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gyuswhore · 6 months ago

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Cherry Picker [1]

«« "Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't." »»

Choi Seungcheol x reader | part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], toxic friends, cheol has anger issues, kkuma appearance, @miniseokminnies makes also makes a fluffy appearance, injuries, mentions of blood, smut tags in the next part

synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

[a/n] (it's a long one but PLEASE read) : ITS HERE FINALLY this was an extremely bumpy ride and I wouldn't have finished it without all of my friends who quite literally kept me going. I know I made an update saying this was gonna end up being 20k max but it turns out my yap-itis is for life </33

the posting schedule for this fic is going to be a little less predictable, I will try to get part 2 out asap but I do not currently have a date for you.

big thank you to @highvern for betaing and making me feel better about this fic, @amourcheol for talking me out of meltdowns multiple times and for giving me some really good scene pointers, @ugh-yoongi for being so patient w me and explaining how ice hockey works with so much patience. ty to @the-boy-meets-evil @tusswrites @lovetaroandtaemin for also proof reading for me 🥹

HUGE thank you to everyone at @camandemstudios who agreed to be part of this collab and being part of the journey as we grow 🫶 please check out the collab masterlist linked above, there's already so many amazing fics posted ready for you to read <33

that being said, I know more about figure skating than I do about hockey, but even so there are defo some inconsistencies in terms of accuracies in this, please bear with me 🫶 remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me your thoughts, id love to hear what you guys think 🥹 masterlist

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out.

“Sorry isn’t gonna give back my hour and thirteen minutes.”

The strap of your gym bag cuts into your bare shoulder where the collar had slipped, the tight threading sure to leave a scratch by the time this is bound to be done. You’d managed to avoid coach Carroll’s morning cornering for a couple months, going above and beyond by showing up to the icy rink before she could even pull up in the parking lot in her blaring red Porsche, let alone before her ten minute meditations in her cream coloured seats.

“There was an accident on the highway. Truck tipped over.”

“It’s eight in the morning,” Carroll points.

“Illegal truck, I guess.”

Teeth to tongue, you know you’ve done it.

She’s in her usual tracksuit, green today, that contrasts her bright red hair in its tight curls. Her glasses are her sensible Ralph Laurens, eyes piercing through the tinted lens as she holds her chin in her hands. Silent, calculating.

“Fine. Change.”

Your legs want to give out before you can even get your skates on.

There were many things Isabella Carroll was good at. The industry would have one of them be a good coach; one of the most expensive, the one that squeezed the life out of her students to inject into the golds, silvers and bronzes they would then bring her on an equally diamond encrusted platter.

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs.

The fact she chose to skip out on verbally humiliating you meant you’d managed to strike that cord. She might be leaving in the next 45 minutes, but she has a very particular way of stretching the minutes into years.

Like a whipped horse, you scurry into the locker rooms, skin crawling. Your gym bag is positively launched into your designated locker, shoes kicked off as you attempt to stick your right foot into your skates, narrowly missing your heel as it grazes right past the toe pick.

You slow down after that, not needing a scar on your heel to match the large one on the side of your calf.

By the time you jog back out, unzipping your jacket to throw onto one of the benches, coach is on the ice, following Marina who zips around on the other end of the rink in her step routine.

It’s difficult to not rush through your warmups when you’re already late, your splits hardly pushed out as you pray all that running around in the desolate locker rooms was enough to stretch everything out.

There’s a crash on the illuminated ice as you slip off your skate guards, Marina already practising her Salchows. “You’re in the air for enough time, why can’t you rotate?!”

Right blade first, you step into the cold encircling, gliding into the centre to begin making your usual rounds around the circumference.

There’s a positive screech of your name from across the ice, wind blowing in your hair as you turn to look. “Do I need to hire someone to hold up your free leg? Fix it, girl!”

Holding your left leg more taut, you attempt to transition into a jump and spin. You fail, landing on both feet. Somehow, falling on your ass felt like a better conclusion to that arc.

“Wonderfully executed! Let’s try both hands on the ice too next time, really complete the contemporary finish,” coach hollers out to you as she continues to follow Marina at the same time.

Trying again, you manage to land on your outer left blade. You receive no comment.

You try the jump again, pushing into a sit spin.

The momentum is enough to begin the familiar slack in your scalp, your bun loosening its grip on your hair. Biting your tongue would be dangerous right now, but you would if you could, especially considering the ramifications of your hair coming undone in front of her.

The crouch as you spin burns your thighs like you’re being branded, pulling yourself back up as you finish abruptly. Still no comment, the unintelligible string of nagging coming from the other side of the rink.

Marina stands hands on her hips, breathing so heavily she’s nearly heaving. Her blonde hair is loosening far worse than yours, strands framing her face. Coach Carroll waves her hands and shakes her head so quickly you wonder how her glasses haven’t flown off. You didn’t get to see what cardinal sin Marina committed to warrant this reaction, but you feel better knowing she’s exhausted enough to let her insults swim past.

Ten seconds is enough to catch your breath, moving to do something busy enough to avoid another being screamed at across the ice, again.

By the end of the remaining forty five minutes, you realised your punishment was also punishing Marina. Coach Carroll remained tailing Marina as you attempted to do everything that would please her, far away from her. Not a direction, praise or neutral comment in sight or sound, sealed with her always expected retorts.

She leaves without a word, leaving you scrambling to the benches for a seat. Putting your skate guards on is torture, your legs refusing to pull up to reach them. You hardly notice Marina slam down into the seat beside you to mimic you slumped down and head lolled back, eyes closed to the bright ceiling.

“These skates are gonna kill me,” you whine once you’ve caught your breath, unlacing them to inspect the blistering damage.

“They’re brand new, what did you expect?” she retorts, moving to sit up straighter. Of course, you were grappling at straws expecting anything akin to sympathy from Marina.

It was your misfortune that the day you had to break in your skates was the day you’d be late, your heavily bandaged foot still aching as you sit idle.

Your lungs are still burning when you pull yourself back up, knees buckling the absolute slightest bit as you attempt to take the first baby step back onto the ice.

“We need to get back to it,” Marina says, and you have half a mind to bite that you were up before her.

She’s faster at slipping off her skate guards though, and you watch her back as she glides back onto the ice. You follow suit, trailing her as you speak.

“Hey, I’m sorry Carroll was on your ass because of me. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, I overslept.”

She turns to look at you, ghost of a smile on her face. “Time to go old school I guess, I think my brother left behind his old alarm clock from college.”

“I guess—”

“Besides, I needed that. Wouldn’t have known my Salchows were sucky otherwise.”

She doesn’t let you respond and you’re left to watch as she takes off to warm herself back up.

Strange as it was, you’ve found her behaviour simply doesn’t affect you anymore, choosing to take her as she was. She pushed you to be better, to work harder. Even now, as your ankle burns and your hip screams, you brace yourself into another axel entry, trying your hardest to keep up with Marina.

It’s another couple hours when Marina leaves for her second appointment with her personal trainer, leaving you alone.

It’s less crowded now, despite the head count going from two to one, but you appreciate the alleviation as you continue to practise for the rest of the morning. The rink feels more vast and your hip has stopped its incessant aches.

Having finished a run through of your routine without music, you move towards the sound booth to turn on the tail end of your track, skating back to the echoing rink to brace yourself for the next four agonising minutes.

You’ve adjusted your starting position about ten times by the time the silence of the song restarting settles. And then it begins, soft piano as you push yourself off into the throngs of this hellsent routine.

It’s muscle memory by now, but your stomach lurches before you push into a jump anyway. There isn’t much time to ponder when you’re midair, tight yet contorted, trying to land on the right side of the blade. But there’s a phantom pain in your right ankle, right when you’re at the point of your arc, and you feel the all too dreaded panic flood in.

You land on both feet, less than ideal but with no one to watch the fail, it was better than falling on your ass. There’s been worse outcomes, so there’s little you can do but continue into the step sequence.

Trying to shake off that bout of panic, you briefly wonder if the music suddenly had more bass than you’d last checked. Perhaps you just hadn’t been practising like you should, but you make a mental note mid-spin to listen to the track again later tonight for any tidbits you’d missed.

Your heartbeat is trying to accommodate more air than you can let it, especially as you feel the pulse in your ears quicken as you approach your final jump sequence. The music is louder yet muffled all the same, there’s an incessant banging that you can’t figure out is from your head or a corrupted music file. But you find that sweet spot, deciphering through the ruckus in your brain, and you jump.

It happens again, the strange ache in your ankle that should be long gone, and just like that, all that panic you shook off in the interim comes hurtling back. The world’s gone silent, blaringly so, and for some heaven known reason, you’ve closed your eyes.

You aren’t so lucky this time round, landing directly on your back with a spectacular crash, the ice cutting cold through your thermals as you slide in the direction of your epic fall. Eyelids opening, they’re met with the spotlighted ceiling, head cushioned by the hard plane of ice beneath you.

The pain in your ankle’s escaped like a fugitive, done it’s damaged and left you crumpled on the floor. The adrenaline is rushing just enough to keep you from identifying any other awakened aches, but you have a sneaking feeling your hip is going to hate you after this.

You’re still laying flat on the ice when you realise you're laying in mostly silence. Your music is off, and has been since you came to on the floor. The banging, you realise, wasn’t just in your head either. The unmistakable reverberation of the locker rooms is loud and assuming, noises rattling all the way out onto the echoing rink.

It takes the strength of a village to pull yourself up, but you do it anyhow, ignoring the blatant protests of your mind and soul as you squint across the rink to the sound booth.

As you skate towards the gate, you assume it’s Hansol trying to get your attention by disrupting you mid session, but the figure shuffling into view is telling you otherwise.

It isn’t anyone you know, clearer as you grow closer to the gate. It’s obvious he’s the culprit that turned off your music, your laptop shut and the wire to the speakers disconnected from the port.

You stare at it pointedly as you grapple for your skate guards.

The man does nothing but remain with his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie, hovering over your laptop as he watches you struggle with your skates. SVT stitched onto the back in black. He’s as blank faced as ever, a stark contrast to your heavy breathing as you come round.

Standing up straight, you dart between your laptop and this person, waiting for an explanation that seems to be lost in the void. You’re still heaving slightly, scowl forming on your face as this strange man offers you nothing.

“Um, did you—”

“Yeah. It’s four,” he responds, like it was supposed to explain enough.

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

“But it’s Monday,” you respond. It sounds stupid, but it meant something. The rink was reserved on the weekdays for coach Carroll’s mentees, the weekends for the public.

This man and his big brown eyes gaze directly into your soul as he responds, “And that means…?”

You’re sweaty and tired, your feet ache with about five new blisters from the last time you checked, and you’re sure you need to get your hip checked out. Perhaps that’s why there’s this unreasonable surge of irritation that rises in the back of your head, irrational and half blinding.

“That means—”

“Seungcheol! Get your ass in the locker room before I drag you in there myself.” The voice that rings out is heavy and has you flinching, the man’s order echoing from somewhere in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.

The man you assume is named Seungcheol begins to walk away from you without a word or gesture, and you can only blink at his retreating back.

