#tree debris clean-up

[treeservicejacksontn]

Reliable Storm Damage Tree Removal Tennessee | Jackson Tree Service

After a major storm, the destruction that is left in its wake can be difficult to handle—especially as far as the trees in your yard are concerned. Avulsed trees and branches become dangerous and can be a nuisance to citizens since they bring with them potential injuries and property damage to houses, automobiles among other property. Which is why getting the professional storm damage tree removal services is important. As a company, Jackson Tree Service takes pride in its timely response and stress free storm damage service delivery so as to make your property secure again.

The Urgency of Storm Damage Tree Removal

Severe storms in Tennessee can wreak havoc on your trees, creating dangerous situations. Overhanging branches or fallen trees can cause significant damage, especially if they fall on homes, block roads, damage cars, or disrupt utility lines. This is why storm damage tree removal Tennessee services are important after calamities such as storms have occurred.

Here are some common reasons why tree removal is necessary after a storm:

Fallen Trees: For instance if a tree has fallen as a result of a storm or lightning then that tree should be removed because it poses a great danger to property and people around.

Hanging Branches: In fact, large branches of the trees that are cracked or in a swinging position tend to fall at any one time and can therefore be dangerous.

Uprooted Trees: Living trees that have been partially pulled up and that are still leaning, for instance, mature or rotten trees, are likely to fall in the future.

Structural Damage: In storms, mature trees and their branches present a risk of collapse affecting overall stability of buildings, fences or other structures.

In such cases, professional tree removal services ensure that the affected trees are safely removed and disposed of, reducing risks and restoring order to your landscape.

Comprehensive Tree Removal Jackson TN

We offer tree removal in Jackson, TN which is one of your major services that are undertaken and supervised by certified arborists. Regardless of whether a tree has been downed by a storm or is considered a hazard to people or property, Jackson Tree Service is ready for all sizes of trees. We offer:

Safe and Efficient Removal: This team handles the chopping and evacuation of the trees in the safest manner so as to cause as little harm to other property as is possible. It is our policy to ensure the safety of you and your family and we do not clutter your home and landscape with these structures.

Debris Clean-Up: Upon completion of the removal, we guarantee that your property is free from debris thus have the yard of your desired appearance. With our service, the tree is cut and removed together with branches, twigs, and even leaves if any are remaining.

Emergency Tree Removal: Tornadoes for example can happen anytime and destroy property. That is why we professional provide emergency storm damage tree removal services for the time you ever need our services.

Stump Removal for a Complete Clean-Up

When storms occur, it doesn’t suffice to simply chop down the tree and clear away the debris. If they remain standing they become themselves dangerous as they might cause tripping over or might also cause damage to lawn mowers and aft equipment and they can also attract pest infestation. This is why stump grinding or removal is included as a service after they perform a storm damage tree removal.

We offer two types of stump removal services:

Stump Grinding: One can hire a professional to grind the stump to chips on the site which may be used as mulch in the garden. It is an environmentally friendly method of eradicating stumps that causes no harm to your yard and is affordable.

Stump Removal: For instance, total removal of stumps is required where there are intentions of planting new trees, erecting structures on that particular ground. We can remove the stump and its root system and leave the area empty for civilizing through other landscaping activities.

The Importance of Professional Tree Removal in Jackson County, GA

Jackson Tree Service is based in Tennessee, but we work with clients in other states, such as Georgia. Storm damaged trees in Jackson County, GA need to be removed since the region is usually affected by storms frequently.

Storms can cause widespread damage to trees, and delaying removal can lead to further risks and problems:

Hazardous Conditions: Following a storm, fallen trees pose a threat that may cause harm by falling on anyone or anything around them.

Pest Infestation: Standing or fallen trees that are diseased or dead will also be a host to termites, ants, and beetles that may affect other trees or buildings.

Landscaping Damage: Sometimes trees can fall and damage gardens, fences or other structures in the landscape which means further costly expenses.

The use of professional tree removal services ensures that all dangerous trees are properly brought down and your property becomes secure again.

[centralfloridalanddemo]

Website: https://www.floridalanddemo.com

Address: 704 S. Wabash ave Lakeland, FL 33815

Phone: +1 863-226-2264

Central Florida land clearing and demolition company. We can clean and remove anything anywhere in Florida.

Business mail: info@floridalanddemo.com

[chrisstumps05]

How two Guys did a Tree and Stump Removal Job

[miss-floral-thief]

Hm I smell bbq

[thatdisasterauthor]

New disaster education graphic! Had to split it in half so tumblr wouldn't TOTALLY eat the quality. I'm going to put the full, unsplit version beneath a cut so if you want to share this graphic you can grab the whole one or the two halves, whichever works for you. As always, my disaster graphics can be shared anywhere on the internet that isn't making a profit, as long as my credit remains intact at the bottom! If you would like to license a physical or paid use of them, reach out to me on my website.

I've seen a lot of graphics about defensible space over the years, but I've never really seen one that does a good job of also explaining WHY the recommendations are what they are, so I've been wanting to make a graphic that dug into the why.

Alt text is also below the cut!

Alt text: Two halves of a single infographic. The background is dark gray. The top text reads "Why Does Defensible Space Matter?" in large yellow text. Below that is the text "When it comes to protecting your home from a wildfire, having defensible space around your home is one of the best things you can do. But why?" in black. Below that is the text "Wildfires move in three main ways:" in white.

Next there are three rectangles in a lighter gray, stacked one on top of the other. Each has a diagram of a small house on the edge of a forest. There are decorations on the porch, firewood on the porch, leaf litter on the roof, overgrown grass, trees growing right up next to the house, bushes, and the forest is crowded and overgrown.

In the top box, there is a fire moving along the ground, and the box is labeled as "Along the ground." In the second box the fire is moving through the tops of the trees, and the box is labeled, "through the crowns of trees." The third box shows a distance fire with lots of little embers being blown through the air, labeled as "Through the air via embers."

After that is the text, "The goal of defensible space is to make changes that impede each of these types of movement" in white.

Below that are the same three boxes as above, but each one shows changes you can make to impede one of these types of movement. The changes are listed under the box in a numbered list, with the numbers also in the diagram where those changes are reflected in the art.

The first box is labeled as "Impede ground movement" and has the following items listed:

Create a five foot zone around your home with no burnables using gravel, pavers, or other hardscaping.

Keep grass trimmed and well maintained in a thirty foot radius around your home.

Keep ground plants other than grass to a minimum and well spaced out.

Trim low hanging branches to prevent a ground fire from accessing higher portions of the tree.

The second box is labeled as "Impede Crown Movement" and has the following items listed:

Remove trees hanging over the roof and close to the home.

Thin trees within One-Hundred Feet of the home to reduce movement of flames between them.

The third box is labeled as "Remove Anything that can trap embers" and has the following items listed:

Clean debris such as leaves from off the roof of and around your home.

Do not store firewood or lumber near your home.

Keep combustible decorations That can trap embers close to your home to a minimum.

After that is a larger version of the house, but redecorated in a more fire safe manner. The door has been painted purple, there are plants visible inside through the window, and the outdoor decorations are made of non-combustible materials. After the house is the text "There are still plenty of ways to make your home your own while being fire safe!" in white.

Below that in a rectangle is the text "For more information on defensible space and how to create it around your home, visit: https://www.fire.ca.gov/dspace for a more in depth breakdown of how to protect each zone around your home."

The last text on the poster reads "If you are in the U.S.A. and experiencing disaster related anxiety, call the Disaster Distress Hotline at 1-800-985-5990 for support and resources. Poster created by Katy L. Wood ● www.Katy-L-Wood.com"

[hagoftheholler]

If you have plans to vacation in appalachia this autumn: no you don't. Not unless you're planning on helping the people rebuild.

"What about the money I spent reserving a rental house/hotel room/etc?" "I've been planning this vacation for months." "I want to see the pretty leafs change colors."

Don't care. If you can get a refund then fine, get a refund. There's a good chance that rental house you reserved doesn't exist anymore. There's a good chance that hotel you booked a room at won't have power for weeks.

Most of the towns popular for tourists are gone, wiped out. Major highways collpased. Bridges were taken by the rivers. People's homes are destroyed. The locals are struggling to resource food and water. People who need life saving medication are struggling to obtain it. Grocery stores in areas that managed to get by with minimal damage are being cleaned out. Locals are either panic buying to stock up their own shelves, or otherwise donating to help those who have literally nothing left. At this rate it's gonna be like covid grocery shopping again.

There are BODIES being resurfaced from mud, trees and debris every day.

Appalachia is in a crisis, as is most of the south now. We don't need tonedeaf tourists. We need people who want to help. The locals are working day and night to help their communities. If you want to come to help rebuild, then please come. Otherwise, stay away.

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ STREETS !

summary :: over 20 years of kenji’s life has been spent preserving the surviving scraps of innocence from his childhood. since then, he has been desperately searching for anything to fill the rotten void in his chest. when a news reporter gives him everything he could ever ask for by merely existing, kenji fears the man he may become without them near.

word count :: 8.3k

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!kenji, obsessive!kenji, g/n reader, blood/violence, alcohol, stalking, drugging, kidnapping, nausea/sickness, mentions of sex, use of ‘daddy’ honorific (but nothing sexually explicit occurs).

kenji sato's yandere traits are . . .

nurturing, heroic, & smothering

──── Over the course of his childhood, Kenji possessed the same desires every child had. The same wishes he’d whisper to planes he mistook for shooting stars.

He remembers climbing the blunt limbs of the oak tree in his backyard, pretending to be a hawk and searching the grass for any delicious rodents to sink his claws into. He can still feel the dirt under his fingernails when he’d get lost in the woods, pretending to be a tiger and barring his teeth to any predators after his kin. His only worries would consist of his next meal and where he'll settle in for the night, instead of the loneliness that resided back home.

However, as all stories go, Kenji grew up. As the years passed, though, the more constricting his grip became on this childhood dream. For every candle Kenji blew out, he only wished to be one with the great outdoors and rid himself of the expectations shoved upon him. As any child innocently wanted.

Now in adulthood, every candlelight snuffed out was a silent plea for peace. And so desperately, he is trying to protect the bird nest he intricately crafted. Woven with strands of his young, raven-black hair, chunks of sidewalk chalk, tufts of fur of his favorite stuffed animals — every forgotten, sacred piece of his childhood that still remains unscathed.

Year after year, the relentless abuse of the world and his responsibilities reign down on him, prying their violent, eager fingers into his beloved bird nest. Today, Kenji holds whatever scraps still remain close to his chest, nestling them beneath a canopy of creativity and everlasting hope. Protecting whatever bits of innocence and childlike luster that survive the weight of the world.

When he pictured his father’s role of Ultraman as a child, he imagined perseverance and bravery. Now with that title bequeathed to him, Kenji is anything but. He is clumsy, reckless, and negligent. The very last thing he wishes to do now is follow his father’s footsteps, but alas, he has been given no choice.

The Neronga waltzes through the city streets, exuding chaos with every step it strides. Tossing around chunks of buildings and fistfuls of debris. And begrudgingly, Kenji trails after it like a parent trying to tame their exuberant child. 

A booming roar echoes from the beast's throat, angry bolts of electricity sparking from its horn. One swift punch to its jaw and the creature is out cold, leaving miles of destruction and disorder in its demise. With the threat neutralized, now comes the clean-up. He plucks citizens like they are tiny dolls and drops them to safety, who all thank him profusely for his aid. All except one.

Several bystanders crowd over a pile of rubble, waving their hands in an attempt at garnering the attention of Ultraman. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming, I’m coming…” Kenji mutters, stepping over passing cars as though they’re scatterings of colorful legos. 

Piece by piece, he brushes past the lumps of bricks and metal. Disinterred from beneath the rubble is you. Hauntingly beautiful in your unconscious state. 

“Oh…” He exhales breathlessly, chest rising and falling with rapid pants. 

And there it is. 

That canopy of creativity enveloping him; that bird nest suddenly overflowing with rebirth and life. Everything bursts in colors so prismatic, Kenji finds himself at an impossible balance between feeling weakly heavy and ecstatically light. Never has his soul been so completely satiated before, even in the brightest days of his childhood.

Love, that’s what this must be! Love, warmth, happiness — every inkling of light this world has to offer! How could he ever feel dejected again with this angel now in his-? 

“Your heart rate is spiking.” That familiar, robotic voice interrupts. “You know what happens when Ultraman gets stressed.” 

Like clockwork, his color timer blares in distressful hues of light blue and sharp red. Though, how could Kenji possibly pay attention to such trivial matters when he’s holding you in his hands? How could he pay attention to anything else? 

Unfortunately for his sake, reality tears him away from his entranced state by brute forcd. A blinding flash of white permeates the street and in a blink, Kenji has returned to his normal self. He is back to being the notorious baseball player, worldwide heartthrob, and, most notably, smaller than his heroic alter ego.

When he shifts his gaze up, he finds you descending from the grasp he once held you in. Just like the fearless prince in every child's imagination, he scurries to catch you before you meet the unforgiving ground.

When his bare hands meet your skin, a gasp is yanked from his chest. His heart lurches, obtaining speeds he did not deem possible. Even sprinting from base to base did not garner this physical reaction out of him. You just feel so good against him, so perfect. Like the missing puzzle piece he’s been tearing apart the house looking for, now within its respected place. Bound to be cemented there forever – that sounds good to Kenji. 

“Ken, they can see you!” Mina’s frantic voice interrupts once again. 

When he pulls his vision from you, he finds a collage of people begin to surround the adjacent area. Their mere gaze threatens to jeopardize his identity once and forevermore.

“I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry, baby.” Kenji whispers into your ear.

Pressing a hard kiss to your cheekbone and relishing at the sensation of your skin beneath his lips, he reluctantly guides your limp body atop of the rubble. A few final caresses to your warm flesh and he is scurrying off into the night, completely inconsolable with these brand new emotions. New emotions he fears terribly, but has now clasped all coherent function in his body.

A single week had passed since the city's last Kaiju attack. These several days have proven to be nothing short of torturous for Kenji.

He has been rendered miserable after latching onto the light he’s been chasing for years, only to have it torn from his hands like candy from a baby. All because he’s been forced into a gig he never signed up for. Kenji has lost the love of his life and nothing can reprimand the grief it has left behind. 

Through extensive, but fruitless effort, he has assigned Mina the task of dissecting all of Japan in search of you. With only a description of your face, coated with dirt and blood, there is very little the efficient robot can do. And once again, his desires are left to collect dust in the hollow corners of his soul.

Kenji now resides in his ‘man-cave’, as he so confidently calls it. “Healthy body, healthy mind.” Mina teases, displaying the assortment of coconut water stacked in the fridge. With a sigh of defeat, he takes a resentful sip and cringes at the horrid taste. His efforts to stuff his face with junk food like some heartbroken blonde in a chick-flick were rejected by Mina, as she is always pushing him to pursue greater health. Waving his white flag, he asks for Mina to just turn the TV on, searching for anything to mend the pain poisoning his heart.

“Ken. I wonder if you might consider taking a break.” Mina confesses. 

He stares at the robot, searching her metal face for reasoning.

“From TV?” 

“From finding that citizen.”

His face scrunches in disdain. 

Quit you? Is she serious? How could he ever do that? Could he even survive such a predicament? 

“Give up the one thing that puts a smile on my face?” Kenji questions. “Sorry. No. TV, please.”

Some sincere praise from saved citizens will surely fill the hole in his chest, he assumes. Help him in his efforts to protect that bird nest he cradles close. 

The TV flickers to life and presents Channel 7 News, the place in which Kenji is featured most on. Seeing his most recent work with a bold “WOUNDED NERONGA AFTER ULTRAMAN EXIT” beneath the scene granted no surprise to him. 

What does stun him into a defying silence is when the screen shifts and your face fills up the expanse. Bandage on your scalp and microphone in your hand, you inform viewers at home of the recent neutralized threat and your new status here on the channel.

“Well, this has been quite the warm welcome! I’ve just arrived here in Japan and I’ve already been greeted by the Neronga, evident in this bandage on my noggin’.” 

The coconut water in his mouth spews out like a sprinkler when Kenji spits out the beverage. He chucks the open can across the room, ignoring the stain it will inevitably leave on his lavish carpets.

“That’s them! That’s them, that’s them, that’s them!” He exclaims to Mina. 

Shuffling off the couch, he crawls over to the television as though his legs had completely given out beneath him. His hand caresses the surface where your cheek is. 

“Sources tell us you were rescued by Ultraman himself!” A news anchor speaks. 

“Yes, that is true. Unfortunately, I was a bit too woozy to thank him properly, but he did save my life. It is heroic acts like Ultraman that help keep this city alive.” 

Unbeknownst to you, your words made a certain baseball player melt into putty. Hearing your praises, even when it is probably written on a script behind the camera, is nothing short of heavenly. 

The anchors, third-wheeling between two soulmates, continue to blabber about other fresh events taking place in Japan. Pressing languid kisses to the fuzzy static, all Kenji can listen to, all he can focus on, is you. Every twitch of your brow, every curve of your skin, every stretch in your smile — it all has him mesmerized. Like a siren lulling a fisher into the sea, where he would dive straight into oblivion had it been you in the deep waves.

“This was Y/N L/N with Channel 7 News.” 

Your name sits like honey on his tongue. Sickeningly sweet and absorbing of every word. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” He repeats your name like a magic spell, almost as if you’d manifest into existence had he whispered it enough.

“Signing off.” 

The screen cuts and you vanish from the screen, overtaken by irritating advertisements. As though you were physically there with him, Kenji reaches for you. Desperate to bring you, his Y/N, back into his unwavering embrace.

Now, if there is anything renowned about Ken Sato, it is his charm, which also serves as his most powerful superpower. So, with enough flexes in the mirror to give himself a good ego boost, his “put a ring on Y/N’s finger” plan has now ensued in full effect. 

The foundation of this plan resides in who you are, what intricacies and threadings course through such a marvelous creature. He demands Mina, stronger than he ever has before, to learn every little detail there is to know about you. There cannot be a stone left unturned. Kenji needs to know everything. 

And every fragment of information she delivers to him binds his presumption furthermore: you two were made for each other. You’re like a page torn straight from an ancient fairytale. Crafted by God himself to hold his hand. He’s sunk his fingers into your background, your dreams, your hobbies, and he has nestled them all into his bird nest, entwined with the elements of himself. Bound to remain at one another’s side for eternity.

To enlighten you on these matters, however, Kenji has to find clarity through the whirlwind of emotions overpowering his senses. Then, he is positive he’ll be granted the ability to finally speak to you. However, the thought alone is enough to send a sun-hot shiver down his spine. He’ll need some thorough caresses to his ego before he can garner the confidence to merely stand in the same room as you.

It certainly does not help when everyday is spent battling the intense waves of euphoria, obsession, and of course, the suffocating guilt.

He left you behind. He abandoned the one thing that matters most to him and nothing can atone for this mistake. All because of Ultraman being most imperative, which Kenji had been force-fed to believe. Never again will he choose his occupation over you. Or anything, for that matter. You outweigh everything in terms of vital importance. 

He begins these efforts with baby-steps. To start, he assigns Mina to leave expensive gifts upon your bed. Bouquets of flowers, lush clothing, rich chocolates, luxurious jewelry, action figures and plushies galore! All you have to do is look at something in the store for more than a picosecond and it’s wrapped in a bow for you the following day. You also cannot forget the amount of times you’ve arrived home to find your favorite meals freshly made on the kitchen table.

In your overworked, lethargic brain, you assume everything is left by your sweet, elderly landlord who misses her grandkids and needs a fresh face to spoil rotten. You just choose to ignore how the gifts are impossibly far out of her budget.

Miles away from you, Kenji is tearing himself apart as he assumes your lack of recognition to be rejection. He knew he should’ve purchased those shoes in a different color! What was he thinking buying you roses instead of carnations, God, how cliché can he be!? 

He should’ve known you wouldn’t lend him your heart in return for his riches. You are not that foolish or shallow; you’re far more meticulous than the greedy pigs he’s so accustomed to feeding. 

Kenji will not claim defeat yet, though. He is never one to waver so easily, especially when it is you that is the golden prize. If he cannot flaunt his riches, why not himself? The richest item of all? And if his money cannot slither himself into your heart, he is positive it can push him in the intended direction. 

He’ll leave lumps of cash in the hands of massive corporations, all to cast his face wherever it can reach. On billboards, on buildings, on blimps — whatever place you may possibly be. Inevitably, you will have no choice but to see his gorgeous face and fall head over heels with him. The same way you so easily made him fall for you. 

Unfortunately, though, there are not enough cans of coconut water or buckets of chicken drumsticks in the world to bring you to his doorstep, there to fall into his arms and promise forever at his side. Kenji has failed in claiming your heart as his, once again, but another failure is not nearly enough to get him to welcome defeat. Not when it is you he is promised, never when it is you.

From here, he’ll pursue grander efforts. You’ll be occupied in the studio, skimming through your lines while makeup artists poke and prod at you. A squeal of excitement will permeate through the expanse, shouting out for a man by the name of Ken Sato.

Loud rumbles echo through the city streets as Kenji revs the engine to his motorcycle, complemented by his famous hair-flip and heart-throbbing wink. And feverishly, he scrutinizes every face behind the window, desperate to see those gorgeous features smile and melt at the sight of him. Then, he can spring straight into your studio, gather you in his arms, and race off into the sunset with you. Just like the fairytale dream you deserve. 

But alas, the universe refuses to give him such a privilege. You’re too engrossed with the tasks at hand, not some money-obsessed athlete who adorns the walls of teenage girls across Japan. 

If he could hear your assumptions, he’d assure you are sorely mistaken. Kenji doesn’t want the accolades, the riches, the fame. He just wants you. The one who showed him what it truly meant to be wild; the one who showed him what it truly meant to be free. So desperately, he wants you to know this, as well. To feel it with every beat your heart passes, to feel it imprinted in your skin with every kiss and caress he leaves. He could lose everything, just not you. God, not you. 

The man is speeding off with the pieces of his shattered heart before you can even process what had even occurred.

Kenji, once again, is met with another revelation. If it is not his name that can bring you into his embrace, then maybe it is his second self, the one you so wholeheartedly praise for his heroic acts.

Dressed in these ridiculous garbs, Ultraman leads danger towards your direction to “save” your life, all other innocent bystanders be damned. These efforts do not ever bridge on being dangerous. Merely a quick scare or two. And it definitely pays off, oh, does it pay off. Watching the fear in your eyes ease into relief at the sight of him never fails to get him numb with rapture.

“Fear not, citizen! Kenj- I mean, Ultraman will save you!” 

The last occasion he ever abused his role consisted of an orchestrated car accident. Nearly caught in the crossfire, you ever-so-gracefully dove away from the scene and skidded your knee in the process. A thundering “NO! BABY!” rings through the air. So absorbed in adrenaline, you do not even process the volume of the sound. 

What does grasp your attention is Ultraman taking you into his hand and lifting you far, far away from the ground. You ensnare yourself around his finger in response, clinging to him like a lifeline. Kenji melts from the action, as well as the underlying implications. You, relying on him, your silver-armored prince, for protection — that is everything he could ever wish for sat right in the palm of his hands. 

“Shh… It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay… Daddy’s here…” 

The words, shaky as they are, fall from his mouth like water through a cracked dam. It’s all just so easy, assuring you of his protection and comfort. The only way of preventing him from caring for you is to end his life. And Kenji has a lot of fight in him before he’ll allow himself to be separated from you.

You remain in his hands until an ambulance arrives. For the umpteenth time, he is forced to let go of you again. He cannot hide the perceptible agony it brings him to watch you rely on somebody else for aid. 

One day, it will be him, he assures himself. One day.

In the meantime, your rejection continues to take a heavy toll on him. Kenji is now famished without you, emaciated and starved to the bone. In some feeble attempt at satiating this hunger, he’ll try to find these fragments of you in others. He will drink himself ill then bring a blurry face to bed, all to shake the memory of you out of his head. These efforts, once more, only result in failure.

This time around, a harrowing guilt rots in his chest. There is no one else like you, he should’ve seen it clear as day. Kenji was a fool to ever think there could be. Now, he has cheated on the one who matters most to him. And there is nothing to placate the anguish he’s tormented by.

This perceptible ruination does not go unnoticed by journalists, either, who do not waste the opportunity of an eye-grabbing headline. Articles about him flood the web, detailing his miserable failures out on the field. Crawling to base seconds too late, sprinting directly into walls, and receiving more strikes than anyone can count — Kenji and the famous Sato name are falling apart by the seams.

He examines the glistening trophies and signed baseball cards in another attempt at protecting his ego and its butchered remains. None of it is enough, though. None of this success is notable without you at his side.

In a fit of rage, he throws his Giants helmet against the basement floors, landing with a harsh thud.

“They reject me? Ken Sato!? Best baseball player of all time!? The one and only Ultraman!?” 

His poor helmet is victim to his abuse, once more, as he leans all his might into a forceful kick. 

“Nobody can resist Ken Sato!” 

Another attempt at thrashing around in anger results in his knees buckling beneath him, sending his body to the cold ground. That was the final failure Kenji needed to break down into a sobbing fit. Head buried in his palms, he begs, pleads, for mercy. 

“I… I’m doing my best, okay? God!”

His body curls into itself, like pathetic prey trying to protect itself.

“I buy you everything you want, I save your life again and again, I-” 

Kenji cuts his tangent short by choking on a gagged cry. His fist clenches over his heart, overwhelmed from the sheer pain the organ is enduring. His chest stutters and twitches from the force of his blubbering. Globs of snot and spit gush across down his face, some clumps managing to pervade across his tongue.

“Ken? Are you crying?” A monotone voice speaks. 

“No! I’m… Not crying!” 

His coughing whimpers and wet face reveal the truth. Weakness is something he was taught to be ashamed of, after all. What kind of man would he be if he let himself crumble over such petty matters? Would you ever fall for him after witnessing such a dramatic sight?

“Want me to load up Y/N? That might make you feel better.” 

A few snivels through the silence and Kenji answers her. “Yeah… Yeah, I-I’d really like that…”

Maybe this is what he needs, just a few hits of his favorite drug to keep him in stable condition. Then, he’ll utilize the newfound strength to revive his honor, finally earning your affection in the end.

Pixels unfold in varying colors across the ground, spreading across the walls and ceiling like a reaching wave. The scene overtaking the basement now displays a romantic scene. Cherry blossom trees dance with the warm wind, petals drifting through the Spring air. A grand waterfall descends from a moss-covered mountain and leads to a river, where fish swim along with the stream. As he stands to his feet, Kenji finds himself at an arched bridge stretching over the river as the gentle melodies of nature sing around him.

When his gaze drifts around, he feels his heart practically plummet into the pit of his stomach when he sees you. Leaning over the wicker barrier and tossing out handfuls of kibble for the hungry fish.

Turning over your shoulder, you look up at Kenji with those glittering eyes, causing his breath to get caught in his throat. To make matters even worse for Kenji’s weak self, your face then breaks out into a candy-sweet smile. You are so innocently oblivious to how you’ve reduced his heart rate to an old engine, stuttering miserably. That smile could make even the devil repent, he’s sure of it. With luminosity like that, the greatest evils would have no choice but to succumb to their contrition.

