seemed to fall flat in the face of the lingering animosity between your parents. The initial interactions were awkward only filled with polite but strained conversation and forced smiles.

But as the evening progressed and the wine flowed freely the atmosphere began to shift. Your parents, Thranduil, and Legolas found themselves gradually relaxing in each other's company. The rigid barriers between them slowly melting away under the influence of hope after the war and shared experiences. You watched with a mixture of joy and relief as the tension dissipated, replaced by laughter and genuine conversation. Thranduil who had initially been so guarded found himself opening up. He began to share stories and jokes with Celeborn and Galadriel as if they were old friends.

And Legolas, too, seemed to come alive in the warmth of his father’s acceptance. His smile growing more genuine with each passing moment. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders finally allowing him to truly be himself in their presence. He chuckled at one of Thranduil's jokes and clinked glasses with Celeborn, a genuine smile gracing his features.

In the midst of the conversation Legolas turned to you, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Meleth nin," he said softly, his voice filled with utmost warmth.

As Legolas inadvertently uttered the Elvish endearment, my love, the words hung in the air laden with the weight of unspoken emotions. Your heart skipped a beat at his slip-up, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement coursing through you.

"Really?" you exclaimed. Your eyes widened with surprise and utmost delight. For a moment you almost forgot that your parents and Legolas' father were present too caught up in the rush of emotion that swept over you.

Legolas blinked, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he realized what he had said in front of the parents. "I... uh, I mean..." he stammered, clearly flustered by your reaction.

But before he could finish, Thranduil let out a soft chuckle. The elvenking’s eyes twinkling with amusement. "It seems our children are more than just friends," he remarked to your parents. His tone surprisingly light-hearted.

You turned to your parents with a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I guess we should have mentioned that sooner," you admitted feeling a surge of relief as you saw their understanding smiles.

Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged knowing glances before Celeborn spoke up. "Love has a way of revealing itself in unexpected ways," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "We are happy for you both."

Thranduil let out a small chuckle. His eyes crinkling with amusement. "Young love," he said before shaking his head in mock exasperation. "It seems like only yesterday that Legolas was just a boy chasing after butterflies in the woods."

Legolas rolled his eyes playfully at his father's comment. "I assure you, Ada, I have grown up a bit since then," he spoke. His tone teasing but affectionate.

Celeborn chuckled softly his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Indeed," he agreed, his voice warm. "But some things never change." He motioned to you with a knowing grin.

And as the tension melted away completely, replaced by laughter, and shared understanding, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unwavering support of your parents. With their blessing and acceptance, you and Legolas knew that your love story was only just beginning. You were finally destined to have a beautiful and unforgettable journey filled with laughter, joy, and the sweet promise of a future together. You had waited a long time for this. A very long time.

As the night grew deeper and the fire crackled softly, you and Legolas found yourselves immersed in a comfortable silence. The two of you basking in the warmth of each other's presence. Legolas turned to you with a playful glint in his eyes, taking your hand in his. "Well, my dear, it seems the hour grows late," he remarked, his voice soft and warm.

You nodded feeling a surge of affection for the elf beside you. "Yes, it does," you replied, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

With a gentle tug on your hand Legolas rose to his feet pulling you up with him. "Allow me to escort you to your room," he said. His voice filled with gentle sincerity.

You followed him, the touch of his hand sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. As you reached your door, Legolas turned to you. His eyes sparkling with mischief. "Until next time, meleth nin," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before turning to leave.

A faint blush coated your cheeks at his actions. “Until next time, meleth nin.” You repeated. You watched him go with a smile playing at your lips as you realized that no matter what adventures lay ahead, you would face them with him. Oh, what a life.

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[starmocha]

Bride of the Dragon King :: Prelude

[Sylus/Reader ★ 465 words  ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Tonight, the wine tasted so sweet. A/N: I yapped on my tumblr about how I wanted a dragon!Sylus AU…so I willed it into existence. 😊 This is the prelude to a technically 3-part story. The main story will be a 20K+ word one-shot, so I feel justified in a shorter intro. I am still finalizing the main story, so I want to give people time to read the prelude first. While the prelude is SFW, the main story and epilogue will contain explicit adult themes, so it's best for MDNI. Influenced to varying degree by the Vietnamese origin myth, Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ, and the C-drama, Miss the Dragon…and probably a whole slew of other period C-dramas I watched in the past. Recommended Playlist Love and Deepspace - Wander In Wonder Shuang Sheng - 流转莹回 ☆ I can do a tag list for the main story once it's up. Just let me know in the replies, and I'll keep a list handy. ☆

Distantly, in the Celestial Realm where the immortals resided, the vast kingdom of the Dragon King was shrouded in nighttime for all of eternity, stuck within an eternal spring. Pink petals from the ever-blooming flowers of the magnolia trees were carried away in the warm breeze across the palace courtyard.

Sylus, the Dragon King, lazed under a grand magnolia tree with red blossoms overlooking a large koi pond, his solemn gaze lingering on the reflection of the full moon in the still water. He poured wine from a crimson porcelain bottle into the matching cup, and he took a swig of his drink, sighing.

The moon is lovely tonight… he thought, The wine tastes so sweet…

Red magnolia blossoms drifted down from the tree, landing in the water and startling the fish beneath, the immediate ripples distorted the reflection of the moon. Sylus kept his own crimson eyes on the floating flowers.

Little Snake, this is not much, but you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you would like!

He huffed in amusement, eyes drifting to a different flower.

You are so shameless. How can you ask a maiden to bathe with you?

He poured another drink, chuckling, but there was little joy in his laughter.

You are not allowed to get hurt! …Promise me you won’t get hurt again...

His cup lingered at his lips momentarily, a look of guilt flashed across his features before he tossed the drink back, sighing heavily.

Sylus…I don’t want you to leave…

He leaned back against the tree, eyes wandering to the moon. On the ground next to him was a necklace, its pendant pure gold with a jade border. Engraved on one side was the image of a dragon with wisps of cloud beneath it. When Sylus picked it up, his fingers caressed the other side, tracing the characters that formed the word, “Beloved.”

Another flower drifted into the pond, spinning slowly before it floated away.

…Who are you?

He closed his eyes, his hand tightening into a fist around the pendant as he made his decision.

He was going to rewrite their story. The red thread that tethered them together was going to unravel and lead her back to him.

All of it was going to be undone, and a new ending was going to replace all of the tragedies that were and were to be.

For her…

Heaven and Hell were going to bend to his will, he vowed.

For us…

As Sylus finished the wine, a white mist enveloped him, swirling before scattering and leaving nothing in its place beneath this red magnolia tree. In the night sky, among the millions of stars, a white dragon flew away, his scales shimmered in the moonlight before he disappeared into the horizon.

[leejenowrld]

‘love me back?’ — three

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 33.3k words 

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

synopsis — you and mark deepen your secret relationship, becoming exclusive while navigating tensions with jeno and his father. however, the secrecy of your romance is threatened by intense basketball games, dramatic party revelations, and escalating conflicts among your friends, risking the exposure of your intimate world with mark.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit themes, so much smut this chapter! reader cockwarms mark as he tries to concentrate on his work, plenty of riding and bouncing on his cock throughout the chapter. nipple sucking, photography sex, mark takes nude photos of her for one of her ‘projects,’ lots of body praise and affection from him, they both switch around with being dominant/submissive, super rough sex, dirty talk, name-calling such as ‘daddy’ and ‘good girl,’ and big cock mark like always, size worship, elements of jealousy and possessiveness, pussy, cheek and ass slapping, spitting, sucking on fingers, manhandling, power play. car sex, semi-public setting with rain pouring outside, reader riding mark’s cock, desperate bouncing and grinding in tight, confined space, dirty talk, “i’m all yours,” “you’re all mine,” possessiveness and dominance from mark, rough hands guiding hips, controlling pace, intense eye contact during intimate moments, jeno and reader sweet moments, mark and yn aren’t good at keeping secrets, karina and yn bestie moments, mark and jeno get a lot closer, they start considering themselves as actual brothers, tense basketball matches like always, karina is stressed about the cheer team, donghyuck is a cheer maste, boys got moves, jeno and mark brother moments, massive fights break out after the game, yeonjun is a dick, you will meet mark’s mom and his uncle!!! they’re the best, cute family scenes, yn feels apart of the family, mark and yn actually communicate healthily, have personal and deep chats, mark opens up about his upbringing, about his family, mark gets emotional :(, he takes her to the river court!! they have even more personal convos, open their hearts up, but shit will go down at a party!! that’s all i’m gonna tell you hehe enjoy 

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX

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It’s been a few weeks since you and Mark started seeing each other, and things between you two have escalated quickly. Every day, almost without fail, you find yourselves tangled in sheets, having a lot of sex—so much, it’s nearly every day. But it isn’t just about lust; you’ve formed a deep, gratifying connection that’s bloomed remarkably quickly. You can’t remember another time in your life filled with so much laughter, or when you’ve felt this intensely satisfied both sexually and emotionally.

With Mark, it’s not only the sex that’s addictive; it’s also the depth of your conversations and the quality time spent together that deepens your connection. His presence is compelling—drawing you in irresistibly. It’s not just his body that you crave but also his mind and the genuine intimacy that you share.

Being around him means constantly craving his touch and his attention. He makes you feel desired, seen, and cherished. The rapid progression of your relationship feels completely natural, as if everything in your life had been leading up to this connection. Every kiss, every orgasm, every whispered secret not only intensifies your physical connection but binds your emotions closer, turning what could have been just a fling into something profound and all-consuming.

You’ve been spending a lot of time in Mark’s room lately, and it feels more like home every day. The walls are adorned with soft, muted tones that reflect his calm demeanor, a stark contrast to the vibrant life he leads. Around the room, carefully chosen photographs hang in a curated display—snapshots of him with friends at the river court, heartwarming pictures with his mother and uncle who have shaped much of who he is today. Each image tells a story of love and support, echoing the warmth of his personality.

The room also houses eclectic art pieces that speak to his varied interests, from abstract paintings to a sleek, modern sculpture that catches the light from the window. In one corner rests his guitar, a constant in his life, its wood gleaming softly under the room’s ambient lighting.

Nearby, his desk is a testament to his multifaceted life: cluttered yet organized, with stacks of music sheets and textbooks balanced precariously next to a high-powered laptop and mixing equipment. The desktop is littered with little personal touches—guitar picks, a worn notebook open on a half-written song, and a coffee mug from a concert he never stops talking about.

As you glance over at Mark, working intently on a music composition, you can’t help but admire how effortlessly handsome he looks in his natural habitat. His ash brown hair falls just slightly over his forehead, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he pores over his work. The soft lighting of the room highlights the swell of his cheekbones and the focus etched into his features. His lips, plump and slightly reddened from your earlier kisses—and from going down on you—are parted as he hums a melody under his breath. He wears his headphones like a crown, lost in the world he creates with every note.

Currently, you’re nestled against him, straddling his lap—more precisely, cockwarming him while he works. The sensation of his cock, thick and warm inside you, sends faint pulses of arousal through you. The heat radiating from his body blends with your own, making every inch of your skin hypersensitive, intensifying the connection that makes the rest of the room fade into insignificance.

“Stop moving,” Mark’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and commanding. The tone alone sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s the distraction in his eyes, glued to his laptop, that fuels your defiance. You shift slightly, testing his limits, and feel the subtle press of his cock, the angle changing just enough to make you clench around him involuntarily.

“I’m so still, it’s you,” you respond, teasing him with a playful lie. Truthfully, you were both moving, his hips subtly meeting yours in small, almost imperceptible thrusts.

He hisses, the faintest sound of his restraint breaking. “Behave,” he warns, his voice low, gravelly with irritation and something deeper. But you can’t help it—he’s buried so deeply, stretching you so perfectly that the need to move, to do anything but sit still, is consuming.

“I am behaving,” you murmur with a coy smile, rolling your hips slightly, just enough to make him twitch inside you. “If anything, you’re the one moving.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking to yours, dark and heated despite the glare of his laptop screen. “You’re testing me,” he mutters, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips before he quickly hides it. The challenge in his voice stokes your defiance, and you shift again, this time slower, more deliberate. The reaction is immediate—his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he growls, but the flicker of fire in his tone betrays his resolve. The sharp edge of his voice sends a thrill through you, making you bite your lip to keep from moaning outright.

When you attempt to slide off him in mock frustration, his hands snap to your hips, holding you firmly in place. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, his tone deceptively calm, laced with an unmistakable possessiveness. The way he pulls you down again, seating you fully on his cock, makes you gasp, your walls clenching involuntarily around him.

He leaves no room for doubt—he wants you exactly where you are, seated on him, his warmth enveloping you. He finally turns to face you, a defeated yet tender look in his eyes that softens when you giggle. Smiling back, he leans in for a kiss, a gentle sigh escaping him as he closes his laptop and sets his headphones aside, surrendering to the moment.

The kiss deepens, his lips soft against yours, tasting faintly sweet. His hands roam from your hips to your thighs, the touch both soothing and stimulating, urging you to move. You begin to bounce, initially slow but picking up pace, the motion seamless and increasingly desperate. Moans spill into his mouth, muffled by the kiss, as the room fills with the sound of your escalating breaths and the subtle squelch of intimacy.

“Keep going, just like that,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and husky. Each word is a vibration that drives you wilder. Your movements become less restrained, more fervent. The pace is relentless now; you’re riding him hard, each bounce drawing a deeper groan from his throat.

The sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room—your shallow breaths, the soft slap of skin meeting skin, and the faint creak of the chair beneath you. Mark’s hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your back, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can trail kisses down your neck. His control is slipping, and you can feel it in the way his hips start to meet your movements, thrusting up to meet you halfway.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your movements grow frantic. The chair is too small, the space too tight, but none of it matters. All you can focus on is his cock filling you completely, how every thrust sends a ripple of pleasure through your body.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you lift your gaze to meet his—intense, filled with raw desire. It’s too much and yet exactly what you need. He grips your thighs tighter, urging you on, faster, harder. The sound of your bodies coming together punctuates the air, a lewd, satisfying slap that echoes off the walls.

Leaning away from his fervent kisses, you murmur breathlessly, “Bed.” Despite the heat between you, fatigue begins to seep into your muscles, exacerbated by the confined space. His hands on your back offer support, his words encouraging, yet the allure of a larger, more accommodating space is undeniable. Your voice is a quiet whisper and it breaks slowly. “Please, I need you in me properly.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you across the room to the sprawling comfort of his bed. As he lowers you onto the soft mattress, the change in setting reinvigorates you. You resume your rhythm, now with more vigor, bouncing passionately on him. Each movement causes your breasts to sway enticingly, capturing his attention immediately. He leans in, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking with a fervor that sends ripples of pleasure through your body. The needy sound of your combined moans fills the room, the sexual energy palpable.

“I can’t get any work done for my uni project that’s literally due tomorrow,” you gasp out between bounces, “you keep distracting me with sex.” Each word is punctuated by the rhythm of your bodies meeting.

“And what about you?” he retorts with a groan, his hands gripping your hips to meet your every move. “I ask you to sit still while I work, not bounce on it.” His playful complaint is laced with arousal, emphasizing how much you distract him as well.

He shakes his head and chuckles, changing the subject, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. “What’s your project about? Maybe I can help, though you really should have gotten it done earlier,” he teases, his voice light yet hinting at a genuine offer of assistance.

You slow your movements, catching your breath as you explain, “Professor Jeong asked us to capture things that we find beautiful and physically stunning,” you say, the topic steering your mind momentarily from the carnal to the cerebral. “It’s about the correlation between visual beauty and emotional well-being—how art impacts our happiness and mood.” You’re tasked with compiling this into an A3 page, presenting it effectively and thoughtfully.

Suddenly, inspired by your words and perhaps the visual before him, Mark reaches for the camera positioned on his nightstand. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he starts snapping photos of you in your most uninhibited state. The camera clicks rhythmically, capturing every flush of your skin, every bead of sweat, and the raw, unfiltered desire in your eyes. His gaze, intense and focused, drinks in every detail as he shoots, clearly turned on by the sight of you—powerful, beautiful, and utterly entrancing.

“Mark?” you murmur, your voice catching slightly as you hear the soft click of the camera. You feel exposed, suddenly shy, and instinctively, your hands fly up to shield your eyes.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone firm, carrying a quiet authority that makes you immediately drop your hands. There’s something irresistibly commanding about the way he says your name. You can’t help but comply, and it thrills you. His dominant demeanor, the way he takes control in these moments, is incredibly arousing. You’ve given him the reins in the bedroom, and every session leaves you deeply satisfied, the pleasure almost overwhelming.

The room is charged with an electric tension as you approach the climax. His eyes never leave you, capturing every flush and gasp as you ride him, the camera documenting every moment. You feel him close to the edge, his movements becoming more urgent under you.

Then, the release comes. It’s intense, leaving both of you breathless and spent. You collapse beside him, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heart pounding in his chest as he flips through the digital images he captured.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs almost reverently as he reviews the photos. The breath catches in your throat when he hands you the prints, the images stark and raw in their honesty. One captures you in full motion, riding him, your eyes fierce with determination and pleasure, hands pressed flat against his chest, lips parted in a silent moan. Another shows you when fatigue began to edge in, your expression one of blissful exhaustion, a sheen of sweat highlighting your features. The third is a close-up of your breasts, buoyant and full, the image erotic and powerful.

“I can’t believe I look like this when I’m fucking you,” you say, your voice a mix of awe and embarrassment as you survey the photos.

He responds with a soft kiss on your lips. “You can see how beautiful you look, hm?”

Your cheeks flush with warmth, and you quickly shift the topic, though his intense gaze makes your heart race. “Mark, I don’t know how I’m gonna use my nudity for a university project. What if Professor Jeong sees.”

He chuckles, his eyes still glued to the photos. “I mean, Professor Jeong is sexy,” you add playfully.

“I’m sexier,” he counters smoothly, his smirk evident in his voice as he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Plus, it’s not for him or anyone else, it’s for me. All mine,” he whispers huskily, his words sending shivers down your spine. The possessive intensity in his gaze as he scans your body and face makes your heart thump louder. The idea that these images are his, that this moment is just for him, ignites something wild within you.

“Do you actually like those? Are you gonna keep them?” you ask, curiosity in your tone.

He nods enthusiastically. “If you’ll let me,” he asks sweetly, his eyes widening with a plea, and he grins triumphantly when you nod in agreement. He draws even closer, resting his forehead against yours, his lips meeting yours in a soft, earnest kiss before he murmurs, “And of course, I like them. You’re absolutely breathtaking,” he continues, his voice deep and stirring. The intensity of his stare and the richness of his tone fill you with a fluttering nervousness, making it hard for you to maintain eye contact.

“I’m not really the photogenic type,” you joke half-heartedly, trying to brush off the compliment.

“That’s not true, and you know it,” he scoffs, his look of reassurance mixed with a gentle challenge, pushing back against your self-doubt.

You sigh and respond with another kiss, this one quickly flaring into a heated exchange. His hands roam over your body, each touch sparking electricity across your skin. His lips press urgently against yours, his movements poised and ready. He positions himself at your entrance, and you feel the head of his cock teasing you, testing the waters. It takes several tries as you adjust to his size, each attempt leaving you feeling more exposed and vulnerable yet increasingly desperate for the fullness he promises.

Finally, after a few deep breaths and some coaxing, you manage to relax enough for him to slide in, stretching you deliciously. “Good girl,” he growls approvingly, as you start to synchronize your movements. His thrusts are deep, powerful, unrelenting. Each plunge sends a ripple through your body, his pace rough and determined. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, alongside your intertwined moans and gasps for air. “Just like that,” he pants, his voice husky with desire. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you to meet each of his punishing thrusts, ensuring you feel every inch as he drives deeper, stretching you to accommodate him fully.

“Capture something you find beautiful,” he murmurs almost to himself, the camera back in his hands, snapping photos of you in your blissful abandon. He focuses on capturing the intensity of your expressions—the soft flutters of your eyelashes, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy, the way your lips part on a sigh, then morph into a moan. The room is filled with the continuous soft shutter sounds of the camera, documenting every moment of your ecstasy.

As the session grows more intense, his hands roam across every inch of your body, each touch a silent testament to his sheer obsession with you. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers fiercely, his mouth traveling across your skin, planting kisses that are both tender and demanding. “You’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he declares between breaths, his voice thick with lust as he continues to thrust into you, each movement designed to provoke another cry of pleasure from you. His relentless pace, combined with the deep, deliberate thrusts, draws out moans that fill the room, blending seamlessly with the rhythmic sound of the camera’s shutter.

The room fills with the symphony of your breathy moans and soft whimpers, the air thick with the melody of your pleasure. Each affirmation from him is punctuated by his rhythmic, firm thrusting, his movements deliberate and paced to stoke the fire that builds with each of his profound, measured strokes. Your body responds instinctively, arching towards him, craving more of the exquisite friction he masterfully creates.