“Hey! Do you mind not touching my stuff next time round?” you call out as a last ditch attempt to have the last word. He turns his head to you, eyebrows raised and a smirk of mild disbelief growing on his face. Nothing is said as his head turns back to the front, strutting into the tunnel.

He lets you have your last word as he walks away, your gaze the same shade of crimson as his retreating form.

“AND THEN—THESE—HUGE dudes with fucking botox or fillers in their shoulders storm out—”

Your vent is interrupted by Lorelai who’s burst out laughing mid bite of her sandwich, “What?”

“Botox!” she muffles a shriek through a full mouth.

“They were shoulder pads or something, you get it!”

The air in the outside seating of this cafe is stellar, the perfect in between you wait for all year. The parasol above you is enough so you don’t have to squint your eyes in the late afternoon sun, the wind perfectly paced in a breeze. Your own sandwich remains untouched, the bread gone stale as you pick at the corner of the crust.

“Apologies,” she yips. “So you're saying we’re being partially colonised by hockey players?”

“I don’t know! Was it a one time thing, a weekly thing? It can’t be a weekly thing, Monday afternoons are routine practice days.”

“The routine you’ve been practising for the past year and a half?”

“I can’t afford getting rusty.”

Lorelai drops her head like she’s had enough, “Maybe these hockey jocks are a blessing.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Hey, do you want cake, they have cheesecake, I could get some!”

“Lorry!”

“Okay,” she huffs, dropping back into her seat with blown cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Lorelai has a sense of humour that took you more than enough time to decipher, but that wasn’t nearly the first thing you noticed about her. She was beautiful, even more so with the sun gracing her like a loving embrace. The highlights in her otherwise dark hair make the hazel of her eyes pop like two perfectly welcoming cliffs to jump off from. She was the definition of spunk and valour, yet graceful in everything she does. Even now, as she picks up her smoked turkey on honey oat, complete with every fixing and condiment on earth, you question how she can wrench her mouth open to take a reasonable bite; but she does, not a crumb out of place.

“I have to share a rink with dudes whose hockey sticks are gonna make craters in the ice, why are you not mourning with me?”

“Pretty sure your toe picks do the same thing.”

“Lorelai!”

“Not the government name!” she wails as though woefully wounded.

“You’re impossible.”

“Carroll didn’t hate me for no reason.” She smiles in her pride.

Lorelai’s competitive skating career came to an end sometime last year before the Grand Prix, a decision she announced gracefully with the words BITE ME etched with sharpie on her brand new competition skates. It was difficult to erase the mental image of the scarlet of Carrol’s face when Lorelai marched in with her hair chopped so short it’d be impossible to pull into a bun, marked skates in hand and a mask of determined rebellion on her face. Of course, the whole ordeal could’ve been an email, but it simply wouldn’t have been Lorelai.

“It’s not like you were trying very hard to please her,” you grumble, nibbling on a fry.

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

“For one thing, your sponsors were paying a bucketload so you could have her.”

“I didn’t want Carroll as a coach. Ever. I wanted Jameson. The only reason they put me with Carroll was because they were putting you and Marina with her.” Her voice is hard, eyebrows raised the slightest bit.

“What does Jameson offer that Carroll doesn’t?!”

“Oh! I don’t know, let’s see,” she raises her voice as her sarcasm begins to simmer with a lethal edge. “Maybe the fact that an hour training with Jameson doesn’t feel like the subjected wrath of a world war two dictator!”

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

“It means—!” Lorelai pauses to close her eyes, and you can almost hear her counting in her head. “It means nothing. Eat your sandwich before the bread starts molding.”

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

You attempt to channel some of that Lorelai energy when you get to the rink past noon on a weekday. You hope you’re reasonable in your hope that Hansol will be in his office as you walk towards the door.

Three rapt knocks before you hear a muffled voice telling you to come in. The door creaks when you open it. Loudly, might you add.

“How long is it gonna sing every time I come in here?” you grimace.

Hansol looks at you from behind his laptop with a tight smile. “For as long as I keep forgetting to oil the hinges.”

Hansol, for as young and qualified as he is, is only the rink manager because his family owns the place. Having graduated the year before with a shiny new law degree, he opted to take a break from moving forward with his career to “slow down” as he put it. The rink was as slow as it could get for him, betting the only important thing on his laptop screen currently was solitaire.

“Did you also forget that I have the rink during the day on weekdays?

“Ah. You’ve encountered the hockey team.”

“Yes. They turned off my music mid routine.”

“They're only here till the renovations in their home rink are done, we’re the only other rink in town that’s closed to the public on weekdays.”

“But they’re cutting into my practice time?” you add, brows furrowed.

Hansol opens his mouth before closing it again, eyebrows raised. “You clock in here five days a week, ten hours a day.”

“And?”

Hansol huffs out a breath. “Listen, I know you and the other skaters like having the rink to yourselves, and I’d be happy if it was always just you guys. Trust me, these jocks are impossible to clean up after, let alone deal with. Between the launch pad calibre noise and the stupid plastic barriers I have to put up on the railings, I’d love for it to just be you guys. But the only times you officially have the rinks booked is in the mornings when you’re training with coach Carrol, the rest of the week is technically up for grabs.”

“Let me book the rest of the slots then.”

“SVT’s already booked most of the remaining hours.” Hansol’s voice is sympathetic, but his words seemed final. You aren’t sure how bad your face was contorted, because suddenly he’s adding, “But hey, you can look at the leftover hours if they work for you.”

He pulls out the roster on a tablet before handing it to you. It only takes you a minute to scroll before you realise the only viable options were past 10 PM. The rink closed at 11.

You sigh, shoulders visibly sagging as you let out a bated breath of tension. “It’s fine.” You hand the tablet back to Hansol. “I’ll figure it out.”

Turning on your heel, you make a move to leave the premises. Hansol calls out your name.

“I’m sorry. Really.”

You muster a smile, one that you cannot feel the slightest bit. “It’s alright.”

“Only a few months.”

Something in your smile sours, and you nod absentmindedly. “Only a few months.”

THERE WERE OTHER WAYS the universe could have let it happen, someplace where you might have forgiven yourself. Someplace you had reason to be.

You were accustomed to physical exertion, how could you not be when you were what you were, but hiking on an incline was never something you fancied yourself with. Gyms and coaches and paved running trails are nothing like rocky terrains and steep mountain paths with no guide but a mobile map.

The semi finals had passed you by, handing you a gold medal along the way as you thrust yourself into bliss. It was a job well done, so much so that you allowed yourself a weekend of something other than skating rinks and training sessions. So many nights that you can hardly remember, yet flash like lightning under your eyelids. Where you sobbed into your pillow and cursed yourself for ever having the gall to take a step back, to be so arrogant and blustering to announce yourself away from the thing that should’ve mattered the most.

It only took one tiny crater in the path to twist your ankle so hard you crumple to the ground with a scream you cannot remember. More hands than you have holding on to your searing ankle, like they were holding it together with nothing but their palms and fingers. Lorelai was talking, and talking and talking, but all you could hear was the roaring question in your mind.

Why did you bring me here?

Six weeks.

You watched with your own eyes as the Grand Prix final shuttered away on a reel, like you were watching a movie from an age you could not visit.

Six weeks.

Marina sat beside your bed and said words you’d never forget.

“I’m sorry, but…this is your own fault.”

Six weeks.

Lorelai wept, and said the same words for an entirely different reason.

“I’m sorry. This is my fault, it was my idea.”

Six weeks.

Carroll kept face, but you could see past the mask. A sigh that said more than any words of reassurance. Disappointed but not surprised.

Six weeks you were bedridden with an ankle that refused to support your weight on the surface area of your bare foot, let alone on the 3/16th of an inch on a blade.

Bedrest, meds, physical therapy, and still. The ache in your ankle follows you like a ghost haunting you of your worst mistake.

It was your fault. You chose to put whimsy above everything you laboured for, for years and years. You chose to look past your shortcomings like they would not become your achilles heel. You chose to get on that trail. You chose to walk out on crutches.

You, who could land a jump on a fraction of an inch of steel, could now barely stand on her own two feet.

You’d decided on that day, that you were as pathetic as they come.

IT WAS THE MOST natural decision to drag Lorelai out of where she rotted in bed to come with you to the rink.

“You want me to fight them?” She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh fuzzy pyjama pants and a university hoodie on top, her short hair concealed in the hood she’s pulled up. “They are hockey players. We are twigs!”

“Lorry. Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” you ask her as you pull your hair back into a loose bind.

“No?”

“Then why on earth would I ask you to fight goblins triple our size?”

Her mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Why am I here then?”

“You,” you start, grabbing your skates and moving out of the locker rooms. “Are gonna sit pretty in that sound booth and make sure nobody touches my laptop.”

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.”

You ignore her as you walk towards the benches. “That stupid hockey team needs to know I have reinforcements of my own.”

Lorelai stands there, brows furrowed and in clothes that drown her. She glances down at her outfit and then back up at you. She deadpans, “This is the most unthreatening I have ever looked.”

“Just—” You stand up too quickly and feel yourself wobble. The railing is hardly a foot away, your hand moving over to grab it. Except your palms feel nothing but the flat of something smooth and hard, fingers bumping into the feeling of something unfamiliar.

You manage to find your balance with a yelp, immediately snapping up to see where you missed the railing. The railing was still there, perfectly within arms reach. There’s a glare in your vision, like looking through a screen. Higher and higher, you realise quickly that you’ve been looking through a clear barrier so high up you can hardly find where it ends in its erect standing.

Lorelai speaks up first, her voice resonating loudly, “Isn’t that supposed to be on the other side of the railing. Stupid, stupid Hansol.”

It looks like it stretches throughout the circumference of the rink, wrapping whoever’s inside in a giant plastic fish bowl.

There’s a clench in your jaw you can’t control, something a little more than annoyance building in your senses. It should be an easy thing to ignore, especially regarding its practically invisible nature, but its presence is all you can think about, even as you step your right blade onto the ice.

Skating towards the middle of the rink, you feel claustrophobic.

“Woah! You look like a zoo animal,” Lorealai adds unnecessarily.

“Just play the track,” you grumble.

“There should be a don’t tap on the glass sign,” she says, voice muffled as yells from the benches. “You already look like a weasel, can’t have confused people in the stands.”

“Lorry!”

“What?” she yells, her voice muffled as she yells from the benches.

You curse the plastic that cages you as you yell louder, “Play the track!”

Lorelai nods and makes a noise of understanding, and you watch her as she disappears into the sound booth.

Taking your starting position, you wait for the quiet lull of the track before the beginning of the unmistakable piano; the low tremor in the beginning existing to prepare you to jump into the routine. You stand there with your arms out like a swan, waiting for your cue that won't seem to arrive.

You almost yell out at Lorelai again before you suddenly hear the resonating shrill of the piano notes, startling yourself out of your first push. It’s fine, you’ll recover. You’re distracted by your staggered start and it’s enough to have you miss your first jump. It’s fine. You’ll recover.

By the time the four minutes are up, you’ve missed two of your five jumps, a spin gone wrong, and nearly crashed into the plastic barrier. Not to mention, the aches in your body are enough to seem impossible to geographically pinpoint.