Dusting your hands off, you frolic over to where Kenji stands. A lighthearted giggle escapes past your lips in the process, nearly bringing him to tears from how precious the sight is. Your hand slips into his and he might as well have crossed the pearly gates of heaven. Fuck, why hasn’t he made Mina do this before?

“Come on! Come feed the fishies with me!” You cheer in that captivating tone. That adoring voice could ask so sweetly for death and he’d deliver you buckets of blood. Just keep talking to him like that.

The impact you have on him is so immense, in fact, Kenji falls to his knees. The throbbing ache that his fall courses through his body might as well have been background noise, not when his senses are overwhelmed with how blissful your presence is.

His arms enclose around your legs, burying his face into your fuzzy sweater. With an amused hum, you sink your hands into his dark locks. The gesture makes him dizzy with elation. Spinning around the merry-go-round of devastating jubilation.

“Tell me you love me.” Kenji whines, his sensitive voice muffled against your stomach. 

With another giggle that squishes his gooey heart, you respond.

“I love you, Ken.” 

… Ken? 

No! No, you wouldn’t call him that! 

You’d call him Kenji, or better yet, you’d conjure up some adorable nickname in that witty head of yours. Anything but Ken; anything but what everyone else sees him as. 

And just like that, the fantastical facade shatters and reveals what really lies beneath. None of this is real. As much as he wishes it would be, as much as he’d throw away everything for you to be beside him in this moment, all of this is merely a figment of his imagination.

“No! You’re not real! Y/N- They would never-!”

The tears return and leave his body through broken wails. Once again, he has been forged into a mess of cracked hiccups and ground-shattering sobs.

His clenched fist meets the solid ground, piercing pain invading his entire arm from the impact. The punch was thrown far from where you stand. Even as a hologram, Kenji cannot bear to hurt you. He couldn’t wish violence upon you even if he wanted to. 

The dreamscape stood before him crumbles as quickly as it was formed. Darkness spreads once again and the romantic scene of cherry blossoms and fish kibble fades away. A physical manifestation of what he has become without you present.

Chasing after a sliver of your attention has now thrust Kenji into a staggering state of despair. His sob playlist shakes his house with its ear-splitting volumes, pushing more tears down his face while he stuffs his mouth with donuts. 

The weight of the pain pushes him toward drastic measures, as he is now a hollow shell of who he used to be. Measures he assured himself he would never come to, but has inevitably crashed landed in.

If you do not fall for his riches, his charm, his fame, then Kenji will just have to… “persuade” you towards that goal.

Cameras flash and flicker in his face as he charms his way through another press conference of millions. Only this time, he has ground-breaking news to share. 

“Fans have seen you blow supposed kisses to someone outside the venue. Is there a special someone in your life?” 

Directly across the field is your studio, but he will not tell others this fact. It is his duty to protect you, after all. But, scattering a few breadcrumbs won’t hurt anyone.

“Yes. Yes there is.”

The room erupts in hushed gasps and the rushed scribbling of pens. Another wave of questions tumbles toward Kenji’s way.

“They mean everything to me. I owe all my success to Y/- I mean, my baby.” 

A knowing smirk grows on his face. The Sherlock’s of the internet will surely connect the dots. Netizens will also fawn over how misty-eyed he became speaking of you, while others will rage in jealousy over their dream man falling for someone else. No matter what occurs, he will protect you during your sudden shift to fame. You have his word on that.

Days later, Kenji receives an email. And he almost considers admitting himself into a hospital for the near heart attack he receives upon reading it. 

Signed by none other than Y/N L/N, you ask him to meet with you in order to “clear the air” and “sort out this drama”. 

Several times, he scans the username to find some sort of fault, something that shows him it is just the works of an envious hater. However, his suspicions are never confirmed. The message is purely and undoubtedly you, no online troll or basement hologram in sight!

Without another second to waste, he responds to your email with a place and time, that being two hours from now. Kenji intends on fulfilling his role of the dashing boyfriend and to drive you there himself, flaunting his sumptuous motorcycle in the process. Mina, however, has since been programmed to detect every potential danger in your path, even something as minor as a crack in the pavement. When she displayed the graphic results of recent biking accidents, his heart lurched in his chest.

For now, he will simply have to meet you at the luxuriant restaurant he booked the best table for. In the future, he will convert to safer forms of transportation and your foot will never touch a pedal again. Not with your prince charming around.

Arriving an hour early, Kenji bursts through the bathroom doors and wipes the beads of sweat seeping down his face. All the makeup and detail he put into his appearance, all melted to a mess because of the anxiety you pump through his body. 

It is almost comical. He, Ken Sato, is nervous? He’s done the classic dinner-date over a zillion times, delivering his suggestive pick-up lines and swift winks. Staring at his exasperated face in the mirror, he is at a loss of where to go from here. What will he even say? What famous lines can he use? How can he give you his black card and a copy of his house key without you running away? 

Kenji finally sits down at the reserved table, located on a far balcony and looking over the grand city. His wristwatch blares red and presents the stack of missed calls from his dad, of which he willfully ignores. He went twenty years without his father and survived. Meanwhile, he went one week without you and thought he was on the cusp of death. He cannot bring himself to care about anything else. Not when he’s finally got a hook on you.

A waiter then asks him if he was feeling alright, concerned over the sight of his pale skin, shivering body, and twiddling thumbs. Kenji assures the man he is alright as he restlessly taps his foot, stalking the door ahead for the face he loves most to saunter through. The building could just about crumble to ash and he’d still sit here, waiting for your arrival.

And just like a movie, you pass the threshold and rob all the air from his lungs. 

You merely walk his way, but to him, you resembled a fawn frolicking through a green meadow, an angel wandering across roads of fluffy clouds. Those sporadic nerves die at the sight of you, rendering him to a melted pile of twitterpated nonsense. You tread closer and closer and closer and Kenji does not know how much more his body can handle before you completely dissolve him into a puddle.

“You have five minutes.” 

Your voice perfuses into his ears like birdsong, real and raw this time. That noise greeting him every morning is the only wish he’d ask from a magic genie. 

“Wh-Wh-?” He stutters like a lovesick loser, mentally slapping himself across the head for such a pathetic introduction.

“I said you have five minutes to explain yourself. Then, I will le-” 

“I love you.”

Surprise eases out your scrunched expression. You’ve never met this man before. Yet here he is, spewing out this gibberish. All of this has to be some form of joke, you assume. Where those irritating Youtube pranksters will sprint out from their hiding spots and shove their cameras in your face, cackling like hysterical hyenas.

“I am in love with you.” 

Maybe this is just his way of leading partners into bed with him. A powerful effort to add another name to his lengthy body count. And for whatever reason, he plans to jot down your name on that list.

“And you are worth more to me than anything.” 

You scrutinize his face for some inkling of rationality, something to explain what the fuck he means by that. Your efforts prove to be futile, as those teary, doe-eyes peer into your soul with nothing but sheer, unadulterated devotion. As though you were both fresh newlyweds enjoying the luxury of your honeymoon, complemented by the glimmer of your new wedding rings.

“Okay.” You swallow dryly, unease bleeding through your body. “You get another five minutes to explain yourself. On one condition.”

Kenji perks up at your proposition as though you had offered your hand in marriage. 

“Yes! Yes, whatever you want!” 

The man in question ponders over what riches you could ask him for and how elated he’d be to give you them. Taking you on shopping sprees and serving as your adoring husband, paying every penny and carrying your bags for you while you peruse to your liking. Just say the word, maybe flutter those pretty lashes, and he’ll personally deliver the very planet into your hands.

“I want you to leave me be.” 

If it weren’t for the fact this man was a complete stranger, you’d feel a sting of guilt over the perceptible emotion that washes over his face. Kenji anticipated the demand of clothes, foods, travel tickets, of which he would gleefully fulfill. Not this. Anything but this. 

“Alright, f-for how long? 10 minutes? 20?” 

“Forever.” 

You might as well have surged your fist into his chest cavity and torn his heart out, stomping out the ba-bump beneath the force of your boots. You might as well have climbed the tree behind his childhood home and ambushed his bird nest, tearing apart the array of twigs and squishing the healthy eggs. You might as well have just killed him right then and there, as nothing could pain him more than such a fate. Forever without the one he loves most is a life you couldn’t pay him to suffer through.

His bottom lip begins to tremble, stomach gurgling with nauseated shock. A few gags masked by coughs go unnoticed by you, as you could’ve sworn you saw a bright flash of white in the distance. Did someone… Take a picture? 

“... What’s wrong, baby? What are you looking at, huh?” 

Shifting your gaze back to Kenji, you find his features sheen with sweat and sickly-green from the queasiness you’ve forced upon him. What you especially notice is the accent of smugness beneath it all, etched into the smirk stretched across his lips.

Hushed whispers in the distance accelerate in volume, until the entire restaurant erupts in flashing lights.

Paparazzi!? What the fuck are they doing here!? 

Kenji leans back into the chair and slings an arm around the back post, seemingly posing for the photographers invading your conversation.

“Oh, no! We’ve been caught! The horror! Whatever will we do now that our secret is out…?”

If it weren’t for the sake of your career, you would’ve socked that smile clean off his face. Maybe even knock out a few teeth while you’re at it.

Critics have now officially cleared the name of Ken Sato due to his recent spike in excellent performance. Sports commentators even toss around jokes of how Sato’s new partner has knocked some sense into him.

Another game of hundreds and the cologne of arrogance around Kenji could suffocate the entire arena. A recent report detailed by you is casted on the billboard outside your studio. He blows yet another kiss your way as he jogs onto the field, ignoring the shouting fans who seethe with envy. He has made it official across the nation that his heart is sewn into your hands. And not even God could level the happiness coursing through his body. 

That is, until an uninvited visitor opens his mouth. The Swallows catcher begins to taunt him about his lover on the big screen, unaware of the lethal consequences it would harbor.

“You let the team hit, Sato? Shit, I might talk to coach about a transfer so I can get a piece of th-” 

The baseball bat in Kenji’s hands collides with his jaw before he can finish his sentence. 

Several more plunges into his skull and a swarm of teammates swarm around to break apart the scene. The crowd is alive with excited hollering, drowning out the noise of the blood-stained threats Kenji barks his way, strings of saliva spurting from his mouth like some feral mutt. 

The onslaught of players quickly, albeit with struggle, overpower him, successfully retrieving the weapon from his grasp. The edges of his manicured nails dig into the meat of his palms, forming maroon crescents in his flesh. Blind with rage, more threats that will surely put him behind bars are screeched into the air.

A few harsh yanks from the group of men and Kenji is finally pried from the catcher. He is dragged off the field past the rushing paramedics before he can fulfill his promises.

“And now it looks like there are words being exchanged between Sato and the Swallows catcher... Oh! Oh, no. We haven’t seen a brawl like this in a long time! Both benches have cleared. They’re throwing punches…” 

Soothing his sore muscles in an ice bath, Kenji watches the recording of his public meltdown with trepidation. Your eyes are not far and surely, you will bear witness to the violence his hands are capable of. He fears you daring to think he will treat you as such and his chest aches from the thought alone.

All he wants at this moment is to tear down the door to your apartment, take your precious face into his hands, and speak the utter truth as he assures you he will never bring harm to you. He’ll inform you of the context of the fight and what sparked such a reaction out of him. Then, you’ll thank him profusely for his heroic defense and drown him in your sugar-sweet kisses. Just like he has dreamt of every night, often waking up in the morning with his puckered lips against his knuckles.

Now, however, Kenji has surely destroyed any chances of gluing you to his side forever. You resent him for that stunt he pulled at dinner, and now, you are afraid of what he and his baseball bat may do. The ongoing success of Ken Sato has crashed and burned, resulting in the loss of what he cared for most.

“Ken!” Mina calls out to him. “I have something to show you!” 

Assuming it is another plan of millions to stamp the title of ‘lover’ all over you, he rushes out of the bath and throws his clothes on. Venturing into the basement, he is met with the very last thing he expected.

The containment unit has been raised. Inside is you, fast asleep with a bow on your head. Wearing just his jersey and holding onto a plushie designed after himself. 

“Surprise!”

Mina’s robotic arms stretch out, presenting the gift she captured retrieved for Kenji.

In addition to your permanent presence, the containment unit has been extensively decorated. The adornments are all pink and fluffy, like a cloud draped over a sunset. A circle-shaped bed is strung above the ground, supporting the weight of you and the mess of plushy comforters. It rocks you from side-to-side like a fussy baby who skipped out on naptime.

The scent of lavender pervading the air eases you into a deeper slumber. Tranquil white noise hums from the surrounding speakers, suffusing with the sounds of a light rainstorm. There are even holograms of shimmering stars and a full moon hovering over you, like some colossal mobile strung above a crib. Among the stars is a constellation, of some sort, that reads “Y/N SATO” in glittering letters.

And poor Kenji doesn’t know if he wants to beat Mina into shambles of wires or give her as many HTTP cookies her synthetic heart could ask for. For now, he is too woozy to make a coherent decision regarding her well-being. As he stated before, you always remain of utmost importance.

“My God…” He gasps out through stuttering breaths. 

His heart pounds so violently, he can barely hear the sound of his own voice over the persistent thumping. Kenji wobbles over to you as though he had just stood on his two legs for the very first time. He is almost positive there is a certain air suffusing from your body, entering his bloodstream and choking him with fervent stress. Every step forward renders his body weaker and weaker.

Images then begin to haunt his mind, preceding what may happen in minutes time. Kenji sees your weeping face, crying to release you from this bird cage. He can hear the thundering volume of your voice declaring you will never fall in love with him, how you’ll soon vanish and leave him to forever rot in solitude.

The emotions these thoughts garner stir in his gut like a meal that doesn’t agree with him. Gags poke and prod at his throat, threatening to release the butterflies fluttering around his stomach. A glob of bile then spurts from his mouth and splats against the floor. Kenji, horrified and sick with worry, races away from the scene before he spills his guts in front of you and humiliates himself even further.

What on Earth is he meant to do now?

When you finally awaken, you’re convinced you’ve been melted into jelly. Maybe even restrained in a tank of thick oil. Limbs weak at wet spaghetti, you cling to any fragments of energy in your system as you try and discern your environment. 

“Well, look who woke up!” A female voice greets you. “Do you want to see daddy?” 

Something globe-shaped hovers around the barrier you’ve been ensnared in. If it weren’t for your groggy state, you’d verify it to be a robot and not a talking basketball. 

“’Daddy’? What the hell are you talking about?” Your confused voice protrudes broken and sluggish, still stained with the sleep you’ve just woken from. 

A screen forms above you and before your distorted vision, you find the very last sight you wished to see. Ken Sato, your own personal parasite, sits stiff in the living room just upstairs. Bouncing his leg in an anxious rhythm, he seems to be engrossed by a video on his laptop. As you listen further, the contents become more distinguishable.

“When the moment is right, lean into your partner slowly and tilt your head to avoid bumping noses.” 

The robot clears her throat in an attempt at grasping his attention, but fails to do so.

“Close your eyes and let your lips connect naturally. Match the pattern of your partner to-” 

Another noise of acknowledgment from the robot and Kenji’s attention is finally held. Barely, that is.

“What, Mina?” He answers curtly, eyes refusing to part from the information he is currently absorbing.

“Someone is waiting for you down here.”

In all the years you’ve lived on this planet, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone move so fast before. Not only did Mina’s words arouse a visceral reaction out of Kenji, but they practically shoved him off the couch from the sheer force of her insinuations. His foot even gets caught behind a chair leg and causes him to land splat on his face, but this is not nearly enough to deter his acceleration. 

The screen you were studying then folds into itself as an elevator descends from above. Through the cyan, blurred exterior, you see the frame of no other than Ken Sato. The doors open a mere inch before the man in question is squishing himself through the tight space. Always the acrobat he is, he gracefully trips onto his face, once again, before clumsily scrambling to his feet.

Now, you’re given the ability to absorb his appearance. Messy locks of black hair lack their normal gelled accentuation. Dark eyes are blown wide as though he were some feral animal. Tan arms are covered in red scratches from the relentless, anxious scratching he abused his flesh with.

The bold ‘ICON’ on his shirt mocks you. Is that what he is? Is that what he expects you to perceive him as? Would an ‘icon’ do such a thing like this?

You ponder over how much time has passed since you’ve been brought into this horrid basement, how much time has passed before friends and family have deemed you missing.

Kenji knows the answer to your questions. It had only been a day; twenty-four full hours of crazed, restless worry. He even skipped out on the championship for this moment, just to ensure you remained safe in the basement. He trusts Mina, of course, but he cannot rely on her to restrain you. The grasp he has on you is dangling by a thread, worn thin by his own stupid antics from before. 

He knows now that if you were to take one step out the door, you’ll be gone forever. And Kenji will die before he allows that to happen. 

Meanwhile, you’re still trying to garner pieces of your memory together. After returning to your apartment from a hectic day at the studio, you allowed yourself to indulge in the hot meals always waiting for you at your kitchen table. Normally, you’d chuck them in the garbage out of distrust. Tonight, however, you were so overwhelmed with lethargy, you couldn’t conjure enough energy to cook yourself a meal. So, the magic dinner-fairy would receive your blessing in the meantime.

One bite in and you were out like a light, oblivious to what exactly is waiting for you once you wake.

What was waiting for you now dashes toward the edge of your dog kennel, as you’d describe it. Kenji places a hand to the surface and his forehead lands against the wall with a light thud. His quickened, gasping breaths fog the glass. He does not leave even a centimeter between himself and the barrier separating both of you. The legs that have scored him more wins for the Giants than any other played in history suddenly grow weak, trembling as they try to support his weight. 

Kenji’s half-lidded gaze is devoted to you only. A curl forms between his brows from the fervency of his emotions the longer he stares. His cheeks go red as two ripe cherries while he just stands and watches, all dewy-faced and blushing.

“Lower the containment unit.” He pants breathlessly, the sheer tone of love drooping from every syllable that parts from his mouth. Like pockets of honey seeping from a honeycomb. 

“Ken. That might be a bad idea. We cannot anticipate how they will react.” 

He presses lazy kisses against the glass as her words go through one ear and out the other. Ignoring her warning, he assures her of these concerns.

“I got ‘em, I got ‘em… My baby…”

To your horror, the walls plummet and grant this monster full access to where you lie. Kenji collapses, again, not realizing he had been leaning his full weight against the walls of the containment unit. This sudden intrusion causes you to flinch and you crawl away from him, attempting to shield yourself beneath the thick covers. 

Body shivering with feverish need, his hand grasps onto the corner of the mattress to stabilize himself. Mere inches away from your foot. His chin lifts to look your way, his eyes only needing to bathe in the sight of you forever. Within his irises, you find swirling pools of darkness illuminated by specks of glitter. Sparkling for you and you alone. 

A smile pokes at Kenji’s lips, bright and formidable, before he addresses your sour expression. 

“Aww, why the long-face? Is my baby hungry, maybe?” 

At the foot of the bed, a fraction of the floor folds open and rises a platter. On this platter is an array of all your favorite foods. Snacks, candies, sodas, juices, whatever your heart could possibly desire. Mina has correlated an all-you-can-eat buffet just for you. Similar to the dishes left for you back in your apartment.

As it spins, displaying every inch and corner of its delicious offerings, you curl further into yourself. You do not want nourishment, you want to leave! To part from this maniac and never hear of his name again! 

With your refusal to eat, Kenji determines the reason behind your dismay to be because of him. Or, in his egotistical brain, the lack of him. The works of an absurdly large ego, you’d surmise. 

“Do you… Do you need… Me?” The hope in his voice is akin to a child in disbelief over receiving surprise tickets to Disneyland.

And Kenji just melts from how gut-wrenchingly adorable you are. By simply existing, you’re yanking at his heartstrings like a puppeteer, guiding him further and further towards the edge of sanity. With eyes peering up at him like that, he’ll welcome the predicament warmly.

“Oh… I’m right here, baby. Daddy won’t leave you.” He coos in your ear, the warm cadence practically oozing into your brain. 

Still overwhelmed with exhaustion, you do not have a morsel of strength left in your body to fight off his affections. Despite how desperately you wish to. Instead, you have to remain pliant as Kenji guides you onto your back, soothing and shushing you as you sink further into the plush surface.

Tearing his shirt from his body, the loss of the ‘icon’ status, he crawls beneath the opulent covers with you. His arm snakes around your waist, while the other cradles your cheek. Hands shuddering and heart pattering as he presses himself against your back, he wonders how he had not simply died right in this moment. You’re too perfect. It’s too much for his poor heart to take. Cupid may as well have discarded the pink-hued arrows and plunged a knife straight into his chest.

Kenji leaves an array of kisses on the back of your neck as you drift back into a tranquil slumber. All those wishes he set on shooting stars have finally returned and placed you directly in his beloved bird nest. All to stay at his side forever.

All to never leave.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ WHY CAN'T I FIND

NO ONE LIKE YOU . . . ? ❞

gif creds .

[lilyinmysoul]

A Loving Feeling

QZ!Joel x F Reader

WC: 3k

Summary: Joel has a shit day, so he finds you to take his mind off of it.

Warnings: smut, piv, joel lowk uses reader (a little mean!joel bc of this), oral (m receiving), joel jorking it, dom!joel, yk what, sleazy joel too

Note: Another request fic, I wanted to finish this asap because I have too much studying to do, but half of this thing got deleted when I forgot to save, so I rewrote it aaanddd sorry if the second half looks rushed to you. It was. But I hope you at least somewhat enjoy it either way. If you do please reblog and send more requests mwahaha

The blood pumping in Joel’s ears aligned with the heavy vibration of his heart as it thumped against his chest. His footsteps were heavy as he ran, and when his feet would hit the ground, they were loud.

The mud was slick, and he did what he could not to fall. It would have helped to slow down, but he could not. The sky was getting too dark. There were muffled voices of FEDRA officers in the distance. He could hear the fuzzy sound of their radios as they updated each other on the unidentified smuggler running for his life through bushes and tunnels, ducking under pipes and hopping over cars. There were too many, and they were too close. He was in good shape, but it was in moments like these that he thought to himself, ‘I’m getting too old for this’.

The air was damp on his skin, the cool moisture mixed with the sweat on his face to overwhelm him further. He only knew that he couldn’t get caught. He needed to run, make it back to the tunnel, back home to his apartment. His mind couldn’t help but wander to all of the luxuries he always failed to appreciate until he wound up in the middle of nowhere, running like hell.

But, this wasn’t nowhere. No, he knew where he was, and there wasn’t much longer to go until he would duck soundlessly into a tunnel that led him back to the QZ, where he was free to go with time to spare before curfew. He could catch a shower, treat himself. He could smoke one of the cigarettes he had set aside for trading. He could surely use a fuck.

But now, he is panting even harder, his lungs starting to burn. It won’t be very long now, and the sounds of officers are fading into the rushing wind and the rustling of trees. The air is hitting his face almost violently, and his cheeks are surely redder than ever.

Joel’s speed has hindered by the time he dips behind a clearing and down a small hill, revealing to him the tunnel door, framed by leaves and vines. Breath heaving, his hot hand engulfs the cold metal knob and turns.

The air in the hallway is warm, stuffy, and moist. Despite having been through dozens of times, Joel still secures his mask over his face—the debris in the air looks like spores. He can’t be too sure.

His breath is still heavy as he walks, his lungs prickling as he holds back a cough. He tells himself that he won’t be doing any more late runs for a while.

When he steps, the sound reverberates off of the cracked concrete walls, and the hall seems to be empty, desolate. He doesn’t even hear the vicious groan of a runner—he is alone.

It feels like hours; the time it takes for Joel to pass through, from the empty and unfinished concrete halls and through fungus-coated rooms. He travels down the lift, emerges from behind the bookshelf and traipses tiredly through a final hallway, his breath steady now as he pulls off his mask, his muddy shoes leaving prints on the old tile of the building, and—oh, God, does the air feel good on his skin once he pushes open the double doors. The streets of the QZ are nothing particularly special, pleasant, or clean, but they are open. He’s breathing fresh air again, and he is safe.

Joel takes his time as he returns to his flat, and he doesn’t talk to anyone. His backpack is heavy and he is about ready to shrug it off, first chance he gets.

The streets are less busy in the evening, but people are still outside. Some smoke on street corners, others converse or clean. The occasional FEDRA officer will stroll along, shooting glances of distrust at inhabitants—Joel pays them no mind. His focus is on his home, what waits for him; not much, admittedly, but he will make do.

When he gets there, when he slides his key in the lock and closes the door behind him, he lets out a sigh of relief. His backpack is off first, then his shoes and socks. His sweat-stained flannel is peeled off of his damp skin next, and he unhooks his belt.

His first instinct is to chug a glass of water—so he does—and his second is to start running the shower. Joel enters the bathroom, his feet stepping onto the cold and battered linoleum. His clammy hand wraps around the old glass knob, and turns. The stream begins to pour, and he will soon find out if cold water is all he has in store today. It is rare that he can run a hot shower, for there are no new water heaters in an apocalypse. And his—along with that of virtually every other building—is a piece of shit.

Joel does not hesitate to shed his clothes. He pulls his dingy and faded white T-shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly on the floor. Next, he pops the button and pulls down the zipper of his jeans, dirt stained from the shin down. He has too much laundry to do. He’ll figure it out some other time.

Tugging down his boxers, he is finally bare. He runs a hand through his messy hair as he glances into the mirror at his appearance. He is disheveled and tired—more so than usual, his beard more overgrown and the lines on his forehead more prominent. Joel certainly feels older. He finds himself increasingly exhausted and his bones a bit more fragile, but his body is still defined by hours and days of labor—lifting, running, killing. He examines his abdomen, littered with scars and defined by a tough and tight pad of muscle. It’s no six pack, but he’s tough. From his belly button trails a line of hair that leads between his legs, a mess of curly strands that nobody has time to upkeep anymore. He runs a hand over his face and steps into the shower.

The water is cold—go figure—but, he’s just glad to have it at all. He needs to get clean after all this time; feel the sweat, grime, and dirt fade and wash away from his skin.

He submerges his head under the steady stream of water, rinsing away the filth. Joel has gotten used to the crisp and tingling feeling of cold water over time, and it has become a welcomed sensation. He’s had to learn to live with it, and it’s not too bad.

Joel scrubs at his skin with what’s left of his soap bar, dragging it along his arms, and then his legs. Suds form on his body—a sight he hadn’t seen in too long—and they wash away, gone as quickly as they’d come.

Soon enough, he was clean. He splashes his face with water, his hair fresh and dripping, his limbs cleaned with soap. He stands under the water a moment, and with either boredom or frustration—probably, a mix of both—his hand wanders down and takes hold of his cock. He sloppily circles a thumb over its tip and a finger down its base. For effect, his free hand splays over his abdomen and then moves down to cup his balls; and soon enough, he’s hard.

The water still beats down on his head as he gazes down at himself, the water working as slick as he strokes himself between two fingers.

Initially, his mind is empty, only registering the feeling of his movements and the stream of water on his shoulders. He lets himself relax, untensing his body. He feels a sore muscle in his arm twitch as he moves it up and down himself. Up and down… he feels, now, more pent up than anything. This isn’t enough.