Every touch he delivers is precisely calculated to heighten the cascade of sensations that engulfs you. His murmurs, husky and intimate, resonate along the curves of your body. “Every inch of you is perfect,” he whispers with intensity, his voice rough as his hands navigate your skin. His fingertips trace your collarbone, glide between your breasts, and sweep over your stomach, pausing to circle your navel before venturing lower with slow, deliberate intent. His lips follow the paths his fingers set, each kiss and lick sending shivers through you, your skin tingling with each featherlight touch.

As his lips and tongue lavish attention on every part of your body. The room fills with the sounds of your breathy moans and the soft clicks of the camera, creating a symphony of sensuality. He treasures each response—every shudder and whimper that escapes your lips—using them as cues to elevate the intensity of your shared experience, driving both of you toward a crescendo of intense satisfaction.

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All day, you’ve been on a mission to find Jeno, but he’s proven elusive. Jeno wasn’t the easiest person to track down—unless he was at the gym or playing basketball, his whereabouts were anyone’s guess. Rumors often placed him in the company of various girls, but today, none of the usual spots had panned out. This search wasn’t fueled by curiosity alone; it was tinged with anxiety. It had been a few weeks since his dad had caught you and Mark in a compromising situation, and Jeno hadn’t said a word about it. You were left to wonder if his dad had kept the incident to himself.

Your intent wasn’t to confront Jeno about his father; that could make things worse if he was oblivious. Instead, you hoped to gauge his demeanor, to see if he would hint at any suspicions or knowledge of the situation.

As you walked across the campus, the environment buzzed with the typical mid-semester activity. Students lounged on the grassy quads, some absorbed in their books, others laughing and chatting in small clusters. The paths were busy with the comings and goings of students between classes, a vibrant backdrop to your own restless thoughts.

Finally, you spotted him. Jeno was unmistakable even from a distance, dressed in a hoodie that obscured his hair, and headphones likely shielding him from the world. “Jeno! Jeno!!” you called out, but he didn’t turn—his music evidently drowning your voice. Quickening your pace, you followed him toward the tutor center, puzzled. Jeno had never struck you as someone who needed academic help; his grades were more than decent.

Just as you were about to follow him inside to catch his attention, you froze. Inside, Jeno wasn’t alone; he was with Mark’s best friend. Your eyes narrowed as you watched their interaction through the glass—low whispers, soft smiles, gentle eye contact. The scene before you didn’t add up; they were an unlikely pair, never known to interact, let alone in such a close, personal manner.

Curiosity piqued and hidden by the doorway, you strained to catch any piece of their conversation, but their voices were too low. Then, it happened—the moment that stilled the breath in your chest. Jeno leaned down with a tender smile and kissed her. It wasn’t just any kiss. It was soft, intimate, beautiful, and sweet—so starkly genuine that it felt like it belonged in a more private world than this public space.

Stunned and suddenly feeling like an intruder, you stepped back from the door, your mind racing with questions. Were they keeping it a secret? Why? The weight of the moment pressed down on you, a mirror to your own hidden truths with Mark.

Choosing to respect their privacy, you walked away, your steps heavy with the complexity of your thoughts. If they were indeed keeping whatever was blossoming between them under wraps, who were you to expose them? You understood the need for secrecy all too well. As you left the tutor center behind, your mind was a whirl of unanswered questions and newfound secrets, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the paths that felt somehow more twisted than before.

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Lee Jeno, with his sharp features, has an unmistakable resemblance to his father. He often catches the eye for the same reasons his father does. From the strong jawline to the sharpness of his cheekbones, Jeno is almost a carbon copy of Taeyong. Even their expressions, when thoughtful or focused, mirror each other. Jeno’s eyes, a deep, reflective brown, carry the same intensity as his father’s, yet there’s a softness in Jeno that suggests a gentle spirit.

It turns out that you didn’t have to find Jeno after all; he has come to find you. You watch him approach with a smile, trying to shake off the memory of the intimate kiss you witnessed earlier. It’s hard not to think about it, but you remind yourself it wasn’t any of your business.

As you settle into the cozy corner of the campus café, Jeno approaches with his usual easy grace. He boops you on the head playfully with a finger before taking a seat opposite you. Reaching for the popcorn you offered, he takes a few bites, his smile spreading warmly as he makes himself comfortable. The silence between you is comfortable, filled only with shared smiles and an easy familiarity that speaks volumes of your current relationship.

After everything you’ve been through—the breakup that surprisingly mended more than it broke—your bond with Jeno has evolved. It’s surprisingly the best it’s ever been. There’s a newfound respect and calm between you two, a stark contrast to the past’s turbulence. You’ve both acknowledged the toxicity that once clouded your relationship, realizing that being apart has made each interaction healthier, more supportive.

Jeno is incredibly important in your life; he’s more than just a past love, he’s a steadfast friend. Since you were young, he’s been a significant figure in your life, one of the first people you truly got close to. Despite the messiness of your past relationship—moments that now make you cringe when you remember them—your friendship has endured. To you, Jeno isn’t just an ex; he’s like a brother, a best friend whose presence is both comforting and irreplaceable.

As you watch him, you notice a certain hesitancy in his eyes, a telltale sign that there’s something on his mind. Your history together has attuned you to these subtleties in his demeanor. You’re about to inquire, to delve into whatever is weighing on him, when a thought crosses your mind about his father. Why hasn’t his dad said anything yet about you and Mark? Is there hope that he didn’t want to interfere in the lives of the young people in his son’s life? This unspoken question hangs in the air, adding a layer of complexity to the comfortable silence between you.

Jeno finally speaks up after battling with his thoughts for the last few minutes. Gathering his courage, he says, “Hey, so my dad was trying to convince me of something crazy.”

You gulp, trying to calm your breathing and maintain a composed expression, secretly relieved that Jeno hasn’t noticed your anxiety yet. “What did your dad say now?” you attempt to joke, playing into the well-known fact that Jeno’s dad often spreads lies and toxicity.

“He told me that you and Mark are seeing each other, that you guys are fucking, and he even saw you make out,” Jeno states, his eyes searching yours for any sign of truth.

Your eyes widen, and your mouth feels dry, the sudden anxiety palpable. “That’s crazy, right?” Jeno asks, almost laughing, trying to convince himself that his dad is just trying to stir up drama again. His face betrays a mix of disbelief and a trace of underlying betrayal, disturbed by the thought that you could be seeing Mark behind his back.

You force a laugh, deflecting the accusation. “That is the craziest, most unbelievable lie your dad has ever told. Do you remember when he accused me of trying to seduce your uncle? I was 16 at the time,” you say, putting on your most convincing demeanor, playing into Taeyong’s notorious character to bolster your denial.

Jeno nods, visibly relieved as the tension drains from him. “That’s what I said. I told him he was crazy and to stop trying to interfere in our lives and create a mess out of nowhere.”

Given his strained relationship with his dad, Jeno opts to dismiss it as another of Taeyong’s manipulations, choosing to believe your lie over his dad’s truth, showing how deeply he trusts you.

“But if you actually were seeing Mark behind my back, that would be absolutely insane and unbelievable. I mean, what would you even see in him?” he scoffs, trying to make light of the situation but clearly uncomfortable with even the notion.

Shaking your head, you carefully respond, “He’s not that bad.” You bite your tongue, holding back from defending Mark too vigorously to avoid suspicion.

Jeno scoffs again. “Apparently, Mark fucks around a lot, so I just told my dad he probably saw him kissing another girl.”

Puzzled, you ask, “Really? He fucks a lot?”

Jeno nods. “Yeah, his body count is literally higher than mine.”

You choke on your coffee, truly shocked. Knowing how high Jeno’s count was, especially since you two had numerous breaks in your relationship when he’d see other people, the revelation that Mark might be even more experienced brings a mix of intrigue and unease.

Jeno changes the subject, standing up and moving to sit beside you on the couch. He drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close with a gentle firmness that feels reassuring yet suffocating given the conversation. His eyes are soft and earnest as he looks into yours, searching for something unspoken.

“We’re in a good place, right?” he begins, his voice low and sincere. “So, if anything like that were to happen, I trust you’d tell me. I believe you trust me enough to communicate and not hide anything from me. I’m glad we’re in a healthier, stronger place now, that we realised how toxic we were together and that we’re better off as friends. I wasn’t going to let my dad’s lies ruin that or sabotage my life any further.”

You feel a tightness in your throat as he speaks, a mix of anxiety and guilt constricting your chest. The physical discomfort is palpable, manifesting as a slight tremble in your hands that you hope he doesn’t notice. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm, pounding against your ribcage as if trying to escape the duplicity of your reassurances. You gulp, struggling to manage a nod, your mouth dry.

“Yeah, we are in a good place. And of course, I’ll always tell you anything. I have so much trust in you, and I’m glad you trust me too. You’re still so important to me, Jen,” you manage to say, your voice slightly strained as you force the words out, hoping they sound more convincing to him than they do to you.

He gives you a smile, one that’s meant to be reassuring, but it only deepens the knot of guilt in your stomach. With a casual affection, he scruffles your hair and plants a gentle kiss on your cheek before standing to leave. You watch him walk away, each step echoing like a verdict in the quiet room.

Left alone with your thoughts, the guilt washes over you in waves. His trust feels like a weight, heavy with the burden of your secrecy. The warmth of his kiss lingers on your cheek, a reminder of the bond you cherish yet betray with each passing moment of deception. The silence around you feels oppressive, filled with the ghosts of words unsaid, and you sit there, grappling with the reality of your actions and the fear of losing one of the most stable connections in your life.

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It’s been a few days and you still haven’t mentioned to Mark what Jeno told you. It’s been weighing on your mind, knowing it could stir up tension. You’re torn on how to bring it up—discussing such sensitive topics has always been a challenge for you. The thought of addressing it tightens your chest with anxiety, making you hesitate each time you think about revealing it.

The room is dim and cozy as you both sink into the sofa, the television casting a soft glow around you. You lean against Mark, feeling the reassuring strength of his shoulder against your cheek. Your hand finds his, fingers interlacing as you absently trace patterns on his skin. His steady breathing and the rise and fall of his chest bring a comforting rhythm to the moment, while his laughter vibrates warmly against you, pulling you away from the thoughts that weigh on your mind.

Despite the movie flickering in front of you, your eyes wander, unfocused, as anxiety subtly stirs within you. The comfort of Mark’s grip is grounding, yet it can’t quite still the restless thoughts that distract you from the plot unfolding on the screen. The room, with its soft shadows and gentle light, feels both safe and confining as you struggle to anchor yourself in the tranquility of the moment.

Mark senses the shift in your mood; his perceptiveness is one of the things you cherish about him. He turns to you, his voice a soft whisper against your hair. “What’s up with you?” His lips brush your scalp gently as his hand cups your face, coaxing you to look at him. You resist his gaze, too intense in the moment, and sigh heavily.

“I’m okay, just stressed about college,” you mumble, a half-truth that hangs awkwardly in the air between you.

“I don’t believe you,” he replies with gentle firmness. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

In response, you pull away from his embrace and lean forward to grab something from the desk in front of you. You’re not ready to delve into your worries, not when they feel so heavy and complex. Instead, you retrieve your art portfolio, a safer subject to share.

“I want to show you something,” you whisper, opening the portfolio to divert the conversation. Mark nods, understanding your need to share on your terms.

As you flip through the pages, Mark’s attention is fully on the art before him. “This is so good, Y/N,” he breathes out in awe. Each page reveals a different facet of your talent: a striking portrait of Jeno donned in stylish sunglasses, his features sharp against a blurred background; a vibrant landscape that captures the serene beauty of nature, the colors vivid and alive; a whimsical depiction of Karina in a flowing dress, set against the backdrop of a sunlit picnic scene; and an abstract piece, swirling colors and shapes that evoke a sense of deep emotion and creativity.

Mark studies not only the artwork but the meticulous notes beside each piece, written in your neat, flowing handwriting. He takes in every detail, from the annotations on technique to the thoughtful descriptions that accompany each image.

Leaning forward, he kisses you softly, admiration tinting his words. “I can’t believe how talented you are.”

A shy smile plays on your lips as you confide in him. “Professor Jeong talked to me after class. He said I should be applying for graduate schemes and postgraduate opportunities, but I’m too nervous about being rejected. I’m scared I’m not good enough.”

In response, Mark gently pulls you onto his lap, facing him. His eyes are earnest as he looks up at you, his hands resting reassuringly on your hips. “I want you to promise me that you’ll apply for these schemes. You’re incredibly talented, and I know you’ll be accepted. You need to see how good you are,” he says, his voice imbued with a conviction that makes you want to believe him.

The hesitation in your eyes is met with the calm certainty in his. The soft glow of the room highlights the sincerity etched across his face, making him look almost angelic, grounded yet hopeful.

“Will you promise me?” he asks. The weight of his gaze compels you to nod, his belief in you nudging you out of your comfort zone.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice a soft echo in the dimly lit room, drawing you nearer. His lips capture yours in a kiss that quickly sheds any pretense of gentleness. It deepens voraciously, fuelled by the mingling of mutual desire. Each press of his lips against yours sends a thrill through you, while the low, contented giggle that escapes you adds a playful undertone to the fervent exchange. His hands roam across your back, pulling you impossibly closer with each breath you release—a sigh, a moan, a whisper of his name.

The room resonates with the sounds of your combined breaths, an intimate symphony punctuated by the occasional brush of your fingers along his shoulders, tracing the contours of his muscles that flex under your touch. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss to explore new depths. You react instinctively, your hands venturing lower to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if trying to merge further into him. The kiss escalates, driven by a shared urgency that pulses in the air around you, your bodies moving in a fluid dance of give and take.

As you pull away momentarily to catch your breath, the air between you thickens with desire. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with intensity, reflecting a hunger that mirrors your own. “Keep going,” he murmurs, voice thick and husky, compelling you back to his lips with an irresistible force. Your response is immediate and desperate, your lips crashing against his with renewed passion. Hands roam more boldly now, mapping the landscape of each other’s bodies with a familiarity that only heightens the intensity of each touch, each kiss. The space around you feels charged, every sigh and touch a spark in the quiet darkness, fueling the fire that you both stoke with every moment that passes.

Lost in the rush of the moment, you and Mark are oblivious to the sound of the front door swinging open. While you’re completely absorbed, Mark, who is usually more attuned to his surroundings, hears the noise but dismisses it, assuming it’s Karina. Since she’s the only one who knows about the two of you and has kept your secret, you’ve grown comfortable being openly affectionate around her—kissing, touching, and more, without the need for concealment.

“I told you they were seeing each other,” a voice cuts through the air, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, breaking away from Mark’s lips as the unfamiliar tone slices through your bubble of intimacy. Scrambling off his lap, you turn to see Winter standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with amusement and curiosity. Beside her, Karina wears an expression that’s a complex tapestry of apology and sadness, her eyes avoiding yours as if carrying a burden of guilt.

“Karina!” Your voice cracks, laced with disbelief and anger. “Why is she here? I thought we agreed I’d have the apartment tonight,” you protest, pointing accusatorially at Winter, trying desperately to regain some control over the situation.

You fight the urge to panic, aware of how much Winter relishes drama and her close ties with Jeno. The thought of her running to him with this information sends waves of anxiety crashing through you. Karina, arms crossed, meets your gaze with a defiant shake of her head. “Y/N, I messaged you that Winter was coming. It’s your fault for not checking your phone.”

“That’s not the point,” you retort sharply, the tension palpable.

“I just came here to get something,” Karina says flatly, her voice tinged with irritation as she storms off towards her room, her back to you, cutting off any chance for you to explain or mitigate what she saw.

Now, it’s just you, Mark, Winter and an awkward silence. Mark, still visibly horny and frustrated, looks desperately out of place. You know he’s just dying to drag you back onto his lap and fuck you until you forget this mess ever happened.

Winter’s voice cuts through the stillness, sultry and probing, as she leans towards Mark, her intention clear in the curl of her lip. “Mark…” she purrs, her gaze locked on his with a mischievous twinkle. “Do you remember?”

Unmoved and steady, Mark’s expression gives nothing away. “No,” he states, his voice a flat denial that leaves no room for doubt or continuation.

Undeterred, Winter presses on, her voice dropping to a whisper that only you and Mark can hear. “You don’t remember, like, two weeks ago, your cock—” She pauses, watching him for any sign of acknowledgment.

Mark turns towards you, his look serious, the lines of his face hardened by the need to clarify things before they spiral further. “It was a month ago, way before we started seeing each other,” he explains, his voice low and earnest. “It was just sex, it didn't mean anything more.”

Your arms fold over your chest as a knot of confusion and jealousy tightens within you, a reaction you can’t fully suppress. “How many girls have you fucked?” The question escapes you almost without thought, a reflex to the swirling doubts.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies with a calm that feels both comforting and final. His eyes hold yours, gentle yet firm, as he tries to redirect the focus from his past to the present, to what matters the most to him right now — you. 

At that moment, Karina reenters the room, her annoyance palpable. “You know, ever since you both started seeing each other, you’ve just been fucking all over his apartment, every room, every corner. It’s really careless and annoying.”

Karina turns to Mark, her tone laced with biting humor as she tries to mask her true annoyance. “And you,” she says, her voice dripping with feigned surprise, making Mark visibly tense. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were a virgin, that you were innocent. After hearing and seeing how you two go at it… I’m honestly surprised Y/N’s pussy is still intact.” 

Mark scoffs, clearly offended. “You—you what? You thought I was a virgin?” he asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

Karina nods and crosses her arms, maintaining her assertive stance.

Mark laughs heartily. “Why?” he inquires, genuinely puzzled by her previous misconception.

Winter interjects, her voice clear and matter-of-fact. “Before Mark started seeing Y/N, he was pretty active. He’d sleep with several different girls every few weeks. His body count is way higher than Jeno’s.”

Mark looks shocked at her blunt disclosure. “How do you know so much?” he quickly asks. The fact that he doesn’t deny it confirms the truth of her words, making you squirm uncomfortably.

“I didn’t need to know that!” you exclaim, covering your ears. You can’t help but feel unsettled by the idea of Mark’s sexual history with other girls before you.

“Guys, none of this matters. What matters is how selfish Y/N is being by fucking in every corner of this house,” Karina retorts, her frustration now plainly directed at your recent actions.

“Don’t call me selfish or try to make me feel guilty,” you fire back, irritation rising. “We agreed that I’d get the apartment today. You knew I was having Mark over tonight.” Your voice is sharp, your patience clearly wearing thin with the ongoing accusations.

Karina’s frustration seems to boil over. “It’s just—it’s everywhere, Y/N. Can’t you keep it to one room, at least?”

“Are you serious? What the fuck is your problem? Sorry I’m getting some and you aren’t. What do you want me to do about it?” Your voice matches hers in sharpness, the edge in your tone reflecting the tension that’s been building.

Mark and Winter exchange a wide-eyed, awkward glance, opting to remain silent amid the escalating confrontation. Mark’s arm tightens around you, his fingers drawing comforting patterns on your skin, grounding you with his touch, which is intimate and reassuring amidst the brewing storm.

Mark coughs awkwardly, attempting to lighten the mood as you lean into him, visibly frustrated. “Hey guys, do you wanna see Y/N’s art portfolio? It’s really good; she’s amazing,” he offers, pointing to the portfolio on the table.

Intrigued despite the tension, Winter nods. “Show me.” Winter’s interest in seeing your art isn’t just casual curiosity; it’s rooted in her appreciation for creativity, shared through the same course you both study.

As Mark reaches for the portfolio, you quickly intervene. “Don’t,” you whisper firmly, taking it in your hands. You retreat to your room, shutting the door behind you, needing a moment alone.

“Did Y/N let you see her art portfolio?” Karina’s shock is evident, her voice laced with disbelief.

Mark nods, preparing to follow you to offer comfort but pauses as Karina continues. “You know Y/N doesn’t let anyone touch her art portfolio. She doesn’t even let me touch it, and we’ve been best friends since we were kids.”

A soft smile spreads across Mark’s face as he processes her words, pride swelling in his chest. He feels a flutter of happiness, realising the trust and special place he’s starting to hold in your life. With a renewed sense of closeness and privilege, he makes his way toward your room, his steps light, eager to reassure you and perhaps, share in the intimate parts of your life that you guard so closely.

Karina’s demeanor speaks volumes as she stands there, her expression betraying a complex blend of emotions that extends beyond mere annoyance. It’s evident, even to a casual observer, that her discomfort stems from a place deeper than superficial jealousy. She doesn’t harbor romantic feelings for Mark—rather, her reaction is rooted in an acute sense of infatuation and perhaps, a touch of envy towards the closeness you share with him. Mark, with his undeniable charm and increasing popularity, has become a focal point of attention, making him the object of many admiring glances, including Karina’s.

As she watches the effortless intimacy and laughter you and Mark share, a pang of loneliness strikes her. It’s not just the affection but the ease of your interaction that seems to highlight her own isolation. In your shared apartment, where she once felt at home, she now feels like an outsider looking in on a world where she no longer belongs. This sense of displacement is sharpened by the realization that her connection with anyone has never mirrored the depth and vibrancy of what you and Mark have, which intensifies her feelings of solitude.