It’s pointed, the way you make a beeline for the benches, refusing to look at Lorelai. You can almost imagine her expression, the poker face she has when she’s trying to think of ways to structure her next words nicely.

“What was that?” she deadpans, voice a little far away. Your body hurts enough to take your focus away from her.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought your ankle was fine now?” she asks.

You grit your teeth. “It is.” Lies. The way it was hurting you right now was making sure to remind you of that.

“You know, you did pick back up a lot earlier than we thought—”

“I said I’m fine, Lorry,” you snap. “Now can you please play the track again.”

You finally look up, and she looks like she wants to say something. But you’re on the ice before she can.

You adapt to the excess muffle of the plastic barriers, ears straining to hear the beginning of the piano before you jump into the choreography smoother than last time. This time round, it’s better. The pain in your ankle and the budding one in your hip is apparent, but it’s suddenly easier to drown it out. Focusing on the music, keeping your centre of gravity, pushing into your jumps and spins with enough vigour to hold to what you are.

Another four minutes pass and it’s over. Immediately, you swing over to the soundbooth to find Lorelai, only to find her joined by an extra set of people.

Impossibly, your blood runs cold.

There’s a sneaking suspicion you know who it is despite the two men having their backs turned to you, especially judging by the obnoxious red jackets they have on. SVT. You can hear Lorelai speak indecipherably, her voice stern.

“And you are?” one of them asks. You don’t recognise him, but you do the other one. The one who turned your music off the first day him and his team stepped foot in here.

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason.

“Gilmore?” The one you recognise snorts. Seungcheol, that’s what they called him the last time you saw him in the sound booth.

“I’m worse,” she states.

“Lorry?” you interrupt, arms crossed and gaze directed at her.

“Lorry?” The one you don’t recognise says. “Like a truck?”

“You think you’re funny?” Lorelai takes a step towards him, a fair attempt to look threatening if it weren’t for her very unthreatening attire.

“Oh look at her pyjamas! It’s Pooh bear, Cheol,” he exclaims. That seems to irritate him.

“Can you replay the track, please, I have to smooth things over,” you intervene. In your mind, ignoring their presence in your space was the best solution, refusing to give them a way to merge into your lane.

“Woah, we have the rink booked today,” Seungcheol stops you. “4:30.”

Snapping around to find the clock on the adjacent wall, you read the time. “4:17. You can wait.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And thirteen minutes makes what difference?”

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

The other one thumps him on the back, all smiles. “We can wait, right, Cheol? Besides, we have to put our skates on.”

His gaze is hard and doesn’t leave yours. “Fine.”

You break away first to find Lorelai still in the same position, staring at the exchange. You ignore the two men that stand there and address her, “Play the track.”

Before the music begins, you glance back to the benches where the two men have seated themselves, apparently strapping in to watch you. You dig your nails into your palm to reign yourself back in. No point in getting upset.

The piano begins, and you're determined to not mess up. Especially not right now.

It goes well for all of 45 seconds, you're hitting the right beats, you feel like water. But then the first jump comes along and you see a flash of red from the stands. An irrational feeling hits you as you push into the first jump, it’s enough to make you stumble when you land. You manage to not fall, but it’s obvious you’ve messed up.

Somewhere beyond the music you hear a distinct, “Solid 4!”

It distracts you again, and you miss a move. Somehow your second jump ends up worse, and you feel your bottom hit the hard ice.

“8 point 5! Nice!”

It doesn’t take long for you to realise what they’re doing, anger crashing into you like a flash flood. Scoring your falls? You’re determined to make the next jump combination. You make it fine, but your quad Salchow turns into a triple. The oafs are too shallow to notice, so you hear no jeer.

But you know that you messed up the only quad in your entire program.

The last jump goes from a triple axel to a double, and you want to break something.

The song ends, and you know you have another nine minutes left to yourself, but all you can think about is getting out of the vicinity as soon as possible. Away from all of the eyes that are trained on your hunched form.

There’s nothing you know about Seungcheol, and yet, the thought of him even looking at you right now is unbearable. Twice you fell, countless times you failed.

Lorelai says nothing while you pack up, and nothing as you leave the rink.

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, CENTER,” LORELAI reads aloud from your bed with her mouth still full of salt ‘n vinegar chips.

“Perfect, he already thinks he’s the center of the universe,” you grumble from your position on the floor of the bedroom. Your foam roller feels like heaven under your calves, but the position is beginning to cramp.

“Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s half a celebrity.”

You turn to her, “I have two gold medals and five podiums for every major skating event.”

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

“Hm. His skill and popularity would beg to differ.”

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?”

“Because he’s cute,” she grins wide. “Although the other one was cuter, very angel-like. And he liked my Pooh Bear trousers. Can’t find his name on the team roster though.”

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

You’re cut off by a gasp, a loud one at that. “He coaches the babies!”

Her face is contorted into something between an “aw” and a sob.

Lorelai’s phone is dropped dramatically on the bed as she thrashes on your made (now unmade) bed. You swipe the phone and read. His picture is there, the name Yoon Jeonghan, Junior League Coach.

“Good for him.”

“He just got five times hotter,” she states like she’s out of breath.

“Give it another meeting and he’ll give you five other reasons to hate him.”

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs.

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

“Whatever.” Lorelai rolls her eyes and sets back on the bed, no doubt searching the man up by name.

“Ow!” you yelp as you stand up from the ground, ankle twisting slightly in the process.

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

“Nothing,” you mumble quickly, hoping she’d drop it. But she catches your lingering stare on your bad ankle.

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

“I just twisted it weird,” you defend, walking to pack up your foam rollers.

You’re met with silence, but you know she’s thinking. Lorelai speaks, “Maybe you should skip out on the shelter today.”

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

Once, sometimes twice a week, you’d volunteer at the local pet shelter. It wasn’t hard work, mostly taking the bigger, more energetic dogs for their runs because it seemed you were the only one who could keep up with their stamina. And now Lorelai is trying to take that away from you.

“I saw how you struggled at the rink today, there’s not a day you don’t rest. Like, actually rest.”

“That has nothing to do with me struggling!” you retort.

“What is it then?” she asks, sitting up straighter, defiance in her gaze. “What is it that’s making you skate like you bought your first pair yesterday?”

The irritation is growing into something hotter, her defiance pushing you into a corner.

“I know what you want to hear from me.” Your voice is shaky. “I’m not going to say it.”

“Because it’s not true? Or because you’ve been convinced it’s not?”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know you’ve been avoiding the topic like it’s the plague. The ache in your ankle comes alive, and in that moment, you cannot tell if you’re imagining it or not.

“Convinced by who?” you snap, shoving the box of foam rollers under your desk.

“Does that have to come from me too?”

“Lorry, I don’t know what you want from me!”

“I—”

There’s a knock on your door, loud and demanding. Wrenching it open, you find Marina behind it.

She has a frown on her face. “You’re still here? I thought you were running with the dogs today?”

“It’s none of your business if she goes or not, Marina.” Lorelai’s tongue drips with venom most commonly reserved for her most hated people.

Marina, still in her workout clothes and duffel bag, furrows her eyebrows. “Who shoved a pole up your ass?”

“I’m leaving in five,” you hiss, before making a motion to close the door.

When you turn around, Lorelai is still on your bed, hands in fists like she’s holding herself back. There’s more behind her eyes than you could even consider unravelling.

She leaves before you.

THE ENTIRE WAY TO the rink was just one constant string of prayer.

All of them go unanswered when you walk in to find the rink full of hockey players in red and black gear.

The only thing you can do is curse under your breath, only watching frozen in your tracks as a million players skate across the rink passing and yelling at each other. No one you recognise, their helmets and gear eluding any semblance of individuality.

Where you stand, a little ways away from the plastic screen and the benches, a dark circular puck suddenly slams directly into the boundary at eye level. On instinct, you flinch at the loud bang, half expecting to get hit.

When you open your eyes, somebody’s skating up to the boundary, and you lock eyes through the cage of his helmet.

Your blood is suddenly charged with something electric, fingers curling into fists on instinct.

Suddenly, all that rings in your ears is the distinct jeers of numbers over the muffle of plastic as you continue to fall, and fall, and fall on the cold, unforgiving ice. The amusement in your failure, the joy in your defeat.

Spinning on your heel, you stalk to Hansol’s office.

In your blinding anger, you take a wrong turn, looking up to realise you’ve walked into the locker rooms. You’re one step into the men's locker room when you come back to your senses, startling yourself once again as you spin back from where you came, only you’ve been caught.

For all the luck you’ve received in this life, it seems to opt out at that exact moment as you hear the unmistakable noise of a herd of ogres walking in, the glare of red on the walls surrounding them. Frozen in your spot, you can only grip the straps of your duffel bag harder, tense up like you were preparing for impact. When they turn the corner, the brilliant idea of simply walking towards the women’s locker rooms befalls you. But it’s too late.

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack.

His helmet is in his hands instead of on his head, revealing a sopping mop of hair drenched in what you can only imagine is sweat. He’s laughing at his teammate who’s making futile attempts to escape his own helmet, not noticing you in the way.

Until he does. His smile fades immediately, eyebrows raised as he registers you in the doorway. You feel his gaze on you for a few silent moments, his teammates shushing at the shift in the air. Seungcheol opens his mouth, and you already know all that’s going to leave it is dung. “Didn’t realise the rink had a vacancy. Do I need to show you my ID to take a shower?”

A rustle of chortles and chuckles flitter from the group. “Go ahead. I don’t need an ID to tell you need a shower.”

Somebody ooh’s, despite it not being your best work. You suppose it was your delivery that did it. Deciding to continue riding that high, you simply turn towards the women’s locker rooms, refusing to give Seungcheol the luxury of your eyes on him.

Hurtling into the women’s locker room, you throw your duffel bag somewhere you’ll regret and crumple into one of the seats. You count to ten, attempting to take the image of Seungcheol out of your brain.

It was difficult to rile you up to this extent, a trait you needed to possess if you were to be coached by Carroll in any capacity. There was so much you heard from her mouth, swallowing it like a prescribed pill and nothing more. Take what you were given, because it was given by the best, bought for you by the best.

Yet for some reason, Seungcheol manages to irk you in ways you previously have never encountered. Irritating people come and go, but you doubt you could place him as something as simple as just irritating. His presence felt like an intrusion, his air was thick like a concentrated gas. Everything he’s said to you so far has come from nothing but disdain and condescension, his haughty personality the only takeaway when he enters a room.

You’re still in your outdoor shoes and jacket by the time twenty minutes are over, coming to a conclusion as you get up from the empty, soulless locker room. Hansol is in his office when you make the formality knock before barging in. His head is on the desk, like he’s asleep. It takes him a second, by he lifts his forehead from the papers on the tabletop to regard you at the door. You hear him sigh.

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re turning out worse than those baboons,” he curses before setting his forehead back onto the table. “Write it on the sticky note, I’ll put it in the schedule.”

“Now. I wanna book a slot for right now,” you grit.

Hansol whips his head up again, eyes wide like he’s holding himself back, nodding furiously as he pulls his keyboard towards himself with an unnecessarily aggressive tug. “Fine. 2:16 till closing. Enter. Print. Here.”