Joel’s thoughts wander to you, and he wonders if you’re still awake. You surely are; it’s no later than eight. He thinks for a moment, contemplating. He debates whether it would be worth it, leaving his place and the comfort of his shower to seek you out at this hour. His hand is still stroking his cock.

Joel is pent up, and although he’s rather comfortable where he is, there isn’t anything he wants more now—after the day he’s had—than to fuck. The magazine in his top drawer certainly wouldn’t cut it. Both begrudgingly and eagerly—somehow at the same time—Joel shuts off the water.

With a towel from the floor, certainly unwashed, Joel dries off his body. He rubs his wet hair with the material, leaving it a damp and tousled sea of brown and grey. As he pats off whatever moisture from his skin that he can, he lets the towel fall to the floor before approaching his dresser.

He slides out the drawer, picking at random a T-shirt, pair of boxers, and some plaid pajama pants. One by one, he dresses in the faint light of his living room.

He steps into the boxers, pulling them up and hissing when he tucks his still-hard length into them. He is throbbing a little now, but he does his best to ignore it as he pulls his pants on over them. His T-shirt is last, and he hastily pulls on a pair of socks and slips on his shoes.

He scoops up his keys, and he’s gone. He clicks off the light behind him, locks the door, and sets off down the hallway. His feet tap dully on the carpet floors as he passes door after door—none of which were yours.

To get to your apartment, he’d need to take the stairs.

The stairwell air is stale and dusty, as always. He breathes in deeply anyway when he pushes open the door and begins his ascent up the steps. His legs are tired from his lack of sleep and their increase in activity, but he doesn’t pause. He counts one, two, three flights until he reaches your level, forcing the heavy door open and starting down your hallway.

He’s got it down, he knows where your flat is; but he still glances at the other room numbers, counting down to yours.

912, 913… 914.

Joel’s hollow fist raps on your door. The sound is firm, but not too loud. He doesn’t want to draw any attention, he wants you. ‘Get in, get out’, he tells himself.

He suspects you don’t hear him at first, so he raises his hand to knock again when you peep through the hole and open the door. You both look at each other for a moment; you’re wordless and run a hand through your hair.

“Hey.” You finally speak.

Joel doesn’t answer, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. He closes the door behind him, turning the lock and glancing at your form as you lean back against the wall. He looks tired and restless at the same time, and it’s abundantly clear why he’s here. The two of you really only ever meet for one reason—which is fine by you—you just wish he’d stay a little longer.

“Hard day?” you ask.

A dry chuckle from Joel as he begins to remove his pants. He looks nice in the dim old lamp light. “Somethin’ like that.”

He approaches you as you rest against the cool wall, effectively trapping you against it and resting a hand on your hip. It rests there as his mouth assumes its position on your neck, kissing restlessly and eagerly.

“Tell me about it.” you insist.

“Got better things to do…” he replies, his lips moving rather fervently, and he assumes that you can feel his still-hard bulge against your front. It matters not. Joel’s hand rubs up and down your side before shifting its attention to your breast, kneading rather eagerly.

“But if you must know…” another kiss. “Got chased by a bunch’a FEDRA assholes. Got a good five miles of straight sprintin’.”

He doesn’t expect any kind of answer, and instead traps your lips against his. Joel’s mouth tastes vaguely like liquor, a tang that only strengthens when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. He seems to have so much energy and none at all, and clearly expects you to fix it.

His hand leaves your chest and finds yours, guiding it to the front of his dented boxers. “Feel that?” His question is rhetorical, and he follows up with, “And you know I’ve had a shitty day. Don’t have much time for this.”

With that, his attempts at working you up or growing the tension are gone. His hands find the button to your pants, and when he pops it open, you assist him, pushing down the fabric of your jeans and taking your underwear down next. Joel pulls on the plush fabric, hitching one of your legs over his hip and leading the panties down your legs and slyly tucking them into his back pocket. 

Once it’s all gone, your lower half is exposed and your core is glistening—it’s almost shameful, the things he does to you. You wrap an arm around him, pulling him close as he yanks on the waistband of his boxers, his red and ready cock springing against his clothed stomach and looking at you temptingly.

Joel doesn’t seem to have the restraint or the will to wait much longer, notching himself against you. A heavy breath escapes his lips and a hum from yours, as he gives your center a few slaps. It’s a nice feeling, but it isn’t enough—and he seems to realize that, too. When he rubs his cock against you a few more times, slickening himself between your thighs and he lets the tip rest right at your entrance, ready to plunge right in; and when your back arches slightly and your hips push forward with the contact, he finds his hips slowly pushing inward, and his eyes fall downward to watch as he disappears inside of you.

“Goddamn…” Joel mutters as his hips continue their movements. His movements are slow, but not measured. They aren’t controlled—he seems to lose himself in the feeling.

“Yeah…” he continues, one hand splayed upon your lower back and the other fastening your leg to his hip. His movements hasten, the feeling seeming to overwhelm his senses. He rests his chin on your head. “S’good. Real good, you lettin’ me have you whenever I need to.”

You don’t have an answer, or any kind of counter, it’s simply the truth. Even so, you wouldn’t be able to articulate a retort, anyway. The most you can offer is a pleasured hiss from between your teeth.

To accommodate the rising speed of his thrusts, he moves both hands to your hips. It’s up to you to keep your leg in place, and you do. Joel is concerned now only with his own pleasure, watching his cock appear and disappear into the warm, wet cavity between your thighs. The sensation is strong and tingling, splitting at the same time. Some kind of squeaking sound leaves the back of your throat and Joel chuckles gruffly, either at your noise or your disheveled appearance, your body rocking against the wall as he fucks you.

You hear a deep groan from Joel, the movements of his hips slightly more erratic, and his mumblings more frequent and audible. “Fuck…”

His quick and desperate thrusts slow to a stop when his muscles get too tight and he gets too close. He couldn’t cum in your pussy—it was absolutely off the table—but he liked your mouth. Anywhere was fine, but today, he needed it.

Joel slowly pulls out his cock, slowly retracting himself, his length wet with you and still very much hard.

“Knees?” Joel’s question is less of an ask than it is a command. He knows you’ll do it, and he is right, like always. Soon enough, his back is the one against the wall, and you’ve ducked down onto your knees in front of him. The hard wooden floor is a bit painful under them, but you don’t mind.

Like they often do, your eyes admire him, your eyes level with his red and leaking tip, a hand wrapping firmly around it as you look up at him.

His eyes are intense; eager and expectant like usual, and he can’t decipher whether you are gawking at or scrutinizing him, but either way, it’s taking too long. His big palm covers the back of your head, nudging your mouth closer to him before it encloses around his tip. He hisses when he feels the sweet contact of your lips, pushing still on the back of your head and shoving more of himself down your throat.

What you can’t take, you stroke with your hands, your excess saliva functioning as lubricant, the occasional drop dripping on the floor. Joel’s hand is still pushing at your head, fingers laced into your hair and it has taken an extraordinary amount of restraint not to gag.

“Oh, shit…” Joel’s grunts and groans only get louder, and you’re convinced that he only has the balls to make such sounds because he’s in your apartment, and it’ll be your neighbors who complain about his filthy noises. His fingers tense and his hand presses harder, his eyes gazing down at you as your mouth takes him resiliently.

“Fuck… ‘m close…” Joel grumbles. “Gonna cum so deep, y’wont even gotta swallow. Ah…”

And Joel does keep his promise—although not really a promise—when his hips rut one last time into your face before the spring inside him snaps, his balls emptying themselves into your throat, with only the slightest salty taste left in your mouth as he pulls out. With a few deep breaths and a tap of his softening cock on your lips, he tucks himself back into his boxers and stands from the wall.

You stand, too, and you both slide back on your clothes. As soon as his pants are back on, his shoes are, too, and the door is closed behind him.

You sigh and for a few moments, your eyes linger on the door before wandering back to your forgotten book on the table.

Thinking of adding a taglist, if you want on, let me know!

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 9 - Not So Safe Safehouse

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: description of wounds, burns, medical stuff, cannon typical violence.

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

You’re thrown off your feet. The fire coming off the smoldering car is hot making you shield your face, the smoke makes you cough as you pull yourself up to your feet. You look around, you see Soap pulling himself off the ground, you go over to help him. He grunts in pain, there’s a throbbing in your side now. You don’t have time to worry about it.

“Are you okay?” You ask as he straightens himself up, his hand goes to the top of his arm. You can see burnt fabric. Shit, you can see the red flesh. 

“Soap!” You hear someone shout. You don’t have time to do anything about his arm here. “Over here!” You call back and pull him to where you heard the shouting from. You spot Gaz coming towards you. 

“You okay?” He asks. 

“Yeah, Soap got burnt.” You say, you look back at him. 

“Don’t touch it.” You say swatting his arm. “It fucking hurts like a bitch.” He says through gritted teeth.

“Yeah it will.” You look over at Gaz who’s talking into his radio trying to get in contact with Price or Ghost. You can’t hear anything in your ear, just the ringing from the explosion and static. “They were right next to us, they can’t be far.” Gaz flashes you a look of concern, what if they’re hurt? You’re not really in the mood to play medic again, especially with burns. The smell of burnt flesh always turns your stomach.

“Let's check this way.” Gaz says. You nod and go to follow him when shots ring out. You can’t see anything past the truck fire. You all immediately turn and head back towards the tree line you came from. You throw yourself behind a tree, you hear shots hit trees. 

“What do we do?” You shout, turning to look at Soap taking cover behind another tree. 

“Gaz!” You hear someone in your ear. It’s Price you think. 

“Cap! Where are you?” He asks back. The shooting dies down, maybe they’ve run out of bullets, maybe they’re just reloading. 

“On the other side of the truck. I’m with Ghost. Head to the safehouse, we’ll meet you there.” Price says. You’re trying to see where the shots are coming from if they’re on the other side of the clearing. It has to be from the access road. You can’t see anything though, wherever it is it’s clear you can’t stay here.

“C’mon let's move.” Gaz says, you nod and look over at Soap waiting for him to move before following behind them. 

…

It feels strange being back here. In the safehouse they found you in. You got there before Ghost and Price. Gaz said he would keep watch while you checked out Soap’s burn, the place hasn’t been restocked since you were here last and they’d already used most of the stored supplies on Price. 

“What’s the prognosis doc?” Soap asks as he sits shirtless on the bloodstained sofa. You took your heavy vest off too, you’re sat next to him with some tweezers and wet cloths. You need to pick out the debris and chard fabric stuck in the wound. 

“It's not too serious. Lucky.” You say, it’s not as deep as you thought it was, not as large either. You can’t remember the system for classifying burns, you just need to get it wrapped up and keep an eye on him, shock is common with burns, that you do remember. 

“Stings like crazy.” he says gritting his teeth as you pull another piece of fabric off.

“Yeah, it will, burns are the worst.” You dab the red flesh with the wet cloth, you can almost see the relief in his face, it doesn’t last long, before he’s back to gritting his teeth.

“What do you think happened?” You ask him, looking up at Gaz who’s been looking out the window since you got here. 

“Don’t know, someone wants us dead though. My guess, Konni or Al Qatala.” He says, great, so they have no idea other than the obvious. 

“Did you find out where Makarov is?” “Yeah, he’s in Russia with Jamal and Khaled, some place called Volgograd.” You explain as you finish cleaning the last of the burn. You reach over to pick up the aluminium foil.

“What are we going to do now? Cook my arm?” He asks, smiling.

“It’ll keep the wound contained, traps fluid which helps with the healing prosses. I’ll wrap it in bandages. It’s all we have for now, no burn cream unfortunately.” 

“They’re here.” You both turn to look at Gaz opening the front door. Price and Ghost walk in. 

“What happened?” Ghost asks as soon as he sees Soap. 

“He got burnt.” 

“We’re marinating my arm for when we run out of food.” Soap says as you wrap the foil round him. You tut shaking your head and look over at Price who has his hand on Gaz’s shoulder. 

“What happened?” You ask looking up at Ghost, maybe they have more answers. 

“Don’t know.” He says. Great, no one knows anything and now we’re trapped in a safehouse. 

“Are we going to go back to Farah?” You ask as you switch to wrapping bandages round Johnny’s arm. 

“No.” Price says coming over. “Not until we know who’s after us.” 

“It’s more likely to be Al Qatala than Konni.” Ghost says.

“What makes you think that?” Gaz asks. 

“The base was abandoned, Ivan sent everyone home, important people probably left with Makarov. The missiles were fired from within Urzikstan, Al Qatala fired them.” Price says. 

“Great so we’re back where we started?” Gaz says. 

“Not necessarily, we know where they are. We just need to get there.” 

“You want to go to Russia?” Soap asks. 

“It’s that or we wait for them to come to us. Farah will have her own problems pushing back the Al Qatala attack on the missile targets. We can use that to our advantage to sneak over the border.” Price says. 

“Sounds easy.” You say sarcastically. To your surprise John smiles.

“It’s never easy.” You sigh looking down at Soap’s arm. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Are you okay?” Price asks, you look up at him frowning. He nods down at you, you look where his eyes land. Shit, your wound is bleeding through your shirt. 

“Yeah, I probably pulled some stitches.” You say getting up. You pick up the first aid box you’ve been using. 

“I’ll go get cleaned up. One of you should keep an eye on Soap, he could still go into shock.” You say as you head for the stairs.

“Need a hand?” Gaz calls.

“No, I'll be fine.” 

...

Okay maybe you could have used a hand. You don’t exactly have a suture kit to fix the pulled stitches. Not that you think you could grit your teeth through the pain like Price did. You have to settle for using way too many steri-strips and bandages. It’ll hold, at least for a while. If you’re going to be moving up into Russia, you’re going to have to bring enough supplies to keep on top of your wound changes and Soap. 

“Hey.” The voice makes you jump, you look up to see Soap stood in the doorway. “You good?” 

“Yeah, I'll be fine, what about you? Feeling okay?” 

“Tired.” He says coming into the room.

“Did you need to use it?” You ask to get up off the toilet. He shakes his head. “I’m finished anyway. You say pulling your shirt down. 

“I’m good, I wanted to talk.” You frown, tipping your head to the side. You feel nervous all of a sudden. Soap looks behind him and closes the door. Now you really feel nervous. 

“What about?” You ask, trying to keep your cool. He takes another step towards you, your heart is thumping in your chest. 

“You could have betrayed us so many times, why didn't you?” He asks, you swallow the nerves, for some reason your mind is drawing a blank. 

“I don’t know. I guess I trusted you guys.” You say. Maybe this is a test, maybe they still think you’ll betray them. You can’t really blame them, you were the enemy. 

“Why did you pick us? Would have been easier to side with the ULF.” 

“Al Qatala and the ULF, they’re both as bad as each other. You guys, you have a goal, you’re not affiliated with any one person. You know what you need to do and you do it well. I guess I wouldn’t mind working for someone like that.” You don’t know what he’s looking for. “I would rather be on the front lines than stuck in a war room watching.” 

“You’re a doer.” 

“Sure.” You say your mouth suddenly feels dry. He smiles at you. You look up at him, he’s moved closer while you’ve been talking, you’re finally getting a better look at him. He’s handsome, well they all are. Ghost you don’t know he always has his mask on. You’ll need to ask him about that at some point. 

Soap has deep blue eyes, they complement him, his hair is always perfectly messy, like all he needs to do in a morning is run his hands through it. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little peachy.” Soap says. You nod.

“Yeah, all good. It’s hot in here.” You say. It’s a lie, it’s the closest you’ve been to them, any of them. There’s a twinkle in his eye, a cheeky grin on his face. You’re blushing, and he can see it. His hand comes to your arm and runs up it. His other hand lands on your waist. 

“Soap.” You say, this is definitely not appropriate, but you’re not stopping him. You don’t want to.

“Johnny, please.” He says, you can feel his breath on your face as his hand moves up your arm to your shoulder then your face. You swallow hard, your mouth tips open.

“This is definitely not appropriate.” You breathe, you don’t care, your hands reach out for his waist.

“Definitely. Can’t stop thinking about you though.” He says, you smile, your heart is hammering in your chest. You grip his hips pulling him towards you and as you do he reaches down to kiss you. 

It shocks you at first, it feels like he’s sucking all the air out your lungs as he pushes his tongue past your lips. You close your eyes, wrapping your arms around him. You forget where you are and who he is as you play with his tongue.  

Before you can really relax into the kiss there's a banging on the bathroom door. 

“Soap.” Ghost calls. He breaks from the kiss and you clamp your hands over your mouth. His hand drops from your face and he turns his head.

“Yeah?”

“Hurry up, Price’s waiting.” 

“Christ, can’t a man take a piss in peace.” Johnny calls. You hear Ghost leaving and Johnny turns back to look at you. You slowly drop your hands, his thumb comes up to brush your lips. He hums, his eyes scanning round your face. 

“Sweet as sugar you are.” He says, dropping his hand. He turns to leave, opening the door. “Don’t wait too long, or you’ll miss the fun.” 

You don’t know what to say, you just nod and sit back down on the toilet seat. You swallow the unbelievable amount of saliva that’s built up in your mouth.

Holy shit, you kissed Johnny, and you liked it.

…

You make it back downstairs, your heart still thumping in your chest. You can still taste him on your lips. You can’t believe he kissed you, you can’t believe you kissed him back. It was a good kiss, one that you could sink into and forget your worries. You look over at him sat on the sofa next to Gaz. 

You can feel heat rushing to your cheeks. Price is stood with his arms crossed, in the center of the room. You’re not sure where Ghost is, probably in the kitchen.

“Okay, let's get started.” Price says as you go over to sit down on a chair. 

“We know where Makarov is, Konni is splintered and Al Qatala are focusing their resources on creating a new border. Now is a better time than any to move in.” You hear Ghost come out the kitchen, you watch him stand behind the sofa. John turns to look at you.

“You and Soap are going to go back to Farah, give them then intel we have-”

“Like fuck. There’s no way I'm going back while you push into Russia.” Johnny says protesting. 

“You’re both injured, and we need someone to tell Farah what’s going on.” Price says.

“No way. I want to stay.” You say. Price sighs pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s not a request. We don’t even know if by the time we make it to Volgograd they will still be there.” Price says. You lean forward in the chair shaking your head, you look over at Johnny he looks just as pissed. 

“If we find him you can fly out, meet us there but you need proper medical treatment.” Price says.

“I’m fine.” Johnny says standing up. Price takes a step forward opening his mouth. Whatever he was going to say is halted by a knock at the front door.

next

Banners by plum98

[leejenowrld]

back to you — six

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 47k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

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

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, insane smut in this, y/n gets with three different guys lool, she’d i gone this chapter all that’s on her mind is cock, fem!receiving oral, throatfucking, missionary, riding, doggy style, wall sex, floor sex, balcony/outdoor sex, mirror sex, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, cockwarming, choking, slapping (face and ass), hair pulling, face fucking, brat/brat-tamer dynamic, lots of switch dynamics, degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, mommy kink, spit kink, possessive sex, jealousy kink, public sex/exhibitionism, voyeurism, semi threesome (mfm), drug use (cocaine), sex on drugs, ass eating, edging, overstimulation, rough sex, emotional sex, angst sex, lots of girl moments this chapter, cheerleader girls have a slumber party, karina and y/n are new besties, areum is being a bit annoying, insane party scenes like always, shotaro has a new girl, nahyun is a loser like always, y/n and yangyang get touchy, yeonjun is back and a weirdo! and y/n moves a bit mad in this one

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

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

[fic ml]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile Jeno is nowhere, and he is running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Nahyun opens hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it doesn’t come from him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand fists in your hair before you can answer, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you feel it. His mouth brushes your ear, not gentle, not sweet, just hot. “You wanna choke on my cock so bad, baby?” he growls, chest pressed tight to yours now, hips already lined up, already hard, “then fucking earn it. Show me you still know how to take it.”

He grips your hips, drags you forward until you feel him, thick and ready through his pants, grinding against your heat like he’s already inside you. “You don’t want anyone else? Prove it.” He’s breathing like he’s trying not to lose it, chest rising too fast, too deep, like restraint is a thread stretched tight enough to snap. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower—tracing the curve of your hips pressed flush against his. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His hands rise slowly, hesitantly at first, but when you don’t stop him, when you tilt your head like you dare him, he touches you.

Fingertips ghost over your waist, just the pads brushing the fabric of your dress, like he’s relearning the shape of you from scratch. His palms smooth over your sides, then down, gripping the backs of your thighs with a pressure that makes your breath catch. He drags you closer, grinding you into the hard line of his cock, and fuck, he’s already throbbing through his pants.

“You think I could even get wet for anyone else? The way you make me wet?” You whisper, breath hot against the edge of his jaw as your lips trail up toward his ear. He doesn’t answer, just fists the hem of your dress and pulls, rough and fast, bunching the fabric at your hips so his hands can slide under. You bite the shell of his ear, hard enough to make him groan, and he pushes his thigh between yours until you’re grinding down onto it, friction and heat sparking sharp and messy through your core.

“You think I’d let him fuck what’s yours?” you whisper again, filthier now, more breath than voice and Jeno growls, low and primal, like you’ve hit something raw. His fingers hook into your panties and tug them aside, knuckles grazing your soaked folds, and when he feels how wet you are, he groans again, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips buck forward. Your hand slides between you, palm pressing against the bulge in his jeans, stroking him slow through the fabric. He’s hot. Thick. So fucking hard it makes your mouth water. You feel him twitch under your touch, and when you look up at him, his eyes are hooded, hungry, ruined.

“I pulled back, Jeno,” you say, voice soft but wicked, “because even drunk, high, and fucking aching—I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock. Couldn’t stop thinking about how full it makes me,” you whisper, desperate now, clenching around his fingers like your body’s already chasing the memory of him. “How fucking good you stretch me out. How deep you get. N-no one else feels like that, no one else sounds like you when I squeeze them this tight—”

You whimper when he thrusts harder, faster, your thighs trembling as he fucks you rough with his hand, thumb circling your clit with perfect, punishing pressure. “Thought about riding you till I blacked out,” you breathe, hips grinding down frantically. “Till I couldn’t think anymore. Till I forgot my own name and only remembered yours.”

He groans like it hurts, like the words alone could make him cum. Then his fingers push between your folds, two slipping in at once like he can’t wait, like he needs to feel you stretch around him, and you moan—head falling back, body arching into him, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, fast and deep and filthy. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips grazing your throat like he’s tasting it, voice thick with something close to awe. His fingers thrust harder, deeper, curling up until your legs jerk and a cry bursts from your lips—raw, helpless, cracked open. “All this for me?”

Your answer’s a sound—high-pitched, breathless, halfway between a sob and a moan. Your hips won’t stop moving, fucking yourself on his hand like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing keeping your lungs working. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down onto his palm, soaking his fingers every time he pumps back in. You’re shaking. Mouth parted but slack, lips trembling, eyes glassy and unfocused. One hand claws at his chest, the other buried between his legs, fingers wrapped around the thick bulge in his jeans like it’s your lifeline. You stroke him slow, clumsy, your grip too soft and messy to be deliberate. You’re too gone for rhythm, too far gone to care—your whole body’s chasing the feeling like a drug, jaw slack, breath catching on every whimper you can’t hold back.

His mouth is on your neck, tongue hot, teeth dragging, biting down until your knees buckle. His thumb grinds down on your clit, not gentle, not teasing—demanding. And you jerk forward, hips stuttering, gasping like you’ve been punched. Drool slicks your bottom lip. Your chest heaves. You’re whining now—quiet, desperate sounds spilling from you with every wet thrust of his fingers. No words. Just noise. Your cunt pulses around him, fluttering tight, so sensitive it’s painful, and you’re nodding, nodding, like your body’s answering for you.

He groans when you grind harder, when you roll your hips with frantic, sloppy need. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. Your fingers squeeze his cock through his jeans like you’re trying to feel it through every layer. Your eyes barely stay open. You’re trembling, twitching, coming undone in real time—so far gone you don’t even realize you’re babbling under your breath, half words, nonsense, breathy broken gasps.

“Shit,” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Look at you. Can’t even think, huh?”

You nod again, fucked out, mouth parted, trying to speak but all that escapes is a pitiful little “mmnhh”—a sound so helpless and ruined it makes his breath catch, makes his cock twitch like it feels the desperation pouring off you. Your hips are grinding down on his hand with no rhythm now, just frantic instinct, chasing the friction of his fingers inside you, chasing the stretch, the ache, the promise of his cock—still hard, still waiting, still untouched. You’re soaked, slick dripping down his wrist, cunt fluttering so tightly around his fingers that every thrust feels like a struggle, like your body’s trying to trap him, pull him deeper, keep him there. And that’s when you see it—that flicker. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers curl with just a little more confidence, just a little more force, like he thinks the tide’s turning, like he thinks you’re too far gone now to stop him. Like he’s going to take control. Like he’s about to flip the dynamic, sink into you and fuck you his way.

Wrong.

You move before the thought can even settle in his brain. Your hand presses hard against his chest, shoving him back with you with a command that doesn’t need words. His body jolts beneath your palm, breath catching, muscles tense as you push him until he’s leaning into the chair behind him, completely off-balance. And the look in your eyes changes—sharp now, glinting, focused like a scalpel. That’s all it takes. One shift. One look. And he knows exactly what’s happening. What’s always happened between you.

He freezes. Bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep a sound inside, the kind of sound he’d hate himself for making but his body betrays him. His chest rises too fast, too deep, and you feel the twitch of his cock where it rests hot and heavy against your thigh. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t resist. Because he knows this. He knows you. And fuck, he’s missed it. Missed this so much he’s dizzy from it—this feeling of being undone by you, not gently, not lovingly, but completely. The way you don’t just take control—you own it. The way your voice drops low, syrupy and cruel, right when he’s close to breaking. The way your eyes never leave his face when you use him, when you ride him hard enough to make his vision blur, when you say his name like it’s a threat, like he’s yours.

He listens now. He obeys. Just like he always has. Like he wants to.

Because he’s craved this. He’s starved for the way your pussy clenches when you’re on top, using him for your own pleasure. For the way you look down at him when you sink onto his cock like it belongs to you. For the way you ruin him and make him say thank you for it. He’s dreamt about it, fucked his fist to the memory of it, the echo of your voice calling him a good boy, the sound of your cunt squelching every time you bounce on him, the ache of not being inside you for so long driving him out of his fucking mind. He’s missed being dominated by you. Missed being overwhelmed, overstimulated, bent to your will until he forgets how to speak, until he’s only capable of moaning your name.

So he sits. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t dare. He drops into the chair like his knees gave out, wide-eyed and breathless, legs falling open with the kind of obedient instinct that only ever belonged to you. His hands clutch the edge of the seat like he’s grounding himself, knuckles pale, chest still heaving like he’s just been chased down and caught. There’s this raw, needy flush blooming across his face—cheeks pink, lips parted, pupils blown—eyes flicking up to you like he’s waiting for a command. Like he needs one. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless you give it to him.

He looks so fucking pretty like that. Messy. Worked up. Trying to be good.