The jealousy, therefore, isn’t about wanting Mark for herself but about missing that profound emotional connection. Seeing you two so synced and happy together magnifies her own insecurities about being alone, about not having someone who looks at her the way Mark looks at you—with undisguised adoration and admiration. This internal turmoil manifests as tension and a somewhat sharp edge in her interactions, not because she despises what you have, but because it serves as a mirror to what she lacks in her own life.

Her frustrations are further compounded by the fact that she can’t openly express these feelings without seeming petty or envious. So, she remains silent, wrestling with her feelings privately, which only adds to the weight of her isolation. Every laugh and whisper she overhears, every moment she witnesses of your shared happiness, is a reminder of the void within her own emotional landscape, making her feel even more detached and alone.

Thus, her reactions and expressions are not just about the disruption in the household or the inconveniences caused by your romantic escapades. They are about a deeper, more personal ache—an ache for connection, for being seen, for being part of something as effortlessly beautiful as your relationship with Mark. In her quiet moments, she grapples with these feelings, unsure how to bridge the gap between her loneliness and the contentment she observes in you.

───────────────────────────────

“Y/N?” Mark’s voice is gentle as he taps lightly on your bedroom door, his presence just outside a comfort in itself.

“It’s open,” you call out, your voice muffled by the pillow. He enters, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him before his eyes find you. Wrapped in your sheets, tear streaks marking your cheeks, you look up as he approaches.

“Hey, baby,” he coos, his tone soft and caring as he sits at the edge of your bed. His hand reaches out, tenderly brushing away a stray lock of hair from your face. You don’t resist when he gently pulls you into his arms, arranging you so your head rests against his chest—a silent fortress against the storm brewing inside you. His fingers stroke your back in soothing patterns, each touch a silent promise of his support. The soft kisses he plants on your temple are like whispers of reassurance, telling you he’s there, waiting for you to share when you’re ready.

After a few moments cradled in his embrace, you find the strength to speak, your voice quivering slightly. “I need to tell you something,” you start, feeling his chest hum in response, a non-verbal cue that he’s listening.

You take a deep breath, your story pouring out in a nervous rush. “Jeno came up to me earlier, and it turns out his dad did tell him what he saw. He said that Taeyong tried to convince him that we were having a relationship behind his back.” The words tremble as they leave your lips, tears welling up again.

Mark’s hold tightens, his voice concerned. “Oh,” he murmurs, clearly taken aback. “But I had practice with Jeno today. He was… normal. We joked around, practiced together. If he knew, wouldn’t he be mad at me? Try to confront me?”

“That’s the thing,” you sniffle, wiping away a tear. “Jeno told me he chose not to believe his dad because he knows Taeyong is a liar and manipulative. Me and Jeno have gotten a lot closer as friends, and he’s choosing to trust me—to believe that I’m not going behind his back.”

Mark’s expression softens, his eyes filled with empathy yet tinged with concern. “Is that why you were so quiet earlier?” he inquires, referring to the strained silence that had hovered between you during the movie.

You nod, the weight of keeping your relationship with Mark a secret pressing down on you. “Mark, please, we need to keep ‘us’ a secret. No one can know, not Jeno, not anyone. It’s already bad enough that Karina and now Winter know, but I’ll make sure they keep it quiet. We just… it’s too risky otherwise. I don’t want any drama or tension. I’m just so tired of it all.”

Mark nods solemnly, his voice firm yet filled with an aching tenderness. “If that’s what you want. I’d love to touch and kiss you in public without caring who’s watching, but I’ll always put your needs first. Whatever makes you feel safe, I’m in.”

Relief floods through you at his words, and you exhale a shaky breath. “Thank you, Mark, truly,” you murmur, feeling the sincerity of his promise wrap around you like another blanket.

He exhales a deep, contemplative sigh. “It’s probably for the best,” he admits, his tone mixing resignation with newfound understanding. “I’m actually starting to get along with Jeno. It’s surprising, I know, but he’s proving me wrong. Beneath that tough exterior, he’s not that insufferable. I still think he’s a jerk but as I get to know him better, I see why. He’s just putting up a front, but he’s really not so bad once you break through that.”

Mark’s eyes meet yours, filled with a sincere resolve. “He’s my brother, and family is something I don’t have much of. I’m starting to realise what little I have. I don’t want to jeopardise what’s building between Jeno and me. Not now. So, I agree—we keep our relationship under wraps for a bit longer. I don’t want to lose the chance to really become brothers, not over a misunderstanding or impatience on my part.” His voice is steady, the words flowing more from a place of understanding and less from frustration, showing his maturity in handling the delicate balance of family ties and personal relationships.

You hum, relieved yet thoughtful. Despite the shroud of secrets surrounding your relationship, you feel a profound sense of rightness about how things are unfolding with Jeno through Mark. “What’s the deal with your family?” you ask softly, realising you’ve only ever known the outlines of his familial ties. You know that Mark and Jeno share a father, one who abandoned Mark’s mother while she was pregnant, leaving Mark without a father figure.

You’ve never met his mother, but from what Mark’s shared, you imagine her as a formidable woman who raised a son with a resilient mix of kindness and strength. Mark embodies so many qualities that speak to a loving, though challenging upbringing—he is confident yet unassuming, talented yet humble, and possesses a sharp wit paired with a deep-seated kindness. These traits endear him not just to you but to everyone around him. His laughter, easy and infectious, has a way of lightening even your darkest days, and his support has been unwavering, a testament to his character and the values instilled in him.

Mark’s empathy, perhaps his most striking quality, seems to come naturally. He listens intently, making those around him feel understood and appreciated—a likely gift from his mother, who needed to be both parents at once. He supports you quietly but wholeheartedly, celebrating your successes and standing by you through challenges as if they were his own. These qualities, deeply woven into his character, paint a vivid picture of the woman who shaped him, a person of strength and unconditional love.

He’s silent for a moment, the weight of his history reflected in the depth of his gaze. You can see the struggle, a mixture of resignation and resolve, as he contemplates his past. Finally, he offers you a small, somewhat weary smile. “It’s a long story, another time?” His voice is soft, tinged with vulnerability and an emotion so palpable it makes your heart tighten in your chest.

You nod, your understanding clear in the softness of your eyes. Reaching out, you take his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Okay, whenever you’re ready,” you whisper gently, showing him that there’s no rush, that you’re here for him whenever he wants to share more. To further comfort him, you lean in and press a tender kiss to his forehead, then gently push back a lock of his hair from his face. 

His lips find yours in a passionate kiss, lingering and intense. Each touch is a promise, a silent communication of his deep feelings for you. He breaks the kiss only to continue his tender exploration, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek, his movements gentle and reverent. The adoration in his eyes is unmistakable, a profound affection that speaks louder than words. His smile, boyish and breathtaking, lights up his features, making your heart flutter with the sheer beauty of the moment.

You feel the warmth of his affection enveloping you, each kiss a testament to his deep feelings. His eyes, alight with warmth and a hint of desire, hold yours in a gaze so intense it sends shivers down your spine. The air around you thickens with intimacy, each breath you take mingled with his. It’s a connection that goes beyond the physical, charged with an emotional depth that makes every touch, every kiss, feel like the first and only.

───────────────────────────────

The morning light sneaks in softly as Mark stirs beside you. His early morning departure starts with a gentle kiss, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs about having to head to practice. His voice was low and still thick with sleep, he promises to see you later, his words a soft echo as he leaves. Despite the warmth of his farewell, the quiet that settles after his departure does little to calm the storm of thoughts whirling through your mind, all echoing the tensions from last night.

Reluctantly, you slip out of the comforting tangle of sheets, still dressed in Mark’s shirt and your own shorts, you shuffle towards the kitchen. The sight of Karina munching on cereal and Winter’s unexpected presence doesn’t startle you, it only compounds the morning’s heavy air. They both pause, eyes following you in silence as you approach the coffee machine, their gazes laden with unspoken words.

Karina cuts through the quiet first, nodding towards the counter. “I already made your coffee,” she mutters, a subtle peace offering in her tone. Gratefully, you wrap your fingers around the familiar mug, the warmth seeping into your palms. 

“Thanks,” you manage, the rich aroma soothing some of the rough edges of your wakefulness.

Karina hesitates before speaking again, her voice softer, “I’m sorry, Y/N.” Her apology hangs between you, earnest and hopeful. 

You meet her eyes, finding sincere regret there, and it nudges your own words forward. “Me too, I didn’t mean for things to get so heated.”

As you both step tentatively around the remnants of last night’s fallout, discussing the sharp words and misunderstandings, the air begins to clear. “Just, please, make sure you don’t tell anyone about me and Mark,” you add, needing to hear it again. 

Karina nods firmly, her assurance steady. “You can trust me. You know I’ve got your back.”

Winter, who had been quietly observing, chimes in, her agreement soft but certain. “You have my word too, Y/N.” Relief floods through you, easing some of the tightness in your chest. Their honesty, their readiness to support you—it fortifies the trust you place in them, reminding you of the solid friendships you’ve built.

Winter catches your eye, her question probing gently but deeply enough to unsettle the surface of your calm. “Mark makes you really happy, doesn’t he?” she asks, a soft curiosity in her voice.

You deflect, shaking your head and looking away. “It’s nothing,” you mumble, unwilling to peel back layers of emotions you aren’t ready to acknowledge yet.

Unable to resist your own curiosity, you shift the conversation towards a less vulnerable topic, one that needles at your insecurities though you hate to admit it. “So, you’ve had sex with Mark?” The words taste bitter, revealing more about your feelings than you’d like.

Winter nods, and without any reservation, begins detailing her brief encounters with Mark. “Yeah, it was only a couple of times. He’s really good, you know? His cock is huge, and he knows exactly how to use it. And his dirty talk? Absolutely mind-blowing.” She pauses, a hint of reminiscence flickering across her features. “But it was just sex. He made sure I knew that. We both knew what it was.”

Hearing Winter’s casual recount helps; it echoes Mark’s assurances to you that whatever happened before you was meaningless. Yet, a part of you tightens at the thought, a mixture of relief and residual jealousy tangling inside you.

Karina watches you closely, her gaze piercing as she catches the subtle relaxation of your shoulders at Winter’s words. She leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, “You’re really falling for him.”

Your reaction is immediate and visceral. You choke on your coffee, coughing and sputtering as you vehemently shake your head. “No, I’m not. We’re just fucking,” you assert, a desperate denial coloring your tone. 

Deep down, you’re terrified to admit these burgeoning feelings, to acknowledge that what’s between you might be more than physical. You’re scared to open your heart fully, to embrace the vulnerability that comes with real attachment. Your laughter and denials are just shields, protecting you from the possibility of heartache, even as you unwittingly fall deeper each day.

But Karina knows better; she sees through the facade. Your actions betray your words—constantly smiling when he’s mentioned, always eager to be near him, your face lighting up in a way that only someone falling hard could relate to. Despite your protests, it’s clear in the way you seek his presence, the way your mood lifts perceptibly around him, and how you relish every intimate moment—even as you tell yourself it’s nothing serious.

Karina’s confusion deepens when she considers the lack of formal commitment between you and Mark. Despite the clear signs of deep affection and mutual respect, the two of you haven’t yet defined your relationship with any official labels, nor have you discussed the potential of becoming exclusive. This hesitancy puzzles her, given the unmistakable chemistry and closeness that anyone can observe. To her, it seems apparent that you are falling for Mark in a way she hasn’t seen before. Having been so close to you for many years, she knows you well enough to recognize the signs of genuine emotional investment. Mark isn’t just another fling; he’s becoming a significant part of your life, a constant thought, a person whose absence you feel deeply even in brief separations.

Her own experiences with fleeting connections make her all the more sensitive to the nuances of yours with Mark. She sees the way your eyes linger on him, the way your laughter seems fuller when shared with him, and the softness in your voice when you speak to him, all indicators of a burgeoning affection that even you might not fully acknowledge yet. It’s this burgeoning reality, contrasted starkly against the backdrop of her own solitary existence, that stirs a blend of hope and melancholy within her. She wonders why, with all the evidence laid bare, you haven’t moved to cement what clearly seems inevitable. Is it fear of commitment, the remnants of past hurts, or perhaps a reluctance to change the dynamic that currently brings so much joy and fulfillment? Whatever the reason, it underscores a cautious dance around a conversation that could either solidify what you have with Mark or expose vulnerabilities that are easier left unexplored.

In these reflections, Karina grapples with her mixed emotions—envy at what you have, yet concern for what might happen if these unspoken truths remain buried. Her understanding of love, tainted by her own loneliness, makes her both a silent cheerleader for your happiness and a reluctant witness to the complexities of modern relationships, where labels are sometimes the barriers rather than the bonds.

───────────────────────────────

The gym was buzzing with frantic energy, underscored by Karina’s sharp commands that cut through the air. “Y/N! I thought I told you to switch off your phone,” she shouted, her voice a mix of irritation and stress. With a quick flick, you silenced your phone, muttering an apology as you caught her distressed gaze. Karina was on edge, her role as cheer captain weighing heavily on her today.

“Guys… we’re so screwed,” Karina groaned, collapsing to the floor with a dramatic flair, her pom-poms tumbling beside her. She buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled but thick with despair. “We’re a member down, Ningning is still out of sync, and Yeji keeps missing the double back handspring…” Her list of grievances spilled out, each member’s flaw punctuated by her sharp, directive tone, correcting stances and motions with a precision born of desperation.

You crouched beside her, your hand rubbing her arm in a soothing rhythm. “It’s okay, Rina. Listen, we have time to turn this around. I’m sure we can find someone to fill in for Giselle and then we can touch up on our routine.” Optimism was your lifeline, even if it felt a bit misplaced in the chaos of the moment.

She shook her head, frustration etching deeper lines across her forehead. “How are we going to find someone to fill in for Giselle? Who could possibly learn our routine that quickly?”

As if on cue, the door swung open, and in walked Mark’s best friend accompanied by Donghyuck, his presence like a burst of fresh air. You hadn’t known Donghyuck long, but his upbeat personality had already made an impression. He was one of Mark’s closest friends and a roommate, someone whose charm was effortless and infectious.

“Okay, so we managed to do our spying,” Donghyuck announced, his voice a beacon of hope. He was known for his optimism, a trait that seemed particularly invaluable today.

You turn to Winter with a puzzled expression. “Since when did Karina start talking to Donghyuck?” you whisper, confusion evident in your tone. It felt like different worlds were colliding—your circle with Mark and his friends now overlapping unexpectedly with your cheer squad. The lines were blurring, and it was both intriguing and unsettling to see these separate parts of your life merging right before your eyes.

Donghyuck continued, oblivious to your confusion. “The Hawks are looking strong this year—synchronised lifts, tight formations, and their music is spot-on,” he explained, his tone both informative and slightly ominous.

Karina’s response was immediate; a strangled yell escaped her as she threaded her fingers through her hair. “What the fuck am I going to do now?” The pressure was palpable; the big match was just two hours away, and the cheer squad was visibly unravelling.

Donghyuck, ever the optimist, clapped his hands, his eyes bright. “We still have time to turn it around. I can teach you guys some fresh moves. Your current routine isn’t bad; it just needs some tweaking.”

He stepped forward, launching into a demonstration. “Instead of this move,” he said, smoothly executing a complex sequence of a cartwheel followed by a high kick that transitioned into a split. “Try this one,” he suggested, shifting into a full twist layout, his movements crisp and clean. Each step was executed with such unexpected grace that it earned shocked and admirable gazes from the team.

Karina, fueled by Donghyuck’s enthusiasm, stood, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. Yet it faltered as she remembered another crucial gap. “We’re still a member down,” she muttered.

Without missing a beat, Donghyuck pointed at Mark’s best friend. “She can join!” His suggestion came with a burst of excitement. “She’ll fit in perfectly. She’s a quick learner.”

Karina eyed Mark’s best friend with a mix of skepticism and faint amusement. The corner of her mouth twitch into a wry smile. Her arms were crossed, and her stance exuded a challenging aura. “Let’s see what you’ve got then. Go on, impress me,” she said, her voice laced with a dare, half expecting to be entertained rather than impressed.

Mark’s friend stepped into the center of the room, her movements hesitant at first. She tried to mimic some of the team’s signature moves, but her execution was more comical than competent, her limbs not quite syncing up with the beat or each other. Each awkward shuffle and misplaced step made her look less like a dancer and more like someone tangled in an invisible web.

From the sidelines, Donghyuck’s initial enthusiasm waned, replaced by a cringe as he watched her fumble. He couldn’t help but grit his teeth, each misstep making him visibly wince. “It’s like watching a puppy try to walk on ice,” he muttered under his breath, but then, squaring his shoulders, he jumped in to help. “Okay, okay, let’s break it down,” Donghyuck interjected, his tone bright and coaching. “Imagine you’re more… graceful. Yeah, try to channel a swan, not a duck.”

Karina’s smirk grew as she watched Donghyuck lead Mark’s best friend through the basics, his patience comical in its contrast to her lack of rhythm. Each instruction he gave, paired with her faltering attempts, turned the session into something unexpectedly amusing. Unable to suppress a chuckle, Karina leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, amusement flickering in her eyes.

“Well, if enthusiasm alone won championships, we’d be unstoppable,” she remarked, the dryness of her tone belied by the grin tugging at her lips. She watched them for a few more moments, her smirk broadening with every misstep that somehow managed to look even clumsier than the last.

Karina sighed, then her gaze softened, and she reached into a nearby bag, pulling out a spare uniform. She tossed it to the new recruit, who caught it awkwardly. “We don’t have any other choice,” Karina said, a half-smile appearing as she accepted their fate. “Come on, then. You’ve got a whole routine to learn, and just under two hours to get it down.”

Laughter and chatter filled the room as Mark’s best friend quickly changed and joined the group. Donghyuck took the lead, demonstrating the choreography with a precision that belied his non-cheer background. His instructions were clear, his demeanor light yet focused, making the practice session feel less like a crisis and more like a spontaneous dance party. Everyone was surprisingly in sync, their spirits lifted by Donghyuck’s charisma and clear guidance. The routine gradually took shape, laughter mingling with the music as they practiced, the earlier tension dissolving into a collective effort to nail the performance.

“Donghyuck, you sure you haven’t done this before?” Mark’s best friend joked, trying to mimic his flawless execution of a particularly complex cheer move.

Donghyuck flashed a grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Maybe in another life!” he quipped, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, team, from the top, and this time, let’s make sure those lifts are as sharp as my dance moves!”

As the girls lined up, Donghyuck moved through the formation, correcting postures and demonstrating the sequences with an infectious enthusiasm. He detailed each step, his instructions interspersed with humorous comments that kept the mood light. “Remember, it’s not just about the height; it’s about style. Imagine you’re trying to impress your crush from across the field!”

Karina, usually the stern one, couldn’t help but laugh, her earlier stress momentarily forgotten. The group followed Donghyuck’s lead, their movements becoming more fluid with each run-through. The camaraderie in the room grew as they started feeling more confident in their routine.

“Alright, when Winter is up in the air, let’s not look like we’re struggling with a maths problem,” Donghyuck teased, his eyes twinkling as he demonstrated a smoother transition for the lift. The team erupted into laughter again, with energy at an all time high.

As the laughter begins to fade, a palpable tension fills the air when the rival team— the Highland Hawks—struts into the gym, their cheer squad in tow. The Hawk’s cheerleaders, with Yeeun leading them, give Karina and your team a condescending once-over. They mock the frantic pace of your last-minute practice, predicting a lacklustre performance from your group.

“You’re still trying to polish that tired routine?” Yeeun taunts, her voice dripping with faux sweetness as she exchanges a glance with her friends, Ryujin and Arin, who snicker beside her. “It’s adorable how you think you stand a chance.”

Karina, usually unflappable, clenches her jaw, her fists balling at her sides. “We’ll see who’s adorable at the end of the match, Yeeun,” she retorts sharply, her tone icy. The fake niceties hang heavy between them, laced with years of rivalry and mutual disdain.

However, you find yourself distracted from the brewing showdown. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Mark walking alongside Jeno, a sight that still surprises you—both of them engaged in what appears to be a friendly conversation, far from their usual confrontational antics.

You attempt to look away as Mark passes, fearing your expression might betray the turmoil and longing he stirs within you. Despite your efforts, your gaze meets his; the connection is instantaneous, his eyes reflecting a mix of desperation and affection. It’s clear he’s yearning for a moment alone with you, his glance heavy with unsaid promises of how intensely he wants to fuck you, but the timing couldn’t be worse.

Mouthing a quiet “sorry” with a helpless shrug, you see him smirk in response, his expression softening as he whispers, “It’s okay,” before turning to continue his walk.

Winter, who’s been observing the exchange, leans in and murmurs with a teasing edge, “Stop eye fucking each other, you’re making it really obvious.” You give no reply, too caught up in the rush of emotions Mark’s brief interaction has left you with, the words echoing in your mind, leaving you flustered and even more aware of the palpable sexual tension that you both seem unable to conceal.

The moment lingers, suspended in the charged air of the gym, until it’s abruptly shattered. Your breath catches when you spot someone familiar among the opposing team— a casual hookup from a past you almost forgot. You remember him mostly for the string of intense, sexually-filled encounters during one of your many breaks with Jeno. The surprise of spotting him here sends a twist through your gut, unsettling you deeply.