He hands you the printed receipt of your slot, ripping it from the printer tray as he does it. You take it from him in the same vigour, hardly a thank you as you spin on your heels and walk out the door. You stop for a minute, turning back around to yell into the office.

“Go home if you’re just gonna nap on your desk!”

Not waiting for a response, you stalk towards the locker rooms. Within minutes you’ve tugged on your skates, laptop and shoes in each hand as you emerge out the tunnel to the rink.

The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots.

Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their ice cream cups.

Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings.

“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you.

“Ice is booked.”

“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before.

“2:16. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”

“You’re only one person.” He’s significantly more annoyed than when you saw him outside the locker rooms just minutes ago.

“And?”

“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”

You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.”

“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a lion only waiting to be provoked. Maybe he’s already halfway there, because it sure looks like it.

“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”

You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates.

Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?”

Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates.

You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. The empty rink encourages you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge.

You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page.

Everything stops.

!HOT TOPIC!

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!

!HOT TOPIC!

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed center may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification!

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation!

BEFORE EVERYTHING, BEFORE YOUR ankle, before it began to feel like your world was crumbling at your feet, came the scar on your leg.

In hindsight, it feels like it was the very thing that set the ball rolling, the beginning of your demise.

Coach Carroll was only on her first handful of sessions with you, Lorelai and Marina, all of you still learning her quirks and expectations as a coach.

It happened when you were on the sidelines, hanging over the boundary as Lorelai handed you a water bottle from the benches. Marina was practicing her routine, taking up most of the ice as Coach followed on the side. It seemed unclear, to this day, whether you’d drifted inwards on the ice as you sipped from the bottle, unaware. But when you felt the hot searing pain in your calf, there were only two people on the scene.

Marina skated past, her free leg in the air, meeting your calf as she skated past, effectively slicing into your leg in a deep gash. Blood was wiped off the ice, your leg bandaged and wrapped. Not without Coach and her comments, of course.

You heard her berate Marina from the other room, for moving closer to the boundary than what was required for her routine, heard the way she gave her the blame. And then she round up on you.

“Idiot! No reason to be on the ice when you aren’t practicing, did you want it to be your ankles too?!”

It was the first time you realised that Carroll was beyond your perception of the word demanding, her gaze remained in a high place, no regard for what it took to get there. Even if it meant destroying her skaters.

Marina apologised. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t see you there, I would’ve dropped my leg—”

“It’s okay, Marina. Really,” you smiled through the still aching wound. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

She smiled a little too, “Lesson learned, I guess. Don’t loiter on the ice.”

It was difficult to keep the smile from fading as you heard her say that.

“What shit apology is that?!” Lorelai yelled as soon as you mentioned it to her later. You cringe as you realise what slipped, and to whom it slipped to.

“It’s the best I’m gonna get from her, Lorry. Honestly, I don’t care.”

“You’re out of service for a week till that slice heals and that’s all she has to give you?”

Lorelai is breathing heavily, mostly because she’s been practicing her triple axels for her routine, but also because she’s extensively heated for you. You watch her from the benches.

“Lorry,” you sigh.

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

“Are you trying to say she did it on purpose?” you ask.

“No! Let me finish, woman,” she snaps. “I wanna win, you wanna win. We’re doing everything we can because we want to win—”

“So this was a subconscious attack?” you interject.

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Lorelai begins to skate backwards and away, leaving you on the bench.

“NO! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I won’t interrupt.”

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

It wasn’t until you were back in your shared apartment, Marina out doing whatever while Lorelai hijacked your bed that she got to finish her sentence. She was rubbing ointment on a bruise while you changed the bandage on your calf.

“Her need to win is ruining her. And it’s like she’s taking us down with her. I know she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t want to hurt us. But she thinks this kind of hurt is good, if it’s the kind of hurt that pushes you to win.”

You cringed at the sight of the wound, still red and ugly.

“She might not have meant to hurt your leg, but—don’t loiter on the ice? Really?”

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

“Exactly! You don’t need that reminder because I think you’ve learned better than anyone else to not stay on the rink when someone is practising. A couple weeks ago she made some stupid comment because I left the gym early. Nothing inherently rude, she’s never actually rude. But it was pointed anyway. I’ve been up since six in the morning I think I deserve slacking off a little, it was nearly midnight for fuck’s sake!”

Cleaning the wound was taking everything you had, the need to hiss at the contact of the wet cloth was near abominable.

“Her…her perception’s a little warped. But her heart’s in the right place!”

Lorelai had rolled her eyes, screwing the cap of her ointment tube back on with unnecessary force. “I never said it wasn’t, just—stop defending her! I’m sorry but half the reason she continues to act like this is because you listen to her.”

At that moment, you felt a little offended. Of course, Marina had her moments where she’d say something a little less than healthy, especially coming from a friend. But you’d always thought you handled it better than most.

You met Marina when you were still only splotchy faced preteens, during a competition where she came second and you came third. She’d been skating for longer, so it was expected, but you also couldn’t conceal your surprise when you’d found the state of her later on. You were ecstatic simply because you managed to make it to the podium, but it seemed Marina’s tears held another thought process for her.

You found her crying in the locker rooms later on, her coach who looked like she…should’ve been comforting her, but it was more like a stern talking to, to suck it up and work harder next time round.

When you tried to help her, out came words you felt oh so strange coming from a stranger. “What do you know? You came third!”

It hurt. Possibly the first genuine stab of the feeling you’d ever felt. In the following weeks, when Marina apologised and you’d begun to build a friendship, you felt something peculiar. Practice sessions on the ice became harder, your two hour sessions were suddenly extending to four, sometimes five hours a day. All of it, your own doing.

It was subconscious when it was happening, the silent tug of You came third! What you first considered an achievement became an intermediate step.

If there was anywhere that you’d pinpoint the shift, from when figure skating went from fun to a responsibility, you’d pick that exact moment. When someone congratulated you later on, it wasn’t a big smile and a thank you.

“I only came third.”

Your calf healed and all that was left was a scar, but there in the discolouration of your skin, also lay a realisation.

SEUNGCHEOL HOSTS ABSOLUTELY ZERO thoughts in his mind as he shoves the collar of his hoodie over his head. Slamming the door shut on the rest of his red SVT paraphernalia, he makes quick work of his hair, shoes on and out the door within the minute. Jeonghan is still fast asleep when he leaves, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow when Seungcheol walks into his room to let him know he’s leaving.

Jeonghan might tag along to practice for the fun of it despite leaving his competitive hockey career behind him, but his distaste for 6 AM practice remains forever unchanged. He’d see him later though, on the rink lingering once the sun is higher in the sky and Jeonghan deems it less of a sin to be awake.

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend.

By the time he gets to the rink, most of the team has already geared up. The locker room is splotched with red, moving towards the back of the room to get to his own locker. They weren’t assigned, but he liked to have his claim. He had one in the old rink, the one locker everyone knew was his. And now he has one here, despite the temporary nature of the ordeal. The rest of the boys know to steer clear, as does he for the others who have their lucky spots.

Mingyu bumps into his shoulder when Seungcheol is looking down, immediately whipping around to bow a full ninety degrees. He’s laughing as he apologises, not really sorry, but Seungcheol is too exhausted to humour him too much.

He’d been up playing games all night, under the covers in the dark, his phone brightness up too high and his eyes too wide open. He could feel the regret when his alarm blared while it was still dark outside, his eyelids stuck together, refusing to open. It cost him fifteen minutes of warming up, but he’d make it somehow.

Seungcheol can hear coach Mason’s booming voice from outside, moving closer and closer to hustle the rest of the boys out onto the rink. He shoves his foot into his skates, making sure all that’s left is to lace them up.

“Look alive, boys! I want you on the ice within the minute,” he booms into the locker room.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. When he gets up to leave the locker rooms, his hockey stick and helmet in hand, he’s the last straggling few to leave. Chan earns himself a hard thump on the back from Coach as he scurries out.

There’s a hand on Seungcheol’s chest as he’s about to exit, Coach stopping him from leaving.

He looks up, expecting a hard look from Mason, ready to hear a mildly violent threat about being late to call time again. Except Seungcheol finds him with his own gaze on the floor.

“Rink manager said I could use his office. We should talk there.”

Seungcheol could’ve said he knows what this was going to be about. The game last weekend had less than ideal results, not because they didn’t win, but more so because of the WWE level brawl that went down in the benches during one of the intermissions.

He tenses, but it was more like he was squaring up. His shoulders are hard, his grip on his hockey stick tighter. Of course, he wasn’t about to swing at his coach, but one could say it was simply a subconscious response.

The entire walk to the office, Seungcheol thinks of new ways Coach could address his issue. But the gist was always simple.

Choi, stop fucking fighting.

He’d usually just rip Seungcheol a new one in front of the boys, berate him and verbally throttle him in the hopes that he’d keep his anger under check. But as they turn towards the door to the office, Seungcheol has to remind himself that this was a first. Being led aside, like he was being led into some formal meeting.

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

The office is barren, hardly looks like it’s used with how sparse the equipment is. The amount of dark brown gives it enough warmth to not make it look like some sick form of solitary confinement. That doesn't stop Seungcheol from feeling a hint of pity for whoever has to work here. There’s no nameplate.

Coach doesn’t take a seat, opting to lean against the table in front of him instead. His arms are folded, and he’s not looking him in the eye. A crawl of suspicion creeps up Seungcheol’s neck, as though in an attempt to ambush him.

It’s silent in the room as he waits for Coach to speak, refusing to be the one to break it.

When he does speak, it’s not in his usual Coach voice. Without the built in bass and tremors he was born with.

“There’s no easy way to break this,” he starts, eyes drifting up to somewhere on the barren walls. “But I’m gonna try my darndest.”

Finally, he feels Coach’s gaze lock with Seungcheol’s expecting pair.

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

Coach squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s recalibrating. “Your contract is up by the end of the season. And the tie wearers and the shoe shiners don't wanna re-sign you.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean don’t wanna re-sign me, on what grounds?!”

“You’re temperament—”

“I’ve scored at least two goals for every game you’ve put me in, I’m your most consistent player!”

“They have no qualms with you when you’re on the ice.”

Seungcheol knows where this is going. He knows what knocked up alley this is turning to and he hates it. “Which is all that should matter.”

“In most cases.”

“Is this about last weekend? You didn’t hear him, he deserved more than a broken fucking nose—”

“I didn’t need to hear him, because I know. I know he’s a jackass, I know they’re all jackasses! They know that too. You need to learn to let things go, let them chirp—”

“He was coming on to my mother!” Seungcheol bellows, now properly angry. He remembers the guy’s name, Jason or something.

“His coach came onto my entire bloodline when we were young, this is Kim’s strategy! You’re playing right into their hands like a dog! For fuck’s sake, Choi! Punching someone in the chiclets isn’t always the answer!” Coach Mason is shaking his hands in front of him like some violent prayer.

Seungcheol drops his hockey stick and helmet, mouth open as he huffs and puffs. He wants to pace, wants to point his fingers at Coach and make a few threats of his own.

“Just—”

Seungcheol rounds up on him. “Seungkwan punched a guy in the mouth. Wonwoo kicked one in the balls.”