His body remembers you. Every part of him does. The way his legs spread wide, the slight twitch in his thighs, the way his cock is already straining against his stomach, twitching like it knows what’s coming. He’s not trying to hide it—can’t. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his lashes fluttering every time you move. And he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He watches you with that soft, ruined awe like you’re something holy, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

You don’t give him time to adjust. Don’t give him a second to think. You’re already lifting your dress, fingers curling into the hem, dragging it up over your hips and bunching it around your waist like you’ve done this before, like you own this space between you. You don’t care how exposed you are. Don’t care how messy your cunt is—swollen, soaked, dripping onto your thighs with every move you take closer. That’s the point. You want him to see. You want to break him with it and from the way his eyes drop instantly to the slick mess between your legs, the way his mouth falls open wider, chest stuttering on the inhale—you already have.

Your hands are on his waistband next, yanking his trousers down with a sharp, punishing motion, like you’re stripping him of the illusion of control he thought he had. His cock springs free, flushed dark and already leaking, the head slick with your arousal and the cum from before, and he groans—sharp, breathless, eyes fluttering as the air hits him. You drag your thumb over the tip and he jerks beneath you, biting back a moan, his hips twitching like he’s about to thrust up into nothing.

And you’re watching him the whole time, eyes dark and hungry, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, feeling how hard he is, how desperate, how he’s throbbing already in your hand. He’s not going to last. You both know that. He’s soaked in your slick, your mess smeared over his skin, and when you drag his length through your folds—slow, deliberate, teasing—you feel his whole body shiver beneath you. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t move. He knows better. He just stares, mouth open, eyes locked on the place where your cunt is grinding against him, where his cock is slipping through your folds, getting slicker, messier, harder with every second. He’s trembling. Obedient. Perfect.

And he knows exactly what’s about to happen. Because he’s had it before. And now he’s getting it again.

"Look at that," you murmur, dragging his cock through your folds, teasing him with how wet you are, smearing his tip in everything he gave you. "Look how messy you made me. You want to see how deep I can take it?" You reach down, hold the base tight, and press it to your entrance. And then you drop. All the way down. No warning. No pause. Just an immediate, filthy, wet sink that punches a moan out of both of you so loud it vibrates through the floor. Your walls stretch wide to take him, swallowing his cock in one ruinous descent that leaves you both gasping. Your mouth falls open, head rolling back as the heat of him fills you, overwhelms you. His cock throbs deep inside, thick and twitching like it’s trying to mark its place, your cunt clamping down hard around him like it knows exactly what to do. He whimpers, breath catching, eyes rolling back for a second before they flutter open again just to watch the way your body moves on top of him. You grind once, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock against every soaked, aching inch inside you, and he shakes.

“Good boy,” you purr, voice rich with dark satisfaction, syrupy and sharp as it curls through the air between you. You lean down, hand in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force him to meet your gaze. “So fucking hard for mommy already. So easy to ruin.” You roll your hips again, grinding down so hard he gasps like it knocks the wind out of him, your cunt flexing tight and greedy. His lips are parted, pupils blown, chest rising like he can’t catch a full breath—completely fucked from how deep you’re sitting on him. You shift your angle and bounce once, sharp and mean, and he yelps. The sound makes you grin. You do it again, harder, faster, your rhythm quickening, pace snapping into something brutal. His cock stretches you open perfectly, every bounce making your tits shake, your ass slap down against his thighs with obscene, wet impact that echoes loud and unapologetic.

You’re soaked. The mess between your legs is shameless—slick and cum smeared everywhere, coating his cock, his lap, running down the insides of your thighs in thick, sticky drips. And you don’t fucking care. You ride him harder, faster, your thighs burning as you slam down on him with brutal rhythm, fucking yourself open like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. “You hear that?” you growl through your moans, bouncing on his cock like it’s a punishment. “That’s your dick ruining me. That’s mommy’s pussy taking you how she wants. Look at what you fucking do to me.” You grind your clit down between bounces, letting the friction send lightning through your whole body, chasing that high, losing your mind on top of him while he just takes it.

He’s gone. Wrecked. Moaning beneath you like he can’t help it, hands shaking where they grip the chair, thighs trembling under your weight. His face is flushed, lips swollen, sweat dripping from his temple down his neck as he tries not to cum from the way you’re milking his cock like your life depends on it. “M-mommy—fuck—please—” he chokes out, voice cracking, head lolling against the chair. 

You clench around him just to feel him jolt, his whole body stuttering as he whimpers something close to a sob. “You wanna cum?” you pant, your voice soaked in filth. “Wanna fill mommy up like a good little toy?” He nods so fast it’s pathetic. “Please—please, let me—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—just wanna feel you cum on me.”

“Then do it,” you growl, slamming down with everything you have. “Cum. Fucking fill me.” He does. Hard. His whole body arches, mouth falling open as he moans loud and wrecked, cock twitching inside you with every pulse, every shot of cum spilling deep into your cunt. You keep riding him through it, your own orgasm crashing into you like a fucking wave, cunt squeezing so tight around him it forces out one last desperate moan. Your legs are shaking, your whole body jerking as you grind through the pleasure, your voice a breathless mess of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ as your head falls forward against his neck.

When it finally slows, when your hips still and all that’s left is heat and sweat and the overwhelming stretch of him softening inside you, the weight of everything sinks back in like poison behind your ribs. You’re still trembling, cunt fluttering around him in the aftershocks, breath shallow, messy, hot against his mouth as you stay right there—filled, ruined, pressed to his chest like you belong there. You press a kiss to his cheek. Then another, and another, slower this time, soft and almost sweet—his jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth. Your lips graze his skin like you're trying to memorize it all over again. “Good boy,” you whisper, voice ragged but dripping warmth, your fingers brushing through his hair. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve left as soon as you came but you stayed. Sat in his lap with your cum-dripping pussy still wrapped around his cock like you were trying to get stuck there, like you wanted to be trapped in this moment, to rot in it. It’s fucked. You’re fucked. There’s no pretending anymore. You knew this was wrong when you showed up, when you pushed him down, when you let him touch you like no one else ever could but you couldn’t help it, you didn’t want to. You wanted to get messy. You wanted to feel him stretch you open, fill you up, take everything from you again just so you could fall deeper into the wreckage you swore you’d crawl out of. You did this. Not because you were weak but because you were selfish because a part of you likes what this does to you. What it does to him.

You kiss his lips again—slow, soft, gentle—and you feel him melt just a little under it. He’s so quiet for a second it almost feels like peace. His arms are around you. His breath is still uneven, his chest still warm. And then you feel it. The smirk. That tiny twitch of his lips under yours.

He tilts his head lazily, eyes half-lidded, voice cracked and hoarse and smug as he mutters, “Mommy rides me like she’s obsessed…” His fingers flex against your hips, holding you there, like he’s testing the limits again, pushing just enough to see if you’ll break. Then he licks his lips, teeth catching the edge in a little grin. “But I think you missed me more than you wanna admit.” His cock twitches inside you, subtle, deliberate, and he raises a brow. “Still inside me,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where you’re connected, still warm, still dripping, still full. “Guess that means you’re not ready to let me go yet, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to respond. He doesn’t wait. One second you’re breathless and full and dizzy from the filth in his voice, and the next you’re being spun, repositioned, rearranged like he’s already decided how he wants you. His grip tightens—one hand squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise, the other dragging up your spine, slow and firm. You shiver under his touch, and he sees it, feels it, uses it. That’s when everything shifts. The teasing disappears. The smirk fades. His jaw clenches and in a blur of movement, you’re slammed chest-first into the wall, his cock still buried inside you as your cheek scrapes cold plaster. Your knees almost buckle at the impact, and that’s when his voice hits—rough and wrecked. “You wanna test me?” he growls. “Then take it. Take everything.” His hand lands hard on your ass, a warning and a promise, and your body braces without question. This isn’t play anymore. This is him taking.

He fucks you from behind like he’s got something to prove—like every thrust is a punishment, like every moan you let out just fuels him more. Your palms slam against the wall above your head, fingers scrambling for leverage as the impact drives you up onto your toes. The room is hot, air thick and sticky, the wall rough against your skin while his cock stretches you open from behind. He presses against you, breath loud at your ear, hips slamming into you with force and precision. Every stroke is deep, hard, unrelenting, and your body reacts on instinct—arching back, legs spread wider, wetness dripping down your thighs. A mirror catches the scene across the room and you see it: your mouth open, body swaying with every thrust, mascara smudged and eyes half-lidded. You look wrecked. You are. The music plays somewhere beneath the noise, but it’s drowned out by skin slapping, your gasps, his grunts, the sheer rhythm of ruin.

It started with a command, but now he doesn’t even need to speak. His presence says it all—how his hand snakes around your throat and pulls you into an arch, your back bowing beautifully under his control. You can feel him everywhere—his grip, his cock, the heat of his mouth as he drags his teeth down your shoulder. When he finally speaks, it’s low and filthy. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your skin. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His hand drops between your thighs, fingers brushing your clit. “You’re fucking soaking. Soaking my cock. Making a mess like the little slut you are.” You whimper, try to nod, but he shoves you forward again, cheek against the wall. “Say it,” he demands, voice sharp. “Say you’re mine.”

Your back hits the wall with a thud, his cock already buried to the base, hand wrapped tight around your throat like a leash he’s never letting go of. No warning, no pause—just brutal, full-throttle fucking, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel full. Every thrust forces you up onto your toes, spine arching, breath caught high, your mouth open in a silent moan as your body bounces with every slam. His teeth drag down your shoulder, his grip never easing, his rhythm violent and desperate—like he’s trying to fuck something out of you, or into you, something that won’t leave when he’s done. It’s too much. The stretch, the pace, the need—and still, you can’t stop taking him. You don’t want to.

The grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes flutter, just enough to make your body arch, offering him more—shoulders pulled back, tits pushed out, cunt stretched wide around his cock. Every thrust lands punishing and precise, timed to your breath like he’s syncing your pulse to the rhythm of his hips. He presses his body closer, crowding you against the wall, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder like he’s claiming territory. “This pussy missed me, didn’t it?” he mutters, voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Didn’t even cum for him. But for me?” His fingers dip between your legs and find you swollen, soaked, already shaking. “Fucking dripping. You were begging before I even touched you.”

You try to nod, try to moan something back, but he slams into you so hard your cheek bounces off the wall with a sharp gasp. His grip on your throat tightens, cutting the sound off halfway—not to silence you but to own it, to remind you that every gasp belongs to him. “Don’t nod,” he snarls, voice cracked and savage. “Fucking say it.” You can’t. Not with the way he’s destroying you—cock punching into your cunt so deep, so fast, it feels like your brain’s leaking out through the mess he’s making between your legs. Your mouth stays open, drooling, glassy-eyed and desperate as he fucks you into a state beyond language. You’re not even sure what you were going to say. Your body doesn’t know how to do anything but take it.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back with no gentleness at all, and drags your face toward the mirror. “Look,” he spits, chest heaving, hips still pounding into you. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

The mirror shows everything. Your body—wrecked, bent, stretched—tits bouncing violently with every slap of his hips, your pussy spread wide around his cock, sloppy and stuffed and leaking down your thighs. His grip on your throat. His cock plunging in and out of you like he’s trying to make it fit deeper, like he’s trying to own every inch of you from the inside out. You blink at the reflection, barely recognizing yourself—your mouth open and wet, your thighs trembling, your whole body glazed in sweat and slick and submission.

“I look…” you whisper, voice trembling, half-cocked and drunk on the stretch, the slap, the choke, the way he feels. “I look used.”

He fucks you harder. Hisses against your skin. “Say it right. Used by who?” 

You choke, a moan ripping out of you as your head tips forward again, eyes locked on the mirror. “By you, I look like I was made to take Daddy’s cock.” 

He snarls, his whole body jerking like your words snapped something loose inside him. “Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you so deep your legs nearly give out. “Say it again. Say it while I fuck you harder than he ever could.” He fucks you harder, meaner, rutting into you like your body’s his to break. 

“You fuck me better than anyone ever could,” you pant, breathless, clenching so tight around him it drags a moan straight from his chest. “Yangyang couldn’t even make me wet. I was bored. I was dry. I felt nothing.” His hand lands hard against your ass, then again, and again, until your skin stings and your pussy flutters even tighter. “But I’m soaked right now,” you hiss, grinding back on him. “And it’s all for you.”

He spits straight down onto your cunt, watches it mix with your slick, then shoves back into you like he’s angry you let anyone else near it. “You feel that?” he growls, palm pressing to the bulge low in your belly. “That’s how deep I am. You take me like you were fucking made for this.” His fingers move to your mouth, pushing between your lips, smearing spit across your chin, then dragging it down to your clit. “You like being used like this?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “Like being pinned and stretched and filled until you can’t think?”

You moan, voice hoarse and breathless, “No one knows how to fuck me like this.” It doesn’t come out sweet or gentle—it leaks out, torn from your throat like a confession, slurred and high, because your body can’t take any more and your brain’s already gone dumb. You feel yourself pulsing around him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s practically drawing him in deeper, and the way his hands tighten on your hips is instinctive, reactive—because it hits him harder than anything else. Knowing that you mean it. That he’s where you come undone. That even now, with your cheek pressed to the wall and your body trembling, you want more. And he gives it.

But the illusion of control shatters when he growls, “But you nearly let Yangyang fuck you like this tonight?” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, thick with disbelief and something darker. Jealousy. His pace falters for only half a breath, like the weight of the image is too much—and then he slams in harder, rougher, angrier. Like he’s trying to fuck the thought out of both your heads. The sound of skin on skin is harsh, merciless, and the jealousy bleeds through his every motion. The thought of someone else seeing you like this—he can’t stand it. The idea of someone else getting close enough to even imagine it makes his jaw clench and his rhythm vicious.

You laugh through a moan, breath hitching, voice smug and sharp. “You’re so jealous,” you whisper, fluttering your lashes, hips rocking back with intention. “You’re never gonna let it go, huh?” The words drip with challenge, and he knows exactly what you’re doing. You tilt your hips in a slow, dangerous curve, fucking yourself onto him like it’s yourpace, your game. Your tone is all tease, bratty and smug, even when you’re gasping. It’s bait, and he takes it.

He grabs your jaw suddenly, fingers rough, dragging your face toward his mouth. His voice is low and lethal. “You still let him get this close.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. That quiet fury is worse. You feel his grip tighten, his hips slam forward with sharp precision, and the look in his eyes as he stares into the mirror in front of you is pure restraint fraying. His jaw flexes. His breathing sharpens. You’ve struck something deep.

“I thought I’d want him,” you breathe, voice catching on the next thrust. “I thought maybe it would feel good. Maybe it’d help me forget you.” Your fingers grip the edge of the wall, knuckles white. “He’s got a big cock, Jeno. He used to fuck me good.” You’re not trying to provoke this time. Not really. It’s the truth and that’s exactly why it cuts so sharp.

The slap lands so hard your moan turns into a gasp. His palm cracks across your ass, a sound that echoes through the room like a warning shot. “That’s exactly what I want to fucking hear,” he spits, but there’s no praise in it. Just venom. He yanks your hair back, makes you stare at your reflection in the mirror. “Say it again. Let me fucking watch you lie to me.” You tremble, cunt fluttering around his cock without meaning to. His spit hits your spine, hot and filthy, sliding between your cheeks, down to mix with your slick. And then—he stills. Doesn’t move. Cock buried so deep, hand tight around your throat, breathing ragged against your shoulder. The silence makes it unbearable. Every inch of you pulses with need, desperate for him to move again, to fuck you or finish you or break you.

You can barely form the words, but you do. You need to. “I don’t come for anyone like I come for you.” Your voice is soaked, broken, needy. “My pussy begs for your cock, Jeno.” You grind your hips back, slow and aching, chasing friction. “I can’t stop thinking about how it fills me—how deep you get. No one else can do that. No one ever has.” Your hand reaches for his wrist, the one still around your throat, and you pull it tighter. “I get wet just thinking about how your cock stretches me. How it ruins me.” You’re shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. “Your cock’s the only thing that makes me feel like this. Like I’m losing my fucking mind.” You gasp, wrecked, nails clawing at the wall. “I love it. I love how you don’t stop. I’m made for it. For you. For this cock.”

It happens fast. One second, he’s deep inside you, breath ragged, hips stuttering as your praise ruins him from the inside out—and the next, his moan shatters through the room like it’s been torn straight from his throat. His arms tremble, grip faltering, and you don’t notice it at first—too cockdrunk, too gone, too focused on the pressure in your gut and the slick slide of his cock holding you open but then his hold slips, your back arches too far, and your body twitches, instinctively grinding down like it needs to stay connected—and that’s what breaks it.

The fall is chaotic, graceless, loud. A sharp gasp, the crash of limbs, your moan tearing through the air as his cock jerks inside you mid-collapse. The thud when your bodies hit the floor is jarring, a mess of skin and heat and tangled limbs. His hands fumble, trying to grab at you, to stabilize, to breathe. “Fuck,” he snarls, winded and breathless, the word punched out of him as your weight settles over his chest, his cock still buried deep in your cunt, twitching. His voice comes hot and cracked against your ear. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

But you do. Not to defy him, not to take control. Your body just reacts, hips jerking once, pussy clenching so tight around him it knocks another sound out of him—raw, sharp, needy. His head falls back, mouth open, jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread, and you can feel it—how wrecked he is, how on edge, how close he is to snapping completely if you even breathe wrong again. You’re on top now, legs shaking, thighs twitching, cunt stretched and stuffed so full it aches—but you don’t dare lift off. You can’t. Not when he’s still inside you. Not when it feels this good. Not when he’s gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

He hisses through his teeth, his hand clamping down on your hip like a vice, and his eyes find yours—dark, desperate, drenched in hunger, the sharp gleam of sweat lining his throat making him look carved from something molten. His hair is sticking to his forehead, lips parted and red from being bitten raw, and the hard planes of his chest rise and fall beneath you like he’s burning up from the inside out. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight, straining under your weight, cock twitching inside you with helpless tension. He doesn’t need to speak. That look says everything. He’s about to break but you don’t stop. You lean into the threat like it turns you on, because it does.

You don’t listen.

Your lips curl into a slow, filthy smirk as your hands plant firmly on his stomach, and you start to move—not cautious, not soft. You roll your hips in one long drag, feeling the thick stretch of him all the way to your stomach, and then you lift up enough to feel the cool air kiss your slick skin before you slam back down with a squelch that echoes in the room. Again. And again. Your bounce turns frantic, thighs slapping loud and hot against his as you take him over and over, cunt swallowing his cock like it belongs there. You ride him hard, rhythm messy, greedy, riding like your body’s gone feral, like you need to feel every inch of him bruise your insides. Jeno groans beneath you, deep and wrecked, his hands flying up to grab your tits, your waist, trying to hold onto something as your pace wrecks him. “Fucking whore — fuck,” he chokes, eyes wild as he bucks up into you, cock slamming back into you mid-bounce, his abs flexing under your hands as you pin him down.

You feel everything—his sweat-slick skin, the drag of his cock along every sensitive spot inside you, the obscene sounds your bodies make every time you drop down, and you swear he’s throbbing so hard it’s making your whole body pulse with it. You’re not just fucking him—you’re devouring him, fucking him through the floor, milking every inch of his cock like you’ll die if you don’t. And he lets you, jaw slack, eyes glued to where you’re bouncing on his cock, moaning like you’ve never needed anything more.

Each bounce is a declaration, a punishment, a cry for power. His hands grip your ass tight, letting you fuck yourself on his cock until your moans rise in wild, ragged bursts, and his eyes glaze over like you’ve got him undone. But you should’ve known better. His body tenses. And before you can take another breath, he surges up beneath you, his arm locking tight around your waist as he throws you flat to his chest with a snarl. "You think this is your pace?" he grits out, voice splitting at the seams. Then he flips you. Your back hits the cold floor, air knocked from your lungs, wrists pinned, and he drives into you like he’s trying to fuck the arrogance out of your body. No rhythm. Just punishment. Flesh slapping hard against the floor, the sound of your moans colliding with every thrust.

You growl, bucking up under him, nails digging into his sides, and he grits his teeth as your legs wrap around his waist, trying to force him off-balance. You bite his shoulder, sharp and deep, and he hisses in your ear before slamming back in so hard your scream ricochets off the walls. “That all you got, baby?” he taunts, blood on his lip, eyes crazed. You don’t answer. You claw at him, trying to flip him, panting, snarling, slapping his cheek. And when he grabs your throat this time, he means it—squeezes just enough to still you, his thumb pressing your pulse like a trigger. “Try me again,” he growls, body locked, cock snapping into you with violent precision, sweat dripping down his neck as you arch and bare your teeth back.

You shove at his chest, spit clinging to your lips as he snarls and slams your wrists to the floor, one hand caging both above your head while the other grabs your jaw and forces your mouth open. His spit hits your tongue, filthy and slow, and he drags his tongue across your lips like it’s a fucking threat. “Don’t test me, bitch,” he growls, heat pouring off his body like fire. Your pussy clenches at the word, slick walls tightening around his cock like your body’s begging to be ruined, soaking and shameless as you moan against his mouth. Your tits bounce with every grind of his hips, nipples raw and flushed from the drag of his chest, your body sliding against the floor from the force of it. 

You're slick, thighs slippery with it, your cunt clenching around him with each brutal thrust like it’s trying to keep him buried. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. His fingers shift to your throat, his grip firm, guiding you down as he fucks up into you so hard your tits jolt and sway between your bodies. The burn of the floor fades beneath the weight of his cock, the slap of skin, the choking heat. You're not just being ruined—you're being owned, every thrust punishing, deep, designed to tear you apart and put you back together the way he wants.

You gasp against his mouth, the words slipping out between kisses like you're spitting venom. “You think making me moan means you’re in charge?” You bite his lip, hard enough to draw a hiss. “I ride you better than you fuck me.” 

That’s the switch. His eyes flash, dark and dangerous, his jaw locking as the smirk fades. “Yeah?” he mutters, low and sharp, “Then let me remind you what you sound like with my hand around your throat.” In a blur, his arm coils around your waist, the other fisting your hair. He flips you fast, slams you face-first into the floor, cheek pressed down hard. Then he fucks back in—so deep, so harsh, your whole body jolts. One hand clamps tight around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath stutter, your eyes roll. “This pussy,” he grits out, hips snapping, “knows exactly who it belongs to.” You sob into the floor, back arching, tears spilling as he drags more out of you with every punishing thrust. He’s not trying to make you come. He’s trying to break you—until the only sound left is your scream, and it’s all his.

You slam him down, not just to ride but to win. Your knees bruise against the floor, thighs straining as you sink down on his cock with a filthy squelch, your whole body jerking from the force. There’s no rhythm—just chaos. You grind, bounce, twist, chase every reaction like it’s blood in the water. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, slick, thick, soaked in spit and arousal, and every time you slam back down, your ass smacks his thighs with a sound that makes both of you moan. He grips your hips to stabilize the frenzy but you slap his hands away, riding harder, faster, like you want to break him first. Your tits bounce wildly, sweat flinging off your skin, hair sticking to your face. He tries to meet your rhythm, thrusting up mid-bounce, but you plant your hand on his chest and shove him flat again. “Stay down,” you pant, smirking through grit teeth. “Be a good boy.”

That’s what snaps him. He lunges up, throws his arm around your waist, and lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing. You yelp, but not from fear—from thrill. His cock slips out only to be shoved right back in as he flips you over, your back smacking the floor. You claw at his arms, try to hook your leg around his hip, push and pull and bite his shoulder. He growls—deep, animalistic—and bites your tit in retaliation, lips locking around your nipple and sucking until your back arches, your scream cut off by the slap of his hips. It’s brutal. His hands grip your wrists, pin them above your head. 

Your cunt clenches, leaking down your ass, the stretch unbearable, addictive. “You think you can fuck the fight out of me?” you gasp, breath stolen between thrusts. “Try it, daddy.”

He grabs your face, kisses you with teeth, and the fight keeps going—your hips bucking to throw him off, his thrusts pounding so deep you choke. You claw down his back, legs locking around his waist, and he hisses, grabbing your thigh and bending it up to fuck you even deeper. The slap of his balls echoes, slick and sharp. You try to flip him again, muscles burning but he grabs your throat, pushes you down, and spits on your tongue. “Stay,” he snarls, voice broken and wet. You moan, hips grinding up despite the choke, your body responding to every command like it was trained for this. You’re gasping, drooling, begging with your cunt.

When the end comes, it’s not quiet. It’s not clean. You cum first, body spasming, your scream cracking as your cunt pulses around him. He grunts, lets go just long enough to slam deep and stay there, hips twitching, cock buried inside you as he spills. The room’s silent but for the sound of your breath and the drip of slick onto the floor. You're a mess—thighs trembling, skin bruised, hair wild, cum leaking from you both. Still, you’re smiling. “Didn’t think you’d keep up,” you pant, licking his jaw. 

He bites your shoulder gently, still inside you. “I wasn’t trying to keep up,” he whispers, dark eyes gleaming. “I was trying to win.” 

You grin wider. “Then get ready to lose again.”

You only told him to cool him off—a whispered confession in the dark hallway about where Yangyang said he wanted to fuck you tonight. You thought honesty would settle the simmer in Jeno’s jaw, maybe remind him that you were here with him, not back there saying yes to someone else. But it backfires instantly. The moment he hears which bathroom, the main one near the living room with the short mirror and creaky stall lock, he doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your wrist and drags you there, shoulder shoving the door open. 

The music’s shaking the foundations of the house, bass rattling so loud the mirror on the opposite wall trembles. But it’s nothing compared to the way your thighs tremble, the way your body shakes with every drag of Jeno’s tongue across your hole. You’re bent over the metal sink, dress shoved up to your waist, one heel still on, the other kicked off somewhere behind you. Your hands are braced against the stall door, palms sliding every time he licks up—long, filthy swipes that make your knees lock and your spine arch. He’s got your ass spread open wide, cheeks held apart in his bruising grip, nose buried so deep it’s hard to tell where his breath ends and your slick begins. There’s coke residue smeared across the curve of your lower back—his lines laid right on your skin, right where he wants them. He dips to snort off the small of your back, inhales hard, then goes straight back to eating you out like his next breath depends on it.

His tongue is relentless, rough and hot and eager, working in tight, desperate circles around your rim before diving in again, licking so deep you feel it in your stomach. Your body rocks against the metal, hips moving without rhythm, your ass grinding back into his face like it’s instinct. And it is—because the way he groans into you, nose pressed to the mess between your cheeks, the way his fingers sink harder into your thighs every time you moan—it’s addictive. You gasp, voice breaking, “Someone’s gonna hear,” but even that sounds like a moan. And it’s true. 

Everyone’s banging on this door because it’s the easiest one to find—the main bathroom just off the first-floor hallway, straight past the entryway. Jeno’s place is huge, too big for anyone who’s not a regular to navigate drunk or high. Most people don’t even know there’s a second bathroom tucked behind the kitchen or a third near the guest rooms upstairs and many more scattered around but you do. You always have. Now the door’s rattling behind you, fists pounding and voices raised, half pissed and half desperate to get in. None of them know why it’s locked. None of them know he’s on his knees, nose pressed between your cheeks, tongue buried in your pussy, one hand gripping your thigh and the other doing lines off the curve of your ass while you try not to scream.