His recognition is immediate, his smirk widening as he steps closer, his gaze sliding over you with unwelcome familiarity. The discomfort of his stare pricks at your skin, his eyes tracing contours that only serve to remind you of a past best forgotten. He approaches with a cocky tilt of his head, his words dripping with insinuation. “Miss me? We had some good times, didn’t we? Come on, let’s recreate some old memories,” he suggests, the arrogance in his tone grating against your nerves.

Before you can react, his audacity crosses a line—his hand reaches out, grasping your ass with a brazenness that snaps your restraint. You shove him back, hard, the impact echoing your surge of anger. Around you, the other cheerleaders rally, their voices raised in a cacophony of protests, demanding he back off.

The commotion catches the attention of the nearby players, including Mark and Jeno, who glance over, instantly alert. Mark’s eyes, sharp and protective, find yours first, reading the distress etched across your face. His jaw tightens, and without a second thought, he strides over, his presence like a shield. Jeno, recognizing the man and the threat he poses, follows close behind, his own anger flaring up.

The guy laughs, mistaking their approach for a casual challenge, but the cold fury in Mark’s eyes belies the seriousness of his intent. “You think you can just touch her like that?” Mark’s voice is low, dangerous, a clear warning. Jeno stands shoulder to shoulder with him, adding, “She said back off. That means you’re done here.”

Their stance is confrontational but calculated, designed to intimidate without revealing the depth of their personal stakes. Mark’s protective nature is on full display, yet he’s careful to frame his intervention as if he’s merely backing up Jeno, keeping the true nature of his and your relationship under wraps.

As the guy backs down, muttering under his breath, the tension doesn’t fully dissipate but shifts, leaving behind a charged silence. You’re shaken but grateful. This incident reminds you of the complex layers of past and present entanglements. Yet, in this moment, the support shown by Mark and Jeno, despite their complicated history, highlights a growing respect and understanding that moves beyond old grudges.

───────────────────────────────

The team didn’t win at the cheer competition, finishing behind the Hawks again, but the loss didn’t hit as hard this time. Karina, usually the most disheartened by defeat, seemed surprisingly upbeat. The atmosphere had shifted from intense competitiveness to a focus on fun and team bonding, thanks in large part to Donghyuck’s efforts to keep everyone laughing and relaxed during practices.

Mark’s best friend, who joined the team temporarily, also made a noticeable impact. She received quite a bit of attention for her spirited presence and the way she fit into the cheer outfit, which complemented her well during the performances. Her addition to the team brought a fresh energy that was well received by everyone, including the spectators. You didn’t miss the way Jeno kept glancing over to her, the way he was checking her out. His interest was subtle yet unmistakable.

The gym buzzes with anticipation as the Seoul Hill Ravens prepare for a pivotal game. The stands are a sea of excited faces, the air charged with the collective energy of hopeful fans. As the team warms up, the sound of bouncing balls and sneakers squeaking against the polished floor adds to the building tension. Above this din, Donghyuck’s voice cuts through, clear and enthusiastic: “The crowd is electric tonight! With one more win, the Seoul Hill Ravens will make the state finals for the first time in 18 years. Tonight, all eyes are on Lee Jeno.”

Just then, Jeno spots two unsettling figures, Sunwoo and Eric, lurking in the audience. He nudges Mark, nodding toward the duo. “Hey, what are those guys doing here?” he whispers.

Mark frowns, tension lining his face. “How should I know?” Jeno snaps, clearly irritated.

“Well, I saw you talking to them on the river court earlier today,” Mark pushes, trying to make sense of their presence.

“Mind your own business, Mark,” Jeno retorts sharply, turning away to focus on the game ahead.

The whistle blows, and the game kicks off with intense energy. The Ravens start strong, but the Highland Hawks are close on their tails. Donghyuck continues his narration, his voice filled with excitement, “The Ravens are leading but not by much. Every move, every play could tip the scales!”

Mark dominates the basketball court with a commanding presence, each movement a blend of power and grace. His jersey, damp with exertion, clings to his muscular frame, emphasising his athletic build as he leaps for layups and darts past defenders. There’s a raw magnetism in his play, a compelling allure that captures your undivided attention. 

However, despite Mark’s standout performance, the team’s usual synergy seems off. Jeno, normally a key player, is visibly distracted, often glancing towards the audience where Sunwoo and Eric sit watching. The pressure isn’t coming from his father tonight, it’s something else—something that has Jeno playing far below his usual standard.

Donghyuck’s voice fills the gym again, laced with concern, “Oh, and Jeno misses another shot that normally would be a sure thing for him. Something’s off today. He’s not himself.”

The frustration builds on the court; Chenle shouts from the sidelines, visibly annoyed, “Hold onto the ball, Jeno! Oh my god, kick it out, man. What’s wrong with you?”

Jeno’s responses are subdued, his usual fiery spirit dampened, “Sorry,” he mutters, his eyes not meeting his teammates’.

As the game progresses, the lead narrows even further. Mark, catching a bad pass from Jeno, can’t hide his frustration. “What the fuck are you doing? Do you want us to lose?” he yells across the court.

“Chill out, man, we’re still leading,” Jeno shoots back, though his tone lacks conviction.

“Yeah, by FOUR,” Mark retorts, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

The game is a rollercoaster of emotions, with every Raven feeling the strain of an unexpectedly tough match. As the final quarter approaches, the outcome hangs precariously in the balance, and everyone senses that the usual harmony of the team has been unsettled by whatever is weighing on Jeno.

At halftime, the locker room is echoing with Coach Suh’s booming voice, his frustration palpable and resonating off the walls. “What is going on out there? Can somebody explain to me why we’re only four points up when we should be blowing them out of the water? It’s like you guys are trying to give away points! Get out there and shoot around!” His tone is both incredulous and demanding, pressing the team for answers and better performance.

The mood among the crowd mirrors the tension in the locker room—spirits are notably dampened, the usual vibrant cheers replaced with anxious murmurs and restless shifts in the bleachers. Everyone senses the unusual underperformance, the atmosphere charged with concern rather than the typical energetic support.

Back in the locker room, Mark confronts Jeno amidst the turmoil, their conversation low but intense. “Hey, Jen… what’s going on?” Mark probes, his voice laced with worry rather than accusation, sensing there’s more beneath the surface of Jeno’s distracted plays.

Jeno’s response is defensive, a clear indication he’s not ready to divulge any truths. “With what?” he counters, dodging the question with a feigned ignorance that doesn’t fool Mark.

Mark doesn’t let up, his observation sharp. “Well, the way you’re playing tonight. It’s not nerves, I can tell.”

“You can’t tell anything, you don’t know me,” Jeno snaps back, his voice a mix of defiance and weariness.

Despite Jeno’s resistance, Mark pushes for clarity. “I know you’ve somehow gotten into trouble with those two guys, and suddenly they’re here in the audience and you’re playing like crap. What do they want you to do, Jen? What… lose the game? Betray your teammates and your coach for some money?” His accusation, though harsh, is driven by concern not only for the game but for Jeno himself.

Jeno’s reply is tinged with desperation. “All right, listen to me. Take the self-righteous attitude and shove it. You can’t begin to understand what’s happening and the shit I’m in, so leave me the fuck alone and mind your own business.”

Mark’s patience thins, his frustration palpable. “Well, you better help me understand, or I’m going to Suh,” he states firmly, his tone indicating that he’s not willing to let this slide.

Jeno’s face tightens, a mixture of defiance and resignation washing over him. “Listen, I’d never throw a game, okay? We’re still gonna win… just by less than 10 points.”

Mark huffs, disbelief etching his features as he rolls his eyes. “Oh… Jeno,” he mutters under his breath, his voice laden with disappointment. He can’t fathom Jeno’s rationale, his brother’s words sounding more like excuses than justifications.

Jeno’s expression hardens, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Don’t, okay? The only reason we’ve gone this far is because of me. And besides, all anybody cares about is winning. Nobody cares if I gave it my all or not.” His words spill out, laced with a mix of defiance and resignation, reflecting the pressure he feels from all sides.

Mark’s frustration is evident as he retorts to Jeno, “Do you really believe that? You’re the star player, you’re supposed to be, you’re the captain.” His voice carries a mix of incredulity and concern, highlighting the gravity of the situation unfolding between them.

As their intense discussion continues, you leave the gym and decide to approach the locker room, hoping to catch a moment with Mark. Most of the players are already heading back to the court, the game’s urgency pulling them from the confines of strategy talks and hurried pep talks. You suspect Mark is alone and you wish to offer a quick kiss and some words of comfort, knowing he’s stressed about the slim lead.

However, as you reach the door, you overhear the tail end of a heated conversation. Your steps falter, a frown forming as you recognise Jeno’s fiery voice. The possibility of a private moment vanishes, replaced by concern as you catch fragments of their exchange.

“Yeah, okay? I have to believe that. I got no other way out. Unless you got 15 grand lying around,” Jeno’s voice is thick with desperation and resignation. His words send a shiver down your spine, the implications heavy and dark.

At that moment, Coach Suh enters, his presence like a sudden gust of wind that slices through the thick atmosphere. “Is there a problem here?” His voice is stern, demanding truth in the stifled air.

“No,” Jeno responds curtly, his tone dismissing the underlying tension. He exits swiftly, his annoyance palpable, with Suh following closely behind, leaving the room charged with unsaid words. You retreat into the shadows, hiding briefly to avoid detection. Once the coast is clear and the echoes of their departure fade, you slip into the locker room.

Inside, you find Mark, his expression stormy, the weight of the team’s performance and his brother’s troubles etched deeply across his brow. His shoulders are tense, bearing not just the physical demands of the game but the emotional turmoil that the day has brought.

“Hey,” you whisper, breaking the silence gently. He looks up, a mixture of relief and sadness in his eyes. His smile, though soft, doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and needing. You walk over and pull him into an embrace, feeling his body tense under your touch. As you hold him, the room’s residual stress seems to dissolve slightly, confined to the background as you focus on the man in front of you.

You lean back just slightly, tilting your face up to meet his lips with a gentle, tender kiss. “What was that about? Jeno seems really stressed,” you murmur, pulling back to look into his eyes, seeking answers in their depths.

“No clue,” Mark replies, his voice laced with frustration. He glances at you, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t overhear us talking, did you?” he asks. You shake your head, and you notice a subtle sigh of relief escape him, though he tries to mask it.

He kisses you again, his yearning clear. “You look so beautiful today. Can’t be bothered to finish this game, just wanna be in you,” he confesses, his voice low with need, a smirk playing on his laps as he catches you gasping at his tone. His hands find your waist, fingers splaying wide over the fabric of your cheer skirt, edging daringly beneath to grip your ass with a boldness that sends a thrill through you.

You offer him a warm smile, your eyes softening as you feel a rush of affection. “There’s not much time left in the game. Go out there, win it, and then I’m all yours for the evening,” you say, your voice low and encouraging, aiming to boost his spirits. You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw tenderly with your fingertips, adding a playful yet sincere, “Make me proud.”

Mark’s response is immediate and intense; a low growl vibrates from his throat as he pulls you closer. His hands roam over your back, tracing the contours of your body with a possessive touch that sends shivers through you. “I’ll win it for you,” he promises, his voice thick with anticipation, his eyes burning with a mix of determination and desire as he looks down at you.

Mark’s affection is tender and constant as he dots kisses across your face, each touch soft and deliberate. He starts at your forehead, then gently presses his lips to your cheek, your nose, and the delicate skin of your eyelids. A soft kiss lands on your chin, and then he’s back to your lips, lingering there longer. Between these gentle caresses, he murmurs, “I wish that idiot from the other team could see how I’m kissing you, wish he could see that you’re mine.”

You can’t help but giggle, the warmth of his words spreading through you, making your cheeks flush with a mix of delight and a hint of shyness. As he pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes with a softness that makes your heart race, he asks, “Who was he anyway?” His tone is curious, tinged with a protective edge. 

“Just someone I used to see,” you reply quietly, avoiding his gaze as you recall the uncomfortable encounter. “I think he’s mad that I ghosted him.”

Mark’s protectiveness flares instantly. “If he makes you feel uncomfortable again, you’ll tell me, hm?” he asks, his gaze intense and serious.

You nod, feeling a surge of affection for his concern. Looping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer. “I know you’ll always protect me,” you affirm softly.

He responds by leaning down to kiss you again, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that speaks volumes. The kiss is gentle, yet filled with all the emotion he’s holding back, a quiet statement of his care and connection to you. The world around you fades, leaving only the feeling of his lips on yours, tender and full of unspoken promises.

───────────────────────────────

Donghyuck’s voice fills the gymnasium, keeping pace with the game’s intensity. “The game is still on. Time is winding down in the fourth quarter, and the Ravens have a 7-point lead… now 9 points. And the Hawks are gonna call time-out.”

The whistle blows, signaling a pause in the action. Coach Suh takes the opportunity to strategize, calling his team over. “Jeno, take a seat.”

Jeno looks perplexed and protests, “What? Why?”

Coach Suh’s voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “Because we’re up by 9, and I’m not gonna expose my best player to injuries.”

“But Coach, we only got a couple seconds left,” Jeno tries to argue.

“It only takes one to blow out a knee. Now sit down,” Suh commands. Jeno, though reluctant, obeys and takes his place on the bench. Suh then turns his attention to Mark. “Mark, come here. Look, they’re gonna be looking to foul. You’re our best free-throw shooter. Now, I want you to go in there and ice this thing.”

The Ravens team gathers for a quick huddle, hands together in unison, their voices echoing in the gym, “One, two, three — Ravens!”

In the stands, the atmosphere is tense. Sunwoo and Eric, cynical and watchful, observe the proceedings with keen interest. Sunwoo mutters to his accomplice, “If the Ravens score one more point, Jeno Lee doesn’t leave this gym in one piece.”

The game resumes with the clock ticking down. Donghyuck continues his commentary, “The Ravens are up by 9. Just five seconds stand between them and a trip to the state championship… three seconds now.”

As the crowd holds its breath, Na Jaemin executes a quick steal for the Ravens, clinching their lead. Donghyuck exclaims, “Na Jaemin picks up a quick steal! And that’s gonna ice it. With two seconds left on the clock, the Ravens are headed to the state championship. All that remains is for Mark Lee to seal it.”

From the sidelines, you catch Mark’s eye, sending him a small, encouraging smile. He holds your gaze, his expression softening as a confident, almost playful smile curls at the corner of his lips—a silent promise that he’s got this. You can feel the quiet intensity in his look, as if he’s drawing strength from your presence, fueling him with that last bit of resolve for the final seconds of the game.

Donghyuck inquires to his co-commentator, Yeri, “What’s his free-throw percentage, Yeri?”

“Well, he’s 92% from the line… and 100% hot,” Yeri replies, a hint of attraction in her voice.

Mark prepares for the shot. You know him well enough to sense that something is off—it isn’t nerves; Mark doesn’t get nervous. He’s always confident in his abilities. It must be something else. As lines up at the free-throw line, bouncing the basketball methodically, a ritual of focus before each shot. His posture is the epitome of readiness, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the rim, yet there’s a subtle tension in his frame that you’ve come to recognize. This isn’t the usual concentration or the typical pre-shot jitters that some players exhibit. There’s a deliberateness to his movements, a measured nature that seems out of place.

He takes a deep breath, and you can see the slight furrow in his brow, an indication of the internal conflict perhaps stirring within him. Mark is not one to falter under pressure, nor is he one to let the crowd’s energy sway his composure. His confidence on the court has always stemmed from a deep-seated belief in his skills and a clear mental focus that rarely wavers.

Yet, today, as he stands ready to take what should be a routine free throw, his glance briefly drifts to Jeno, who’s seated on the bench, his own expression a mixture of tension and unreadable thoughts. This fleeting look, almost imperceptible to anyone not paying close attention, suggests a connection to the younger player’s troubles—a shared burden or a silent acknowledgment of a situation only they understand.

As Mark adjusts his grip on the ball, his usual smooth rhythm seems slightly forced, his movements minutely hesitant. It’s clear to you, having watched him play countless times, that whatever is weighing on him is affecting his usual seamless play. This shot, normally a mere formality for someone of his skill, now carries an unspoken weight, hinting at stakes much higher than just the points on the scoreboard.

Donghyuck builds the anticipation, “If Mark can make this free-throw, the lead will be 10 points, and that would be the Ravens’ ninth double-digit victory of the season.”

Mark steps up to the line, his usually steady hands briefly faltering as he takes a deep breath. His gaze shifts, not just to the basket but to the bench where Jeno sits, a silent tension passing between them. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, maybe even a glint of reluctance—as he dribbles the ball once, twice, then steadies himself. The gym is a quiet hum of anticipation, the crowd holding its collective breath. 

Finally, Mark raises his arms, releases the ball with precision, and… it’s just slightly off. The shot hits the rim, bounces wide, and the opposing team rebounds just as the buzzer blares through the gym. “The shot is up… and it’s no good!” Donghyuck announces as the buzzer sounds. “The Hawks rebound, the buzzer sounds, and this one’s over! We won! The crowd goes on the floor, and this place is going crazy. The Ravens have won by 9! They’re headed to the state championship, baby! Yeah!”

The Ravens have won, the crowd exploding into cheers as fans rush the court in a frenzy of celebration. Mark’s teammates are ecstatic, embracing each other, but you can’t shake the feeling that Mark’s miss wasn’t an accident. You watch him, his expression unreadable amid the jubilation, silent questions linger in your mind. What are the brothers hiding? What the hell is going on?

You’re pulled from your thoughts by an all-too-familiar voice. Yeonjun—finally placing a name to the face of the guy who’s been giving you trouble—saunters over with that arrogant smirk plastered across his face. He’s the guy you had a casual fling with ages ago, nothing serious, and certainly nothing you thought you’d have to deal with again. The irritation flares up instantly as he nears you, unbothered by the glare you give him.

“I’ll call Jeno over,” you say through gritted teeth, your voice low but firm. “He’ll beat you up like he did before. We both know he can’t stand you, so get the hell away from me—”

“But he’s not your boyfriend anymore, is he?” Yeonjun cuts you off, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “You should’ve told me you were single. Would’ve saved me some trouble.” He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, clearly delighted by the reaction he’s getting.

Your pulse quickens, a mix of anger and discomfort rising in you as you realize that your relationship status only fuels his audacity. Knowing him, it wouldn’t have mattered whether you were single or taken; guys like him ignore boundaries regardless. He inches closer, continuing with his unwanted comments, his eyes trailing over you in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“Come on, babe. We both know you missed me,” he sneers, voice dripping with condescension as he leans in, hand reaching out to grab you.

You push him back firmly, raising your voice in defiance. “Get your hands off me!”

The force of your voice draws attention from the crowd, heads turning toward the commotion. Mark, who had just finished high-fiving his teammates, catches sight of what’s happening. Any remaining patience vanishes from his face as he watches Yeonjun’s approach, eyes narrowing with fury. The restrained frustration he’d been holding back—after everything with Jeno, not being able to touch and kiss you in public, and the weight of the game—is now focused entirely on Yeonjun.

Mark steps forward, his eyes dark and unyielding as he stares Yeonjun down. His posture is tense and unyielding, he reaches Yeonjun in seconds, shoving him with enough force that he stumbles back and away from you. “You need to back off. Now.” His voice is calm, but the underlying threat is unmistakable.

Yeonjun scoffs, tossing a condescending look at Mark. “What’s your problem, man? She’s not yours to protect.”

Mark stands firm, his expression unyielding. “Yeah? Well, she sure as hell doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

With a smirk, Yeonjun leans in, his tone venomous. “Oh, I get it, you want her too, huh? She has such a tight pussy… I’ll tell you, it’s something else.” His words are calculated, aimed to incite a reaction.

Mark’s jaw clenches, a vein throbbing at his temple, signaling the fraying edge of his composure. He steps forward, closing the gap between him and Yeonjun in a heartbeat. With a swift movement borne of frustration, he shoves Yeonjun hard. The force catches Yeonjun off guard, causing him to stagger backwards, his feet scrambling to regain his balance. The smug smirk that had been plastered on Yeonjun’s face falters, morphing into a scowl as he realizes he’s not dealing with someone who’s going to back down.

As Yeonjun steadies himself, his eyes narrow, and without warning, he launches a punch aimed directly at Mark’s face. But Mark, anticipating the move, dodges to the side, his own anger simmering just below the surface. The miss doesn’t deter Yeonjun; instead, it fuels his rage, and he lunges again, more recklessly this time.

Mark’s response is swift and decisive. As Yeonjun swings, Mark catches his wrist, using his momentum against him. With a quick twist and a firm push, Mark pins Yeonjun against the wall. His grip is tight, controlled—marking the restraint of someone well-practised in keeping his cool.“ Think very carefully about your next move,” Mark hisses into his ear, his voice low and menacing. The immediate area around them grows tense, players pausing as the altercation unfolds, ready to jump in at any sign of escalation.