“Seungcheol. This is becoming nearly. Every. Single. Game. Not the occasional tousle we can pull people out of. You can’t keep sending people to the hospital, it’s a wonder nobody's pressed charges yet!”

“So that’s it? I’m being punished because some dick runs his mouth?”

“This is about you, Seungcheol. You need to get a fucking grip. You’ve started picking at your own teammates, shoving Mingyu around—seriously?”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens but nothing leaves it. He ends up gaping like a fish.

For all that it was worth, for everything he’d been through, Seungcheol always assumed his seat was safe. Always assumed he’d have the position he does. Because he showed results, won them nearly every game and put up a damn good fight in the ones they didn’t.

Seungcheol knew he was an asset, but not for one minute, stop to realise that this was all

conditional.

For everything he did for this team, for every fiber of his being he poured into its chalice, they were spitting it all right back into his face. Chewed and warped and rid of anything worth salvaging.

The red in his chest, back, stomach, spelling out the unmistakable letters of his team. The red in his helmet that rests beside the red in his hockey stick.

“Listen, as much of a pain in the ass you are, you’re good fucking player. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. But it’s not up to me, so we need to work around that. They’re worried about the repercussions of your behaviour. And you are gonna make sure you keep yourself in check.”

Coach walks closer, finger digging into Seungcheol’s chest through his jersey. “I want no more fights, no more kicking and punching and swearing no matter how much that motherfucker deserves it, I don’t care. Do whatever it takes. God knows I’ll never forgive you if you make me agree to those prissy hands in suits.”

Coach left Seungcheol in the barren office, stepping over his stick and helmet as he exited the room, leaving him alone. His fingers flex under his gloves, like he’s trying to remind himself to stay in the moment. His exhales are stronger than his inhales, his vision blurring as the desk turns into two, and then disappears for a second.

He can hear the distinct sound of the puck slamming into hockey sticks. Practice had started. By the time Seungcheol walks out, he’s the last person to go through the mandatory drills.

The rink is mostly empty as the team gears up for a practice match, leaving Seungcheol enough reign to slam into every puck like he had some personal vendetta against every last one. It’s one after the other, sent directly into the open net, waiting.

Practice goes fine, as good as it could go with the scrambled eggs that had become of Seungcheol’s mental state. He found himself whipping his head around to Jun when he fumbled an assist, face scrunched under his helmet as he prepared to send him to hell in a handbasket.

He sees Jun physically tense up in defense, and the insult (for once) dies on Seungcheol’s tongue.

“Just—keep up, alright,” he says instead. His tone is empty, and on a downward slope.

If anyone finds it odd, they don’t say.

It’s a couple more hours of passes, assists and hollers across the ice, regrouping the teams every so often to keep the rotation consistent.

Over here, everyone is in red, everyone is on his side. The bleachers are empty, devoid of spectators to watch him lose his cool on anything. But he thinks of the way Jun recoiled, like he was preparing for the worst of his teammate’s words. He and Jun are friends.

Somewhere amidst his thoughts, the puck flies directly into Seungcheol’s face, banging into the cage of his helmet with a noise that resonates across the rink. He’s startled enough to skate back a little, not before hearing another resounding thwack! from next to him. The puck rebounded from his helmet and hit the plastic barrier with a noise that had everyone looking over.

Skating up to where the puck fell back onto the ice, he looks up to where it hit the barrier.

Through the plastic he sees…you. You're staring at the same spot he is, where there’s a slight mark from the force of the rubber.

And then your eyes drift up, locking with his own.

Like every other person he’s around, he watches you tense up. But it’s laced with something more than just bracing for impact.

It’s apprehension, your form turbulent and agitated. It’s all he can see when you spin on your heels and walk away in the opposite direction from him.

The all too familiar irritation sparks in the back of Seungcheol’s mind, as it does when you’re around. All he does is slam his stick into the ice with force, pushing the puck back into the middle of the rink.

They’re nearly done by that point, and he finds that Jeonghan has graced himself in the benches. He’s wearing his old jersey, likely because he doesn’t want Coach to notice him and accuse him of distracting his players.

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway.

Seungcheol tells him to wait up, walking towards the locker room with the rest of the rest of the team to wash up. He finds some reprieve in Seungkwan’s attempts at fumbling with his helmet, letting out a laugh as he fights with it. Looking up as they take the turn towards the locker rooms as a group, he somehow finds himself in your presence, again.

It’s the same thing, like you’ve been connected to a faulty circuit and you’re trying not to show it. You look like you want to say something but all Seungcheol can do is send a snarky remark of his own.

Even as you walk away after the ordeal, he feels anything but settled.

It’s like the world has it out for him, because as he opts to stalk back to where Jeonghan was, forgoing a shower, there’s only another calamity waiting for him.

Jeonghan is in the rink, sitting on the ice with two cups of what looks like dippin dots. He looks up when he hears his treads on the ice, having taken his skates off already. Seungcheol crumples to the ground and on the ice next to his friend.

The first words he utters are the only ones that’ve been on his mind all day. “They want to drop me.”

Jeonghan only grimaces in response, only running his hands through his hair as he sighs loudly. “I know. I heard.”

Seungcheol perks up, head lifting from the ice. “...How?”

That’s how Seungcheol has Jeonghan’s phone so close to his face he’s hardly an inch away from the screen. He reads and reads and reads. And his blood boils and boils and boils.

!HOT TOPIC!

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed centre may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around though, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification!

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation!

Of course, to add to the absolute media pandemonium, you had shown up on the rink itself after Seungcheol had to read through the entirety of that stupid article. Jeonghan was smart to pull him away from the situation before he wrapped both his hands around your neck in an ultimatum.

The way you stood there, hip popped like you owned the damn place, face haughty and demanding. You stood while they sat, looking down at Seungcheol like he was some pesky ant. There was nothing he would’ve rather done in that moment than swing his leg clean across your ankles, and watch in delight as you crash onto the ice in front of him.

“What the fuck is her problem?” he grits as soon as he’s in the locker rooms. Collecting his things to leave and take a shower at home.

Jeonghan walks behind him, hands in his pocket in idleness as he watches his friend pack up. He’s humming a tune that’s possibly too familiar to Seungcheol. “Hm. She does seem a little wound too tight.”

“Wound too tight?! I’ve seen her thrice just today and every single time she looks like she wants to skin my fucking hide!”

Jeonghan only snorts. “Thing two isn’t any better. She’s cute though.”

Seungcheol whips around. “Who gets that territorial over a sound booth?!”

“Down, boy,” Jeonghan soothes, half in jest. “Surprised she isn’t here today either.”

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

“I would, actually, yes. What was her name?”

“Something to do with a train or a bus or something—”

“Lorry! Right,” Jeonghan furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s her real name.”

Seungcheol throws his duffle bag over his shoulder as he motions he’s done. “I don’t think anyone who actually loves their child would name them after a bus.”

Jeonghan halts in his steps. “My dead dog’s name was Lorry.”

Seungcheol is extra nice for the rest of the way home.

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

His dreams are full of voices, of every single teammate he’s ever had. The junior league, his high school team, up to his college team, and finally, his team right now.

They’re all murmuring like they were paid to do it, uttering the same things, over and over. He doesn’t belong here, they don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve what he has.

And with the way his heart is racing when he jolts awake, cold sweat and all, he realises he’s kicked his blanket off of him sometime during the night. He looks over to his alarm clock that glares bright in the dark of his room; 5:08 AM.

He doesn’t need to be up, but it seems his own subconscious has given him a good enough scare to make sure every last essence of sleep escapes him. He lays on his back, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon.

Seungcheol hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since middle school, one that knocks the breath from his lungs and fills his head with all the horrible things in the world. With every moment that passes after that conversation with Coach Mason, his ordeal becomes increasingly real.

In that moment, laying in his bedroom, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above, he wonders if he’s made the right choice to come this far.

With all the confidence he’s exuded, the thought is downright terrifying.

Seungcheol was a difficult child. Too much energy, too much to say, too much to do. His parents didn’t know the first thing about hockey, just that it involved enough hitting and running and practice to let their son let out all that pent up energy, so maybe, just maybe, he’d sit still and do his homework. While they attempted to sign him up at the local rink, he was already zooming out towards the benches to see the fabled giant block of ice his parents told him about.

And there it was, just like in the movies, a giant expanse of ice that made him shiver even in his thick Winnie The Pooh puffer vest. There’s sounds, loud ones, of deep clacks that echo across the rink. It seems to be coming from the dozens of people skating on the rink, decked out in red gear.

SVT, he reads on their jerseys.

His mother chides him for straying when they finally find him near the gate, watching the team practice. The rink manager is there as well, showing his parents around.

“The SVT’s practice here and have a junior league too, but I’m afraid it’s full. But our coach is great too, I’m sure he’ll do well.”

Seungcheol’s parents didn’t mind, but he wanted those jerseys, wanted his name in red splashed across his back as he glided across the ice.

It didn’t take long for his coach and his parents to realise that putting him in a helmet was a good idea. He was smoking the rest of the kids from day one, his balance on the ice better than any other his age, his hold on a hockey stick like second nature, his aim as he hit his first puck, dazzling.

As he got older, entering his preteen and teen years, he had another realisation. That he was as horrible at school as he was good at hockey.

“Perhaps you should take a break from hockey,” his high school guidance counsellor had said. His grades were displayed in front of her like a case study, the hopeless clear in her intermittent sighs and the occasional purse of her lips. “Utilise that time to fix at least one of your grades. Pour all your eggs in one basket.”

The thought was absurd. No, he would not be dropping hockey when it was the only thing that pushed him to wake up in the morning.

He’d felt the tremble of irritation rise in himself, sitting there in that office. It angered him, made him feel like his success was measured by a criteria not made for him. He had said nothing as he slipped out of chair and left the room.

The day before his graduation, sweat dripping onto the ice as he sent free pucks into the net, he was missing more than he was getting in. It was making him more mad than it should, hands shaking with fury as he berated himself for not being able to succeed in something so simple.

His last puck was before him, and he swung his stick harder than ever and watched as it flew directly into the net. The sound is louder than usual, resonating across the rink. Seungcheol looked down at the detached pieces in his hand and quickly realised that he’d effectively broken his hockey stick.

It wasn’t expensive, so the quality wasn’t nearly what it should be, wasn’t nearly as durable. But this was new to him. He’d never broken a stick before.

Anger. Perhaps that was what he'd forgone, perhaps that was what he needed. To get on his knees from his back, to get on his feet from his knees.

When he graduated the next day, Seungcheol knew what he was going to do with his life. Finally had an answer for the infinite questions about his future.

Hockey. Seungcheol was going to play hockey for the rest of his life. He was going to get into SVT, he was going to become the best player they’ve ever had. He was going to make more money than what he would have as a doctor or a lawyer or whatever else the entire world wanted him to do instead.

Seungcheol was going to be on the ice wearing red if it’s the last thing he does.

That’s what pushes him out of bed at 8:45 in the morning, his dream that was once in his hands now flitting through the gaps of his fingers.

The anger that pushed him here, was now pushing him out.

He packs his things and leaves the house, welcoming the cold of the outdoors.