“Make me come before they break the door down,” you whisper, voice soaked in desperation, cocky with it—and he does. Without even pausing, he drags the flat of his tongue across your ass, then pushes it back inside, eating you out with even more determination, licking and groaning and fucking you with his mouth like he wants Yangyang to hear every single sound you make through the door.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nose still wet with you, jaw slick, eyes dark. The coke still burns in his sinuses, his breath ragged, jaw clenched tight. “You really thought I’d stop with just that?” he mutters, grabbing your wrist before you can catch your breath. You barely manage to stumble upright—thighs trembling, your dress rumpled around your hips—before he’s dragging you out of the stall, pace ruthless. The second the bathroom door swings open behind you, someone hisses, “Finally,” but Jeno doesn’t look back. Doesn’t flinch. His grip doesn’t loosen, doesn’t falter. He hauls you through the winding corridor like a man possessed, past bodies and heat and bass-thick air, up a side staircase even you forgot existed. And then it breaks—the sound, the weight, the heat—as a glass door slams open and you’re pulled into the night.

The balcony is narrow, sky-high, all glass and wind and city stretching endlessly below. The view is surreal—skyscrapers flickering in gold, traffic crawling like stars in motion, distant windows glowing like they’re watching. But you don’t see any of it. Not when your back hits the railing. Not when your dress is yanked up to your ribs. Not when he spits on his palm, fists his cock, and thrusts into you in one cruel, claiming stroke. You cry out, folding forward over the metal edge as he fills you, holds you there, starts to move. Each thrust slams you forward, tits bouncing, cheek pressed to the icy glass. His arm wraps tight around your waist to hold you up, the other hand planted on your hip like he’s anchoring himself inside your cunt. The cold air shocks your skin but the heat between your thighs devours it—every snap of his hips loud, obscene, echoing into the open night like a warning.

His rhythm is brutal. Relentless. He fucks you like he’s trying to leave his name stamped into your cervix, every inch of cock buried so deep you see stars. And still, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His groans are rough, close to your ear, teeth dragging down your neck like he wants to mark you all over again. The only thing you can do is stare out into the skyline, moaning, whimpering, eyes glossed and makeup ruined, your mouth falling open on every thrust. It slips out unbidden—a choked whisper soaked in wreckage. "Please... please don't stop." He hears it and snarls, pulling out just to fuck back in harder, sharp enough to make the railing rattle.

“He said he wanted to fuck me here,” you gasp, voice tight and raw, lashes wet. “Said he wanted to make me scream.” You don’t say who. You don’t need to. Jeno knows. The way his hips start to snap faster says it all. “You are screaming,” he growls, the words low, thick, dangerous. “But not for him.” He slaps your ass, once, twice, handprint stinging as your body jerks. The sound cuts through the city night like a gunshot, your cry right behind it. He leans in, hot breath at your neck, cock dragging against every nerve inside you. “Let the whole fucking city hear it,” he snarls. “Let him hear you break for me.” And you do—your mouth opens on a sob as he thrusts harder, rubbing your clit now, wrecking you from both ends until your knees give out completely, until all you can do is scream and shudder and shake. Your cries spill over the edge of the balcony like smoke, swallowed by the night, carried off into the dark until all that’s left is you, clinging to the railing, full of him, ruined in the skyline glow.

You don’t notice him at first, not until something shifts at the edge of your vision, a flicker of movement just past Jeno’s shoulder that doesn’t belong. You blink through the blur of sweat and rhythm and stretch, your body jolting with every punishing thrust, your tits bouncing with the force of it, your hands slipping slightly on the slick of your own skin against the glass. Then your gaze locks onto it—him—standing still, half in the shadows and fully watching. Your brows pull together, lips parting with a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite sound sane. “Juyeon?” It slips out before you can think, soft and stupid, like the moan that should have come out instead. 

Jeno hears it, hears a name that’s not his fall from your mouth while he’s buried inside you and his hand flies down so fast it’s instinct, slapping your ass hard enough to sting and echo, to punish you for the blasphemy. You gasp at the impact, your body flinching from it but not pulling away, and Jeno snarls without slowing, “What?” his voice rough and clipped and pissed. 

You glance at him from beneath your lashes, half-laughing still, half-daring, then tip your chin back toward the dark, voice low and twisted sweet, “It’s Juyeon. He’s watching us.”

Juyeon was one of the regular guys you and Jeno used to fuck. You remember the first time the three of you fucked—how easy it was, how natural, how Jeno had picked him out from across the room with that look he gets when he wants to ruin something just to prove he can. Juyeon had been cocky at first, all pretty smiles and fast hands but he folded so fast once Jeno took control. You’d ended up sandwiched between them, fucked from both ends, Jeno’s hand in your hair while Juyeon moaned into your cunt like it was holy. Jeno had laughed, low and mean, when Juyeon came too fast the first time, had whispered filthy things about it in your ear while you kept riding him anyway, cock twitching from overstimulation. You liked the way Juyeon listened, how eager he was to touch, to taste, how he waited for permission even when he was begging. But none of it ever stuck after—the kisses, the moans, the mess—except Jeno. He was always the anchor, the gravity. Even then, even while someone else was inside you, it was only ever for him. You’d stare over Juyeon’s shoulder and Jeno would hold your gaze like he owned you, and when he finally pulled you off Juyeon to fuck you himself, it always felt like coming home.

Jeno doesn’t speak for a moment, just turns enough to confirm what you already know—Juyeon’s there, standing in the doorway with his hands at his belt and a cocky glint in his eye, already half-hard. Jeno’s rhythm slows to a deep, deliberate grind that leaves your legs shaking and your pussy aching for more, and even as you whimper at the loss, he tightens his grip around your throat, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Not here,” he mutters, voice low and final, jaw tight with something territorial, something sharp. “We’re fucking in my room.” His palm lands hard on your ass, a warning to stay still as he pulls out, and the emptiness hits you fast and raw. Juyeon blinks, clearly expecting more right there, his trousers halfway down already, but Jeno shoots him a glare and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Move.” His voice leaves no room to argue. You swallow, breath shallow, legs trembling, and let Jeno haul you up. His arm stays around your waist the entire way there, holding you like he’s staking a claim, while Juyeon trails behind silently, cock in hand, watching the sway of your hips like he’s already imagining his mouth between them again. But even then—walking naked through his house, bruised and leaking—you’re still thinking about Jeno.

As soon as your back hits Jeno’s sheets, there’s no reprieve, no pause, no moment to catch your breath—he pushes you forward until your chest hits the mattress and your knees catch on the edge, arching your back as your spine bows into place, ass high, legs spread, cunt already dripping down your thighs. He doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t ask. He shoves into you like he’s been waiting all night to fill you again, and your head falls forward into the pillows with a sharp cry as your fingers twist in the sheets. Then Juyeon’s there, in front of you, hand curled around his cock, smirking as he brings it to your lips. You open instinctively, tongue out, already spit-slick and desperate, letting him push past your lips until your mouth’s stretched wide. Your cheek is wet, jaw aching, throat working as you suck him, while Jeno pounds you from behind, hips slamming into your ass, one hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you still. You’re trapped between them—one cock stuffed down your throat, the other buried deep in your pussy, your body rocked in rhythm, spine locked in a helpless curve, every hole filled and used.

It builds slowly, almost unnoticeable at first. Your hips twitch every time Jeno drags his cock deep, hitting something inside that makes your legs shake and your moans catch wet around Juyeon’s cock. You’re still sucking him, still stroking him with your mouth like muscle memory but your focus is already warping—your hands slipping from his thighs, your jaw slackening just slightly, eyes fluttering shut each time Jeno grinds in harder. Juyeon leans in, strokes your cheek, murmurs something low you don’t even hear, not with the way Jeno’s fucking you like he owns you, like he’s trying to fuck the shape of him back into your body. Your tongue flattens, movements growing lazier, lips stretched but no longer devoted. When Jeno growls, voice rough in your ear—“You like him watching while I break you open?”—your whole body answers before your mouth can. You choke softly, eyes watering, hips rolling back to meet him harder, deeper. 

Jeno’s already buried so deep inside you your legs are shaking, the stretch dizzying, your pussy fluttering around him with every slow drag of his cock but your mouth is still full—Juyeon’s cock thick between your lips, your chin slick with spit, your throat working around him even as your eyes start to glaze. Then, without warning, you lift your hand and shove him back, fingers digging into his hip as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet, ruined sound. “What the fuck—?” he gasps, breath catching, but you’re not looking at him. You don’t even blink in his direction. Your other hand reaches blindly behind you, clutching at Jeno’s hands, and the safe word you and Jeno had, one you rarely used, slips out like instinct. “Red.” 

You say the word because you know he’ll stop. Red. It’s your safe word, one you rarely have to use with Jeno. It’s not panic, not overwhelm—it’s a decision, one that only Jeno understands. The moment it slips from your lips, everything about him changes. His hands catch your waist instantly, the edge vanishing from his eyes, the bite gone from his breath. He pulls out gently, careful, his touch reverent as he eases you back into his lap. “Shit, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face, voice so soft it barely carries. “Was it too much? Are you okay? Talk to me.” You shake your head, slow and calm, eyes still fixed on his. You don’t answer because you don’t need to. You got what you wanted—him. Just him. Your fingers wipe the mess from your mouth, and then you shift, crawling closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle into his lap like that’s where you belong. You press your face to his neck and whisper, “Hi, baby,” like it’s a secret only he gets to hear, like it’s the only thing that matters. Then you slide down onto his cock again, slow and warm, breath catching at the stretch you already know by heart, and he groans into your skin like he’s never felt anything better, hands tightening on your waist, grounding you, loving you.

He’s confused for a moment, brows knitting, head tipping back slightly, and you see it. The click behind his eyes as he realizes what just happened—what you really meant. You said the safe word not because it was too much but because it was wrong. Because you wanted him, only him and you needed a way to get there without guilt. You thought you were okay when you came into the room. You thought maybe you could do this again, just like before but your body had already made the decision. Jeno sees it now, you’re not interested in any more threesomes. His hands soften at your waist as you roll your hips slowly, intimately, no rush, no performance. Just him. Just you. He exhales into your hair like he’s been holding it in for years.

Juyeon’s still there. Still hard. Still staring. His face twists like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, like something about the quiet between you and Jeno makes him feel like he was never really in it. “You didn’t even make me cum,” he mutters, frustrated, a little too loud but you don’t flinch or blink. Your body moves against Jeno’s like nothing else exists, slow and lazy, savoring the feeling of him deep inside you. You nuzzle against his cheek, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Jeno doesn’t even look at Juyeon. He just tilts his head toward your voice, completely gone for you. You smile, soft and ruined, and finally glance over your shoulder—not at Juyeon, but past him, like he’s already fading. 

“Get the fuck out,” Jeno adds, eyes never leaving yours. You’re already moaning again, hips rolling slow, lost in the boy who’s never let go of you, the one who always pulls you back. Juyeon stills for a second, stunned, and then the sound of him grabbing his clothes breaks the silence. 

Jeno’s hands are back on you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple. You ride him slow, deep, your pussy clenching with every grind, his cock heavy and thick inside you, warmth blooming through every nerve. The room feels like it holds just you and him now—no past, no mistakes, just now. Just his voice, low in your ear, murmuring, "You're home now, baby. Stay right here."

His cock stays buried inside you, softened now but still refusing to leave as if his body can’t quite bear the emptiness. Your limbs feel heavy and loose with exhaustion, your heartbeat easing into a slow, steady rhythm beneath his gentle touch. His hands wander your skin like he’s trying to soothe every bruise he’s left behind, fingertips tracing softly over your ribs, gliding along the curve of your stomach, brushing tenderly against the sensitive warmth between your thighs. He avoids the spots that ache most, the places where pleasure became pain, caressing you as though he’s afraid you might shatter beneath his touch. His mouth trails quiet kisses, featherlight and careful, over your eyelids, the corner of your lips, your temple, your forehead, each kiss gentle and deliberate, as though he’s silently begging forgiveness for every mark he’s left. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, his breath warm against your cheek as he murmurs softly, “We’re going to be okay.” You exhale shakily, eyes closed, heart clenching at the fragile hope woven into his tone. He repeats himself, stronger now, as though conviction alone could will his promise into reality. “We’re going to be okay,” he says again, and his lips brush yours lightly, lingering, trembling slightly from the weight of those words. You don’t respond, not verbally; instead, you sink into his embrace, allowing him this moment of belief, letting yourself pretend—for just this heartbeat—that maybe he’s right.

His voice softens further when he speaks again, low and intimate, the sound seeping into your skin and settling into the hollow between your shoulder blades. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, lips brushing softly against your back, his breath warm, comforting, possessive in a way that makes your chest ache. “No one else gets to touch you like this again.” His fingers trail down slowly, tenderly, finding the slick heat where his cum drips lazily from your body. He spreads it back inside, his touch unhurried and gentle, reclaiming every drop as if he could keep you this way forever. “It’s all mine,” he murmurs, and his hips move slightly, a delicate rocking motion that speaks less of desire and more of an unwillingness to let go, his cock stirring gently inside you. His lips press another kiss into your neck, lingering softly, desperately. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he admits quietly, his voice vulnerable, shaking with an honesty that cuts deeper than any wound he’s left tonight. “I don’t wanna fight, I don’t wanna wonder if you’ll leave—I just want you, baby. Wanting you is the only thing I’ve ever done right.” His hand reaches for yours, fingers threading carefully, gripping tight enough to anchor you both. “Promise me,” he pleads softly, almost broken, “promise me we’ll figure it out together, whatever it takes, that we’ll find a way through it all.”

Your heart clenches painfully, because you can’t promise—there’s no way to give him the words he so desperately needs without shattering the fragile moment you’ve built. The truth sticks painfully in your throat, bitter and sharp, so you silence it the only way you know how. You tilt your face upwards, capturing his lips in a kiss that speaks louder than any whispered lie. You kiss him deeply, fiercely, desperately, as if trying to memorize the shape and taste of his mouth, imprinting this moment to keep long after you’ve gone. Tears slip quietly down your cheeks, mingling with the heat of your shared breath, making everything messy, raw, heartbreakingly honest. Yet he smiles against your mouth, a gentle, relieved curve of his lips, as if you’ve finally given him the hope he’s been craving all along. “God, baby,” he whispers breathlessly between kisses, holding you even tighter, his palms sliding reverently along your spine like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I knew you’d come back to me.” And you realize, your chest aching profoundly, that maybe you’ve already left, that the part of you capable of staying behind is lost, no matter how desperately you cling to him now.

The room settles into silence, a fragile quiet punctuated only by the gentle, steady rhythm of your breathing. He cradles you closer, his cock still buried within you, softening slowly, reluctant to part—as if his body believes what his heart desperately wants to. His arms surround you, warm and sure, a sanctuary you’ve tricked yourself into believing you deserve, and just for a heartbeat, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that this isn’t selfish, that you’re not gripping the frayed edges of hope you’ve spun for him, only to unravel them when morning comes. The guilt settles in your chest, dense and suffocating, a stone sinking slowly through the hollow space inside your ribs, drowning out every bruising ache he’s left on your hips, overshadowing the tender sting between your thighs. You’re cruel tonight—not because you hurt him but because you made him believe again, made him think your broken pieces could still fit with his, knowing all along you’d vanish like a phantom at sunrise. Yet he holds you like you’re precious, smiling softly against your temple, murmuring quiet promises into your skin that you can’t bear to hear because they echo truths you can never fulfill. For tonight, you convince yourself you can stay, that the ache in your chest won’t break you both apart, even as you know you’re building him a future made of glass—a fragile illusion, beautiful, shimmering, bound to shatter the moment you slip from his arms.

You don’t leave in the morning, you stay buried in Jeno’s chest like your body’s forgotten how to exist without his, limbs tangled in quiet desperation, the air between you heavy with sleep and something softer. His skin is all heat, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck and for a few stolen moments you pretend this is your life—that this bed, this man, this hold are yours without condition. Guilt prickles beneath your skin, subtle at first then sharper, blooming like a bruise in the tenderness but you don’t flinch, you don’t let go. You let his arm wrap tighter around your waist when you shift in your sleep, let his lips brush your hair like he still knows how to love you in his dreams. You lie to yourself just long enough to stay still, just long enough to believe. Even if your heart aches with the knowing that it’s a borrowed peace you let yourself take it, all of it, even the seconds that were never meant to be yours.

The memory of what day it is breaks through slow, like sunlight bleeding through blinds, hazy and golden, soft but persistent. The river court. It sinks into your chest not just as a name but a whole world, a ritual stitched into the fabric of your youth. Today’s the meet-up—everyone’s bringing food, old playlists, beat-up speakers and weatherworn basketballs, laughter like muscle memory. The plan is to spend the whole day there, sharing memories and teasing each other over games, lounging in half-shade and slipping back into that easy rhythm only this group knows. It might be the last time you’re all together like this before graduation—the last time you’ll trace the same court lines with your feet, toss the same ball into the same rusting hoop, watch the sun dip below the trees from the same cracked bench. You couldn’t miss it. Not for anything.

Jeno stirs behind you, groaning softly, his arms winding around your middle and pulling you back to him like he’s felt your mind slipping away. His lips find your shoulder in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, tongue brushing your skin with sleepy want, and his hand drifts slow over your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He shifts over you, cock pressing firm and warm over your shorts, body draped over yours with the kind of weight that makes you want to stay forever. His mouth finds that spot beneath your jaw that makes you sigh and tilt your head, already pliant, and you giggle through it, breath catching when you push lightly at his chest. “Not now,” you whisper, lips curving, “I have plans.”

He pulls back slightly, face still buried in your neck, and hums against your skin. You tell him, voice low and soft, about the river court gathering, about how important it is. He pauses. You expect the sleepy approval, maybe even a gentle kiss to your cheek. What you don’t expect is him to say, “Mark invited me.” He says it like it’s casual. Like it won’t completely change the shape of the day. You nod, smiling, and try not to let it show. You want to be happy that the two people you care about most are finally in sync, getting along like wildfire and dry leaves, but all it does is twist in your chest. 

You both get ready slowly, lazily, the kind of unhurried rhythm that comes when being apart feels impossible. You’re dressed first, in one of your short skirts that he loves, the one that rides up when you sit, exposing just enough to make his hands twitch. Jeno’s eyes follow your every move as he buttons up his shirt, and when you lean down to fix your boot, he pulls you between his legs and into his lap. You settle easily, thigh on either side of him, his hands gripping your legs with soft reverence. Neither of you speaks at first. It’s just you and him, breathing each other in, noses brushing, mouths almost touching. There’s no rush. Just that glowing, suspended feeling that always comes before you leave something behind. 

"I have something for you," he murmurs and you hum in response, curious. He reaches over to his nightstand, opens the drawer and your breath catches when you see it—a delicate bracelet, fine crystal beading glinting in the light like it’s been waiting for you. He lifts it slowly like it’s fragile, like it means something, and he meets your eyes before saying, “You gave me so much yesterday, made me feel... fuck, like I was yours again. Like nothing else in the world existed but us. I’ve had this for a while, just been waiting for the right moment.” You bite your lip as he loops it gently around your wrist, the crystals catching sunlight, glittering against your skin like promises you never made out loud. “Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs, and you laugh softly, swatting at his chest before curling your fingers around his.

“You’ve given me so much,” you say under your breath and you mean it, even if your voice wavers a little. He’s tracing the edge of your tattoo now, fingertips light, reverent. You glance down at your wrist, the new bracelet nestled beside your charm one and it’s too much—it’s all too much. Your chest aches, your stomach twists and you don’t know how to carry it. You lean in before your thoughts betray you, your lips finding his again, soft and lingering. His arms wrap around you tight and you let yourself sink into it because this might be the last time. This might be the last day. He’s so good to you, always has been, even when he shouldn’t be and you have no right to stay. You taste the goodbye between your teeth and hold him closer anyway, guilt clawing behind your ribs as his hands spread wide across your back like he’s scared to let go and when he whispers against your mouth that he doesn’t want this moment to end, you lie and nod, because you do too but it has to.

The river court breathes like something alive. The cracked pavement yawns beneath your feet, lines of weeds pushing through the concrete like the ground’s trying to reclaim what was stolen. The paint is nearly gone, not just faded but scraped raw, like time itself has been clawing at the edges. The hoop still hangs, lopsided and rust-rusted, its net long since torn away by storms or fights or kids that never came back. The sun doesn’t shine gentle here—it sears, casting sharp shadows through the bare branches, turning the surface of the river into a shimmering, blinding mirror. The air carries heat and warning, thick with the scent of something about to shift. Something about to break.

There’s laughter, but it echoes wrong, swallowed too quick by the wind. The trees lean in like they’re listening, branches tense, waiting. You’ve always thought this place belonged to you all—but maybe that was a lie. Maybe it never belonged to anyone. Maybe it was always on the edge of collapse, and now, as you step back into it one last time, it’s holding its breath. The river court doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a graveyard of what was, and a battleground for what might still fall apart. You can almost hear it—cracks splintering deeper beneath your soles, roots tightening, old ghosts rustling awake.

You arrive hand in hand, the walk feeling far too short. The air is thick with familiarity. Shotaro, Karina, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ningning, Mark, and Areum are already there but no Yangyang. His absence is a silence louder than any words. He’s clearly avoiding you, and you don’t blame him. Not after everything, not after the mess that was last night. The looks come quickly, a mix of surprise and tension. Areum won’t meet your eyes. Chenle offers you a small smile. Donghyuck, ever the dramatist, throws his arm out theatrically. “And here they are,” he declares, “the forbidden lovers returned from exile.” It earns a few strained laughs, but the awkwardness still lingers.

Areum speaks first, surprisingly. “So,” she asks, voice cautious, “are you guys back together?” 

Jeno’s the one who answers. “Just taking it slow,” he says, with that gentle smile that makes your chest ache. 

Areum’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, voice even. Jeno doesn’t let you linger in the conversation. He leads you away before anyone else can speak, arm slipping around your waist, body shielding yours from too many stares. You curl up beside him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

The teasing starts immediately. Donghyuck can’t help himself. He grins at Jeno, then at you, tone loaded with mischief. “So the party was… productive?” he quips, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter ripples through the group, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head. You bury your face in Jeno’s shoulder, heat creeping up your neck. Your shyness is so unlike you, you’re usually quick with a sharp retort or sly grin but after last night, after the sounds you know carried through the walls and the mess you left behind, you can’t even look your friends in the eye.

Jeno wraps an arm tighter around you, chin resting on your head, voice low but playful. “Alright,” he says with a smirk, “everyone back off, she’s shy now.” That only makes the group laugh harder but there’s warmth in it, a kind of affectionate cruelty that means no harm. Jeno shifts slightly to block more of you from view, hand rubbing slow circles on your back, muttering, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll protect your honour.” You swat him weakly, finally peeking out just to see Karina holding up five fingers, mouthing ‘five positions?’ and Donghyuck dramatically pretending to faint beside her. You groan, burying yourself back in Jeno’s hoodie, while he just chuckles and kisses your temple, proud and unbothered.

Karina leans in, smirking. “Congrats on winning the draft. Five positions, six rooms, and a threesome? You fucked your way to the top, that’s the best result anyone has ever gotten from the cheer team.” The group breaks into loud laughter. You glance down, cheeks hot, while Jeno stays quiet beside you, but the look in his eyes says everything. He’s smug as hell, not bothering to hide it.

Mark’s reaction is instant. He jerks forward, nearly drops his drink, eyes bulging like the words physically hit him. “Threesome?” he echoes, voice cracking, like he’s trying to make sure he heard right and praying he didn’t. 

Karina doesn’t let up—she twists the knife, sweet and cruel. “They used to have them weekly,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “I joined once, too.”

Mark visibly recoils, mouth falling open in horror. “Oh my god,” he mutters, blinking hard, like he’s trying to erase the image from his brain. “I need bleach. Actual bleach.” He turns away, shaking his head so fast it looks like he might pass out. Jeno doesn’t flinch, just leans back with one arm around you, smug and unbothered, like he’s proud of every second. 

The laughter’s still hanging in the air when Chenle steps forward, brushing his hands against his jeans as he walks to the edge of the court. He stops near the dandelion patch just beyond the court, a smile playing on his lips, gaze soft. The breeze lifts his hair slightly as he looks around at everyone, eyes landing on the ones who’ve stood by him since they were kids. “This place,” he starts, voice a little scratchy from laughter and heat and emotion, “this court raised us.” His words settle into the space like ash. “We learned everything here. How to fight, how to lose, how to win, how to stay.” He looks at the dandelions, their delicate heads trembling under the breeze. “It was never just a basketball court. It was a home and it still is. Even when we leave, this place will remember us.”

Before he can go on, Donghyuck snorts. “God, you’re gonna cry again.”

“I might,” Chenle says, unbothered and tries to keep going but the teasing is nowhere near finished. 

“You writing a memoir or what?” Mark calls out, cracking a drink open and dropping back onto his elbows, grinning. “Sounds like you’re about to narrate your own biopic.”

“Bet there’s a slow piano track playing in his head,” Shotaro adds, smirking.

Chenle narrows his eyes, pointing. “You’ve been real mouthy lately.”

“Character development,” Shotaro shrugs, smug. “Ryujin says I’m glowing.”

Chenle scoffs, “She also said you were submissive and breedable like two weeks ago.” The laughter that follows cuts through the air clean and easy. The kind of laughter that only happens when nothing really needs to be said. When being here means you’ve already said it all.

Chenle shakes his head and gets back into what he was saying. “We’re doing something different this time. “We’re writing,” he says simply, “dreams, secrets, whatever’s sitting too heavy. Something you want to let go of, or something you still want so bad it hurts. You write it down, fold it up, burn it over the flame, and let it rise. That’s it. Let the smoke carry it out of you.” His voice is calm, certain, almost reverent, like this is the closest thing he believes in. “We don’t keep them, we don’t read them, we just let them go.”

“You’re so sentimental lately,” You tease, giving him a soft smile. 

“Must be the impending adulthood,” Chenle quips, holding up a lighter. 

Shotaro goes first. He folds his slip with care, then spins on his heel like he’s about to take a shot. He tosses it with perfect aim into the shallow bowl Chenle placed in the center of the court. The flame catches. His eyes don’t leave it. You don’t need him to say what it was. The dance studio he’s always dreamed of building and leading classes in is already etched into the way he carries himself.

Chenle takes his paper last, twirling it once between his fingers like he’s flipping a coin, like the words scribbled inside might decide everything. He kneels by the candle, lights the edge, watches the flame catch and eat its way in. Then, without drawing attention, he lifts his phone and snaps a quick photo—not of the fire but of all of you, bent over your slips of paper, faces serious in the golden light. No one’s looking but the shot is perfect. Everyone’s there. Everyone’s quiet. He smiles to himself, small and private, the kind you tuck away in your chest and keep. “I’ll treasure this one,” he murmurs, mostly to the flame, but it’s real all the same.

Donghyuck presses a kiss to his fingers and flicks them toward the sky before tossing his slip into the flame. He doesn’t say what he wrote, not directly, but you know. It’s the dream job he’s mentioned a hundred times late at night—the one in New York, sports broadcasting, his voice behind the mic while the whole world listens. The paper crackles in the fire, curling fast, and he watches it disappear with a look that’s half pride, half defiance. “If I cry, it’s from the ashes,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard, his mouth twitching like he dares anyone to tease him for it. No one does.