Jeno had been silently observing everything since Mark went over to defend you against Yeonjun. He was puzzled—what was all that about? As far as he knew, you and Mark weren’t particularly close; there was no obvious reason for Mark to get so worked up unless he had some personal issue with Yeonjun. His confusion only deepened with the ongoing situation.

His father, Taeyong, watching the exchange from a distance, chuckled cynically and nudged Jeno with a knowing smirk. “Still don’t believe me? It’s obvious they’re fucking, son.”

Jeno shot his dad a withering look, choosing to ignore the crude comment. Despite the seed of doubt his father tried to plant, Jeno’s trust in you remained unshaken. He wasn’t going to let his father’s baseless accusations color his perception of you or Mark. Turning his attention away, Jeno scanned the gym’s bleachers for Eric and Sunwoo. A small sigh of relief escaped him when he saw they had already left, sparing them from any more of the drama.

Jeno, with a look of renewed determination, wastes no time in joining Mark’s side. His approach is swift and determined, his loyalty to Mark unmistakable as he positions himself as a barrier between Mark and any further threats. Spotting a player from the opposing team trying to intervene, Jeno grabs him by the arm and firmly pushes him back, effectively blocking him from escalating the fight. 

The atmosphere in the gym quickly becomes charged as the altercation draws more attention. Teammates and opponents alike dive into the mix, with some trying to break up the fight and others fueling it. Fists fly and shouts fill the air, creating a disorder and chaos. The floor becomes a maelstrom of moving bodies—players dodging, weaving, and colliding as the skirmish grows. In the midst of the fight, Mark swiftly gains the advantage over Yeonjun. The crowd’s attention is locked on the action, their cheers growing louder as Mark dominates the confrontation.

Amidst the frenzied chaos, tensions between Karina and Yeeun, the opposing cheer captain, reached a boiling point. The air was thick with rivalry as they squared off, their frustrations from the entire season spilling over.

“Still think you’re better than us?” Karina taunted, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, the muscle in her jaw twitching with anger.

Yeeun stepped closer, her sneer sharp and cutting. “Better at everything. Especially not losing my head over stupid boys,” she shot back, her voice dripping with disdain.

That was the last straw for Karina. In a flash of fury, she lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Yeeun’s hair and yanking her head back with a fierce tug. Yeeun retaliated instantly, her nails digging painfully into Karina’s arm as she tried to free herself.

The scuffle escalated quickly into a wild flurry of kicks and screams, each girl trying to overpower the other. Winter and Ryujin rushed to intervene, desperately pulling and pushing to separate them, but their efforts only intensified the struggle. Arin joined the fray, shoving Winter aside with a harsh push that sent her staggering back.

Amid the chaos, Karina found an opening. She pulled her arm back and landed a solid punch on Yeeun’s cheek. “And that’s for trying to steal my man that one time,” she hissed, her breath hot with anger. Not giving Yeeun a moment to recover, Karina swung again, connecting another punch. “And that’s for stealing my move at the last Nationals—the Twisted Halo jump!”

The gym is a storm of chaos, with shouts, punches, and unrestrained aggression filling every corner. Coaches, teachers, and spectators scramble to intervene, but the tension has reached an uncontrollable peak.

Time seems to slow as the chaos finally fades away, leaving a heavy stillness in its wake. Mark bears the visible signs of the recent confrontation—a few fresh marks bruising his hands and a harsh line across his face. It’s painful for you not to rush to his side, especially now when all you want to do is envelop him in your arms, thank him, and tend to his wounds. But the reality of your secret relationship keeps you at a painful distance in the crowd.

The two of you had tried to sneak away to the locker rooms for some privacy, only to be halted by the loud echoes of Coach Suh’s furious voice berating the players involved in the fight. With a mutual sigh of resignation, you both came to the conclusion that there would be no moments alone tonight. 

However, you can’t help but to find yourself constantly searching for Mark in the crowd. Your heart swells as you watch him embrace a woman. Even from a distance, her youthful vigor is apparent, but the maternal pride in her eyes is unmistakable—this is his mother. You can’t hear their words, but her gestures, filled with boundless praise and affection, speak volumes. She reassures him with a fervour that despite his missed shot, her pride in him is unwavering, her love absolute.

The light in Mark’s eyes and the broadness of his smile as he embraces his mother capture you completely. He seems to radiate happiness, the kind that fills the space around him and draws people in. His cheeks, surely aching from smiling so much, only add to the warmth that his expression carries. Watching him in such a pure moment, you can’t help but feel a surge of joy that tightens your chest in a familiar, yet always surprising, way. It stirs something deep within you—a mix of admiration and a sharp pang of longing. What was this tightening in your chest that seemed to draw tighter with each of his smiles?

Seeing him like this makes you ache to be by his side. You want to be the one he shares these moments with, someone who can give him the same comfort and support that he gets from his family. The happiness on his face brings a soft smile to yours, even as you feel a small pang of longing, wishing you could step closer, congratulate him, and tell him how proud you are. But, for now, you stay where you are, letting the warmth of his happiness reach you from afar.

“That’s how he looks when he’s with you,” Karina murmurs, startling you. She’s right beside you, and her presence snaps you back to reality. You quickly ask about her condition, recalling the fight she’d been involved in. She waves off the concern, showing only a few scratches. “We handled it,” she assures with a wry smile. 

Your attention drifts back to Mark, who now converses with a man standing close to his mother. The man’s presence is comforting, almost fatherly as Mark looks at him with evident respect and fondness. Curiosity about his identity flickers through your mind, but the warmth of seeing Mark surrounded by love overshadows it.

You stifle a giggle as his mother scolds him for his involvement in the fight, her hands gesturing animatedly. Yet, in the next moment, she’s gently tending to a cut on his face, her touch tender. Relief washes over you, grateful that he’s being cared for.

Mark had assured you earlier, his voice earnest as you felt guilt over how he defended you. “Don’t worry about me. I’d do anything for you.” And somehow, you knew he meant it with every word, that this barely scratched the surface of what he’d be willing to do for you. As they prepare to leave, you watch them go, a silent goodbye lingering on your lips, mingled with regret that you couldn’t openly share this moment with him. 

Moments later, you stand alone in the nearly empty gymnasium, the echoes of the night’s chaos still lingering around you. As you wait for Karina to gather her things, your phone buzzes with a message. It’s Mark. A small smile forms as you read his words, and soon, you’re lost in a back-and-forth exchange, your fingers typing quickly as he fills the silence around you. Each message from him brings a warmth that eases the tension left from the night’s events, grounding you in the comfort of your shared connection.

You’re giggling, smiling down at your phone as you text back and forth with Mark, so absorbed in your conversation that you don’t notice someone walking up to you.

“Texting Mark?” a voice asks, amusement clear.

You look up, eyebrows shooting up in surprise to see Mark’s best friend standing there, an amused smile on her face. Quickly, you try to cover, stammering, “No—uh, I mean… no, I’m just texting… someone else.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. So, you’re just randomly blushing and giggling at your phone for ‘someone else,’ huh?”

You bite your lip, fumbling to keep up the charade. “Yeah, we’re not… I mean, it’s not… Mark and I aren’t close like that. We just… hang out sometimes.”

She crosses her arms, clearly enjoying this. “Listen, you don’t need to lie to me. I know you’re seeing Mark.”

Your jaw drops in shock. Why would he tell her? After he promised to keep it between you two. The panic must show on your face because she quickly adds, “Hey, don’t get mad at him. He told me before you asked him to keep it quiet. He’d never have told me otherwise. He really likes you and respects your wishes. He wouldn’t want to lose your trust.”

“Oh… okay,” you mumble, feeling the tension slip away. You glance back at your phone, your heart easing a bit.

She nods, leaning in a bit. “Considering Mark and I share everything, it means a lot that he’d respect your privacy. I know he’d have kept it a secret if you’d asked him sooner. But since I already knew…” She pauses, looking at you seriously. “I’m really close with him. He’s my best friend, and he’s one of the best people in my life. I care a lot about his happiness, so please… don’t hurt him, okay? I’ve never seen him this into anyone before. It’s always been you.”

“I… I don’t plan to hurt him. You don’t need to worry,” you whisper, taken by the sincerity in her tone.

She watches you carefully, then tilts her head. “Is it serious between you two? Or is it just… you know, sex?”

You gulp, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. You search for the words. “It’s… I’m not sure. We’re not at that stage yet. I mean, we haven’t had those conversations… it’s complicated.” You try to explain, feeling a mix of uncertainty and honesty.

She studies you, then sighs, her tone firm but gentle. “You can try to brush it off all you want, but I see how he looks at you—and I see how you look at him. You’re not fooling anyone. If you keep denying it, you’re just going to end up hurting both yourself and, most importantly, him. Just… don’t hurt him, okay? I swear to god.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected, her serious expression making it clear how much this means to her. You hadn’t expected this level of protectiveness, this strength behind her words, and it leaves you momentarily speechless.

Finally, you manage to nod. “I won’t. And… don’t hurt Jeno either,” you add as the words spill out, you’re unable to find any other words. You watch her reaction carefully.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and then she laughs softly, clearly not expecting you to have figured it out. “You… know about that?”

You smile, shrugging. “Yeah. Don’t worry, he didn’t tell me, I just know. I saw you guys making out near the tutor centre. I won’t say anything, your secret is safe with me.”

“So… Mark doesn’t even know?” you add, watching her closely.

She shakes her head, exhaling softly. “No, he doesn’t,” she replies, her voice tinged with a mix of anxiety and determination.

You raise an eyebrow, a small smile forming. “Figures. I feel like he’d be pretty angry if he found out, right?”

She nods, visibly tense at the thought. “Yeah, he would be. That’s why it’s really important that you don’t tell him. I need to handle this on my own terms. I’ll figure it out… I’ll find a way.”

You nod, feeling the weight of her trust. “You’ve got my word. It’s safe with me,” you reassure her, squeezing her hand gently.

She lets out a small breath of relief, her grip on your hand tightening. “Thank you. Really. I mean it.”

You both share a quiet, understanding laugh, and then, in a light-hearted moment, you pinky promise to keep each other’s secrets safe. She beams, gushing a bit as she talks about Jeno, her words spilling out in excited whispers about how much she likes him, how they’re still figuring things out.

You listen, genuinely happy for her, the warmth between you both growing as you share these moments. It feels good, this small, unexpected connection, knowing that you both care deeply for people who mean so much to you.

You glance away from his best friend, your attention shifting as footsteps approach. Your heart jumps when you see Mark walking towards you, his gaze locked on yours. You remember he said he was heading home earlier, but by the look in his eyes, that’s clearly not his plan anymore. A smile tugs at your lips, the warmth spreading through you as you realize he’s here for you—probably wanting to surprise you, hoping to spend the night together. He’s always like that, slipping in small surprises just for you.

The way he’s looking at you sends a shiver down your spine, his gaze dark and intense, holding so much unspoken need. He’s barely able to keep his hands to himself, his eyes tracing over you, lingering in a way that makes your skin heat up. There’s something raw, almost desperate, about his expression, and it’s clear he’s fighting hard to keep his composure with his best friend standing right there.

When he’s close enough, you lean toward him slightly and whisper, “I know you told her.” Mark’s tense posture softens as he sighs, relieved. “Thank fuck,” he mutters before he finally lets go. He doesn’t waste a second, closing the distance between you in one fluid motion, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that takes your breath away. The intensity of it makes you forget the space around you, his lips moving urgently against yours, stealing every thought from your mind. His hands tangle into your hair, anchoring you to him as he deepens the kiss, his movements strong, unyielding. You find yourself pressed back as he leans closer, his hands gripping you as if he never wants to let go.

Every sensation overwhelms you—the warmth of his mouth, the way he’s pouring himself into the kiss, the firmness of his hands guiding you. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting gently against yours before he drops a soft kiss onto your forehead, a stark contrast to the intensity just moments before. “Let’s go, yeah?” he murmurs, holding out his hand, his expression tender yet filled with anticipation, waiting for you to take it.

Mark’s best friend tosses a playful remark, her tone teasing. “Guess this is it, huh? Figured once you got her, you’d forget about me.”

Mark smiles, briefly letting go of your hand to give his friend a quick, but heartfelt hug. It’s short and warm—a stark contrast to the lingering, intense hugs he reserves for you, where his hands roam freely. You watch, a small smile playing on your lips as she enthusiastically praises him for the win. “Nicely done, Mark!”

He returns the gesture with a grateful smile, planting a soft kiss on her cheek before reaching back for your hand. “Thanks,” he replies, warmth evident in his voice.

You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer with a soft smile. “I thought you were leaving with your mom and that man. Who is he, by the way?”

“He’s my uncle,” Mark replies, his voice warm with affection.

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I just told them to head off without me. They’re going on a date,” he continues.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “Your mom and your uncle going on a date… wait, that’s not your mom’s brother?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, you dummy. Why would my mom go on a date with her brother? He’s my dad’s older brother.”

You laugh, feeling a mix of relief and amusement at the misunderstanding, and before you can speak again, Mark leans in. His kiss is gentle, a soft press of lips that eases the tension from the earlier confusion. The kiss deepens slowly, rich with tenderness and unhurried desire. Your hands find their way around his neck, pulling him closer, while his hands settle on your waist, holding you firmly yet softly.

The kiss lingers, a quiet statement of affection that resonates with the comfort of knowing each other well. As you part, a smile lingers on your lips, mirroring the affectionate glow in his eyes. The moment is intimate, cushioned within the soft hum of surrounding conversations.

Breaking the soft silence, Mark teases, “Did you and Jeno ever talk? Or just have sex? Surely he would’ve mentioned that his dad had an older brother?” His tone is light, playful.

You jab him lightly in the chest, your face animated with mock annoyance. “Well, you and I won’t be having sex tonight,” you declare, pointing between the two of you with a humorously stern expression.

Turning to his best friend, you continue with exaggerated seriousness, “Mark keeps on making fun of the relationship I had with Jeno, this is his tenth jab at us this week! I said that when it reached that number then I wouldn’t let him fuck me.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Mark replies with a grin, his laughter mingling with yours.

You shake your head and pout, the playful banter drawing a more pronounced smile from him. “It doesn’t matter,” you sigh playfully.

“I’m sorry, baby. It’s just so easy,” he chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection, lightening the atmosphere further.

His voice drops to a low whisper, the words barely a breath between you. “So you won’t let me touch you or fuck you, really?” He smirks, a hint of challenge in his tone as he watches your slow nod, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and desire.

───────────────────────────────

“Fuck, Mark.” Your moan escapes, desperate and raw, as the pressure in your core surges toward a shattering climax. Your thighs burn with the relentless effort, your entire body ignited by the overwhelming sensation of him thrusting deep, stretching you perfectly, filling every inch. Yet it’s still not enough—you’re greedy for more, clenching tightly around him to pull him even deeper. Clenching around him, you grind down hard, then lift yourself only to slam back onto his cock, chasing the relentless wave of pleasure with fervent intensity.

“This isn’t fair,” you whisper breathlessly, your fingers digging into his chest as you lean in close, your breaths mingling. “You’re meant to be on a sex ban.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His smirk brushes against your lips, his voice a mix of defiance and amusement. You had only been half serious about imposing a sex ban, playfully wanting to test his limits and see how desperate and needy he could become for you.

Yet, it turns out you were the one who ended up begging for his cock. When you arrived at his apartment, the visible bruises from his recent fight marked his skin. You took your time to carefully examine each one, your touch soft yet charged with underlying desire, expressing concern while silently thanking him for enduring so much for you. 

He then requested you sit on his cock to “mend” him. At first, you shook your head and crossed your arms, determined to stand firm. But it only took one pleading look from his soft, desperate eyes to make your resolve crumble.

“I didn’t ask you to bounce on me like this, fuck baby. I thought you were just gonna sit on it.” His voice was a mix of surprise and raw desire when you began to move, not just sitting but actively riding him.

But you couldn’t help it. After initially settling on his lap, his cock nestled deep inside you, the intensity built too quickly. What started as a tender moment—your lips brushing his, your hands roaming his body as you whispered soothing words—soon spiraled into desperation. Soon, you found yourself begging him to let you ride him fully, craving the feel of him deep inside you, surrendering to the desire instead of maintaining the control you know he usually likes to exert. All you wanted was to make him feel good tonight, to alleviate the burdens of his day—he deserved that intense pleasure after everything he had endured.

“Fuck… just like that,” Mark groans, his gaze intense as he watches you take control. His hands are firm on your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh, yet he lets you dictate the rhythm entirely. He’s fully immersed in the moment, savoring every second of your boldness. “You gonna fuck yourself on my cock, baby? Huh? You gonna ride me until you come?”

“Yes, baby,” you moan out, the words tumbling between heavy breaths. The pace is brutal—each time you slam down onto his cock, it’s like you can’t get enough. You bounce harder, faster, your whole body moving with reckless abandon as you chase your release. “I’m gonna fuck myself dumb on your cock, Mark… fuck, I’m so close.”

His grip tightens, but he lets you ride him, lets you take what you need. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock. Use me.” His encouragement spurs you on, his hands now guiding your hips to meet each of your desperate, plunging descents, amplifying the pleasure that spirals out of control within you.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, muscles burning with the exertion, yet you don’t relent. Driven by raw need, you’re consumed by the sensation of his cock stretching you, filling you completely, relentlessly hitting all the right places. The pleasure is overwhelming, your movements frantic and almost desperate as you lose yourself to it.

“Mark… fuck… Mark!” Your scream is loud, hands pushing against his chest for more leverage as you ride him with fierce intensity. The sound of your bodies colliding echoes around the room, each thrust sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna break me,” Mark gasps, his voice strained under the intensity. He’s struggling to keep pace, but his eyes remain fixed on you—captivated by the sight of your breasts bouncing with each violent thrust, your body surrendered to uninhibited lust. His hands roam upwards, grasping your breasts roughly, squeezing in rhythm to your wild movements.

“Can I go faster?” you murmur, even as he slides a finger between your lips. You choke slightly, a reflex that quickly turns into eager sucking, your tongue swirling around him with desperate intensity. Even though you’re the one on top, driving the rhythm, there’s a thrilling sense of submission in asking for his permission. His nod, firm and eager, grants you the consent you crave, emboldening you to increase your pace. Fueled by his approval, you ride him with renewed vigor, each movement more intense. “Daddy!!!” you scream, overwhelmed by the escalating pleasure. 

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now, husky with desire as his hands tighten on your hips. His thrusts slow but intensify, each one deliberate, plunging deeper, stretching you completely. “You feel how deep I am?” His tone is raw, his gaze intense and locked with yours, challenging you to respond.

“You feel me here?” Mark growls, his hand pressing down on the slight bulge at your lower belly, marking where he fills you to the hilt. The sensation of his fullness, combined with the pressure of his hand, elicits a whimper from you. He smirks, his eyes never leaving yours, fully aware of the control he wields over your senses. “Daddy’s cock stretching you out so well, isn’t it?” He mutters, lust thick in his voice. “

You nod frantically, overcome, but he demands more. “Use your words, baby,” he insists, his grip firm on your waist. His cock throbs inside you, his gaze dominating, claiming every part of you, igniting a surge of arousal through your body.

“Y-yes, Daddy,” you gasp, your voice breaking, breaths ragged. “I can feel you so deep… so fucking deep.”

“Look at you… fuck, you’re fucking wild right now,” he growls, his voice a mix of wonder and desire as he watches you ride him hard. “You want it so fucking bad, don’t you? Taking my cock like it’s what you were made for.”

His words stoke the flames inside you, driving you to move even more fiercely. You bounce on him with such force that the bed creaks under the strain. The sound of your bodies colliding, the slickness between your legs amplifying the raw, primal nature of your coupling. You’re beyond thought, the pleasure consuming you entirely.

As you move above him, your breasts bounce enticingly with each rhythmic thrust. Mark watches, captivated by the sight, his arousal heightening at the vision of your body in motion. “Fuck, your tits are perfect,” he moans against your skin, his lips closing around your nipple with a fierce pull. “I could suck on them all fucking day, baby.”

With a mischievous grin, he reaches up, his thumbs teasing your nipples into taut peaks before he grasps them gently, rolling them between his fingers, heightening your sensitivity to a fever pitch. Driven wild by the dual sensations of his cock and his fingers, your vision blurs with ecstasy. “Fuck, yes, suck my tits, Daddy,” you cry out, your voice quivering with intensity.

Unable to resist the inviting bounce, he leans forward, capturing one nipple with his lips and pulling it into his mouth. The sensation of his hot tongue swirling around the stiffened bud, coupled with the intense suction, sends waves of pleasure cascading through your body. The sounds of his enjoyment, the wet, sucking noises mingling with your gasps and moans, fill the air, creating a symphony of desire that drives both of you closer to the edge.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he strains, his voice thick as he struggles to maintain his composure. “Keep going, baby. Use me. Take what you need. I want to see you come all over me. I want to feel how fucking tight you get when you climax.”

He switches to the other nipple, his actions relentless, his tongue flicking rapidly, drawing sharp, pleasure-laden whimpers from you. “That’s it… ride me, baby. Ride my cock. Don’t stop.”

“God, Mark…” you gasp, your voice barely audible through the thick haze of pleasure enveloping you, but he hears every whisper.