There’s the distinct sound of blade cutting through ice when he gets nearer to the rink itself, a shout of a shrill voice he can’t decipher. Official practice doesn’t start for another couple hours, and he doesn’t remember Coach Mason cutting the pitch in his voice for anything ever. There’s only one other person that could possibly be gracing the rink.

Seungcheol finds three people on the rink. The bright red curly mop of hair catches his eye first, her arms folded over her green puffer jacket, apprehension in her entire posture. He assumes this is your coach.

There’s a blonde one breathing heavily as she straightens out of a spin, listening to the coach as she shakes her head violently as she speaks.

Seungcheol finds you a little ways away from the pair, practising jumps.

He doesn’t emerge into the benches, remaining in the shadows where he wouldn’t be so blaringly obvious. There’s no reason for him to hide, but he doesn’t think of this as hiding.

Seungcheol watches for the next few minutes, watches you make most of your jumps, fall for some. Your coach shouts for particular names for jumps, something about axels and lutz’ that he can’t tell the difference from when put into action. At least he thinks that’s what you’re doing.

And then he hears it as your coach moves closer to the barriers. “What’s gotten into you? Keep acting this stupid and I’ll excuse myself from the job, I have better people to coach.”

Her tone, her words, the sharp edge of her tongue, it’s all triggering a very specific part of Seunghceol’s brain.

“Is it your ankle? Because if it is, then I’m here to tell you to get out of your own head. Your ankle is fine, you wouldn’t be able to get on the ice at all if it wasn’t.”

There it comes. Those words aren’t directed towards Seungcheol, nor could they apply to him in any capacity. But the way this coach is speaking is making him irrationally angry.

“Are you gonna keep pretending you have a handicap? Because if you are then I have no work here.”

“I’m sorry.”

For whatever reason, the sound of you apologising makes the fire rage doubly. It’s enough to blur his vision, enough to make him question what on earth this coach could have on you to let her speak to you in that way.

The choice words are already in his head as he claps back in his own head, like he was the one at the receiving end.

He doesn’t stay, disappearing even further into the tunnel to where the locker rooms are. He doesn’t understand why he’s huffing and puffing as much as he is. All that occupies him is what possible reasons you could have to just take it lying down.

Seungcheol’s phone vibrates in his pocket, slipping it out to realise it’s Jeonghan.

He picks up, and barely has time to say hello before his voice perks up from the other line. “Where are you?” He sounds like he just woke up.

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

“My angry voice is not—” he begins to grit, seething, but closes his eyes and takes a moment. “I’m not mad.”

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

Seungcheol hangs up before he can go on. To his utmost irritation, he feels significantly calmer.

The rink is devoid of your red headed coach when Seungcheol makes his way there after a few minutes. The blonde one is nowhere to be seen, leaving you alone in the rink as you skated across the expanse. He only watches as you land the couple attempts at jumps, the ice breaking ground in a spray every time you put pressure on your blades.

Seungcheol is just standing there, blank faced with an empty head. His mind was quiet for the first time since he’d woken up that morning.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, standing idle as he follows your figure around the rink like a fixation point.

The sound is more consistent, less of the loud jabs of hockey sticks meeting the ice, more constant lines of scraping as you migrate across the rink. The speakers boom no sound, but the musicality in the noise of the ice is enough to imagine a rhythm.

No part of him desires getting on the ice to oust you out, no part of him wants to touch his hockey stick that sits in the locker room. He doesn’t need extra practice, not with hockey at least.

And when you notice him, unmoving in the benches, he watches as something hard overcomes your expression. You skate over, and he keeps his gaze fixated on the ice.

Skating up to the gate, he sees in his peripheral vision as you slip on your skate guards, stepping out into the real world.

“You don’t have the rink booked, I checked,” you huff, moving to find your things on the other set of benches.

Seungcheol’s jaw tenses. “I don’t want the rink right now.”

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

“I’m here to tell you to start filling in the stupid craters your skates make in the ice. The guys keep tripping.”

“You big hockey thugs getting defeated by a toe pick?”

Seungcheol turns to finally look at you, and you look nothing as graceful as you did on the ice. He wants to scoff.

You continue, “I have to deal with your stupid barriers fucking up my sound system. I think your guys can deal with a couple digs in the ice.”

“Great, we’ll just lose a couple teeth, who really gives a fuck.”

“If this is about giving fucks,” you get up from your water break, leaving the bench. “Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't."

Seungcheol’s entire being is ablaze. He reshuffles his footing. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” you repeat, voice moving a pitch higher. “My fucking problem is that you and your overgrown posse of baboons drop in here out of the blue and then act like you own the damn place!”

“Right, because it’s your name on the fucking lease. Excuse us for trespassing on public property!”

You’re yelling. Seungcheol is yelling. It’s either that or the hollow of the rink is now carrying your voices farther out.

“I’ve had enough of you acting like you don’t take up this entire fucking space!” Your arms wave wildly, gesturing to the large area of the rink. “You’re everywhere, all the fucking time, it’s sickening!”

“Everywhere, huh?” He takes a step closer to you. And then another. He revels in the sight of your face turning a splotchy red. “Thought I was only a bother on the ice? Where else have I been plaguing you in mystic hallucinations?”

Seungcheol’s eyes give away nothing but provocation. He knows he didn’t start this, but in the true essence of who he is, he would be the one to end it.

It’s clear you’re taken aback. At this moment, he’s the closest he’s ever been to you. But it’s for nothing if it isn’t to press on you further, to tower over you and your outburst.

“Get your head out of the gutter, you brute.”

“Then is it not me taking up all your space?” he asks. “Because there’s three feet of air between us, and yet the least in our very short time together.”

He watches as you take a small step back.

“So where else have I been any closer, so consistently, if it wasn’t part of your imagination?”

There’s a certain kind of venom in your stare, in the sneer that lifts your mouth, enough to ensure that it’d render him six feet deep. But he lives in reality, so he deems it safe to take another step closer.

“You’re a screw up,” you almost whisper. Appalled and scandalised.

“So I’ve been told,” Seungcheol breathed. “But something tells me we’re not so different in that department.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know that I’m all you can think about,” he says, eyebrows raised. “That feels like a lot. You’d agree, because everywhere, all the fucking time is a lot.”

Seungcheol has hardly finished his sentence before he feels the light breeze of you gathering your few things, shouldering him hard and walking away from him. Into the tunnel, into the locker rooms, into hell, wherever it was that you ended up by the close of the day.

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

LORELAI HAD MADE IT quite clear that any figure skating talk was off the table, and talk surrounding Marina even more so. You tried not to point out the obvious predicament, but the fact that you lived with Marina did not affect her demand.

Miraculously, not talking about skating or Marina was the most free you’d felt in ages. It was mildly embarrassing in the beginning, when on a run with Lorealai who was also helping out at the dog shelter, because you realised all you talked about was, maybe not Marina, but definitely a lot of skating.

You slow down a little to give Kkuma a couple minutes to breathe, but Lorealai is still running at her pace with her significantly more energetic husky, Bennie.

“Stay there, I’ll catch up!” she yells over her shoulder as she takes the left around the block to circle back.

You oblige, moving to a walking pace as Lorelai appears from behind you after a couple minutes. She slows to a jog and loiters around you for a minute, you increase your speed to match hers.

“Jeonghan…” she pauses to take a breath. But your interest is piqued, especially if she was talking about the same Jeonghan you were thinking about. “Jeonghan invited me to the game this weekend.”

Hold.

“What?” you snap.

“Game. This weekend,” she huffs, still breathing heavily.

“Like, a hockey game?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“No, for disney on ice,” she announces. “They’re doing beauty and the beast, Jeonghan’s the beauty, Seungcheol is the beast. It’s a whole production, really. Real good stuff.”

You can only roll your eyes at the elaborate sarcasm. She continues, “Of course, it's a hockey game! What else do they do at that rink all day?”

“Gosh, sorry,” you frown. “Since when do you talk to Jeonghan?”

She looks over, wicked smile on her face. “Since I found him on Instagram.”

“You followed him?”

“No, why would I do that? Bumped into him at the gym a while ago, and we went out for coffee afterwards.”

Nothing of the ordeal is making sense, your brows still knit together and your mouth downturned in confusion.

“Catch you in a minute!” she yelps as she takes off into a run again, Bennie right next to her as she circles round again.

The few minutes that it’s just you and tiny Kkuma are flooded with questions. How did she just bump into Jeonghan? Lorelai hardly goes to the gym. Asking her to come to the hockey game?

And then worst of all.

Are they dating?

By the time Lorelai is back, she’s out of breath again, and fully unequipped to answer all of the questions you shoot at her like rapid fire.

“Why were you at the gym? He’s a junior league coach, he’s not even gonna be playing!”

“God!” she groans, heaving. “Slow…down.”

“Fine!” You stop in your tracks entirely, to which Lorelai is happy to oblige as she crouches with her hand on her knees. Bennie tugs at her leash, the big bounding ball of fluff ready to race the winds again.

You count to ten, hands on your hips as Kkuma lets out a small, confused yip now that you’re completely idle on the track.

“Talk.”

With an all too dramatic flip of her short hair, she pulls herself up and into an explanation. “I couldn’t tell you because we weren’t talking when it all happened.”

It’s true, it did take a while for you to go back to normal after that run in with Marina in your bedroom. You suppose it won’t be happening again with the new no-Marina-talk rule, since she seemed to be quite the common factor in many of your rifts over the years.

“I went to the gym to blow off some steam—don’t look like that, I’m being serious!”

You make an attempt at fixing your face as she continues.

“He saw me first and came up to say hi. Went our separate ways but once we finished up he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee since we were both done working out.”

“And you said yes?”

“I said yes. Because he is cute, and I had been stalking his very public Instagram and it was just the perfect opportunity!”

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply.

“I don’t know.”

“He asked you to the game?” you point out.

“Well, yes, but he hasn’t asked me asked me.” Somewhere in her voice there’s the tiniest hint of disappointment. “Besides, he said to bring you as well.”

“Fuck no.”

“Come ooon! Jeonghan’s gonna be in the benches and I don’t know anyone else there!” she whines.

“Hey, we should switch dogs!” you announce as you yank Bennie’s leash out of Lorelai’s hands, stuffing Kkuma’s leash into her free hand.

You take off into a sprint, and Bennie is happy to keep up with you as you quite literally run away from the situation. Lorelai is yelling your name, her annoyance abundant.

Ignoring her is easy. Just the thought of walking into one of those games is enough to force a scoff, to watch your rink inhabited with like minded buffoonery as they ruin the bleachers and the ice.

By the time you make it back, the hilarity of the situation hasn’t left you. And it seems neither has Lorelai, who remains standing with Kkuma at her feet, waiting to trap you.

It’s the easiest thing to do, to turn right back around and circle the other way.

“You can’t run away from me forever!” she shouts behind you as you disappear again.

Maybe you couldn’t, but you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“You can’t run away from Seungcheol forever! Quit pretending like you aren’t dying to fall into those giant arms!” Lorelai has a very specific talent of injecting all the drama in the world in the tone of her voice. She’s sure to utilize that skill as she hollers after you.

That seems to do it for you, slowing down, half ready to whip around and holler a profanity or two right back.