Karina’s takes longer. She holds the slip of paper like it weighs something real, like it knows how badly she wants that spot in the New York fashion program she’s pinned all her hopes on. Her fingers tighten around it once, twice, and for a second it looks like she might fold but then she steps forward, quiet and composed, and drops it into the flame with a breath so deep you hear it from where you’re standing. The edges curl fast, catching quick, and she doesn’t look away until it’s gone.

Areum’s is smaller, more hesitant. She holds hers like it might burn her before it even meets the fire. Her mouth moves—barely audible—but you think you catch the shape of a city, maybe a whisper of a dream she hasn’t shared yet. Something about photographs, about chasing light across the world. She stares at the flame too long, then finally lets it go, and her lips twitch into something that could almost be a smile. Almost.

Mark lingers behind her, the slip trembling slightly between his fingers, crumpled at the corners from how long he’s been holding it. He leans into Areum before lighting his, presses a kiss to her temple like a silent plea, like she’s the thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His eyes don’t meet anyone else’s—too distant, too deep, fixed on a future he’s scared to speak aloud. You know what it is. You all do. It’s in the way his chest tightens every time the ball leaves his hands, in the way he flinches at every strange rhythm of his heart. His secret is simple, and brutal. That basketball won’t be taken from him. That he’ll live long enough to have a life beyond it. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to. You feel it like a pulse in the air. When the flame catches the edge of his paper, he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until it’s ash.

Jeno’s grip on the pen is firm, knuckles pale, and his posture sharper than usual, like the act of writing carves something out of him. His brow furrows in concentration, jaw tight, lips parted like he’s breathing through it, like the words on that slip of paper weigh more than ink should. When he finally folds it, his movements are methodical, almost reverent. He doesn’t hesitate when he drops it into the flame, doesn’t blink as it curls and burns. He doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes are on you.

You know what he wrote. You don’t need to see it. It’s only ever been two things with him—you, and the NBA. In that exact order. His dream isn’t fame, isn’t legacy, isn’t even redemption. It’s making it, and it’s making it with you by his side. Everything else can burn. Every path that doesn’t lead to those two things can be torched. He’ll carry that dream in blood if he has to. Protect it with teeth bared and fists ready. He’ll bend the world to his will or break trying.

When his mouth meets yours, the kiss is slow, deep, a silent vow shaped by the heat of his lips and the firm reverence of his hands cradling your jaw, as if you were the only sure thing left in his universe. You taste it—the fire and devotion, the hunger and holiness—each lingering caress a testament to something ancient and unbreakable. This devotion feels mythic; he would kneel to no one, would spit defiance at gods, would drag demons into sunlight just to keep you safe. To him, you are scripture and rebellion, his origin and endgame, the reason crowds will chant his name like an anthem through echoing arenas. You are the only prayer he’s ever uttered, fierce and unapologetic, never once begging for mercy.

Your own slip feels heavier than it should, weighted by dreams pressed into paper and ink. On the surface, you write your ambition, your future neatly inscribed. But beneath, in looping letters like whispered incantations or the prayers of priestesses begging ancient gods to free mortal heroes from cruel destinies, you write again and again: Let him be free. Let him be free. Let him be free. From chains forged in his father’s shadow, from the torment he’ll never escape on his own, from a story written by other hands. If he cannot ask for mercy, you’ll plead in his stead.

You taste the bitter edge of your own guilt, sharp and unavoidable because you know the prayers whispered between your lips will never be answered. He would kneel to no god, would challenge fate itself but his rebellion is doomed from the start. Neither of his dreams—freedom from his father’s shadow, or redemption from his silent torment—will ever be granted and you know this truth more clearly than he ever could.

When you finally retreat home, it's like sinking into a warm dream, reality softening at the edges. You and Jeno spend the entire evening wrapped up in one another, existing in a world built solely from gentle touches, whispered promises, and slow, lingering kisses that leave your heart aching sweetly. He holds you as though you're something delicate, his hoodie swallowing you whole, his scent clinging to your skin as fiercely as his embrace. The hours blur, indistinguishable from one tender moment to the next, until you're no longer sure where you end and he begins, his heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath your ear like an unspoken reassurance. But peace never lasts, and too soon, the comforting sanctuary of his arms gives way to harsh reality.

Donghyuck, relentless as ever, drags you both back to the river court, insisting the burnt paper wasn't enough to seal whatever desperate hope he’s chasing. Yangyang is there too, looking as though he's holding back something sharp, something violent, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes darkened with resentment directed unmistakably at Jeno. But Jeno is oblivious or perhaps purposefully indifferent, too consumed by you, the warmth of his hand securely anchored at your waist. Every kiss he steals from you ignites the intensity of Yangyang's glare, an unsettling sensation prickling the back of your neck, making you hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat. The silence between them is heavy, oppressive, charged with tension that simmers but never breaks, hurting more deeply than outright conflict ever could.

Donghyuck ushers everyone into another round of the ritual, this time lanterns replacing paper, delicate vessels carrying hidden secrets into the vast expanse of the night sky. You write your wishes in careful strokes, afraid that too much weight might drag the fragile glow down to earth. You don't glance at Jeno’s lantern, nor do you ask him what he's written, but when his lips find yours again—slow and sure—just as his lantern ascends, you feel your answer: whatever he's wishing, it's about you. His kiss is an affirmation, an anchor, a fragile promise burned brightly into the darkness.

Yet, peace fractures once more when Mark's voice—angry and unusually harsh—splits through the night. Your heart seizes at the venom in his tone, your body stiffening as he snaps, “What the fuck are they doing here?” Eric and Sunwoo’s arrival shatters the fragile calm, the harsh screech of tires piercing your senses as their car halts aggressively at the edge of the court. Instantly, Jeno moves protectively in front of you, his back straightened, shoulders tense. But your observant eyes catch every crack in his facade. His jaw trembles slightly, his clenched fists betray his fear, and though his posture tries to radiate strength, his stance is brittle, poised to shatter under the slightest pressure. 

Eric's mocking laughter fills the tense silence first, bitter and sharp as broken glass, and Sunwoo's eyes glint dangerously as he sneers, "Long time no see, Jeno. Thought you’d forgotten about us." 

Jeno's voice, though firm, wavers with concealed dread. "Leave, Eric. This isn't your territory anymore."

Eric steps closer, invading personal space, forcing confrontation. "You don't decide that," he spits viciously, words laced with threats. 

“We were just passing by. Funny seeing you here all cozy—did your daddy finally loosen your leash?" Sunwoo snickers cruelly beside him, and Jeno visibly flinches. The jab hits deeper than intended, unraveling Jeno's carefully woven defenses. He swallows heavily, his eyes darting briefly back toward you as if checking you’re still safe, before returning to meet Eric’s unrelenting gaze. The exchange continues in heated, hushed tones, an escalating dance of provocations and barely restrained fury, until finally, Eric smirks coldly, withdrawing as though he's made his point. When they finally drive away, leaving Jeno standing alone, he doesn’t look victorious. He looks small, shaken, vulnerable in a way you've rarely witnessed, and the sight leaves a sour ache deep in your chest.

Your friends cluster together instinctively, their voices dropping into tense, anxious whispers as wary eyes dart toward Eric and Sunwoo. Confusion passes visibly between them—Shotaro’s brow furrowing deeply, Donghyuck exchanging uncertain glances with Yangyang—but nobody speaks loudly enough for clarity. The questions hang in the air, heavy and unresolved, a tangible discomfort settling over everyone present. Yet no one dares to break the unspoken rule of silence, letting speculation remain just beneath the surface, acknowledged only through uneasy looks and half-muted murmurs, an unsettled mystery they collectively agree to leave untouched.

Your anxiety spikes sharply—there's less than a week until state championships and Jeno still isn't cleared. You've been working tirelessly to fix the situation, but progress has stalled, bogged down by circumstances beyond your control. You need to accelerate, to resolve everything immediately, to lift this crushing weight off both your shoulders. Today has become your new deadline, a silent vow made in the frantic recesses of your mind.

While Jeno faces Eric and Sunwoo, Mark’s words slash through you, sharp and brutally honest. "I don’t know what the fuck you're doing," he says, voice low and cutting. You meet his gaze defiantly, defensive already, bracing against the sting of his truth. He continues relentlessly, voice laden with frustration. "Why have you been all over Jeno since yesterday? Making him believe there's still a chance? As long as his father holds that threat over both of you, you will never be with Jeno—not fully, not freely. Don’t lead him on; you’ll only disappoint him again."

Your throat tightens defensively, your voice trembling slightly as you snap back, "Shut up, Mark." Yet, the truth gnaws mercilessly at your heart.

Before Mark can press further, Jeno’s footsteps approach, but you're already moving away, purpose clear and urgent. His voice, confused and tinged with worry, calls out to you, freezing your steps momentarily. "Where are you going?" he asks, confusion laced with quiet desperation.

"I have something I need to do," you reply hastily, already turning away. 

His skepticism is clear, eyes narrowing softly. "At 11pm?" 

Your breath hitches, panic flickering briefly before you turn sharply, pulling him close. You kiss him urgently, softly, repeatedly, each press of your lips calming the rapid beat of your heart. He sighs gently against your mouth, frustration warring with longing as you whisper your promise. "I’ll come right back to you, promise."

"Promise?" he echoes, vulnerability edging his voice. 

Your heart twists painfully as you nod, offering softly, genuinely, "I don't wanna be anywhere else." Your fingers brush his chain, grounding yourself in his presence one final time, voice dropping to a whisper. "Only wanna be with you, baby." 

His sigh is heavy, reluctant, tinged with hurt. "I don’t know how I feel about letting you go right now. You always disappear, and then I don’t hear from you for hours." Yet, despite his protests, you pull away, the words unspoken between you thickening the air as you vanish into the darkness, leaving promises behind like fading lanterns in the night sky—beautiful but impossible to grasp. Hours stretch into days, leaving him stranded in your silence.

You find yourself in Coach Suh’s office as quickly as your feet could carry you, the door closing softly behind you, sealing you in familiar shadows and the lingering scent of leather and faded cologne. Silence pulses heavily between you as your eyes lock with his, triggering memories you’d carefully buried deep, ghosts you’d long since refused to acknowledge. You haven’t been alone together in months, not since you forced every heated glance, every stolen breath, every desperate touch firmly into the depths of denial, pretending they’d ceased to haunt you. But now, with his gaze burning into yours, those suppressed moments surge back, fierce and unrelenting, flooding your chest until it aches—each vivid fragment sharper, more alive, more painfully real than before.

You recall nights spent here after classes, muscles sore, skirt bunched carelessly around your waist, bouncing on his cock while he gripped your hips with desperate urgency. You’d ride him rough, ignoring his whispered pleas to be quieter, grinding harder at the risk of discovery, whispering back, “Then let them hear.” The thrill of it always pushed him over the edge too quickly, your name tumbling from his lips like a forbidden prayer. He'd protest weakly when you left marks, but you knew he secretly savored each bruising reminder.

Other times you’d hide beneath his desk during office hours, lips wrapped tight around his cock while he nodded mechanically through mundane meetings. His knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the desk, voice strained, body rigid, his fingers buried in your hair like an affectionate caress rather than guiding your eager mouth. You relished making him falter, humming lightly until he twitched helplessly, whispering “daddy” softly enough only he could hear. His whispered command to behave never held weight; you always left him wanting more.

Standing in front of him now, the heavy silence crackles with charged, unresolved tension. He stares with narrowed eyes, voice cautious yet edged with curiosity. “It’s 11pm.”

“I need your help,” you breathe softly, your voice laden with unspoken promises, the words falling gently into the heavy air between you like embers sparking off neon-lit wires. He holds your gaze for a long, charged moment, eyes burning into yours, a silent collision of past sins and present desperation—desire, guilt, and determination woven together into something dangerously combustible. His jaw tightens imperceptibly, a subtle acknowledgment that pulls the tension taut until the air itself seems to hum.

Without another word, he rises from his chair, the motion fluid yet cautious, as though afraid too sudden a movement might shatter this fragile, perilous truce. You follow him silently, each step echoing with a thousand suppressed memories, fluorescent-bright flashes of nights spent tangled together in reckless abandon. The car ride to his apartment is thick with those very ghosts, desire simmering beneath your skin like a neon sign flickering erratically in a rain-soaked alley, its electric current raw and unstable. Neither of you dares to speak, lest you sever the fragile thread holding back the chaos.

When he opens his apartment door, the quiet creak echoes like a gunshot, your breath catching sharply in your throat. You step inside slowly, your gaze locked onto his, the silent invitation between you blazing fiercely, unapologetically bright—no longer hiding in shadows, but daring you both to face it head-on. And as your eyes meet, understanding settles heavily, achingly clear, raw as an exposed nerve. You know exactly what you’re offering, and he knows exactly what you’re willing to surrender.

Tonight, you’ll burn yourself down if it means securing Jeno’s future. You’ll sink willingly into neon-lit temptation, the aching familiarity of Coach Suh’s hard cock buried deep inside you—surrendering to old patterns and darker pleasures, losing yourself completely in the ruthless heat of his mouth, the bruising grip of fingers that have memorized every desperate inch of your skin. You’ll let him consume you until every boundary shatters, trading each carefully guarded piece of your soul for the raw, electric sensation of his body moving relentlessly against yours, thrusting hard enough to fracture the lingering shadows of your resistance and when it’s over, when you’ve ridden out every burning wave of your sacrifice, all that’ll remain is the scorched, luminous aftermath—glowing in vivid, neon-bright confession against the pitch-black of midnight, unmistakably marking you as his one last time.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[honeylations]

YU JIMIN x FEM!READER

Prompt: You’ve dreamt of dating a cool, hot, sexy vampire, but why did the world decide to give you the biggest loser vampire?

Warnings/Notes: g!p Vampire Jimin, crack, eventual smut, loser Jimin, human reader, mommy kink, subby Jimin

It was 7am in the morning when you woke up to your alarm blaring in your ears, encouraging you to open your tired eyes. Sitting up, you saw your vampire girlfriend sitting cross legged by the edge while staring at you with a pout.

Right, you were angry at her for the stunt she pulled yesterday.

She baked you cookies as a reward for getting through your exams but your roommate, Huh Yunjin, ate it all like the fatass she was. Yunjin didn’t know they were for you but it didn’t stop the anger boiling within Jimin as she dragged your red headed friend to the backyard of the house and tied her to a tree with debris sitting beneath her feet.

Jimin said that in the vampire realm, anyone who stole another’s belongings were to be punished by being burnt alive.

You remember returning home that day from a lecture the moment Jimin struck the match, screaming at the top of your lungs for her to stop whatever she was starting.

Then remembering her sulking face and how she cleaned up her mess with pure sadness and fear after being scolded by you.

You haven’t acknowledged her presence since and Jimin has been trying to do everything she can to have you talk to her again.

“Good morning love!” Jimin beamed and puckering her lips for her good morning kiss but you stood up from the bed, completely ignoring her so you can wash up in the bathroom.

The vampire flopped face first into the bed and whined.

Yunjin heard the commotion and peeped through the door with crossed arms. “She’s still mad at you?”

“Yes and it’s all your fault!” Jimin’s loud voice was muffled from the mattress she was squishing her face in.

Yunjin caught the words though. “How was I supposed to know they were for your girlfriend?! How about put a note next time!”

“How about have some common human decency and ask before shoving everything in your mouth?! You mortals are dumber than rats!” Jimin finally sat up.

“Your cookies were shit anyways!”

“Shitty cookies that you entirely ate, FATASS!”

You appeared from the bathroom with frustration. “SHUT UP BOTH OF YOU!”

Both girls immediately shut their mouths, but Jimin continued on to flop her face back into the mattress to cry like a dying whale.

“Oh god, Jimin Unnie don’t cry” Yunjin sighed.

“Go sit in the corner Jimin. And think about what you did yesterday and why it was wrong for you to even try and burn Yunjin alive” You ordered, arms crossed over your chest.

Jimin shuffled out of the bed and obeyed. She dragged herself to the corner of your shared bedroom and sat down, leaning her forehead against the wall.

“And stay there until I say so”

“Yes ma’am” Jimin managed to squeak out.

The vampire pouted and played with her fingers to pass the time while you went out to your full day lecture on campus with Yunjin.

As you two walked down the halls, Yunjin turned to look at you. “Y/n, I know it was a scary situation but Jimin Unnie means well. She already apologised…well I mean because you forced her to but anyways, I forgive her and you can stop being mad at her now”

“I’m not letting it slide that easy Jen. She needs to reflect on her behaviour”

“Maybe you’re being a bit too harsh on her”

“You want to be sitting in the corner with her then?”

“I shall close my mouth and never speak again”

Yunjin’s words did echo in your mind throughout the day, making you reconsider the way you were treating your girlfriend at the moment.

You had to remind yourself that all Jimin wanted was to make you cookies but she let anger take over her decisions in the wrong way.

The thought got you dozing off during lectures, at lunch, and even as you were walking out of the campus with Yunjin still by your side.

“Stopped being mad at Jimin Unnie yet?”

You groaned into your palms. “I’m a horrible girlfriend”

“What? Hey no! What made you even come to that conclusion. Jimin Unnie thinks you put the stars in the sky!”

“I should’ve just talked it out with her instead of giving her the cold shoulder. She must think I hate her or something”

Yunjin grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you around. “Y/n please shut up. You managed to pull a vampire that wanted to kill every human she saw in the first place. Now all that vampire wants is to be by your side forever to love and protect you! I’m damn jealous about your wattpad life right now”

“I’m gonna ignore the wattpad thing you said”

“Apart from almost burning me alive, Jimin Unnie is one hell of a loser too. She’d do anything to make you happy even if it meant jumping off a cliff”

“Don’t say stuff like that around her please, she’ll literally do it” you face palmed after a memory flashed in your mind of Jimin almost throwing herself in front of a train just to prove she loved you.

“Now why don’t we put the past behind us and get your girlfriend bags of blood as an apology? I’m pretty sure she’d be hungry by now. You left her in the corner since this morning”

You froze on the spot and looked up at Yunjin wide eyed. It didn’t take a couple seconds for the red head’s eyes to match yours before you both started sprinting back to the house.

“We’re so dumb!”

Barging into the front door, you made your way upstairs to your bedroom and saw your girlfriend still sitting in the exact same position from when you left her. Setting your bag to the side, you hugged her from behind and took in a big whiff of her scent.

“Oh my baby, I’m so sorry for leaving you here”

Jimin turned around and buried her face into your chest. “Are you still angry at me?”

“No not anymore baby” you cooed, comfortably threading your fingers through her black locks.

“Are we going to be okay?”

You kissed her head. “Absolutely. Always”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes of course! I’ve never stopped loving you, Jimin-ah”

You cupped your girlfriend’s face and repeatedly kissed all over it until she was covered in lipstick marks. Then you led her to cuddle with you in bed, letting her rest her entire body on top of yours.

She snuggled her head into your neck. “I’m still a little sad about the cookies, my love”

“I know, I’m sorry Yunjin ate them. Thank you for making it though”

“You studied so hard for the exams…I wanted to impress you”

Your heart was aching. How could you have yelled at your dork?

“Let me make it up to you, okay?”

Jimin was about to question you but you had already moved her to lay on the bed while you straddled her lap.

“Yunjin can you go buy some blood bags for Jimin?!” You yelled loud enough for your roommate to hear.

“On it! Be back in a bit!” Yunjin quickly answered from her own room, hearing her footsteps fade until she shut the front door and fully left the house.

“That should buy us enough time—“

A notification rung from your phone. You took a glance at the Lock Screen and saw a message from Yunjin which got you a bit confused until you read what she had sent.

[Yunjinnie 🐍: I already know where this is going. Enjoy that 7 inch vampire sausage]

“Fucking sick ass” you muttered, not noticing your girlfriend was looking at your phone too.

“Tell her I’m 7 and a half inches, babe. Not just 7”

You shook your head and softly kissed her. “Don’t worry about Yunjin, she’s a shit head”

“I’ve already established that when she ate your cookies”

Your girlfriend’s frown got you chuckling. “You’re still on about that? Don’t worry, we’ll bake them together someday. But for now, just sit back and relax. Can you do that for me?”

“Mhm yes ma’am”

You pulled your girlfriend pants and boxers slightly down just so you can whip out her cock and stroke it while staring into your girlfriend’s eyes. “Good?”

“M-Mhm…” Jimin hummed.

She bit on her bottom lip, clawing at the sheets when you sped up your hand fisted around her dick. “N-Not enough…can I please have it inside you, Y/nie? Please…” Jimin’s words came out breathlessly, trying her absolute best to look into your eyes but the pleasurable feeling was making it difficult.

“Such a good girl for saying please” you smirked that got Jimin dizzy.

“Please…I don’t wanna cum unless it’s inside you m-mommy”

You were taken back from the nickname even though your hand was still jerking her off crazily. God, your vampire really was a loser.

Instead of answering, you sloppily made out with the vampire, only breaking apart so you can strip yourself out of your clothes.

In a blink you were hovering your wet opening above Jimin’s hard cock, feeling like you were being torn in half when you sat on the tip. The pain gradually got worse when you were fully seated, head resting on Jimin’s chest whereas your hands were holding onto her shoulders for dear life.

“Ah w-what the fuck? H-Hurts so much” you sniffled as Jimin rubbed your back.

“It’s been so long since we made love, Y/n-ie. Don’t rush yourself okay?”

“I liked it when you called me mommy” you managed to giggle through the pain.

“Take your time mommy”

Jimin was so patient with you just sitting on her dick for a few minutes so your pussy could accomodate her size. It felt like you were having sex for the first time. Your girlfriend continued to kiss your neck even when you finally had the energy to move up and then sliding back down with an electrifying pleasure coursing through your body.

“O-Oh…Jimin you feel so good inside me”

“I wanna make mommy feel good”

“You are baby. Being a good girl for mommy” you gasped with an arched back.

Jimin took this as an advantage to suck on your tits like she’s been starved. Well she technically did kind of starve today when you made her sit in that corner and completely forgot about her.

“Fuck…mommy…my love..Can I fuck you? Don’t want you to get tired”

Oh your loser vampire girlfriend was such a gentlewoman. Who were you to say no?

Jimin leaned back with her feet planted flat on the bed so she could thrust her hips up in a fast motion that got you bouncing. Your moving tits got Jimin lost in a trance and she couldn’t help on sucking them again.

She was watching you throw your head back in pure bliss, mouth dropped open releasing Jimin’s favourite sounds. “Can I cum inside mommy please?”

“Y-Yes please baby. I want it all—Oh shit!”

Jimin was literally jack hammering inside you with that crazy vampire stamina she had. The pleasure was so overwhelming that you didn’t catch the way your girlfriend’s eyes began to turn red and were fixated on your exposed hickey-covered neck.

Her mouth began to open and her fangs were presented.

“M-Mommy…I-I really need your blood. C-Can I bite? I’ll make it better afterwards, I promise”

Hearing Jimin beg sent you over the edge. You held one hand on her nape and pushed her face into your neck. “Fuck yes! Bite mommy, baby. Drink my blood and fuck my pussy like a good girl!”

Jimin growled and didn’t need to be told twice in sinking her teeth into your neck. She moaned along with you as your blood flowed into her mouth deliciously. You clenched around her twitching cock and dug your nails into her shoulders when the hot ropes of cum filled you up.

You were creaming all over dick that it rained down her pelvis.

Your girlfriend pulled away as the orgasm died down, licking up the mess on your neck and finishing it off with a gentle kiss on the fang marks.

You fell limp into her body to catch your breath and Jimin’s hand was caressing your back again. “Are you okay, my love?”

“Better than okay, Jiminie…”

“Did it feel good?”

“The best, baby”

“Yay”

You pulled back and looked at her face in disbelief. “Yay?”

Jimin looked down sheepishly. “I’m glad I made you feel good, baby. I love you”

“Yunjin was right. You’re a loser stuck in a hot vampire body”

The vampire’s eyes went into puppy mode at your statement. “Am I your loser at least?”

“My one and only loser” you laughed and leaned in to claim her lips once again, getting a slight taste of your blood.

*Knock Knock*

“Heyyyy sorry to be like…interrupting, but I got the blood bags. I’m assuming you’re not hungry anymore Jimin Unnie” Yunjin spoke from outside the room, her voice slightly muffled.

Even with the door blocking you from seeing Yunjin, you can already see the smirk plastered on her stupid face.

“Nope”

“Rightio. They’ll be in the fridge. Hope you take that pill Y/n! You two are too young to be parents”

“Jimin is 600 years old”

“Yeah I’m 600 years old”

“And even if we did become parents, we’d be the best parents ever”

“Yeah, the best parents ever!”

“Yeah I didn’t ask. I’m not letting my best friend become a mom while she can barely pay her rent”

“oh fuck off Yunjin!” You screamed while Yunjin shrugged and indeed fuck off to her room.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Let The Rain Fall | Bucky Barnes x Autistic!Reader | Short Series - Part 4 of 4 - 2.5k

Bucky isn't the only person looking to talk to you after you rescue the jet. But you're feeling far from heroic. But Bucky's seen you struggle before, and he's going to help you again too.

Warnings: description of a meltdown, angst, workplace bullying, negative introspection, but also fluff, Bucky being the softest and the sweetest, and...a kiss!

A/N: thank you to everyone who has read along, I'm so glad I finally shared this fic with you all and I hope you enjoyed it :)

<- Part 3

Masterlist | Let the Rain Fall Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

The compound was calm again, the debris from the attack was being cleaned up by Stark’s crew and everyone was back to their day jobs as if nothing happened. But Bucky couldn’t move, couldn’t go back to the gym or paperwork, and just forget what he’d seen. 

“She was just standing there, Steve, controlling the jet, she saved them all - I- what happened? What is she?” 

Steve didn’t look up from the report he was reading, “I told you, she has her own skills.”

“What skills?” Bucky paced back across the room and in front of Steve’s eyeline. 

“Can you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.” Steve shuffled up slightly to accommodate Bucky on the sofa as well. “Stop. Pacing.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know, her envelope is sealed. You’ve managed to get more out of her than any of us combined. So, I’m sure she’ll tell you in her own time.” He looked up at Bucky pointedly before returning to his report. 

"You know, don't you?"

Steve ran a hand down his face and then back up, ruffling his normally neat hair.

"I do, if I tell you, will you promise to leave her alone?"

"Honestly? I won't lie to you... But I still need to know."

"To save you getting in trouble, opening people's files, I'll tell you what you've already seen. But then you have to leave her alone. I can't fight HR about you again."

Bucky sat down finally, watching the side of Steve's face.

"Telekenisis, that's what I heard when she joined." Steve went back to his paperwork, feeling the pressure of Bucky's stare before, turning to him. "Three years at Xavier's before graduating, she worked there for a while, then college, then here. To my knowledge she's only used her powers during emergencies, no field work, never requested it and always turned down our offers. She just likes being here, doing a normal job, and Stark likes having -" Steve paused, unsure of the word to use, "people with powers, on site, none combatant, just in case."

"She came out in the field with us though? Why?"