Mark’s response is a deep growl against your flesh, his mouth fiercely attaches to your other nipple, sucking with a voracious intensity while his other hand aggressively massages your other breast. “You’re fucking perfect,” he grunts, his voice muffled against your skin as he savors you. His tongue lashes over your sensitive skin, his lips pulling at your nipple, drawing deep, uncontrollable moans from you. “These tits… fuck, they’re so perfect. Bouncing just for me, baby. You like when I suck them?”

“Y-yes, Daddy,” you whimper, your movements growing more frantic as pleasure mounts explosively. The sensation of him sucking your nipples while you ride him is overwhelming. “Fuck, I’m so close… I’m so close…”

Your entire body trembles, thighs screaming with the exertion, but the pleasure is so intense, you can’t think of stopping. “Please, Mark,” you beg, your voice laden with desperation and need. “Please, I don’t want to stop.”

“You’re not fucking stopping until you come all over my cock,” Mark commands, his eyes blazing with lust. His hands clamp down on your waist, dictating your rhythm as he thrusts up into you with even greater force. “You feel that?” His voice is coarse, breath scorching your skin as he leans in close. “You’re gonna come for me, baby. I want to feel you fucking soaking for me.”

His rough words ignite a surge within you, and you’re on the edge, barely holding on. His cock penetrates you so deeply, each thrust ruthlessly targeting that perfect spot inside, making your mind spin out of control. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close,” you whisper, a breathless plea.

That’s all it takes. With one final, desperate grind, you shatter, catapulting into the most intense orgasm you’ve ever known. Your entire body seizes, clenching tightly around his cock as you scream his name. Your breath catches, your vision momentarily whites out as the full force of your orgasm crashes over you. Your hips lose their rhythm, jerking spasmodically as your body trembles violently, clinging to him in desperate need. The slickness from your release pools between your legs, coating him, making each of his thrusts slide even deeper, intensifying the raw, primal sensation. Sweat sheens your skin, your chest heaves, completely unraveled by the overwhelming pleasure.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction, his eyes devouring the spectacle of you coming undone. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.” Lost in the ecstasy, you feel every pulse, every slick slide of him inside you, your release drenching him as he continues to drive into you relentlessly. His hands grip you firmly, guiding each shudder of your climax, his voice low, rich with pride. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses along your neck, punctuated by his deep, guttural moans. “So fucking tight for Daddy.”

The wetness between your legs soaks both of you, but as you climax, it feels as though your entire body explodes. Your muscles clench around him in pulsing, relentless spasms. Heat floods through your belly, radiating down your thighs as you shake uncontrollably. The slick sounds of your bodies mingling fill the room as you drench him, your release and his relentless thrusts merging into a crescendo of ecstasy.

As the intensity of your climax washes over you, you’re just about to collapse into his arms and share a tender kiss, but with a swift movement that leaves you dizzy, he flips you over. The sudden change is so unexpected that you burst into giggles, and his chuckle resonates against you, his chest vibrating against yours as he positions himself to enter you again.

The pace he sets is fast and urgent, leaving no time for you to adjust, though it seems you no longer need it. His gaze is intense, focused entirely on you, pleased with how well you’re handling the swift, deep thrusts. Laughter still lingers between you, the sound mixing with the rhythmic noise of your bodies moving together, suggesting the session might remain light and playful. But then, his expression shifts, and the mood changes drastically.

Without warning, his hand comes down sharply on your cheek, the slap crisp and startling. You gasp, the sting mingling with a rush of unexpected arousal. He does it again, harder this time, and you can see the dark intensity flood his eyes. “Fuck,” you moan, your body reacting to the mix of pain and pleasure.

“I can’t believe you fucked Yeonjun,” he growls, his voice thick with a sudden, raw jealousy. Now his rough movements make sense; his thrusts become even more aggressive, each one a claim, a reassertion of his presence.

He tightens his grip, pulling you closer, and in a bold move that sends a thrill through you, he lets a drop of spit fall deliberately into your open mouth. The act is daring and intensely intimate, highlighting his control in a way that sends shivers down your spine. His hot breath fans against your ear as he thrusts deeply, his voice a rough whisper that curls into you, “Can he fuck you like this? Make you feel as good as I can?” Each word vibrates through you, amplified by the relentless, commanding rhythm of his body against yours, underscoring his dominance with every movement.

You shake your head, overwhelmed by the force of his movements, the room tilting as your senses are consumed by him. “No, no he can’t,” you gasp out, each word a breathy echo of his impact on you. “Mark, please…” The rest of your plea dissolves into a moan as you reach for him, your hands grasping, pulling him closer, needing more. Each motion towards him is a silent acknowledgment of his effect on you, drawing him deeper, compelling him to claim every part of you.

As he continues, he demands you vocalize your loyalty, to affirm that he’s the only one who can elicit such responses from you. Each command he issues is more assertive than the last, each thrust deeper, claiming you entirely. The room is filled with the explicit sounds of your union, the slick, rhythmic noise that underscores his total control over your senses.

As Mark’s movements grow more forceful, the atmosphere becomes charged with a potent, almost tangible intensity. His hands explore assertively—gripping, pushing, and pulling you into each powerful thrust. He completely overpowers you, his strength undeniable as he drives into you with relentless depth. Suddenly, you feel a sharp slap on your ass, the sound crisp in the air, each strike a clear declaration of his control. 

The stinging sensation melds into the heat building inside you, spurring a mix of pleasure and a raw, primal response that courses through your body.

“Did he even make you cum, baby?” Mark’s voice is low and taunting, resonating with a rough edge that sends shivers racing through your body. “Or are you just letting losers fuck you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, his eyes locked onto yours, reading the undeniable truth in the way your body clenches and arches toward him, utterly consumed by his intensity.

Words escape you, swallowed by the overwhelming tide of sensation he stirs within you; your voice fractures into moans and broken pleas, “More, Mark, please,” each plea spilling out in a desperate cadence. He dominates the rhythm, pulling out completely, the absence of him almost as intense as his presence, only to surge back in with a force that robs you of breath. Each deliberate thrust pushes you closer to the brink, his pace a calculated assault designed to shatter your composure.

Mark’s grip tightens around your thighs, manhandling you into the perfect angle for him to dive deep with every thrust. The sound of his skin slapping against yours fills the room, a lewd soundtrack to the overwhelming intensity of his movements. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and heavy. “You can’t even form words, can you? Just moaning and begging,” he growls, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches your frazzled expression.

He increases his pace, each thrust plunging deeper and with more force, overwhelming your senses. The room seems to tilt and spin as the intensity escalates. You hover at the precipice of total loss of control, each deep connection blurring the line between overwhelming pleasure and sheer sensory overload.

“You’re mine, understand?” Mark’s voice cuts through the haze, commanding and absolute. “Say it,” he insists, his tone brooking no argument, pausing his forceful rhythm just enough to focus fully on your response.

With each labored breath, you muster the clarity to respond, the words tumbling out breathlessly, “I’m yours, only yours.” Your voice is weak, tremulous with the force of your nearing climax under his unyielding command.

Pleased with your capitulation, Mark drives forward once more, resuming his punishing pace. Each thrust pushes you further into the depths of ecstasy. Your combined cries—the sounds of his dominance and your surrender—fill the room, creating a raw symphony of unchecked passion. The intensity of your interaction charges the atmosphere, leaving an indelible mark of your shared fervor.

He pulls out only to slam back into you with ferocious intensity, each penetration deep and precise. This torturous pattern he orchestrates—withdrawal to the brink of absence, then a forceful return—sends a surge of conflicting emotions and sensations through you. Each pullback leaves you gasping, the absence keenly felt, while each forceful re-entry fills you completely, stretching and overwhelming you with raw pleasure.

His movements are unrelentingly rough, each thrust deliberate, meant to disorient and dominate. The sound of his skin slapping against yours punctuates the air, rhythmic and harsh. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with desire, burning with the need to see every flicker of response across your face. He watches you unravel under him, a mix of satisfaction and lust in his gaze as he pushes you over the edge again and again.

With every deep thrust, you find yourself unable to hold back the moans and cries that spill from your lips, each one louder and more desperate than the last. He’s relentless, driving into you with a pace that’s both punishing and intensely gratifying, his every move calculated to bring you both to a fever pitch of raw, unchecked ecstasy.

Mark’s relentless pursuit to explore every inch of you intensifies as he shifts you effortlessly into various positions, each one designed to probe deeper, stimulating you relentlessly. As he flips you onto your back, lifting your legs for deeper penetration, his thick arousal hits all the right spots, drawing loud, uncontrollable moans from your lips.

Observing your writhing form with a lustful smirk, Mark commands you to climb on top. Despite the aftershocks of multiple orgasms still coursing through your body, you obediently straddle him. Your movements are slow, unsteady from the intensity of your previous climaxes. Mark’s impatience quickly surfaces as he watches you tentatively find your rhythm. His strong hands grip your hips tightly, taking control. He guides you at first but soon begins to drive upwards into you with vigorous, insatiable strokes.

Each of his powerful thrusts jolts you, sending deep, resounding waves of pleasure that ripple through your core. Your moans fill the room, each one louder and more desperate than the last, mingling with the rhythmic slapping sound of his skin against yours. Mark’s relentless pace and the depth of his penetration stir a wild, overwhelming pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely.

As he continues to thrust upward, your control unravels completely. He angles his hips, each movement designed to hit all the spots inside you that scream for more. His gaze is fixed on you, dark with desire, watching every reaction, every collapse of your will under his command. His hands wander with possessive intent, one sliding up to grasp your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his hungry kisses. The other hand finds its way to your clit, rubbing in tight, deliberate circles that send you spiraling toward another explosive climax.

As you moan on top of him, you softly murmur, “Baby, I’m all yours.” Mark hums in response, his chest tightening as he hears the affectionate term you utter so rarely—only in moments like these when you’re deeply connected and seeking intimacy. The sound underscores how precious these moments are to him. 

He smiles broadly, his gaze intense and possessive as he whispers back, “Yeah, that’s right. You’re all mine.” Driven by his words, Mark’s thrusts grow even more powerful and deliberate. He pulls you down against him, his lips meeting yours in a fierce kiss that mingles your moans. His hands roam over your body with a possessiveness that heightens every sensation, each touch sparking more desire. As he continues to thrust upward, each movement is perfectly timed to drive you closer to the edge.

“I’m yours, only yours,” you keep repeating, gasping between intense moans, the room echoing with the sounds of your fervent union. The intensity peaks as you both climax together; your body spasms around him, your cries mingling with his in a chorus of ecstatic release.

As the waves of pleasure slowly recede, you collapse onto him, your body soft and pliant in his strong arms. Your kisses are tender yet charged, each one a seal of your mutual satisfaction and deep connection. “Mark…” you whimper softly against his lips, overwhelmed by affection and the depth of your shared intimacy.

He responds with gentle, yet still possessive touches, his hands exploring your back as you nestle closer, seeking his warmth. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs reassuringly, his voice low and soothing. The room is quiet now, the air thick with the afterglow of your intense encounter, each breath and soft hum of contentment weaving an even deeper bond between you.

“Ahhh,” you moan against his lips, leaning in for a kiss that promises to deepen—but a loud knock at the door jolts you apart, making you scream in shock. Instinctively, you jab Mark’s arm. “You said you had the apartment to yourself until tomorrow morning, who’s that?”

He shrugs, a mix of confusion and annoyance fleeting across his face as he gently lifts you off his lap and climbs out of bed. Hurriedly, he pulls on his boxers while you dive under the covers for cover. Mark cracks the door open just a sliver, careful to shield you from view.

You hear a deep, unfamiliar voice, definitely not one of his roommates. “Mark, why don’t you come down and have dinner with us?”

“Uncle Doyoung!” Mark’s response is laden with forced enthusiasm, a clear contrast to the intimacy of moments ago. “I thought you and mum were heading out to dinner and staying at a hotel. Wait, how did you guys get in?”

“You gave us a spare key to your apartment, remember?” His uncle chuckles, amused by Mark’s forgetfulness. “We told you we’d be coming over later. Your mom wanted to cook you dinner, especially since you moved to university. She hasn’t been able to do that much anymore.”

“Come on, come down. Me and your mother are waiting. Also, tell your girlfriend to come and join us, we’ve been waiting to meet her.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully and departs, leaving Mark standing there, laughing nervously before he turns to you with an apologetic look.

You’re under the covers, wishing they could swallow you whole, your heart still racing from the abrupt shift from passion to panic. Mark catches your eye, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and reassurance as he extends a hand to you. He leans in, his lips find yours in a soft, reassuring kiss. “I guess you’re going to have to meet my mom and uncle now,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a mixture of resignation and gentle amusement. The warmth of his kiss offers a silent promise that he’ll be right there with you, facing this unexpected introduction together.

Moments later and you’re pacing frantically around the room. Mark stands by the door, his expression patient yet attentive as you pace the room, the suddenness of the situation weighing heavily on you. “Baby, you don’t need to dress up,” he mumbles, his voice low and soothing.

“Do I need to meet them? Just convince them I was some random skank you’re sleeping with. I promise I won’t get mad!” you whisper back half-jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckles, shaking his head affectionately. “You’re not some random skank; you’re my girl. So can you stop worrying so much? It’s just my mum and my uncle,” he reassures you, his tone firm yet gentle.

“It’s not easy to just ‘stop worrying’,” you hiss back, your breath quick with anxiety. “What happened to us not telling anyone?” you add, frustration evident in your shake of the head. 

As you panic, Mark tries to assuage your fears with a calm explanation. “Y/N, it’s my parents. I didn’t straight out tell them ‘me and Y/N are seeing each other.’ They obviously heard us together just now and put two and two together,” he says, trying to keep the atmosphere light despite the awkward revelation.

You cringe, the reality of the situation hitting you hard. “Oh fuck, they heard us,” you cry out, the embarrassment coloring your voice. “Mark, I shouted ‘daddy’ like a hundred times.”

Mark can’t help but respond with a smirk, attempting to inject some humor into the tense moment. “Nah, you could’ve said it more,” he jokes.

You send him a death glare, not finding the situation amusing in the slightest. “Stop! This isn’t funny, we were so loud,” you protest, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you imagine what his parents must think. The lightness in his attitude does little to soothe your mortification at being overheard in such a compromising situation.

As Mark wraps his arms around you, the tension in your shoulders begins to melt under his gentle touch. He pulls you close, his presence a comforting barrier against the rush of sudden nerves. His hand lightly strokes your back in slow, soothing circles, grounding you with the rhythm of his touch. “Just wear one of my hoodies and your leggings, okay? You don’t need to worry about what you’re wearing; we’re at home.”

He coos softly into your ear, trying to ease your nerves. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, whispering reassurances that are both calming and intimate. Feeling his steady presence, your breathing gradually deepens, matching his calm, deliberate breaths. With each inhale and exhale, you feel more anchored, the earlier panic subsiding into a quiet trust. His words, simple yet sincere, remind you of the normalcy and safety of the situation, easing the swirl of anxiety.

“Fine,” you mumble, finally relenting.

Hand in hand, you walk downstairs, your nerves bundled tightly within you. However, the moment Mark’s mother’s eyes land on you and she beams a sweet, welcoming smile, a wave of calm washes over you. She was undeniably beautiful; despite her age, her features retained a youthful glow that radiated warmth and kindness. Her hair, long and soft, flowed gracefully around her shoulders, framing her face perfectly. Her eyes, a deep and soft brown, sparkled with the same gentle warmth as her smile.

Mark had her eyes. 

Now that you’ve seen both of Mark’s parents, it’s apparent to you that while he shares certain features with them—he has his mother’s soft eyes and his father’s defined facial angles—he doesn’t closely resemble either of them. As your eyes shift to his uncle, a realization strikes you: Mark looks like a carbon copy of his uncle. They both share the same sharp jawline that sets the structure of their faces, the same full, expressive lips that curve into identical smiles and their expressions and mannerisms are strikingly similar. The way they both laugh, with a throwback of their heads, or the way they furrow their brows in concentration, highlights their familial connection beyond any doubt.

Before she even has a chance to greet Mark, his mother sweeps you into a warm embrace. “You must be Y/N,” she says with a bright smile that radiates maternal warmth as you respond with a chuckle and a nod, instantly feeling welcomed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lee,” you manage to whisper, your voice soft with a mix of nerves and respect.

“Oh, please, call me Irene,” she insists, her tone as warm as her smile. Her kind, loving eyes and the genuine enthusiasm in her voice envelop you like a cozy blanket, making it immediately clear why Mark is the caring, grounded person he is today. Her presence is comforting and her energy infectious, hinting at a deep well of love and strength that has clearly shaped her son into the man you know and adore.

Dinner with Mark’s mom and uncle feels surprisingly comfortable, almost like being at home. The conversation is light and filled with laughter, sharing stories that highlight the close and loving nature of their family. When Mark formally introduces you, his voice is filled with pride, and you can see the affection in his eyes. It’s a straightforward and welcoming experience, making you feel connected to both him and his family.

You learn that his uncle was more of a father figure to him. He even calls him Dad and plans are underway for him to officially adopt Mark and be his father legally—though legality was just a formality. He had been Mark’s dad for as long as Mark could remember, raising him, shaping him into the man he is today.

You also discover that his uncle and his mother are in a newly blossomed relationship after years of unresolved romantic feelings. Their story of finding confidence to be together resonates deeply, leaving you touched and genuinely happy for them.

As the evening unfolds, you feel increasingly settled, the initial anxiety replaced by a warm sense of belonging. Seeing the depth of their relationships, the love that binds this unique family together, you feel a profound connection, not just with Mark, but with his family as well. In this shared space, laughter and heartfelt conversation flow easily, and you find yourself not just at ease but genuinely joyful to be part of such a special moment.

In the middle of your meal, just as you’re taking a bite of your potatoes, Ms. Lee catches you off guard with a question that nearly makes you choke.

“I have to ask, you and my son are in a strong sexual relationship. Is that right?” she inquires suddenly. “He’s making the right choices, right? You guys are staying protected?” she presses on.

“Mum…” Mark begins, his voice tinged with embarrassment as he shakes his head, but Irene simply waves him off, showing no discomfort with her line of questioning.

“Of course,” you respond with a nod, managing a smile while shooting a sideways glance at Mark. Both of you try to hide your smirks, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. You could definitely be more diligent with protection. Often, you run out of condoms, and sometimes, you’re simply too caught up in the moment to pause and get them.

Mrs. Lee sighs, her smile broadening, seeming to accept your response, while Uncle Doyoung, catching the exchanged looks between you and Mark, chuckles quietly to himself, amused by the undercurrents of the conversation.

As the dinner progresses comfortably, Mark’s mom leans forward with a twinkle in her eye, clearly excited to engage in conversation. “So, you’re Mark’s first ever girlfriend,” she announces with a smile.

You freeze, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh, we’re not—” you start to clarify, unsure how to label your relationship in front of his family.

Mark quickly senses your discomfort and jumps in to smooth things over. “Mum, we’re still in the early stages,” he explains, giving you a reassuring glance.

His uncle, who had been quietly observing the exchange, chimes in with a playful grin, not missing a beat. “Oh, well I hope you come to your senses soon,” he adds, smirking as he nonchalantly continues to chew on his vegetables. The room fills with a light tension, punctuated by his playful nudge to the conversation.

───────────────────────────────

Later, as you fold some blankets in Mark’s living room, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your back. The comfort of his presence makes you lean back into him with a content hum. “Not so bad, huh?” he murmurs, his voice warm in the quiet space.

“It could’ve been worse,” you admit, feeling the residual warmth of his family’s company, even though the interaction had been somewhat draining.

“You have such an amazing family; it makes so much sense why you are the way you are,” you mumble, genuinely impressed by the love and complexity within his family.

He plants a gentle kiss on your cheek, his voice soft and inviting. “Come sit with me, baby,” he suggests, patting the couch next to him. Instead, you choose to sit on his lap, facing him with a sly smirk. His eyes widen in surprise, but he quickly adjusts, leaning back to give you more room. “That works too,” he smiles, pulling you closer into his embrace.

“So, what’s the deal with you and your family? It’s such an interesting and intricate family tree,” you probe, genuinely curious about the dynamics that shaped him.

“What do you mean?” Mark asks, his gaze meeting yours with an openness that invites honesty.

“I just wanna know about you, Mark, about your family. I want you to let me in,” you press gently, your hands resting against his chest.

He nods slowly, a sign of his trust in you. “Okay, what do you wanna know?”

You sigh, unsure where to begin. “Okay, firstly, well, I’m quite surprised how close you are to your uncle, considering he’s your dad’s brother. I’m assuming your uncle is a really good man?”

Mark nods. “Uncle Doyoung has always been loving and giving for as long as I can remember. He was there for me and my mum when my dad never was. He’s miles ahead of my dad in kindness, nobility, love, sense… just everything. It’s surprising to me that they’re even related and had the same upbringing.”

“So your dad and your uncle aren’t close?” you question further.

He shakes his head. “Doyoung does try, he’s a good man and sees the best in everyone, but they evidently have a very tense and fractured relationship.”