You’re more triggered than usual, but mostly because all the jab does is remind you of the last time you saw him. The arrogance in his demeanor, the way he belittled you with just his eyes, the shadow of his towering frame, caging you like a lost animal.

You hated it. Despised it. Despised him. His disgusting innuendos, the all so misleading innocence on his face as he cornered you with both his body and his words.

Lorelai could deal you whatever card there was tied up her sleeve, but getting you anywhere near the rink for the game this weekend was going to require more than just dessert bribes and sweet talking. Dragging you by the ankles could be a possibility, but all for naught when you dig your nails in anyway.

It was impossible. Not doable. Non-existent in the cards of your destiny. A repelling force.

So why, would one ask, were you decked out in the most heinous red scarf with the letters SVT stitched on like a warning, sitting in the bleachers and looking down at the same rink you practice your spins and jumps in everyday?

Neither you or Lorelai could answer that question, both your stories as blurry as fog as to how either of you managed to get you in that fabled seat.

You could see the exact place you and Seungcheol had your last showdown, the opposing team in black now occupying that side of the benches. The thought puts you in an impossibly sour mood. It’s not like Lorelai could say anything about it, half because she knows you’re one snide remark away from jumping into the merch table, and half because she was too busy making heart eyes at Jeonghan who’s just spotted her in her seat.

“I’ll be back,” she informs haphazardly as she positively bounds down the steps to the end of the bleachers, where Jeonghan waits for her. The people in their seats shuffle, annoyed at the overenthusiastic fan who practically slides down in front of their legs towards the railing. But Lorelai couldn’t care less, not with what stood beyond that very railing.

Tearing your eyes away from the lovebirds, you take in the hustle and bustle of the pregame happenings, most of the bleachers in disarray as they humour the merch stands and the food stalls. The rink smells different because of it, both the added number of food trucks and drink stands, but also with the amount of people that occupy the expanse.

The only times you see the rink this packed is when you’re too wracked with nerves to notice anything other than your own two feet. Hands wringing and head spinning, the chaos of the world is nothing against the pandemonium in your mind. You’re usually wearing a sparkly dress that glitters even from the very last row of bleachers, hair taut and makeup caked on like a layer of icing.

Taking your time, you let your eyes flit over all that you forgo the other times. The stands are a mix of red and black, and so are the benches and ice that are occupied by men in full hockey gear.

You’re too high up to make out the names on the back of all those jerseys, let alone a face underneath the already concealing helmets. The problem is forgotten when you feel the weight of two hands slam against your folded arms, tugging you out of your seat like it was stolen property.

“Jeonghan said we could sit closer to the benches downstairs!” Lorelai is frantic, like this wasn’t a matter of reserved seats but the last plane to leave hell itself.

“Lor—” Finishing a sentence when she’s in this state is a luxury you learn quickly to live without, because all that concerns her right now is getting closer to the man that seems to have enraptured her like never before.

It’s disgusting. But you follow her anyway, down the steps that you nearly eat shit on, gracefully of course, because what figure skater doesn’t fall with an epic crash worthy of an Expendables cameo. You stabilise yourself enough to get to the seats Lorelai is talking about, and sure enough, Jeonghan would barely have to get on his tiptoes to hoist himself into the bleachers altogether. You question the safety of the context but decide that it wasn’t your problem if someone decided to pounce on one of the players.

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t revel in the absolute scene of Seungcheol getting jumped by an over-passionate fan. You’re suddenly very grateful for the front row seats.

There’s a bucket of chicken tenders and fries in your lap out of nowhere, matching the one in Lorelai’s hands. “Also Jeonghan?” you hum as you inspect the sauce options.

“Mhm, he’s friends with the vendor outside,” she grins.

You narrow your eyes at the revelation, finding it utmost strange how close he seems to be with nearly everyone. “Why is he on the benches, again?” you ask.

“Because—” she draws before you cut her off.

“Friends with the coach?”

“How’d you know?!” she exclaims. Her attention is diverted as the speakers suddenly boom with something other than generic pop music. So is yours, when you hear a deep baritone of a commentator’s voice carries throughout the rink.

The shuffle around you is suddenly doubling in speed, everyone getting into their seats. You look over in front of you, where the benches are in an equally panicked shuffle. You spot Jeonghan easily, mostly because he’s one of the few in the vicinity without a helmet or what looks like a giant space suit. The next thing you note is the person he’s talking to, his back turned to you, but familiar all the same.

CHOI, 95, reads his jersey. Automatically, your jaw clenches. “Don’t look over there!” Lorelai chides, grabbing your jaw and moving it to force you to rip your eyes away from him.

“Lorelai, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but unlike your boy toy, he’s actually gonna be on the ice,” you verbalise through clenched teeth.

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts.

Rolling your eyes, you only listen as she realises what she’s said. “Okay, um, look at Jeon instead! Or Kim, or Boo, just. For god’s sake, there’s fifty other players on the ice, just don’t let one of them ruin your night!”

“I’m fine,” you grumble, sinking into your seat.

It isn’t long before your eyes trail over anyway, and Seungcheol still doesn’t have his helmet on. You can see his face now, and he looks like he’s mad at Jeonghan about something.

Inevitably, your mind wanders to the fated article that somehow made its way into your recommended, the certainty it put in you that Seungcheol didn’t stand a chance in his team anymore. It seemed true enough, his anger, that he continues to display, seemed to be his default emotional setting.

Your hockey knowledge was subpar at best, but one thing you did know was the aggression factor of the sport. Of all the things that could cut his career clean down the middle, this was the last of your guesses.

Even now, as you watch him absentmindedly point and jerk like his supposed friend had managed to bring him something that was personally offensive, it’s all connecting too well.

But when you snap into reality, you realise very quickly that he was pointing…at you.

Seungcheol is mad that Jeonghan (effectively) brought you to the match.

A chortle of disbelief is quick to make itself known, wanting to yell across the throng that you were every bit as upset that he was in your vicinity too. It also brings you satisfaction, a pure grain of hope, that maybe this would be enough for him to completely fuck up on the ice today.

You say a quick amen before the baritone of the commentator makes itself known again. The echo is too much for you to decipher what’s going on, but you have your answer when you watch the reds and the blacks form what looks like a line across the width of the rink, right in the center.

You don’t register when the puck landed, or if it was always there, just that the loud clacks and bangs are in tandem with the cheer from the crowds. The puck is an impossible commodity to keep up with, even with just your eyes. It appears for a moment before it’s lost again, shooting around in your peripheral vision like a pesky fly you can never get a hold of.

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself.

Lorelai answers anyway, snorting, “Fuck if I know.”

The numbers on the lit screens are doing nothing to help out your predicament, too much happening for you to even begin to deconstruct. You choose to lay back and enjoy your chicken tenders and fries, complimenting the sauce choices to Lorelai along the way, who continues to calibrate her attention on the man that remains in the benches. Jeonghan looks over periodically to send her a wave and a blinding smile.

You’ve made a good enough dent in your chicken and fries bucket by the time it’s intermission, about ready for a drink by now. Lorelai makes herself useful and runs down to get you both something, mostly because Jeonghan was now more focused on the team that’s huddled around one another, another man you assume is their coach huddled right with them.

The scores are 2-2, as provided by the person behind you who was apparently sick of your placid obliviousness. It did feel slightly awkward to be the only person not as excited to be front and center, so you remind yourself to thank him profusely.

Your attention drifts back to the benches, inevitably as you’ve been so unfortunately placed to be able to breathe down the player’s necks. They’ve dispersed from their huddle, but are not yet on the ice. They’re sitting down, catching their breaths, drinking from water bottles. On the other side, the opposing team, a sea of black and white flooding their own end of the benches. It’s a sinking colour, not an ounce of depth in the shade. It’s taking over the benches.

Except it’s the players that are moving, like they’re diffusing into the scarlet territory.

You watch, as one player in black moves his mouth, speaking, upturned and eyebrows cocked. It’s clear he’s gone well past enemy lines, the front lines suddenly at attention. There’s not much you can make out, nothing much besides the very haughty expression on the player’s face. His eyes are covered by the sweaty mop on his head, but you don’t need to see them to find the malice that infiltrates his entire stance.

The scene, where both sides seem to be closing in on each other, has you automatically sitting up straighter. The air is going static, especially as you realise the player's mouth is moving faster as he jabs at — Seungcheol.

They’re fighting, only verbally for now, but it’s undeniable the way the heat grows by the second. All you can see is the back of Seugncheol’s jersey as he begins to step back from the ordeal, like he was fighting the urge to take a step forward instead.

Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s elbow, and one glance at the rest of the players on this side shows every last one on edge. Their coach is nowhere to be seen.

But he doesn’t stop talking, still standing in their territory. He yells something loud enough to hear the pitch of his voice, but not nearly enough to understand what he’s saying.

You could see it on the player’s face. Hook, line and sinker.

It happens so suddenly. Seungcheol surges forward like a dart, something flies out and hits the player square in the face.

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face.

You gasp out loud as you register what’s happening. The player removes his hand from his face, and for some reason, emerges grinning.

Seungcheol swings first, his fist rising and coming down on his cheek with a sound you can hear. You feel nauseous.

It’s pandemonium. You can see Jeonghan practically on top of Seungcheol, a number of other players attempting to get him off the man he continues to grab and shake up like a fugitive. The other player is throwing his own punches.

For one, horrifying moment, the force of the punch pushes Seungcheol’s face towards the stands enough to let you get an eyeful. All you see is red, beyond just his jersey. His mouth is full of blood, the front of his jersey dripped with it, his knuckles clustered with it.

The hand clasped around your mouth is your own, eyes blown in horror.

All around you, the world has their phones out like it was some show meant just for them, like this was exactly what they came here for.

It’s sickening. Sickening.

You brave another look, and they’ve been yanked off of one another. Seungcheol is being pushed down the tunnel and away from sight. Jeonghan has his hands clutched around Seungcheol like he’s nearly ready for another outbreak, his face grim.

Your eyes keep away from Seungcheol’s face on purpose. “Goodness, what is going on, I could barely get through the crowd,” Lorelai’s irritated voice infiltrates your ears, and you’re immediately brought back down to earth.

Arms full of more snacks and drinks, it only takes her one look at your rattled self to know.

“What happened?”

“I…they were…fighting. I don’t know, it just—Seungcheol was throwing punches and there was…blood, so much blood.”

She’s gotten a grip on your hand, her fingers warm under your cold, shivering ones. “Do you wanna leave?” she asks slowly.

One look over her shoulder is enough to tell you it’d be impossible. Everyone was too excited to care to cater to two people going in the opposite direction of the action. So you tell her there was no point, and you attempt to calm your racing heart as she sits next to you.

Snagging one of the packs from her mountain of snacks, you rip it open and let the sickly sweet smell infiltrate your nostrils. Popping one of the confections in your mouth, it’s hard to not make a face. It’s the sourest thing you could’ve picked, the tartness enough to distract you from the outside world. Eyes scrunched closed, you swallow the rush of saliva to ask Lorelai what the fuck she brought.

You chortle, and it has Lorelai looking over. “Whoops! That one’s mine.”