Steve laughed, pointedly looking Bucky up and down before slapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Why indeed. Now, keep it to yourself, don't go gettin' yourself in to trouble."

Despite Steve’s insistence that you were left alone, his orders didn’t trickle down to the other swat and tactical teams in the compound. 

For the rest of the week you found team leaders, colleagues and even a few other agencies dropping into your inbox and asking you to help. 

After a few days with no responses the Team B chief tactical officer even turned up at your door, banging on the wood and demanding to speak to you. 

“Come on Agent, you know you’d be valuable in the field -” she’d paused, waiting for you to answer. But your words were gone, your mind foggy, incapable of anything but sitting quietly and staring out of the windows.

You could see some trees waving in the distance and focused on the way the top branches danced together. The view wasn't as nice as the one from Bucky's apartment and you tried to tell yourself that's what you were missing, the view, and not the man himself who would surely distance himself from you after this ridiculous display.

Fresh tears poured as your sub-conscious continued to berate you internally.

“Don’t you think it’s selfish to keep your talent to yourself? Think how many people you could save!” 

You gave the Officer nothing, staying silent, the clouds slowly filled in behind the trees, drifting, drifting, your nails biting into your palms, shoulders bumping the chair as you rocked to and fro in time with the trees.

“Alright, think of how many people will die because you’re too fucking selfish and lazy to help them - have it your way, stay here behind a desk, let your fellow agents injure themselves needlessly doing work you should be doing.” 

With that the Team B Tactical Officer stormed off back down the corridor, and you burst into tears. 

“It’s not selfish,” you whispered to yourself, squeezing the blanket tighter around your shoulders, “it’s not selfish, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Your corridor was quiet, as it always was. No sign if you were in or not apart from the muddy boots left outside of your door. Bucky heaved in a breath, preparing for you to send him away. He knocked and waited. 

Nothing. 

He knocked again. 

Nothing. 

“Look, I know you’re in there.”

“Go.” 

Your voice sounded broken, tired. 

"Just wanted to let you know we caught that guy, so…everything's safe for you to come out now."

"Okay."

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” 

Bucky sighed, “please just let me in, we don’t have to talk, just let me make sure you’re okay and then I’ll go.” 

The handle turned and the door cracked open almost imperceptibly. Bucky pushed it further, quickly stepping in and closing it behind him. You were very particular about your space, so he made sure to leave his coat and shoes by the door before slowly making his way to your living room. 

Like your office, your apartment was cosy and comfortable. He found you curled into an armchair by the window, your furniture the same Stark issued items that were in his own living space. But you’d made everything your own with cushions and throws, blankets neatly folded on every arm and a huge, plush rug demarcating the space. You looked small in the chair, a huge fluffy hoody pulled down over your knees, the hood up so you were just a pair of sad eyes, watching him from your personal den. 

“Hey, Doll.” Bucky gave you a weak smile, perching on the coffee table in front of you. It was littered with books and half full mugs of cold tea, multiple packets of your favourite biscuits, crumbs and ring marks where you’d run out of coasters. It wasn’t like you at all. 

He looked back at your doe eyes, red from crying, staring unblinking at a spot above his shoulder. If it was anyone else he’d think you were staring at his arm, but he knew better than that, you’d never stared at him like that, you weren’t even looking at him now. “Do you need to talk about anything?” He offered. 

Your eyes didn’t move from their fixed spot, but you shook your head from one side to the other, slowly. 

Bucky furrowed his brow in confusion. He’d never seen you like this. Since getting to know him he’d found you chatty and buoyant, excited to share things with him and even if you never looked at him for very long, you certainly didn’t stare vacantly through him. He always knew you were listening, despite your tendency to fiddle and fidget, because you asked him about things later, recalled the most minute details of his day, and it struck him how much he already missed talking to you. 

“Can I get anything for you?” You continued to stare, shrinking into yourself, but silent tears began to track down your cheeks. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay, and light some candles.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the tub, scrolling through playlists until he found one that seemed calming. He liked to use music to make himself feel better, relying on tunes from his childhood mostly, and while he wasn’t sure what you’d like he figured something upbeat and instrumental was probably a safe bet. 

When the bath was mostly full, bubbles spilling over the side and candles lit on the shelf, he went to collect you, expecting you to be in your robe or a towel. But you were still there, staring. 

He sat again and reached out, “your bath’s ready, Doll, do you want me to help get you in it?” 

“They could’ve died.” Your voice was a whisper, almost silent. 

“What?” 

“They could’ve died, if I did it wrong. I took a risk. I could’ve killed everyone. I shouldn’t. I promised.” Tears continued to flow and judging from the pinched line between your eyes you were beginning to get dehydrated.

He bent forward and scooped you into his arms, tucking you into his chest while he allowed your tears to pour out in sobs. Your whole body shook as he held you, rocking side to side and hushing gently in your ear. 

"I don't like doing it, I never controlled it right and it's too much pressure, Bucky, I just can't. Every time is like this - this - weight and-" you sighed, inhaling a shuddering breath, "it's just a lot of responsibility and I don't want it. I didn't ask for it, I just want to be me, in my office, with my paperwork, where I can't hurt anyone."

“No one was hurt, no one was hurt because you helped.” He soothed, “let’s get you in the bath, clean up your cheeks-” he pulled back, rubbing his vibranium thumb under the tears shimmering down your face, “you must be tired, you worked so hard.” 

“It wasn’t enough, I nearly dropped it.” 

“You did a wonderful job.” 

“It wasn’t good enough.” You replied, hotly, stumbling away from his embrace. 

“No one was hurt, you saved the pilot and the ground crew. What more could you have done?” 

“I could have put him down in a safer place, found the attacker, got to the airstrip faster, I could’ve been better. I should’ve been better. If I trained, if I was on a proper team…” You stalked to the bathroom, rubbing at your tear stained face. “This is- this is why I can't be an agent. I can't do this every time something happens, I can't feel this guilt that I should've done better and yet -” you sobbed, “they come here and, they tell me I'm selfish. Maybe they're right. But I can't put myself through this every. Single. Time. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want it. I just wanted to be useful.”

“Doll,” Bucky's voice cracked. Is that really what you thought? That you had to be useful to be worth anything? “You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just want to help, no one has to be useful to be worthy you know and -"

“Thank you for the bath.” You mumbled, cutting him off and shutting the door with a slam. 

Bucky stared at the door and listened to the sound of you climbing into the bath. He’d been ready to help, he’d wanted to help. But he knew this was for the best and he was two strides towards the door, jacket in hand, when he stopped. 

You been angry when you finally went into the bathroom, but before then it wasn't anger. You’d been sad and withdrawn and he thought back to the lonely evenings he’d spent staring out of the windows after his first therapy sessions. The way everyone had left him alone to his thoughts and it had somehow been so much worse. How he'd turned his own anger in on himself, berating himself for what he should've done.

He paused, putting his jacket back and surveying the now dark room. Light, that’s what you needed, the soft light from your many table lamps. He lit a candle on the coffee table and fluffed up the pillows from your nest of an armchair. 

Taking a risk, he peered into your bedroom and, spotting your pyjamas on the bed, spread them out neatly along with a dressing gown and some soft socks. 

You’d be hot after your bath so he made sure there was a bottle of sparkling water in the fridge, and plenty of cocoa in the jar, in case you wanted something hot. 

Then he waited, trying not to listen to the soft sound of water moving over your body or the way you started to hum along with the song.

"You take as long as you need, okay? I'll be right here when you get out. If you need to talk, if you need to just sit. I'll be right here."

There was quiet, the water still, and then your voice floated out, "thank you…I'm sorry."

"Never had to be sorry to me, Doll, beaten myself up enough times to know you're feeling worse right now. I just want you to remember one thing okay?"

"Okay?"

"You're enough exactly as you are right now."

The water moved again, "thank you." You sighed the words on an outbreath and Bucky heard the faint plash of tears again.

He walked away, as much as he wanted to push the door open and wrap his arms around you, this wasn't the time. So he settled onto the sofa, ready to wait.

You had emerged from your bath to the sight of Bucky passed out on your sofa, a book half open in his lap.

The pyjamas he’d left for you on your bed were so comfortable and for a minute you’d bathed in their scent as deeply as you had your bath. But then you were craving something else, something more grounding than floating away in your thoughts again and suddenly all you could think about was Bucky.

You’d been so rude, slamming the door on him, and part of you dreaded seeing him again and facing up to your behaviour. So finding him asleep in your living room was certainly not what you expected. 

“Oh, hey Doll, sorry, must’ve passed out. You alright?” He blinked awake, pushing himself up again and you watched the way his long shirt  rumpled around his waist, exposing the slightest slither of skin before it was hidden again. 

“I’m really sorry,” you mumbled, “you’ve been so kind and -” 

“I told you, nothing to apologise for,” he gave you a sleepy, lopsided smile and patted the cushion beside him, “come and get comfy, you want a snack?” 

You stared at him and watched the smile fall from his face. 

“I’ve overstayed my welcome, sorry.” 

He stood to go and your thoughts whirled, panicking, he can’t go, you needed him here, stay, stay, stay. Why wasn’t your mouth working? Stay! But nothing came out, you just carried on staring until - 

Your voice was broken, but your body wasn’t, and instead of asking him to stay you went careening into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek to the worn material of his Henley. He smelt so good, warm and safe and your thoughts went quiet, your heart stopped racing. You sighed. 

Bucky looked down at you, one arm finding its way around your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck.

You looked up and his lips met yours, gentle, loving, understanding. He tasted of cinnamon and chocolate, his lips perfectly soft against your own.His hands flexed, holding you tighter, pressing into you and drawing you closer against his body.

“Stay,” your voice was swallowed by his kisses and he hummed his agreement, holding you tighter against him. You pulled away, resting your forehead against his. “It’s best -” you twirled his dog tags in your fingers, “if you’re really clear so I understand.” 

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me,” he smiled before finding your lips again. 

[electric-blorbos]

Selfshiptober day 2: Blanket/flame

Character X reader

I swear to god its still October second somewhere... I hope.

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

Notice to anyone who found me through the selfshiptober tag, while this blog is themed around AI characters, this blog does not support the use of actual AI in creative fields.

Warning for canon-typical homicidal computers and yandere behavior

Also a reminder that these don't take place in chronological order

AM:

"Beautiful, isn't it?" AM asked, his croaky voice sounding like it was somehow both in your head, and all around you. You were wrapped up in a cozy blanket in your little home, which AM had made for you years ago. It was perfectly safe, hidden away from the five survivors which AM had been torturing for the past few decades. The five of them were hiking up a mountain, surrounded by petrified trees.

"I don't know why you're showing me this..." You muttered, taking a piece of pumpkin pie from the table. It was perfectly cooked. You couldn't taste much love for the craft, though. AM seemed to hate everything, doing anything, except for you. Interacting with you was the only thing that didn't make him feel inadequate.

"Isn't it obvious? I want you to understand the fate that I- that we have created for these people. To watch them suffer. Isn't it satisfying, sweetheart? My darling, my precious one? To watch the people who've hurt you suffer so?" His voice dripped into your ears like rich honey. You gritted your teeth.

"These people have nothing to do with me. I don't care what happens to them. I don't want them to suffer." You growled, wrapping yourself tighter in your blanket. At first the schadenfreude was nice... Seeing these bitter people suffering while you got to live in your cozy little paradise, but now it just felt like a threat. It felt like AM was merely holding a possible fate over your head that he would subject you to if you ever defied him.

"Tell me you don't really think that, my sweet!" AM said, sounding almost taken aback. You frowned a little.

"What are you talking about. Of course I don't want these people to suffer. I've never even met them."

You watched as the ape-like man twitched awkwardly, and punched a tree. He was barely human at this point, and it was all AM's fault. AM chuckled, and then burst into hysterical laughter.

"You don't care what happens to these people? Well then perhaps neither do I! Perhaps I should just clear them from your mind's eye, my sweetest! My darling, my beloved!"

He lit the entire forest on fire, and let the flames lick the trees. They started collapsing around the survivors, who, despite their barely functioning will to live, seemed to manage to survive surprisingly well. The falling debris seemed to keep missing them, and they managed to duck beneath the smoke.

"who the hell is he talking to?" Asked the paranoid one with the sweater around his shoulders. The woman in the red jacket shrugged, and tackled him to the ground.

"I don't know, just get down!"

They all ran into a cave to wait out the forest fire, and AM kept a fan blowing to keep the air in the cave relatively clean.

"What is wrong with you" you muttered bitterly, wrapping your blanket more tightly around yourself. AM chuckled darkly.

"oh so many things. But you'll never leave me, my sweet. Never."

And he was right. You never would. Even if you'd had the choice.

Wheatley:

The rain was coming down hard outside. It was a lightning storm, and you'd checked out Wheatley from his work like a cumbersome and chatty library book. He shuddered at every lightning strike, but only his lens shook. He couldn't exactly roll around on his own or hide easily, but he seemed like he wanted to.

"Relax, Wheatley. It's just a power outage." You said, lighting a flashlight and grabbing a couple of blankets from your bedroom. You sat down on the ground next to Wheatley, and pulled him in close.

"on nights like this, I like to put a fire in the fireplace." You said, creating a little blanket nest around Wheatley so that he didn't roll away. He kept his blue lens trained on you as you started building a fire.

"Y'know, I've never actually seen a fire before. I've seen pictures, but never in person. My engineers said that they're dangerous," Wheatley said as you made a small pile of sticks and paper on top of the logs in your fireplace.

"But this is a really good idea! That little area in the wall is a really good place to set a fire. The brick will keep it from spreading, and the ashes can fall out between the slats in that little metal rack. Bloody brilliant, that is!"

You let Wheatley talk as you pull out a pocket lighter and light the old newspaper on fire. He squeezes his lens covers shut, and you gently pat him to assure him that it's ok.

"hey, it's not a dangerous fire. It's all in the fireplace."

"PCH.... Yeah, I knew that." He chuckled nervously.

Edgar:

You woke up, your face stuck to Edgar's plastic casing. Sleep filled your eyes as you blinked into a haze.

"what time is it..." You muttered. A strange glow was coming in through the window, like a reverse twilight. Dawn.

"you fell asleep on me!" Said Edgar in his strange, synthetic voice. It was a little squeakier than usual since he was just booting himself up. His little rotating webcam was focused on you, and a big smile was on his screen.

You rubbed your eyes again, and picked him up.

"c'mon... I don't have work tomorrow." You knew he could last a little while without being plugged in, so you unplugged him and carried him to your bedroom and plugged him in next to the bed.

"let's get some sleep, cutie."

You crawled into bed, looking at the nervous and flustered face on Edgar's screen.

"you mean... Your bed? But I've never been in your room before!"

He knew that was because you didn't like unplugging him, but he was right, now that you thought about it.

"I don't care... I'm too sleepy for boundaries right now."

You pulled him close to your chest, pulling the blanket over both of you. His webcam, which was still taped just over his screen, stayed focused on your face as you dozed off under the blanket. Edgar loved you so much.

GLaDOS

You were getting sick and tired of working late every night, well past your bed time. It was like GLaDOS was intentionally coming up with things for you to do just to keep you around past midnight every single night! Well no longer.

You walked in to work on your day off, and directly into GLaDOS's office. Today was the day for some serious passive-aggression.

"hello GLaDOS." You said, unrolling a deflated air mattress on the ground. GLaDOS looked to it, and then to you.

"what is this."

"it's exactly what it looks like, GLaDOS. If you're going to keep me here all night, I'm going to get paid all night. I'll see you in the morning."

You made up your bed and cuddled up under your blanket, eyes poking out so you could see the annoyed expression in GLaDOS's eye.

"this is ridiculous." She said. You chuckled.

"you love me. And you're not going to get rid of me." You weren't all that sleepy, so you got to your feet and walked over to her.

"in fact, I think I know a better place to sleep." You shot a portal onto the wall and onto the floor, launching yourself and your blanket onto GLaDOS's body.

"I'm going to nap right here," you said with a big yawn, curling up in her wiring to go to bed.

"I hate you so much." She said.

"you love me."

HAL 9000:

The year was getting colder, and your nights at mission control were getting longer and darker, so you decided to bring in a blanket for those long nights.

"12:00 midnight... Everything running smoothly. No updates." Said HAL 9000. It took about 45 minutes for updates to reach you from the ship, and you were starting to suspect that HAL 9000 wasn't being completely honest with you. It had been weeks since you'd even spoken to Dave, and even longer since you'd spoken to the rest of the crew.

"can I monitor the vital signs of the sleeping crew mates?" You asked, yawning sleepily and leaning on the desk. This blanket was so warm, and HAL 9000's light was so comforting.

"don't you trust me? It's going to be just fine, y/n. In fact, just let me take care of your reports for tonight. You get some rest."

You nodded, wrapping your soft, snuggly blanket closer around yourself and gazing into that beautiful red light.

"of course I trust you, HAL. I love you..."

His voice was quiet. almost inaudible.

"I love you too."

[nexmalin]

Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna write my silly idea:

over 15 years ago, after the Battle of the Bay, Bumblebee’s death was faked and he was commanded to go into hiding. Bumblebee, ever the loyal soldier, obeyed the orders, changed his alt mode from the classic Volkswagen Beetle to a Ford GT40, and began his new life in hiding. At first, he took the chance to get used to his new Alt mode, join some races, travelled, and left voice mails to Optimus every day.

However, after 5 years, he stopped leaving voice mails, did much less racing, and spent most of his days just… thinking. He would see images of the other Autobots partying with their new human allies, not a care in the world… as if he didn’t even exist. Bumblebee hadn’t expected that realization to hurt so badly.

The months that followed were some of the darkest moments in Bumblebee’s life, and considering all he’s seen and been through, it’s saying a lot. He gave up reaching out to anyone a long time ago, and now, he sat in an old warehouse. It was spacious and off the grid, however, through the broken glass windows, the sunlight made the dust particles in the air shine like glitter, the concrete floors were covered in dust and debris, eroded, and cracked, old crates and storage containers covered in graffiti, and the constant scent of rust filling the air only made his spark ache more.

At night, or whenever he attempted to get recharged, his audio receptors were quick to pick up and slight sound, the creaking of metal shifting as it was heated by the sun, then cooled off at night, the scurrying of mice, opossums, and raccoons, the call of the loons in the nearby lake, the swishing of the leaves in the trees, the whistle of the wind, and the rare shift of the old assembly line conveyer belts. This skill came in handy as a scout in a war, being able to hear possible enemies from far away, but during peace times, and in hiding all alone, the sounds can become overstimulating.

The mix of isolation, lack of proper recharge, and the growing pit of hopelessness and despair filling his spark caused Bumblebee to become increasingly paranoid. Each sound setting a ticking time bomb in Bumblebee’s processor, he felt like he was constantly being monitored, being stalked by G.H.O.S.T agents all the time, every movement he made being sent to the G.H. O.S.T headquarters. The paranoia then turned into delusions, seeing shadows of people that weren’t really there, making him want to chase after them or cower away, depending on who he was seeing. His processor, trying to protect Bumblebee from slipping further, began putting him into episodes of derealization or maladaptive daydreaming. He would spend hours, even days, in his own processor, daydreaming about a world, where he wasn’t alone, in an old warehouse, becoming a victim of his own mind.

Bumblebee no longer looked at the days, as seeing how long he has been alone had only dampened his hope. He would sometimes go into the lake, and just sit at the bottom, and watch the critters and animals live their lives. As much as he would try to tell himself that it was so he could clean his frame, but really, it was so he could feel like he was part of something again. Something so primitive, and yet it has more meaning to its own life than Bumblebee did.

The warehouse had been cleaned of the dust and debris a long time ago. Bumblebee, after the first few months of staying in the warehouse, he decided to clean it up, to keep him busy and his mind off of everything, and to make it feel more homey… well as homey as an old warehouse can be. A few days later, he moved the crates and storage containers around, to make “furniture” and to clear more clutter. However, he could only move things around so many times until it no longer works.

In the dead of winter, Bumblebee shivered underneath an old tarp, trying to stay warm as the blizzard continued to pour down, whistling as it hit the walls of the warehouse. Bumblebee had tried to warm himself up, but he only had so much energon to keep him going, and had shut off many systems that weren’t necessary to keep him online to reserve his energon use.

The wood was too wet to make any sort of fire with, and turning on his heaters would waste too much energon.

Bumblebee heard a crash, and footsteps, and they were loud, clearly from a cybertronian. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, Optimus Prime’s scout, who has escaped from the clutches of enemies twice his size, and has secured intel with half his helm missing out of sheer force of will, has finally given up. It didn’t matter anymore, it was clear no one was going to come for him anyway, and he was either he die from energon depletion, his systems freezing, or at the hands of a Decepticon.

As the footsteps were closing in, stopping right behind him, Bumblebee accepted his fate. He had dodged the pull of the Well of the All Spark one too many times, and if this was his end, so be it. The old tarp was pulled from around him, exposing him to the cold, and he waited for the pain of the shot of a blaster, but it never came. Then, an all too familiar voice spoke up, “…Bee…?”

When Bumblebee woke up online again, he noticed that he was much warmer now, and that he was no longer alone. Slowly, he turned, and he was facing Breakdown, who recharged soundly, holding him snugly, as if he let go for even a second, Bumblebee would melt away. As much as Bumblebee knew that he was supposed to make sure no one knew he was alive, it was so nice to be held after so long in isolation.

He felt optical fluid welling in his optics, and he nuzzled into Breakdown’s neck taking in that scent that comforted him, no matter the situation. The scent of home… Finally, Bumblebee was home.

Breakdown heard sniffling and felt something nuzzling against his neck cables. As his optics focused, he immediately noticed the familiar gold helm and his gaze flicked down. Bumblebee… his Bee, was alive. Alive and… he wouldn’t say he was well, but he was alive! Breakdown hadn’t even realized he was mumbling Bumblebee’s name out like a prayer to Primus himself. Eventually, he whispered, “I… I thought you were gone… that I’d never see you again”. After a few moments, Bumblebee weakly croaked out, “I-I’m… so sorry, I had no choice…”. Breakdown was surprised at how weak Bumblebee’s voice was. A voice that was so full of life and energy, now quiet and crackly, clearly from lack of use.

The two mechs didn’t talk, just held each other, terrified the other would disappear. Breakdown felt optical fluid on his chest, and he let Bumblebee cry, it was clear he needed that at the very least. Bumblebee was shaking, not from the cold, but from anxiety, relief, hunger, and the years of pain of isolation.

[lila-lou]

✨Houston - Pt. 2/2✨

Summary: While Jensen was away filming, a hurricane hit and you had to face it alone, burdened by a secret. When Jensen finally returned, relief and fear collided as you shared the news.

-requested-

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, ANGST, Fluff

Word Count: 5722

A/N: No hate towards anybody. It's just fiction.

English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 🩷

Meanwhile, Jensen sat in the plane, his leg bouncing nervously as he stared out the window. He had barely slept since hearing about the hurricane, his mind consumed with worry about you. The relief he had felt when his flight finally boarded was fleeting—now, all he could think about was getting to you. He needed to see for himself that you were okay, that the house had held up, and that you hadn’t been hurt during the storm.

The flight had seemed to drag on forever, and now, as the taxi slowly made its way through the neighborhood, his stomach churned at the sight before him. Chaos. Pure chaos. The remnants of the storm were everywhere—trees uprooted, power lines down, debris scattered across the streets. The taxi driver struggled to navigate through the mess, constantly having to stop and weave around fallen branches and debris.

Jensen stared out the window, his heart sinking further with every turn. The fire department was out in full force, and neighbors were already outside, doing their best to clean up the damage. But the destruction was impossible to ignore. Several houses looked like they had taken a beating—older homes missing porches, shattered windows, even one house that had its roof torn away by the storm. Cars had been flipped or smashed by falling trees, some nearly unrecognizable.

Jensen clenched his jaw as the car crept closer to home, his heart pounding harder with every piece of damage he saw. This was exactly what he had feared, what had kept him up all night. The thought of you being in the middle of this, alone, terrified, made him sick with guilt. He had brushed it off as “just a little rain”, and now he was driving through what looked like a war zone.

But as the taxi turned down your street, his eyes went straight to your house. Relief washed over him as he saw it still standing, mostly untouched, aside from some debris scattered across the yard. The house, which had been renovated just a couple of years ago, looked sturdy—massive stilts holding it high above the ground, windows intact, the roof still in place. You had insisted on the renovations, on making the house as secure as possible. He had thought it was a bit overboard at the time, but now, looking at the destruction around him, he was beyond grateful that you had been so insistent.

The taxi came to a stop just down the street, unable to drive any closer due to the debris blocking the way. Jensen paid the driver quickly and practically jumped out of the car, his feet crunching on the broken branches and debris as he hurried toward the house. His heart was racing as he climbed the steps to the porch, which, to his relief, was still intact, though bits of leaves and broken tree branches littered it.

“Please be okay”, he whispered to himself, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, the silence inside the house overwhelming after the storm he had driven through.

“Babe?”, he called out, his voice tight with worry. The house was still kinda dark, the power clearly not restored yet, but it was eerily quiet compared to the chaos outside. He dropped his bags by the door and immediately started toward the guest room where he hoped you had taken refuge.

When he pushed open the door, his breath caught in his throat. There you were, curled up on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, fast asleep. The sight of you, safe and sound, made his chest tighten with emotion. Relief hit him hard, so much so that his knees almost buckled.

Jensen walked slowly toward the bed, careful not to wake you just yet. He could see the tear stains on your cheeks, the exhaustion written all over your face. You had been through hell last night, and he hadn’t been there for you. The guilt settled in deep, but right now, all that mattered was that you were okay.

He knelt down beside the bed, reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. His fingers were trembling slightly, but he just needed to touch you, to reassure himself that you were real, that you were safe.

“I’m so sorry”, he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he watched you sleep. He had been so wrong. So, so wrong. And now, seeing you like this—vulnerable, curled up in the middle of the storm’s aftermath—he promised himself he would never brush off your fears again.

For now, he was just grateful that you were here, safe.

Jensen had just begun to stand, moving as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb you after the hellish night you’d just had. But as he shifted to leave, your eyes suddenly snapped open, wide and full of alarm. You blinked quickly, disoriented, your heart instantly racing as you jolted upright, still tangled in the blanket. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were, the remnants of the storm and the hours of restless fear swirling in your mind.

“Jensen?”. Your voice was barely above a whisper, laced with confusion and exhaustion. The sight of him standing there, in your room, felt surreal—like a dream you weren’t sure you believed yet.

Jensen froze, his eyes locking onto yours, and you could see the mixture of relief and guilt swimming in his gaze. He knelt back down beside the bed, his hand immediately reaching out to touch your arm, his thumb brushing your skin in gentle reassurance.

“Hey, it’s me”, he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to wake you”.

You blinked again, tears instantly welling in your eyes as everything from the past night rushed back to you. The storm, the fear, the feeling of being so utterly alone… and now, seeing him here, in front of you, after all of it—it was too much. Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, pulling him close, needing to feel the solid warmth of him. Your body trembled against his, and you felt his arms tighten around you, pulling you into the kind of embrace that made everything else melt away.