“Why?” you whisper, drawn into the complexity of his family lore.

Mark shakes his head, a faint shadow of old pain crossing his features. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think my dad’s ego just can’t handle that my mom moved on after he left her. They broke up for good when she told him she was pregnant with me, and even after all these years—over twenty—he still hasn’t gotten over it,” he explains, his voice tinged with a dry chuckle.

“So Doyoung filled in when your dad couldn’t?” you ask, piecing together his narrative.

He nods again. “He’s always given me the fatherly guidance and affection that my own biological father never did. My dad initially rejected me and didn’t want anything to do with me. He viewed me as a reminder of his own failures and past mistakes. Even though I was just a child thrown into the middle of this mess. His rejection stems from his complicated history with my mum; they were high school sweethearts, but he left her when she became pregnant, then quickly moved on to Jeno’s mum, Seulgi. Seulgi fell pregnant with Jeno, and Taeyong chose to raise Jeno instead of me.”

“So that’s why me and Jeno are so close in age; I’m a few months older than him though. Taeyong got both of our mums pregnant in a short span of time,” Mark adds, a note of disbelief in his voice.

You gasp, feeling a sharp pang of empathy for Mark, who had to face such complexities at a tender age. “Did you always know about Jeno? When you were younger, did you know you had a half-brother on your dad’s side?”

Mark shakes his head. “I had no clue until I was 10 years old. We played in the junior league basketball league together. I loved playing there; have you ever had something you knew you were better at than almost everyone else?”

“Sex,” you quip lightly, trying to lighten the mood, but as Mark lets out a small laugh, you quickly apologise, realising this wasn’t the moment for jokes as he was opening up about something deeply personal.

“Anyway, when I joined the official team, I remember there was one other player with the same surname. I was so excited because I’d never known someone to have the same surname as me. But then I found out he was my brother. Guys kept teasing me about it, about how Jeno’s dad was my dad too. So I asked my mom, and she said he wasn’t, but I got home and heard her crying in her room. I knew it was true. So I never went back. I told my mum it was because I didn’t want to have to see his face, but it was mostly because I didn’t want her to have to go through seeing the man who abandoned her and her son every week,” Mark concludes, his voice tinged with sadness.

“So you and Jeno grew up as complete strangers?” you ask, trying to understand the full extent of his isolation.

He nods, his expression serious. “We barely spoke, just saw each other in the halls at school. Taeyong was really good at shaping Jeno; his behaviour and attitude towards me were like reflections of his own,” Mark explains, highlighting the strained relationship shaped by his father’s influence.

You decide to take the conversation in another direction, one that feels equally loaded but less raw. “What’s your opinion on Jeno’s mother? On Mrs. Lee?”

Seulgi, once Kang Seulgi and now Lee Seulgi, was a woman whose presence lingered quietly yet profoundly. She carried an aura of warmth, a kindness that was understated but genuine, even in the most difficult moments. The only resemblance Jeno had to her was her good heart—a trait buried deep within him, often obscured by the tougher, colder exterior shaped by his father, Lee Taeyong.

“Her and my mum are close,” he says, his tone tinged with an incredulous edge. “I’ve always found Mrs. Lee to be kind. She used to invite me and my mum over for dinner. I guess she wanted to try and make us feel like we belonged or something.” He pauses, the corners of his mouth lifting into a sad smile. “Those dinners were always awkward as hell. Tense, too. But she tried. She did a hell of a lot more for us than Taeyong ever did.”

Seulgi’s good nature seemed out of place in the world she was tethered to. She had an enduring gentleness, a quiet resilience that somehow survived her toxic environment. Despite being surrounded by manipulation and control, particularly from Taeyong, she remained steadfast in her care for Jeno, her love for him unshakable. You always admired that about her, how she never let the darkness around her snuff out her light.

“She’s a good person,” you say softly, your voice laced with sincerity. Your thoughts drift to the times you’d interacted with her. Seulgi had a way of making you feel cared for—gentle smiles, soft-spoken words, and the warm way she welcomed you into her home. Even during the times when arguments with Jeno would escalate, when you’d storm out or snap at him, she never treated you differently. There was no judgment in her eyes, only understanding, as if she saw past the chaos and into the heart of who you were.

She was sweet, caring, and undeniably maternal—qualities that made her impossible not to like. You could see how deeply she cared about Jeno, in the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, in the subtle but significant efforts she made to protect him from the worst parts of his father’s world. And yet, you could never understand how she ended up with someone like Taeyong. It baffled you, how someone so inherently good could bind themselves to someone as toxic and manipulative as him. Was it love? Obligation? A misplaced hope that things might change? You didn’t know, but it left an ache of pity in your chest whenever you thought about her.

You shake off these thoughts, not wanting to linger on the ache they bring. It makes you upset, a heaviness settling in your chest that you’re not ready to face. Instead, you focus on him, on the openness he’s already shown, and how much more you want to uncover. Your curiosity sharpens, especially about recent developments in his life. So, you probe further, your questions carrying a gentle eagerness, wanting to understand him even better.

“You’ve known your best friend since high school, right? So, Jeno probably knew her too? Did they get along?” you ask, trying to piece together how she and Jeno could have recently become close, wondering if it was perhaps a rekindled old connection.

Though you grew up walking the same school hallways as Jeno, Mark, and his best friend, you never really paid attention to the intricacies of their relationships or social entanglements. Back then, Jeno was more reserved, rarely opening up or letting you in, so you had little insight into whom he might have been close with on a deeper level. This gap in your knowledge makes you even more curious about the nature of his current interactions with Mark’s best friend.

He shakes his head, amusement clear in his voice. “No way, she’s been my best friend forever. It’s not about being possessive or claiming she’s all mine, but she chose to keep her distance from Jeno. She hated Jeno just as much as I did,” Mark states directly, firmly dismissing any notion of a past friendship between them.

You sigh, accepting that their connection must have been recent. “You’re really close with her, right?”

He nods, smiling fondly. “She’s like family. Always there, supporting me no matter what. We’ve given each other that kind of unwavering support, protection, love, and stability all our lives. It’s crucial, having someone you can truly rely on,” he expands, his words warm with appreciation.

Appreciating his sentiments, you smile. “She seems really important to you. I’m glad you’ve always had her, especially since Jeno was such a jerk to you when we were teenagers. And honestly, I was too caught up in my own mess to notice much, including you.”

He laughs, a knowing look in his eyes. “Oh, believe me, I know,” he says, his voice rich with layers of unspoken stories and memories, hinting at depths yet to be explored.

The way he says it, the look in his eyes brimming with past reflections, compels you to delve deeper. It feels as though he’s holding back, as if there’s more he wants to unveil about your shared history—a history that, until now, seemed nonexistent. Despite growing up in the same school hallways, you never once had a real conversation with him, nor did you ever make an effort to reach out. His words and the look in his eyes now make you wonder if you were truly non-existent to him. 

Yet, a different curiosity nags at you, related to the kiss you witnessed between her and Jeno. You approach the subject cautiously, not wanting to betray her trust. “So, your best friend has never been in a relationship?” you ask casually.

He laughs, clearly surprised by the question. “No, why?” he responds.

“Oh, no reason. You sure she’s never been in a relationship? It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur, deliberately keeping it vague and nonchalant, trying not to arouse his suspicion.

Mark frowns slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he probes, his suspicion evident.

Realizing he might be catching on, you quickly dismiss it. “Nothing, ignore me,” you say hastily, knowing he’ll respect your request. Mark has always been attuned to you, listening not just to your words, but also understanding your heart and mind, and you rely on this now more than ever.

Mark shares openly, his words unfiltered. “Trust me, she hasn’t been in any relationship. She would’ve told me if she was seeing anyone—we share everything. Instead, she’s always complaining about feeling left out and how she’s inexperienced.”

You tease him playfully, “I’m surprised you haven’t offered to fuck her.”

He feigns shock, his hand clutching at his chest. “Take that back. That was uncalled for.”

“Why?” you giggle, enjoying the banter.

“She’s like a sister to me. Plus, I don’t just go around fucking just anyone. Who do you think I am?”

“Someone who’s fucked Winter, Nancy, Mia, Lia… I could go on. I’m just lucky and glad you haven’t fucked Karina; I think I’d let her run me over,” you retort.

He huffs, a bit annoyed. “What? You got a list or something?”

You wiggle your eyebrows mischievously. “Well, if I did, how many pages long would it be?”

He pauses, he’s about to count but then stops. “This seems like a trap.”

You cover your face with your hands and groan. “I didn’t want the list to be so long that it needed several pages.”

He tries to lighten the mood. “Isn’t your body count high too?”

You shake your head solemnly. “It’s 3, Mark. I wish it was just 2. I wish I never fucked Yeonjun. Somehow he knows he’s the only guy who ever fucked me apart from Jeno at the time, and now he’s obsessed with me.”

He shifts the conversation, his tone softening with seriousness. “Listen, out of all the people I’ve slept with, the only one that mattered was you. No one else meant anything; they were just placeholders until I could get my hands on the real thing.”

You hum, a soft smile playing on your lips, yet the words spill out before you can stop them. “That’s a lot of placeholders.”

He chuckles, shaking his head at your response. “Y/N.”

“How many placeholders would you say you had?” you can’t help but ask.

He remains silent, and you huff, “Fine, I don’t wanna know.”

“There are two lists in my head: one of the girls I’ve fucked and one of the only girls who’s ever mattered to me and who I truly care about. There’s only one name on the second list. It’s you, baby,” he confesses, his eyes intense yet tender, making you feel vulnerable again.

“You’re a corny fucker, has anyone ever told you that?” you respond, laughing, not allowing yourself to fully absorb the depth of his affection and the calmness his words bring.

You gently shake your head, breaking the intense moment, and lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me in like this,” you whisper, your eyes soft with affection. “Knowing more about you and your life—it means a lot to me.”

Mark hums, a sound deep in his throat, as he melts into your touch. Your fingers gently comb through his hair, soothing him as he opens up about his past. The warmth and care in your actions reflect the depth of your empathy for him.

As Mark continues to share the more painful parts of his family history, you draw even closer, your voice a tender murmur. “I’m so sorry, Mark. It must’ve been really tough growing up like that.” Your sincerity envelops him, offering comfort as he navigates through his memories, making him feel understood and deeply connected to you

He nods, and a tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek. The sight of him so raw and open tugs at your heartstrings. “It was mainly for my mum,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly. “I hated seeing her go through that. It’s just so unfair—bad things happening to really good people.”

You hum softly in agreement, your hand reaching up to gently wipe away his tears. You feel the weight of his trust in you, knowing how significant and fragile this moment is for both of you.

Mark continues, his voice steadier but still filled with emotion. “I never felt like I missed out on anything, though. I’ve always been happy, content. I was so lucky to be raised by my mum and Uncle Doyoung. I always feel like I got the better end of the stick. Jeno… he grew up shallow, egotistical,” he pauses, searching for the words, “and he lacked empathy and care for anyone who wasn’t him or didn’t meet his standards. I often wonder if I would’ve turned out like that under different circumstances.”

You contemplate his words, recognizing how profoundly one’s upbringing and environment shape character, morality, and values. But looking into Mark’s eyes, seeing the kindness and understanding reflected back at you, you shake your head firmly. “You have a good heart, Mark. I’ll always believe that, no matter what.” Your voice is filled with conviction, a pledge of your faith in him, underlining the intimacy and the bond you’ve forged through this heartfelt exchange.

Mark’s question catches you slightly off guard as he brings up a memory you both share. “Do you remember Jeno’s party? The day we first made out, and you tried to have sex with me?” he asks, a hint of nostalgia mixed with something deeper in his voice.

You nod, mumbling a quick “yes,” the memory vivid in your mind.

“That was my first time at Jeno’s apartment. I couldn’t believe how big and grand it was. I mean, that’s just his college place, not even his family home. One of the rooms there is bigger than my entire family house where I grew up,” Mark continues, his tone a mix of awe and bitterness. “And my dad’s house? I’ve heard it’s like a mansion. It just hurt, seeing all that.”

He pauses, his voice growing heavier. “My mom worked her ass off when I was growing up, you know? Early mornings, late nights, juggling multiple jobs at once to give me a decent life. And there’s my dad—barely works, his money’s mostly from old reputation and family ties. He profits off the people under him while they barely make ends meet. It’s unfair how the wealth and good living seem to go to those who don’t work for it.”

As Mark’s voice trails off, laden with the heaviness of his past, you don’t immediately find the right words to respond. Instead, you step closer, driven by an urge to bridge the gap his words have opened between you. Gently, you pull him into a warm, enveloping hug, your actions speaking the comfort you struggle to voice.

Mark’s one hand moves to slip under your sweater, his touch warm against your skin, while his other hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers and securing a tender connection. He begins to gently rub soothing patterns on your back with his hand, pulling you even closer to him. The softness in his gaze mixes with a flicker of gratitude for your silent understanding. You pepper his face with gentle kisses, each one a silent murmur of your presence and care, as you feel him relax under the tender assault.

Feeling the wet trail of tears on his cheek, you tighten your hold, whispering reassurances that mingle with the quiet of the room. “It’s okay, I’m here,” you murmur directly into his ear, your breath warm against his skin. Your heart aches with empathy as you continue to comfort him, your touch a constant reminder of your support.

Your bodies pressed together, the warmth of his hand under your sweater, and the steady rhythm of your intertwined fingers—it all coalesces into a profound moment of solidarity and comfort. Mark’s gradual easing of tension, the slow steadying of his breathing, lets you know that right now, this closeness is everything. 

With a heavy sigh, Mark closes the distance between the two of you, his movement a silent invitation. His eyes, deep pools of emotion, lock onto yours, communicating a depth of feeling words could never fully capture. As he draws nearer, the space between you dwindles until you’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that is gentle, almost tentative at first, as if he is savoring the moment before it deepens. The softness of his lips is a stark contrast to the heavy emotions shared just moments before. It’s a kiss filled with the promise of understanding and commitment, an intimate connection that speaks to the soul. His hands cup your face tenderly, thumbs caressing your cheeks as if to memorize every detail of this moment.

The world around you fades into a distant murmur, leaving nothing but the feeling of Mark’s lips moving against yours in a dance that feels both new and timelessly perfect. The kiss deepens, growing more assured as you both immerse into the sensation, into the profound connection that binds you. It’s a kiss that communicates more than any conversation ever could, laden with gratitude, acknowledgment, and the silent vow of shared futures.

As the kiss intensifies, Mark’s hands move from your face to your back, pulling you closer with a firm yet gentle touch. Your own hands roam over his shoulders, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, the physical strength that contrasts with the tender way he kisses. The physical closeness, the heat of his body so near, heightens every sensation. The brush of his lips against yours is both electrifying and soothing, a paradox that sends a shiver down your spine. You are drawn deeper into the intimacy, each kiss a reaffirmation of the connection you share.

You reach to pull off his hoodie, eager to feel more of him, but Mark gently catches your hands, stopping you with a playful chuckle as you pout in response.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his eyes pleading as he looks deeply into yours.

“Mark… it’s nearly 1 a.m.,” you laugh, curiosity piqued by his unexpected request.

He kisses you softly, his touch lingering even as he pulls back. “I wanna show you something, please. Come with me.”

Nodding, you take Mark’s hand as he leads you outside. He presses another soft kiss to your lips as he opens the passenger door for you, waiting patiently until you’re comfortably seated before closing it with a gentle touch. Moments later, he’s in the driver’s seat beside you, the engine humming softly to life. He takes your hand again, holding it in his while he steers with the other, the warmth of his grasp reassuring.

As he drives, you can’t help but notice how effortlessly handsome he looks under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The drive takes about 30 minutes from campus, he tells you it’s much quicker at night when the roads are mostly empty. When he pulls up beside the familiar space, a realisation dawns on you, and a smile spreads across your face. He’s brought you here. The river court. It seems unchanged since your youth. Although you’ve always felt like an outsider looking in, this is only your second time here, the first being when you watched the showdown between Jeno and Mark.

You’re glad the river court is still close to campus, providing Mark a nearby refuge whenever life feels overwhelming. The proximity allows him a quick escape to a place where he can lose himself in the game, finding solace in the rhythm of dribbling and shooting, away from the pressures of daily life. As you step out of the car and onto the court, you feel a deep appreciation for this quiet, familiar spot that holds so much significance for Mark.

The river court, under the cover of darkness, transforms into a serene, almost otherworldly place. The cool night air carries the soft glow of nearby street lamps that illuminate the empty court, casting gentle shadows that dance across the worn asphalt. Here, the distant city sounds fade into a quiet backdrop, allowing the rhythmic bounce of the basketball and its echoing thud as it hits the backboard to dominate the soundscape, giving the place a haunted, nostalgic feel.

Mark is in his element, moving fluidly across the court with a practised ease. Every now and then, he glances over to make sure you’re still there, his gaze pulling you closer even from a distance. As he dribbles and shoots, his movements are precise and confident, each shot a testament to countless hours spent on this very court.

When he pauses to catch his breath, Mark walks over to where you’re seated on the old, weathered bench, your knees crossed over. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, smiling against them.

You run your hands through his hair, pulling him closer. “Not that I’m complaining, but why did you bring me here at 1 a.m.?” you laugh.

He explains as he takes a seat next to you, his voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and affection. “This place is like a second home to me. I always used to play basketball here with my friends growing up. It’s special to me, that’s why I wanted to bring you here, to show it to you.”

He teases gently about how cute your reaction is, your cheeks flushed as you murmur, “Oh, cool.”

“But I’ve been coming here less and less since joining the team,” he continues, a trace of guilt in his tone. “I just don’t have the time as I’m practicing on official courts. It makes me feel guilty, you know? My dream has always been to join an official team and compete in tournaments, but in a way, I’ve left this life behind—the boy who used to shoot hoops with his friends on the river court. I feel like I’ve betrayed the past me.”

You shake your head, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You deserve to chase your dream, you deserve to be on the official team, you’ve earned your place. You’re still the same guy who used to play on the river court, still the same kind-hearted, mature guy. Nothing’s changed about you, that’s why I like you so much. You’re still so humble and down-to-earth despite how amazing you are.”

He hums, letting your words wash over him, allowing himself to believe each one. The night air, the echo of the river nearby, and the solitude of the court create a perfect backdrop as you both sit, hands intertwined, sharing this moment of reflection and reassurance, continuing to talk about dreams, memories, and the paths you choose in life.

Mark takes a deep breath, seeming to absorb the tranquillity of the empty court around you. He looks back at you, his eyes grateful. “Thank you, baby. It means a lot to hear you support me like this. Sometimes, I just worry that I’m losing a part of myself in all this hustle.”

“You aren’t losing anything, Mark,” you reply softly, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “You’re growing, evolving. That doesn’t mean you’re leaving the best parts of yourself behind. It means you’re building on them. The boy who played here, who loves this court—he’s still part of who you are today.”

Mark nods, reflecting on your words. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How places and times seem so permanent when you’re in them, but life just… moves on. Coming here tonight, it’s like stepping back into those memories for a bit.”

You nod, looking around the dimly lit court, feeling the countless games and laughter. “I appreciate you sharing this with me.” You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Because seeing this side of you makes me understand more about where you come from, it makes me feel closer to you. And I love that. I love seeing the world through your eyes, even if it’s just a basketball court at one in the morning.”

Mark laughs softly, the vibration from his chest tingling under your cheek. “I’ve never thought that you could make the river court sound like such a romantic spot,” he teases, his eyebrows wiggling playfully.

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile, but the intensity of his gaze suddenly makes the air between you feel electric. “Stop that,” you murmur, though your voice lacks any real conviction.

He gently turns your face to meet his, his fingers brushing your cheek with a touch that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes lock onto yours, deep and mesmerizing, making your heart flutter uncontrollably. “And what if I did bring you here for that reason?” he asks, his voice low and husky. The way he’s looking at you—so direct and full of unspoken promises—makes you feel both weak and exhilaratingly alive.

You’re silent for a moment, caught up in the intensity of his gaze. “Like a date?” you manage to say, and when he nods, you continue hesitantly, “Well, I don’t know—”

“I’m joking,” he cuts in, his tone lightening as he sees your reaction. “I’d never bring you here for our first date. I mean, how lame is that? I’d bring out all the stops, I’d make it unforgettable.”

“Oh really?” you gasp, your voice a mix of challenge and intrigue. The overwhelming need to close the distance between you grows stronger, and you lean in closer, your breath mingling with his. The proximity is intoxicating, filling you with a desire to explore the promise of his words.

His smile turns more seductive as he senses your interest, his face inching closer to yours. “Absolutely,” he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. 

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His lips meet yours, the kiss a perfect blend of everything he’s promised—intense, passionate, and utterly unforgettable. You moan softly against his lips, the sound mingling with the quiet night around you, heightening the intimacy of the moment as your senses are enveloped in the warmth and taste of him.

───────────────────────────────

You bounced on Mark’s cock, each powerful thrust causing the car to rock aggressively. The tight space heightened every sensation, your sweat-slicked bodies sliding against each other as you impaled yourself deeper on him with each desperate rise and fall. The car’s frame shook with the intensity of your movements, merging with the relentless drumming of the rain outside to form a raw, primal rhythm of unchecked lust.

You were making out on the benches outside when suddenly it started pouring down. With giggles and laughter, you both dashed to the car, the playful chase intensifying the night’s electricity. Once inside, the pounding rain on the roof enclosed you in a private, tempestuous world.

You were supposed to head home as the rain intensified, but the charged atmosphere between you sparked something more urgent, more demanding. As Mark glanced over at you, the low light of the dashboard illuminating his features, you leaned over and kissed him, the taste of rain still fresh on your lips. Murmuring breathlessly, “I want your cock so bad right now,” you saw heat flare in his eyes. Without a word, he pushed his seat back, creating as much space as he could within the confines of the car. “Ride me then,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

You didn’t hesitate, quickly straddling him, pulling your soaked clothes aside. The car rocked gently as you began to move, your hips grinding down onto him, taking him in deeply. The space was tight, your bodies pressed so close there was no room for anything but the heat between you. Every thrust was intense, confined by the car’s limited space, making each movement feel more pronounced, more desperate. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, urging you to go faster. You could feel every inch of him sliding in and out, your breaths coming in short, heavy moans that fogged up the windows.

The rain began to patter against the car windows as you sat parked beside the river court, the quiet patter turning into a heavy downpour that blurred the outside world into streaks of water. The rhythmic drumming of raindrops created a cocoon around the car, amplifying the silence of the deserted court outside. It was just the two of you, the empty court, and the night—everything else faded away, swallowed by the sound of the storm.

Mark’s whispered encouragements were hot against your ear, “Go faster, baby, just like that.” You responded to his urgency, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure built up. The car’s gentle rocking grew more pronounced with the rhythm of your bodies moving in sync. “You couldn’t wait until I drove us home?” he teased, breathless.

“You’re the one who pulled me onto your lap,” you managed to moan back, your voice drowned out by the sound of rain and the creaking of the car seat. The intensity of being so close, his body heat mixing with yours, the limited space making each touch feel more intimate, more vital—it was overwhelming, almost too much, but perfect in its urgency.

As you bounced harder on his cock, your moans echoing through the rain-soaked car, you leaned in closer, your breath mingling with his. “So… how many girls have you taken to the river court?” you asked, your tone teasing but laced with a sultry edge that made his eyes darken.

His lips quirked into a smirk, his chest vibrating against yours as he chuckled lowly. “Does my mum count?” he teased, the playful comment earning a sharp roll of your hips that pulled a groan from his throat.

“Mark,” you whined, your voice dripping with faux irritation, though your smile betrayed you. “I want a real answer.”

He gripped your waist tighter, guiding your movements as his voice dipped, thick with desire. “Just you, baby,” he murmured, sealing the confession with a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than tenderness. His lips moved against yours with fervor, his hands urging you to ride him harder, the raw intimacy of his words leaving you breathless.

Emboldened, you pushed further, your voice a breathless challenge between moans. “And how many girls have you fucked by the river court?”

His eyes locked onto yours, blazing with heat as he whispered, “Just you, baby.” His voice was low, reverent, each word laced with possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. “Only you.”

The fervent energy of your earlier movements gradually subsided into a slower, more deliberate pace, allowing you to savour the closeness between you. You moved together gently, the sound of your synchronized breaths filling the car. Between the slow thrusts, you exchanged soft kisses, each one deepening your connection, punctuated by quiet giggles and warm smiles that spoke volumes about your shared affection.

Mark’s gaze captured yours, intense yet filled with a tenderness that made you pause. “Y/N, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he whispered, his fingers lightly playing with your earrings, adding a touch of playful intimacy to the moment.

“Go ahead,” you hummed, the softness in his voice making you feel safe and cherished.

He took a deep breath, his gaze never wavering. “You know I fully understand and respect your decision to keep us a secret, at least for now. Although, eventually, I don’t think it would be a bad idea to start letting more people know, to stop hiding because we’re not doing anything wrong.”

You felt a pang of fear, your eyes widening slightly. “Mark, I can’t—”

“Baby, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about today, though,” he quickly reassured, sensing your discomfort. “I know you’re not ready for that right now, but I was wondering if you were ready for something else.”

“For what?” you mumbled, your heartbeat quickening with anticipation.

“I want to be exclusive with you. Well, privately exclusive, which kind of defeats the purpose of being ‘exclusive,’ but I think it’s a good start. We’ve become close, spending most nights together, having all these personal conversations and having so much good sex, but what’s the point if it doesn’t go anywhere?”

His words struck a chord, and a wave of guilt washed over you. Mark was right, and it was hard for you to open up like this, especially considering your past relationship with Jeno, which had left you wary of trust and full of unresolved pain. Each word Mark spoke, filled with understanding and patience, tugged at the emotional walls you had meticulously built. 

“Us becoming exclusive wouldn’t change much; it would just make us more official. I don’t have any interest in getting to know or fucking anyone else, and I know you don’t either. We’ve basically already been exclusive since we started seeing each other. I just think it’s a good idea if we put an official label on that. It would make me happy and mean a lot to me. What do you say, baby?”

You contemplated his words, the idea of labels and official commitments still daunting. Yet, his next words melted your defences. “And you know I’ll never hurt you or make you lose my trust. You’re the only one I want and care about, and I want you to feel that.” He kissed you softly, his lips tender against yours, reassuring and gentle.

“I truly see you and feel like you’re ‘mine,’ and ‘my girl.’ I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, no one has come close. That’s gotta mean something, right?” He whispered huskily. His lips then met yours in a soft, insistent kiss

“So, until you’re ready to take it further with me and become more serious, I want you to exclusively be mine. All mine,” he murmured against your lips.

Your heart warmed at his understanding and patience, your doubts easing under his sincere expression. You whispered back, the words almost a sigh, “I’m all yours.”

As you moved to deepen the kiss, feeling him respond with equal fervor, you began to bounce harder, picking up the pace. But Mark gently pulled away to look into your eyes seriously, his hands on your hips controlling the rhythm. “I want to hear you say the words, baby.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you finally let the words spill out with conviction: “I want to be exclusive with you too.”

───────────────────────────────

Karina’s hands were a flurry of activity around your face, her fingers deftly maneuvering brushes and sponges as she concealed the marks on your neck. “I can’t believe how many hickeys I’m having to cover,” she muttered, her tone light with mock annoyance. However, a flicker of something more serious passed through her eyes, making you wonder if she was more concerned than she let on.

You were seated at your vanity, prepping for the night’s party at Jeno’s house—a celebration for the Ravens’ recent victory over the Hawks. Karina had offered to help you get ready, and you were more than grateful. Whenever she did your makeup and hair, you knew you’d look your best. She had a knack for choosing the right tones that suited your facial features perfectly and always made sure your hair framed your face beautifully, enhancing the overall look.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asked, her voice pulling you back from your thoughts as she dabbed more concealer on your neck. Satisfied with the coverage, she instructed softly, “Close your eyes lightly,” before she began to work on a smoky shadow accented with just the right amount of glitter.

“Just thinking,” you responded, your voice a murmur.

“About what?” Karina’s hand was steady as she maneuvered the eyeliner, her other hand lightly holding your chin to keep you from moving too much. “Is it because you and Mark are exclusive now?” she prodded, a knowing tone in her voice as she expertly flicked the brush to create a perfect wing.

You let out a soft sigh. “We’ve been exclusive for a few days and it feels really good. He’s a lot more touchy and possessive, which I love, but I’m just still so scared,” you confessed, feeling the weight of the revelation.

Karina paused, her brush mid-air, then resumed with a hum as she applied a pretty blush to your cheeks, making you look naturally flushed. “Then why did you agree to become exclusive with him?”

“I agreed because of the way he was looking at me when he asked; I just couldn’t say no. And then how he smiled and kissed me when I said yes,” you recalled, a smile playing on your lips at the memory.

“I don’t regret it, Karina. Especially after how good these last few days have been,” you affirmed, your confidence in your decision clear in your tone.

“Then why are you still scared?” Karina asked, genuinely puzzled as she stepped back to survey her work.

“It’s difficult to explain, Rina. It’s just that I’m constantly worrying about the future and what could happen. I always worry about what’s uncertain,” you explained, your gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “But Mark’s different; he’s more of a ‘live in the present’ type of guy. He doesn’t worry as much as I do.”

“That’s a good thing, right? It’s good when two people in a relationship balance each other out,” she mused as she packed away her makeup tools.

“We’re not in a relationship,” you corrected softly, a hint of wistfulness in your voice.

“Yet,” Karina rolled her eyes, muttering just loud enough for you to catch.

“Huh?” you asked, not quite hearing her.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, giving you a wink in the mirror and a smile that suggested she knew more than she let on. The room filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of the rain outside as you both reflected on the night ahead, ready to face whatever it might bring, together.

“Hey, this came for you.” Winter breezed into your room, her presence as striking as her attire. She looked radiant in a beautiful white dress that clung softly to her curves, her hair cascading down in perfect waves. She placed a parcel on your bed with a casual grace.

You glanced over, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “I didn’t order this, is this yours?” you asked, turning to Karina, who shook her head and gestured towards the package. “Open it,” she encouraged.

Curious, you reached for the box, instantly recognizing the logo of Lumière Couture, a luxury brand known for its exquisite design and timeless elegance. The box was elegantly designed, adorned with a sleek, satin ribbon, hinting at the opulence inside.

“Wait, it is for me, my name is on the label,” you murmured, a mix of excitement and bewilderment in your voice. It was a surprise, definitely out of your usual budget.

As you lifted the lid and peeled back the tissue paper, your breath caught. Inside was an emerald green dress, the very one you had eyed for the longest time. It was exquisite, cut short to highlight your thighs, with intricate details that made it uniquely stylish—backless, enhancing its allure. The material felt as luxurious as it looked, promising a night where you’d feel nothing short of glamorous.

Next, you pulled out a mini black skirt, the fabric thick yet form-fitting, designed to accentuate your figure without weighing you down. It was daringly short, radiating a bold, sexy vibe that matched your taste perfectly.

Accompanying these was a white shirt, tailored to be well-fitted with three-quarter sleeves. You knew exactly how to style it to showcase your fashion sense.

Tucked beneath these items was a note that drew your attention. Picking it up, you read, ‘For my girl, you deserve it, I’m so proud of you. Love, Mark xx.’ A wave of emotion swept over you as tears welled in your eyes. Karina, reading over your shoulder, smiled supportively, though you missed the flicker of sadness in her eyes.

You remembered a day spent window shopping with Mark, dragging him into an upscale boutique. You had whispered longingly about the pieces you loved—the very ones now before you. How had he remembered so well? How had he managed to pay such close attention?

After Karina completed your makeup and styled your hair into a smooth, refined style, you chose to wear the mini skirt and cropped shirt that came in Mark’s gift. Underneath the shirt, you opted for a sheer lace black bra, its intricate details subtly visible due to the shirt’s single button fastening just around your midriff. This deliberate choice added a hint of allure, with the lace texture teasingly visible and the outline of your nipples just perceivable, enhancing the sultry vibe of your outfit. You rounded off the look with sleek black boots and elegant jewelry Mark had gifted you, including a gold charm necklace and delicate, dangly earrings. 

With gold charms around your wrists and rings on your fingers, you spritzed on your best perfume, then stepped back to admire yourself in the mirror. The reflection that stared back made you feel utterly beautiful. Overwhelmed by gratitude and feeling exceptionally styled, you took out your phone and snapped a mirror selfie, capturing the moment and your radiant look.

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You arrived at Jeno’s party, the excitement palpable as soon as you stepped through the door. Jeno, clearly in high spirits and somewhat intoxicated, greeted you and your friends warmly. He hugged Winter and Karina, and when it was your turn, he dropped a gentle kiss on your cheek, his eyes lingering a little longer on you as he complimented, “You look hot.”

His gaze was appreciative and a bit hazy, his voice carrying the mellowness of someone who’d already been enjoying the night’s offerings. You playfully jabbed his arm in response, amused by his blatant once-over.

The house itself was stunning—a sprawling manor that spoke of wealth and luxury, its grand scale making it feel almost like a palace. Inside, the party was in full swing: the air vibrated with pulsating music, colorful lights flashed across laughing faces, and the scent of various perfumes mingled with the aroma of alcohol. Everywhere you looked, there were people dancing, some tucked away in dim corners sharing intimate moments, while others shouted over the music, drinks in hand.

Despite the many eyes that skimmed over you, assessing your daring outfit and the confidence with which you wore it, there was only one pair of eyes whose gaze you truly felt—a gaze that didn’t just look, but seemed to touch, intense with desire. Mark was across the room, and the way he looked at you was laden with possession and a raw hunger that made your heart race. His eyes held a promise, one that spoke of what the night would hold once you found each other alone.

You sent Mark a quick message, telling him you’d join him after a little while. You didn’t want to make your new exclusive status too obvious just yet, despite every fiber of you aching to be near him. For now, you stood with Karina by the bar, not shying away from the drinks or the more potent indulgences of the night. Pills and alcohol freely mixed in your system, heightening the buzz that kept you both anchored and adrift in the sea of party-goers.

As the night deepened and your inhibition lowered under the influence, you finally felt ready to seek Mark out. Navigating through the packed house proved challenging; your steps were unsteady, the world tilting a bit with each movement. But then, a familiar and strong arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you instantly. The scent of lavender and a deep, musky sweetness enveloped you, unmistakably Mark.

His presence instantly grounded you, his touch a clear signal of his intent and protection as he guided you away from the crowd and toward the quiet of a vacant room where privacy promised a continuation of the intense connection you both craved.

“Found you,” Mark’s voice was low and reassuring, his breath warm against your ear as he steadied you against him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit dizzy,” you admitted, leaning into his solid form, grateful for the support.

As you both manoeuvred through the throng of bodies, his proximity was a potent reminder of the night’s possibilities. “I’ve been watching you since you came in,” Mark confessed as you reached the doorway to a secluded room, his tone laced with a mix of desire and concern. “Couldn’t wait to get you alone.”

You smiled up at him, feeling the buzz of anticipation mix with the alcohol in your veins. “And I’ve been thinking about you all night,” you responded, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Lead the way.”

Mark pushed the door open, a grin spreading across his face as he pulled you into the privacy of the room. “Finally,” he murmured, shutting the door behind you both, sealing away the chaos of the party. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer. “Now, where were we?”

As you eagerly followed Mark, your mind buzzing with anticipation for the moment you’d be alone together, you were completely oblivious to the intensity of the gaze that tracked your every move. Across the room, Jeno watched with a storm brewing in his eyes, his confusion etched deeply into his furrowed brow as he saw Mark’s hand firmly around your waist, guiding you into a secluded room. The door shut with a definitive click of the lock that Jeno could almost hear over the music.

“What the fuck?” Jeno muttered under his breath, a mix of shock and confusion knotting in his stomach. He couldn’t piece together the scene unfolding before him—his brother and you, a pair he had never thought to suspect, disappearing together with such intimacy. His gaze lingered on the closed door, his mind racing with questions. 

Jeno’s stance was rigid, his hands clenched at his sides as he tried to make sense of the unexpected revelation. The image of Mark’s protective, almost possessive, gesture replayed in his mind, challenging his understanding of his relationship with both of you. Was his dad right after all? Jeno never expected to witness such a close and intimate moment between you and Mark. The sight unsettled him, challenging his previous perceptions and leaving him questioning what else he might have overlooked. 

As Mark pulled you into the room, his gaze captured you entirely—soft yet piercing, filled with a raw intensity that made your heart race. He bit his lip, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made every nerve in your body tingle with anticipation.

“Look at you,” he murmured in a sultry tone, his hand pressing against the wall just above your head. He took your hand, spinning you around effortlessly. His whistle was low, filled with appreciation, as he took in every detail of your appearance, the sound turning into a soft moan that sent shivers down your spine.

Mark’s gaze lingered on the subtle outline of your nipples pressing through the sheer fabric of your lace bra, visible beneath your barely-buttoned shirt. His eyes traced the length of your thighs, up to the curve of your neck, and finally to your lips, as if memorizing every detail.

Leaning down, he began to press fervent kisses against your neck, his mouth moving with a practiced intensity. He sucked and licked, marking your skin anew, as if he was fully aware that Karina had meticulously covered the previous marks. “Hey, there’s makeup all over my neck,” you giggled, the vibration of his chuckles against your skin making you urge him, “Go harder,” as you tangled your hands in his hair, lost in the bliss of his touch.

He briefly paused to press his lips to yours, wet and plump from his attentions, pulling back just enough for you to catch your breath and admire him. Mark was effortlessly stylish in a brown jacket and blue jeans, his white top stretched just right across his torso, a chain adding an edge to his outfit. His light brown hair perfectly complemented his sharp yet carefree look, enhancing his undeniable appeal.

“Hi,” you breathed out, a smile spreading across your face. He mirrored your expression, leaning in to kiss you deeply. “You look so fucking hot,” you moaned into the kiss, feeling his grip tighten.

Without missing a beat, he lifted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He pushed your skirt up, his hands moving with a purpose as he aligned himself with you, and in one fluid motion, he began to move, his actions deliberate and driven by the electric charge between you.

At the party, Karina slumped into her chair, visibly disheveled. Her movements were sluggish as she lifted the glass to her lips, the alcohol burning its way down her throat—a fleeting attempt to drown the burgeoning jealousy that gnawed at her. With each gulp, her resolve thinned, loosened by the intoxicating mix of spirits and the sting of exclusion.

She had seen it all: your hasty departure with a barely-there excuse, Mark’s hand possessively resting on your back, the shared secretive giggles as you both disappeared yet again. It was too much. Drunk and tinged with envy, Karina’s eyes clouded over, her mood a volatile mix of irritation and resignation.

Jeno approached, his voice tinged with disbelief, “Did you just see that?” He sat down beside her, grabbing her drink without asking and finishing it off. His sudden presence barely registered to her dulled senses.

“What?” she responded, her voice a slurred mumble.

“Did you not see Mark lock him and Y/N in that bathroom? What the fuck is going on?” Jeno pressed, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern.

Karina muttered under her breath, a string of incoherent thoughts that even she didn’t fully grasp. She shook her head, biting her lip as she fought the urge to spill everything. The alcohol swirled in her head, making it harder to keep the secrets that were not hers to reveal.

Suddenly, Mark’s best friend approached, her voice low and urgent as she pulled Karina aside, aware of Jeno’s curious gaze. “Where’s Y/N?” she asked, scanning the room.

Karina merely shrugged, too intoxicated to be helpful. The friend continued, her tone worried, “I need to tell her to be more careful. Chaewon saw her go into a room with Mark, and now she’s telling everyone they’re seeing each other. Word is spreading fast.”

At that, Karina let out a loud, bitter laugh, the sound slicing through the music. “So what? If she wants to be careless and make it obvious that they’re seeing each other, then who are we to look out for her?” Her words were sharp, her tone caustic. “I’ve done enough, made excuses to cover for her when she disappears with Mark and is dumb enough to make it obvious. I’m done.” Her declaration hung in the air, a mixture of defiance and exhaustion, as she leaned back, the fight draining from her.

“If Y/N wants to be exclusive with Mark, then it’s not my problem to keep their secret,” Karina’s voice, normally subdued and discreet when discussing you and Mark, breaks into a shout, the words slicing through the dense atmosphere of the party. She’s too loud, too caught up in her own whirl of emotions to notice the volume of her confession.

Beside her, Mark’s best friend reacts too slowly, her mouth opening in a delayed attempt to hush Karina, but the damage is done. Jeno’s expression undergoes a dramatic transformation. The initial confusion on his face hardens into a stony mask of anger. His eyebrows draw together tightly, the skin around his eyes tightening, as his gaze sharpens and his jaw sets firm. The muscles in his neck tense visibly, a physical manifestation of his rising fury.

It’s the sudden, stark realisation that his father was right—the suspicions he had dismissed as mere familial discord were actually true. Jeno turns slowly, his gaze shifting from Karina, whose face is flushed with a mix of guilt and intoxication, to Mark’s best friend, who swallows hard, her eyes wide with the dread of impending chaos. Then, his eyes dart toward the room where you and Mark had vanished.

Suddenly, the muffled sounds that he had subconsciously tuned out before become piercingly clear. The unmistakable sounds of moans and fervent movements echo from behind the closed door, the auditory evidence of betrayal now impossible to ignore. He doesn’t understand why these sounds are so clear now; perhaps it’s because he had chosen to ignore them before, much like he had chosen to disregard his father’s warnings. This selective hearing had masked the truth until now, before the stark revelation of betrayal forced him to confront what he had denied—believing you and Mark over his own Dad.

Jeno’s fists tighten at his sides, the strain turning his knuckles bone-white. “What?” he barks out, the word erupting from him like a growl of raw fury. “What did you say?” His voice thunders through the room, louder than he intends, each word saturated with a venom that rattles him to his core. As he swallows hard, his throat constricts; his nostrils flare with each heavy breath, and the veins in his temples pulse visibly. The shock of betrayal carves harsh lines across his face, marking the precise moment his reality is irreversibly altered.

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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