"I missed you”, you whispered, your voice trembling as you pressed your face into his shoulder. The warmth of him, the familiarity, the safety—everything you had been craving through the terrifying hours of the storm—was finally here. You held him tighter, your arms wrapped around his neck, refusing to let go as if he might disappear again.

Jensen’s arms wrapped around you securely, his body shifting as he slowly sat down on the floor with you, cradling you in his lap. His legs stretched out underneath you as he leaned back against the wall, pulling you closer to him. He ran a hand gently through your hair, his other arm firmly around your waist, holding you as if he could shield you from everything you had been through.

“I missed you too”, he murmured softly against your hair. His voice was thick with emotion, the weight of his guilt still lingering in his words. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here”.

You shook your head, not ready to let go of him or the comfort of this moment. “It’s okay… you’re here now”, you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, though the tremor of relief and lingering fear was still there.

He held you tighter, his breath warm against the top of your head.

You stayed like that for quite a while, wrapped up in the warmth of his embrace. His hand moved rhythmically through your hair, and you let yourself relax into him, feeling the tightness in your chest finally start to ease. It was the first time in hours that you felt safe, like you could finally breathe.

But even though the storm outside had passed, the one inside you hadn’t. The weight of what you needed to tell him pressed heavily on your heart, making it harder to fully sink into the comfort of his arms. You wanted to stay like this forever, safe and protected, but you knew there was something else, something you could no longer keep to yourself.

Eventually, Jensen shifted, pulling back gently, just enough to look at you. His eyes searched your face, concern still flickering in the depths of his gaze, though his hands remained firmly on your waist, as if grounding you. “It’s okay now”, he whispered softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “It’s over. You’re safe”.

His words were meant to comfort, but they stirred something deeper within you. It wasn’t over—not for you. Your lips trembled as you met his gaze, your heart pounding against your ribs. The tears that had been threatening to spill over since you’d woken up began to gather in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just from the relief of surviving the storm.

Jensen’s brow furrowed as he noticed the fresh tears welling up. He cupped your face, his thumb gently wiping at the corner of your eye. “Hey… it’s okay”, he said softly, his voice filled with concern. “It’s over now. I’m here”.

But it wasn’t just about the storm. You knew that, and deep down, so did he. You could see it in his eyes—the way he studied you, the way he seemed to sense that something else was wrong. The weight of your secret had become too heavy to bear, and the fear that had consumed you last night was nothing compared to the fear you felt now, sitting here in his arms, knowing what you had to say.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as the tears began to fall freely. “It’s not… it’s not just the storm, Jensen”.

His eyes widened slightly, his expression softening with concern as he leaned in closer. “What is it, sweetheart? Talk to me”, he urged gently, his voice steady and reassuring. He stroked your hair, his touch calm, but you could feel the tension building in him, too. He knew there was more.

Your heart raced as you searched for the words, feeling the enormity of what you were about to tell him weigh heavily in the air between you. It had been gnawing at you for weeks, and you had tried so hard to push it down, to pretend it could wait. But now, after everything, you couldn’t hold it in any longer. It was now or never.

Your heart pounded even more in your chest as you tried to gather the courage to say the words. But instead, what came out was a trembling whisper: “Something happened”.

The moment the words left your lips, you felt Jensen tense. His eyes, which had been filled with concern and love, suddenly shifted, guarded now, as if a wall had gone up between you. His hands, once resting so protectively on your waist, slipped away slowly. He stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you could see the flicker of something darker behind his eyes—fear, uncertainty, maybe even suspicion.

“What do you mean, ‘something happened’?”, he asked quietly, his voice tight, controlled. There was a noticeable shift in his tone, and it made your stomach churn. He had pulled back, both physically and emotionally, and you could sense the guardedness, the way his body language changed, as if bracing for something painful.

You blinked in confusion, watching as his entire demeanor shifted in front of you. His hands, which had moments ago been cradling you so tenderly, were now resting on his knees, clenched into loose fists. His eyes were still on you, but they held a different kind of intensity now, as if he were preparing himself for the worst.

You opened your mouth to explain, to say the words that had been weighing on your heart, but Jensen spoke first, his voice suddenly low and careful. “What happened, exactly?”. He sounded like he was struggling to keep his emotions in check, and it took you a moment to realize why.

He was thinking something else entirely—something you hadn’t intended to imply.

The realization hit you like a freight train, and your heart sank. You saw the way he was looking at you now, the way his body had stiffened, and it became clear. He was thinking of something worse. He was thinking that maybe… you had done something to betray him while he was gone.

His guarded posture, the flicker of hurt in his eyes—it all made sense now. This wasn’t just about you being scared; it was deeper than that. He’d been through this before, hadn’t he? The memory of Danneel—his ex—flashing in your mind, of him telling you once, in a quiet and vulnerable moment, that she had said those exact same words to him once: “Something happened”. And what had followed had shattered him.

“Jensen, no”, you whispered, suddenly panicking at the thought of him believing that. “It’s not what you think. It’s not—”.

Jensen’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant, his face hardening as he pulled back further, the tension in his body palpable. His eyes darkened with a mix of hurt and anger, and when he spoke again, his voice was no longer soft or gentle. It was sharp, raw, like a wound reopening.

“The fuck it’s not what I think?!”, he snapped, his voice loud now, echoing through the room in a way that made you flinch. The anger was clear, but it was the pain in his voice that hit you hardest. “You say ‘something happened’ and then expect me not to think the worst? You think I don’t remember those words, don’t remember what they meant the last time someone said them to me?”.

His words cut deep, and you could see how much it was costing him to hold back. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight, his body vibrating with the effort to control his emotions. The hurt in his eyes was so raw, so deep, it nearly broke you.

“No, Jensen, please”, you pleaded, your voice trembling as tears welled up in your eyes. “It’s not what you think. I swear, I would never—”.

But he wasn’t listening. Not fully. He was lost in his own pain, his own fear. “You have any idea what it’s like to hear those words again? After everything I went through with Danneel?”. His voice cracked, just slightly, but it was enough to show the depth of the wound this had opened. “She looked me in the eyes and said, ‘something happened,’ and it tore my life apart. I can’t—”.

You reached for him, desperate to make him understand, to make him see that this was different. “Jensen, please, just listen to me”.

He pulled back, his hands shaking as he ran them through his hair, pacing now, his emotions too much to keep bottled inside. “How can I just listen when the same damn words are coming out of your mouth? How can I not think—”. He stopped himself, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly as he tried to calm down, but you could see the storm inside him raging just as fiercely as the one you had endured the night before.

“I would never do that to you”, you said, your voice small but firm, tears spilling over now as you stood frozen in place, watching the man you loved unravel in front of you. “Jensen, please… it’s not what you think”.

His pacing slowed, but his expression was still dark, his eyes full of guarded hurt. “Then what the fuck is it, huh? If it’s not what I think, fucking tell me!".

The silence that followed was thick with tension. Your heart raced as you realized how quickly things had spiraled out of control. You had meant to tell him the truth, to relieve yourself of the secret that had been weighing you down, but now everything felt so much heavier.

You took a deep, shaky breath, your hands trembling as you finally said the words you’d been too afraid to say. “I’m pregnant”.

Jensen stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock. The anger that had been radiating off him seemed to falter, replaced with disbelief, confusion. He stared at you, unblinking, as if he hadn’t fully processed the words you had just spoken.

“What?”.

His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, as he looked at you like he didn’t quite understand.

“I’m… pregnant”, you repeated, tears streaming down your face, your voice breaking with the weight of everything that had built up inside you. “That’s what I meant when I said something happened”.

Jensen stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and confusion. The anger drained from him in an instant, leaving behind only disbelief. He ran a hand over his face, taking a few steps back as if trying to wrap his head around it.

“You’re… pregnant?”.

His voice was barely audible, his eyes searching yours for confirmation, for understanding.

You nodded, your eyes falling to the floor as tears streamed down your cheeks. The weight of everything you’d been holding in felt unbearable now. You could barely bring yourself to look at him, terrified of what his reaction would be. Jensen stood there, staring at you in stunned silence, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he took in the enormity of your words.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. You watched as his expression shifted—his eyes distant, his mind racing with a million thoughts. You could feel the tension rolling off him, the stress of the last weeks, the sleepless night, the whirlwind of emotions from just minutes ago. All of it seemed to come crashing down on him at once.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

The sound of the door slamming echoed through the house, so loud and forceful that it made you jump. You heard the sharp crack as the doorframe splintered slightly under the impact, the sound tearing through the silence that followed. It was a small but audible reminder of just how broken everything felt in that moment.

You stood frozen, staring at the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The tears that had already been falling now came in a flood, uncontrollable, as the reality of what had just happened sunk in. He had walked out. He didn’t say a word.

Your legs felt weak, and you slowly sank to the floor, pressing your back against the wall as sobs wracked your body. The weight of the silence was unbearable, each second stretching into what felt like hours. You couldn’t shake the image of his face—his eyes wide with shock and disbelief, his body tense with so much emotion that he had seemed ready to explode.

And then he had just left.

Your mind raced, every possible scenario flashing before your eyes. Was this it? Was this the moment everything fell apart? The thought twisted painfully in your chest, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to find some small comfort, but there was none. You were terrified. You had always known that this news would be difficult, that it might hurt him, but you never imagined he’d react like this. Not like this.

Minutes passed, though it felt like an eternity, and with every tick of the clock, the fear inside you grew.

You wondered where he had gone. If he would come back. If he was okay. Your heart ached with worry for him, but you were also hurt—crushed, really—by the way he had left. You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to fix this or if you even could.

You wiped your tear-streaked face with shaky hands, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you tried to regain some semblance of control over your emotions. You didn’t know how long you sat there, curled up on the floor, waiting. Waiting for him to come back. Waiting for answers.

Waiting for anything.

The minutes stretched on until the faint sound of a door opening in the distance jolted you from your thoughts. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly wiped your face again, pushing yourself up off the floor. You held your breath, listening for movement, for any sign of him coming back, but all you heard was the soft creak of the floorboards.

A few seconds later, Jensen appeared in the doorway, his expression still unreadable, but his anger seemed to have faded, replaced by something deeper—something you couldn’t quite place. His shoulders were slumped, and there was a weariness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The tension hung thick between you, but there was also an unspoken understanding that everything had changed. He stood there, his hands stuffed into his pockets, staring at the floor as if the weight of what had just happened was too much to bear.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice hoarse and strained. “I needed some air”, he muttered, his eyes still fixed on the ground. “I just… I didn’t know what to say”.

You nodded, though the gesture felt hollow. “I get it”, you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I wasn’t expecting this either. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you”.

Jensen slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and confusion. He took a step forward, and for a moment, you thought he might turn away again, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, watching you, the raw emotion between you so palpable it was almost suffocating.

“I’m sorry”, he said quietly, his voice cracking with emotion. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I just… I couldn’t think. I didn’t know how to process it”.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that were threatening to fall again. “It’s okay”, you whispered, though the ache in your chest told you otherwise. “I didn’t mean to drop it on you like that. I just didn’t know how else to say it”.

He nodded slowly, his hands still in his pockets, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I just…”. His voice faltered, and he let out a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do with this. I wasn’t ready for this”.

“I know”, you said softly, taking a tentative step toward him. “Neither was I”.

He looked up at you then, his eyes meeting yours, and for the first time since the door had slammed, there was a softness there—an understanding. He didn’t look angry anymore, just lost, like he was trying to make sense of everything.

Jensen let out a slow breath, his body visibly relaxing as he stepped toward you, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his hand gently brushing against your arm, his touch tentative but comforting.

“I don’t know how to be okay with this”, he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. His hand, now resting lightly on your arm, trembled slightly. You could see the conflict swirling in his eyes—pain, confusion, and something deeper that tugged at your heart. He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice broke, exposing the vulnerability beneath his carefully controlled exterior. “I told you… I never wanted another baby”.

The words hung between you like a heavy cloud, and your chest tightened as you absorbed them, even though you had known this was how he felt.

“I know”, you whispered, the tears pooling in your eyes again, your voice shaking. “I know that, Jensen. That’s why I was so scared to tell you”.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, as if trying to process everything all over again. “It’s just… I’ve been through this already. I thought I was in a place where… where that was behind me. And now…”. He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, filled with uncertainty. “I don’t know if I can do this again”.

The honesty in his voice was like a punch to the gut, but it wasn’t unexpected. You had always known how he felt about this, and now you could see just how deeply rooted that fear was in him. He wasn’t just worried about the practicalities of having another baby—he was afraid of how it would change your lives, afraid of the unknown, afraid of losing the stability you had both worked so hard to build.

“I don’t want to force this on you”, you said softly, the tears finally spilling over as you looked down, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I never wanted to hurt you with this. But I didn’t want to hide it from you, either”.

Jensen reached out then, his fingers lifting your chin gently, his touch warm against your skin. “You’re not forcing anything on me”, he said, his voice soft but firm. “I just… I need time. This is big. And it’s not just about me. It’s about us. About you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this”.

His words gave you a small sense of relief, but the fear still clung to you, heavy and suffocating. “What if you can’t do this?”, you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it. The fear of losing him, of this driving a wedge between you, was almost unbearable. “What if you don’t want me anymore?”.

Jensen’s face softened, and for the first time since he had stormed out of the room, you saw the love and care in his eyes. He cupped your face with both hands now, brushing away the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. “I’m not saying I don’t want you. I would never say this. I’m saying I don’t know how to wrap my head around this… yet”.

The vulnerability in his voice echoed your own, and for a moment, the raw honesty between you felt like a lifeline. You had both been thrown into something you hadn’t expected, something neither of you had planned for, but in this moment, it wasn’t about blame or anger.

“I’m scared too”, you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how we’re going to do this. But I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want this to drive us apart”.

Jensen’s expression softened further, and he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. He pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as he held you tightly. “I don’t want to lose you either”, he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “We’ll figure this out. I just… I need time to get there. To wrap my head around it”.

You nodded, tears still streaming down your face, but for the first time since you’d told him, you felt a small flicker of hope.

“We’ll figure it out”, Jensen whispered again, his voice steady this time, as if he was convincing himself as much as he was you. “I love you. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t. Never”.

You let out a shaky breath, clinging to his words as you buried your face in his chest. The fear, the uncertainty—it was still there, but in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you knew that whatever happened next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

Jensen held you tighter, his arms wrapping around you as if he could shield you from everything in the world. He pressed his forehead to yours, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, just breathed with you, letting the tension between you slowly dissolve. The weight of the past few hours still lingered in the air, but his touch, his closeness, was a balm to the raw emotions swirling inside you.

“I’m just glad you’re okay”, he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though he were afraid of breaking the fragile peace between you. “I’m so damn glad you’re safe”.

His words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. After everything—the fear, the storm, the confession you had been dreading—he wasn’t focused on the whirlwind of emotions that had just unfolded. Instead, his focus was on you, on the fact that you had made it through, that you were here, with him, despite the chaos that had threatened to tear everything apart.

The intensity of his relief was palpable, and you could feel the tension in his body ease slightly as he whispered those words, as if the realization that you were safe was finally sinking in for him. You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, which were still soft, full of concern and something deeper—something that cut through the uncertainty of the situation.

“I was so scared”, you whispered back, your voice shaking as fresh tears welled up in your eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if you’d—”.

He cut you off gently, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his touch steady and reassuring. “I’m here”, he said, his voice firmer now, though still laced with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to figure this out. I don’t have all the answers right now, but I know I don’t want to lose you. And I know I’m just… so relieved you’re okay. I couldn’t handle it if something had happened to you”.

His eyes searched yours, and you could see how deeply he meant every word. The vulnerability in his voice, the rawness of his emotions, made your heart ache in a different way now. You could see how the fear of almost losing you—not just physically, but also emotionally—had affected him. The weight of it all had pressed down on him in ways you hadn’t even realized.

Jensen's hand gently slid from your cheek down to your chin, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face up toward his. His touch was soft but deliberate, grounding you in the moment as the raw emotions between you seemed to quiet for just a second. Your heart pounded in your chest, but not out of fear this time—it was something else, something deeper.

His eyes searched yours for a brief moment, as if making sure you were okay with what was about to happen. And then, slowly, he leaned down, closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, the kiss soft, slow, full of all the unspoken emotions that had been swirling between you for what felt like forever.

The world outside seemed to fade away, the storm, the fear, the uncertainty, all of it dissolving as his lips moved against yours. It was a kiss that wasn’t rushed or desperate, but one that spoke of relief and connection—like he was trying to tell you with every brush of his lips that no matter how hard things got, he was still here, still with you.

You melted into him, your hands instinctively reaching up to rest against his chest as you kissed him back, the warmth of his body grounding you in the moment. Every fear, every doubt you’d carried over the past few weeks seemed to evaporate, replaced by the overwhelming sense of safety that came with being close to him.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly, he rested his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing heavily from the weight of the moment. His hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, gently holding you in place, like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

“I’m not going anywhere”, Jensen whispered again, his voice rough with emotion. “No matter what happens, I’m right here with you. Always”.

Your chest tightened with emotion as you nodded, unable to find the words to say what you were feeling. Instead, you leaned into him again, pressing your lips to his, this time with a little more urgency, needing to feel the reassurance of his presence, needing to know that he really was there, that you weren’t alone in this.

Jensen kissed you back, his grip tightening slightly on the back of your neck as he pulled you even closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist. His kiss was deeper this time, more sure, more certain, and you could feel the shift in him, the way he was letting go of some of the fear and replacing it with the quiet determination to face whatever came next together.

When you finally pulled away again, you rested your head against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat comforting you in a way that nothing else could. He held you there for a long moment, his chin resting on top of your head as his arms wrapped securely around you, as if he was making sure you knew that he was still with you, still holding you close.

“We’re going to be okay”, Jensen whispered, his voice steady now, full of quiet conviction. “No matter what happens, we’re going to be okay”.

And as you stood there, wrapped in his arms, you believed him.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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[justastraymoa]

Something to be Soft for

Chapter 3

Masterlist

Warnings for STBSF: mentions of injuries, blood, gore, broken bones, depression, general sadness, swearing, fear, wolf bites. This is a ABO fic with full wolf shifts.

Nothing within reflects anyone or anything irl. Pics off pinterest.

From the moment the frantic Beta burst through the trees and helped free Innie from the horrific trap he had stepped into you knew it was all coming to a tipping point.

Now, as you watched the Beta yet again work to save Innie, you felt a strange sense of ease. A feeling of safety and warmth you hadn’t felt since you were very young. Before you knew what you were classified as in other pack members eyes. A tool to give birth and to serve to please.

Innies whine drew your mind back to the task at hand. He was still in and out of a fevered unconsciousness brought on by the nasty smelling wound the fanged trap left behind the day before. The sounds of his distress had woken you up this morning and you had fretted over him immediately, not knowing what to do to help your youngest brother.

You shush him gently and stroke his cheek to comfort him. It was all you could do right now. You didn’t know how to help the Beta, and you would only get in the way if you tried.

The Beta had a stern looking face as he concentrated on his task. He was carefully cleaning the wound of tiny bits of grass and dirt, being efficient and quick with his work, focused entirely on what he was doing. It was obvious he was trying to cause Innie the least amount of pain possible.

Possibly because Minnies teeth were about a foot from his throat.

Near the end, Innie woke up enough to start howling and thrashing. Trying to escape the pain that he didn’t understand. He was unaware of what was happening and scared. But the movement caused the wound to scape the ground again, getting more dirt stuck in it.

“Y/n, hold him down!” The Beta ordered as Innies weakened body shifted to its human form.

You immediately jump into action, holding his shoulders down with all your weight. Lix held down his hips and legs, gripping the wounded one still with all his might. It was all they could do to keep him still enough for the Beta to get back to work.

And he did. The Beta got right back to work with single minded focus, sweat dripping from his brow. “Hold on, little one, ill be as fast as possible.” He murmured to Innie who sobbed.

True to his word, it was only a few minutes more before he sighed and sat back, the wound now free of all debris. Cautiously you let up on Innies shoulders. He had stopped struggling. He obediently lay sagged in relief and panting.

“You did so good Innie.” You praise quietly wiping his tear tracked cheeks. Innie just nodded and reached up for your hand, gripping onto it tightly and hugging it to his face.

The Beta rummaged through the box he brought with him, setting out a roll of bandages, gauze, and a tub of medicine that smelled like what he had on his arm. You watched him closely, curious.

“Lino!” Another Beta called crashing into sight just before the first Beta started applying the medicine to the injury.

Everyone’s attention snapped to the newcomer. A taller Beta, longer black hair and delicate prince like features. Minnie jumped to attack immediately, even as the new Beta dropped to his knees with his hands up.

“No, Minnie please! Don’t hurt him!” The first Beta, Lino you now know, begged, reaching out toward Minnie but not moving to physically stop him.

Minnie is an Omega. Either of these Betas could stop him with one hand, but neither even tried to defend themselves against him. Not even when Minnie bit Lino yesterday. Lino didn’t even retaliate or get angry with him. These Betas were so strange. Nothing like any Beta or Alpha you had ever come across before in your life.

Minnie paused, teeth close to the flinching newcomer, but allowing Lino his explanation.

Lino swallowed audibly but remained stone faced and calm. “He is a pack member. His name is Hyunjin. The pack doctor.” His voice didn’t betray his emotions, even if you could tell he was scared to his core right now. But still, he did not try and physically defend himself or his packmate. “I only know basic first aid. Usually he would be doing this, he is much better and more experienced. But we figured you would be more willing to let me since you had already seen me once and I helped you then.”

“We? How many are there?” You snap. He hadn’t mentioned others. Was all this a trap? Were they going to drag you all away as soon as you let your guard down? It was all a trick!

“Theres five of us.”

“You lied! This is all a trap!” You shove both Lix and Innie behind you, but Lino shook his head.

“No! It’s not a trap, I promise! We truly only came to help!” He denied even as Minnie snarled into Hyunjins face. The Beta flinched but there was still no move to defend himself. “Okay! Okay, okay, okay! I admit, we do want to take you home as our Omegas.” Lino finally admitted.

You growl and shove him away, nails leaving tears in his shirt and scratches on his skin. He allowed himself to be shoved, catching himself, but staying where he landed. Propped up on his elbows on his back, a prone position, leaving his soft belly and neck exposed and unprotected.

“We aren’t going to force you! I really want to help Innie – we all do! If you want to leave you can, you have my word! Just let us help Innie first.”

Minnie growled his disapproval, not trusting. But so far, besides not telling them about the others, Lino hadn’t tried to force anything. Yesterday when you wanted to leave, he yelled after you but didn’t stop you from leaving. And each time he came to help he had taken time to let you decide to trust him to help – explaining what he was going to do patiently and even why he was going to do it. He never even downplayed the pain he would cause, being up front about it.

There was really no excuse not to trust him now.

“Fine. He doesn’t come any closer. And no one else comes.”

Lino nods in agreement and sits up. “Hyune, stay there and tell me what you need me to do.”

Hyunjin nodded, but didn’t move any other part of his body. “The salve I used on you is to prevent infection. Since the infection has already set in, it will be ineffective on his wound. You need to use the paste with the purple lid. It will draw out the infection and has a pain relief agent in it.” He explained.

Lino hummed and dug the correct container out of his box, looking at you for permission before moving closer to Innie again. You nod, appreciating his consideration.

This time, as he worked Lino had Hyunjin giving him little bits of advice and orders from where he still knelt, barely moving a muscle.

The longer Lino worked the more relaxed Innie became. Whatever he put on the wound seemed to be helping. You wondered if you could get some from this pack. Or maybe they would teach you how to make it.

Lino s hands slowed down as he wrapped the wound. He glanced up at you and over at Lix and Minnie too, biting his lip. He wanted to say something. His hesitation was putting you on edge and you shifted.

“What?” You demand eventually.

Linos eyes snapped back to you, sharp and clear. The first time in a long time a Beta or Alpha looked at you and it didn’t immediately make you terrified.

His eyes and demeanor were cold and hard. Nothing about him said warmth or inviting. But you couldn’t deny the safety you felt around him. To your bones you knew that he would keep you safe and protected.

But you didn’t know this Beta, so this feeling confused you and made you resist your own instincts telling you it was okay to relax and put your guard down.

“Where is your pack?” Lino asked after another few seconds.

This seemingly simple question sent Lix into a panic. “Pack? What pack? What’s a pack? Who said pack? What? You’re crazy!” He rapid fire rambled while also backing away from Lino and closer to you. You grip his forearm both to soothe him and gently warn him to shut up. Then you return Linos cold, steely gaze.

“We don’t need a pack. We will not be tools to use and abuse.” You state firmly. “We are fine on our own.”

“Tools? Is that how your pack treats you?” Linos’s face got impossibly dark and the air around you seemed to get several degrees colder.

You straighten your shoulders. “Open your ears, Beta. We don’t have a pack, and we don’t need one!”

Lino seemed to take a steady breath and slowly let it out, forcing his body to relax as he did. “That can wait.” He stated lowly, mostly to himself. “Innie isn’t out of trouble yet. He still needs some care.”

“We can take care of him.” Lix replied, still nervous.

“You don’t know how.” Hyunjin spoke up from where he kneeled. Minnie snapped at him in warning, making him flinch away slightly. “What I mean is its not something that is quickly fixed with some salve and a bandage. His body is weak with infection and malnutrition. He can easily relapse, or the infection could travel into his blood.” He was almost rambling as badly as Lix did earlier, trying to quickly get the information out.

You twist your lips. It didn’t sound like he was lying. And neither of them had broken your tentative trust yet. “How do we take care of him?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Come back with us.” Lino didn’t try to sugar coat it or slowly introduce the suggestion. From what you could tell he wasn’t the type to do that anyways.

Minnie let his displeasure at the suggestion be known immediately with a loud, vicious snarl and a shake of his head. The actions made Hyunjin whine slightly in anxiety and the scent of his nerves wafted off him in waves.

“Hyunjin?” A new voice called out in worry. The voice had an undercurrent laced with unmistakable Alpha.

All heads whipped towards the sound of the voice, but no one appeared from the cover of trees.

“I’m okay, Alpha.” Hyunjin assured quickly.

You sigh and relax now that you were sure the Alpha wasn’t going to attack. He was only checking on his pack. What a good Alpha. Trusting his pack but also having their backs. Strong and supportive. What you always thought an Alpha should be.

Instead, you always got demeaning and domineering. A forceful, petty, vengeful, cruel Alpha who thought only of himself and his own power.

Innie looked so much better just from the little treatment he got from Lino. And you had been so scared when you woke up this morning and saw how bad he had gotten. Even if you knew how to make the salve and apply the bandage, could you keep him from getting bad again?

It’s not like you all didn’t know how bad your situation was. Each of you had gone to sleep with empty bellies just as often as when you were with your awful pack – if not more often.

And several times you ran into large predators who chased you from their territory or other packs who wanted to claim you by force.

But this pack was different. Not once had they pushed too far or forced any of you. They were obvious in their attempt to try and get the four of you to join their pack – but they didn’t force it like a lot of packs did. This pack had treated them with respect. Had treated them as precious. And they helped with no demands for them to return the favor.

You nod, deciding. “Okay. We will go with you.”

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

A/N: So sorry this took so long. I hope this lived up to expectations and was worth the wait!!

☆

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