She snags the bag from your loosened grip, replacing it with a tamer bag of original flavoured potato chips. The chips are trying, but there’s not much you can do besides wait for the residues of the godawful candy to subside.

The ordeal seems to have calmed you the slightest bit, finally able to turn back to the ice. The rink is back to being occupied, players from both ends pouring onto the ice. You note a minor shoulder shove at the gate, but look away like it’d stop the calamity from intensifying.

The game ensues as normal, but you note the blatant absence of CHOI in the sea of red and white jerseys. You don’t mention it, and neither does Lorelai.

You’re about to burst by the time the finals moments are upon the game, the overtime minutes beginning to tick as the crowd grows restless by the second. With the little you’ve managed to grasp, you’re sure that SVT is only one goal away from the overtake. It’s making you nervous, like you’re waiting for your own score to be announced after a free skate.

The puck is a mere percentage easier to navigate after a couple hours of keeping after it; it skips between players you’re beginning to recognise from the back of their jersey. Kim, Boo, Wen, Kim, Lee. The opposing team intercepts for a moment, and you find yourself letting out an irritated shake of the shoulders. Back to Kim, Lee, Lee, and then, right into the net.

The jittering crowd suddenly went so silent you could hear a pin drop.

And then the world around you erupts. It’s impossible to classify the sound as cheers when racketeers off your entire being like an unearthly sound, the stands on their feet hollering and screaming and yelling at their players that are fighting to keep their new overtake in the final seconds before the game officially ends.

And when it does, you’re sure you need to get your ears checked out.

Looking over, you catch Lorelai’s eye, and you can’t help but laugh. A delightful laugh that releases itself in the midst of the chaos of red, scarlet and cherry. Somebody’s thrown a red blanket over you, another has begun to hand out congratulatory cherry lollipops (you pass, but Lorealai would be damned if she did), people are hugging each other so tight and you get the inkling they’ve only met each other today.

The ice is one giant dogpile, red on red as they suffocate one another in celebration.

Perhaps you didn’t realise how important the game actually was, or maybe every game is like this, loud, proud and exultant. You find yourself imagining how they feel.

The lost feeling of bouquets and flowers whisked in your direction, stuffed animals and hundreds of other things that scream adoration as your performance comes to a close. It’s a physical manifestation of an adoring crowd, as though making it tangible makes it a little more real.

The rush, you can feel it resonate off of the scarlet side of the benches, and it’s enough for you to realise that yes, this was an important match. For them anyway.

The way out of the rink is reasonably packed, but you manage to squeeze through the doors and towards where Lorelai had parked with fewer than expected obstruction. “Thought you might wait to see Jeonghan before we leave,” you hum as you walk to the parking spot.

“I was going to, but he’s probably dealing with what happened,” she utters slowly. A flash of red at the mention, gone as soon as it came. Lorelai adds with a little extra pep to her voice, “It’s okay! I’ll send him a text, we were planning on dinner tomorrow anyway.”

The side eye you send is met with a light shove. “This one seems serious. Dragging me here for his sake and now dinner with him?”

Lorelai was infamous for taking it excruciatingly slow, the time between the talking stage and the first date stretching for months. She claims it’s to make sure she's not roping herself into something she’d regret, which you’ll admit has seemed to work out in her favour. Her last relationship lasted years before Josh had to move away.

Jeonghan seems to have her under some warped spell, because Lorelai was hurtling into this relationship like a too compressed cannon ball. There was nothing you knew about Jeonghan other than his friendship with Seungcheol, his position as junior league coach and his habit of loitering on the ice; which means there wasn’t much opinion to be had on the whole conquest. Regardless, you decide to caution her some other day, when she’s not glowing and over the moon like a robust teenager.

Slipping into the passenger seat, you slump like never before, already dreaming about the bedrotting session you’re about to have; glorious enough for the books.

“Do you wanna grab food and rot on the couch?” she asks.

“You’re still hungry after all that?” you huff, your mouth still flavoured with artificial sweetness paired with the savoury of the chicken and fries. You pull out your phone for the first time in nearly three hours, the home screen alarming full of missed notifications. Text messages, mentions and phone calls. For whatever reason, you swipe right past and open your browser.

“It’ll take about an hour till we’re settled, should be hungry enough by then,” she comments, a gentle growl coming from beneath you as the engine comes to life.

Somewhere between the lines of the seatbelt sign pinging, and the radio blaring itself into the space, you’ve read a headline that’s enough to halt your world.

“There’s this new Chinese place that opened nearby here. Or this Persian restaurant but it’s like 20 minutes in the other direction. Or do we just do soup—”

“Lorelai.”

She turns to look at you in the passenger seat, seatbelt alarm still dinging as you remain with your seatbelt off as she pulls out of the parking space, like the official soundtrack to your doom. She brakes, hard. Lorelai is always Lorry with you, her full name only ever when you’re feigning irritation.

There’s nothing irritating about the situation, but everything is wrong with it.

It’s like you were in the benches, taking punches while simultaneously throwing a few yourself. You’re out of breath still seated, your skin tingles like a million arachnids crawling under your skin under your layers. You’re in the eddy of a horrifying whirlpool, that’s pulling you down, down, down, down, down, down—

!HOT TOPIC!

FIGURE SKATER OR FIGURINE? NOTHING GRACEFUL ABOUT Y/N L/N’S FALL FROM THE PINNACLE OF THE SKATING WORLD. Read from the Source!

From a pocket princess, to a rising star. From a rising star to the top of the world. From the top of the world to… a bottomless hell? How did Y/N L/N end up here?

It’s nothing new that L/N’s presence was notable during the flashy ISU Grand Prix held in Beijing last year, the podium notably shuffled as a result. The skater’s ankle injury was never awarded a career ending title, but with the way her comeback remains as foggy as it did since the initial announcement, one must begin to wonder if we’ll ever see L/N on the competitive ice again.

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark?

Trusted sources report that L/N’s sponsors are growing weary of her extended vacation, and are just about ready to pull the rug! In addition, sources also report her floundering lack of consistency in practice sessions on the ice, her condition beyond someone as onerous as even Isabella Carroll to manoeuvre into success. Talk about futile!

Now, we’re all hoping that our glittering gold medalist is only a victim of mindless chatter, however, we must concede, neither we nor our sources are holding on to too much hope.

Keep on the lookout for more updates from us on our fallen (?) star!

[a/n]: hehehehehe remember to reblog and tell me your thoughts

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 2 months ago

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...like I do get where you're coming from here, honestly I do, and I really hope this isn't perceived as a attack, because things can be rough for Marius enjoyers, but I want to clarify things because there's a lot of miscommunication about people's relationship to Marius in this fandom? like we go into gothic horror to feel things, to feel frightened and repulsed, and that's good, but we don't always empathize specifically with the characters who make us feel that way. It's kind of like a Humbert Humbert situation--that's a character who suffers, objectively, gets dumped and locked up and dies, but the emotions generated by the stuff he does don't just go away. the negative emotions Marius generates don't get cancelled out by the suffering he experience, it's not that simple, especially since it's unclear how much he really changes (but not my point, lol).

I mean, I like Marius, sort of, and I definitely think he's the best villain AR ever wrote. he's one hundred percent a lot more of a multifaceted character than people present him as, he's a great example of the challenge that we do in fact go to these crazy books for. I reblog a lot of stuff about him, including from Marius enjoyers, I have nothing but respect for you guys. I like marimand a lot--I mean, it's my most written pairing in this fandom, I ought to like it--and on the whole my emotions aren't intense as other people's, but Marius is objectively a sexual predator. Phrases like "too young for a wet pleasure," "it was just the usual brain-jarring blow," "perhaps my frankly carnal embraces made the wall in his mind, between past and present, all the more strong," the use of "dazed and silent" for Amadeo the first time Marius touches him in b&g...regardless of your own opinions on historical context or whatever, these are things that will affect people more deeply than any of the cartoon violence Armand inflicts on other vampires, or the cartoon violence vampires inflict on humans in general, because it feels more real, more frightening.

calling these emotions 'performative' (which you haven't, but I've seen people do) feels like a disservice to the complexity and impact of the books, and the sensitivity of the real-world horrors they confront. (I believe that people also have similar feelings on David considering his own sexualization of children, but I haven't read the David books atp so I'm not going to go there). Marius being a character who suffers and mourns and gets celebrity crushes and also abuses the people in his life is such a good and necessary example of the complexity of real-world abusers, but he's still going to generate intense reactions, even for people (like me) who don't really care about dm. and if ar truly didn't want that, she wouldn't have written the things she did.

my point is that there are probably some people who do in fact hate Marius for ship reasons, or simply not being able to handle the topics expressed, but there are also plenty of people who are capable of exploring sexual abuse in fiction, but don't have a lot of sympathy for Marius doing these things, and view him negatively as a result. your statement that 'most' people who hate Marius do so for ship reasons suggest some kind of ongoing miscommunication about this issue that I hope my extremely long-winded response will clarify.

tbh i just disagree with the fandom, i think most people primarily hate marius because people wanted more devil's minion content and instead in a pagecount kind of way, armand and marius and frankly david and lestat kind of run away with it. "marius isn't punished enough" dude you don't want people to be punished for stuff. you think armand was sufficiently "punished" for killing claudia and madeline? that little guy skates. look i know how it is. i actually like devil's minion a lot and think that specific chapter is as good as it gets. but idk you can't really get mad at anne rice books for not giving you what you wanted. she would never have wanted you to have that. she would never want you to read a book that was exactly what you wanted in an unchallenging way.

and tbh if armand and daniel were clearly and confidently on on-screen-ily together at the end of blood communion i think that would also affect this discussion more than people are admitting, but the reality is daniel's status at the end of the series in general not just with respect to armand is a big fuckin ???? . i dont like that either but i don't read anne rice books to "get stuff i like", i read them like getting ready for a wet t-shirt contest where the winner gets an uzi

if david and his relationship with lestat were totally unchanged and louis did forever-die at the end and/or was straight up not around, you'd see more david hate too (where david's not POPULAR but he's not generating that much discourse honestly)

that said, feel bad for the quinn blackwood people, now there are some fans who got hosed

#and of course it doesn't help ar uses him to vomit her various worst opinions because he's supposed to be an 'objective historian'#there's only so much going on about the glories of the western world or how whiny Jews are that some people can read before it gets grating #which technically isn't marius's fault and he's definitely not the only one (lestat in particular comes to mind)#but he's definitely anne's favorite for it and that also generates a lot of emotions #marius de romanus #marius centric #marius discourse #the vampire chronicles #monsters talks iwtv #monsters reads tvc #blood and gold #the vampire aramnd #i could talk about pandora and how her childhood encounter with marius mixes 'he just wants to get out of actual marriage' and grooming #or how armand was probably not fifteen when marius found him based on text evidence/how ar spoke about him and the age of actors #she suggested for the role. but this is enough discourse as it is.#for clarification i think forgetting daniel was one of the funniest things around ever did #tw kaelio #monsters discourse iwtv

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faebled-stories · 8 months ago

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Behind The Wall

Kinkvember Day 8: Glory Hole

Le Sserafim Huh Yunjin

6.5k words

Yunjin sank into the deep, velvet embrace of her couch, the cushions softening her exhausted frame as she let out a long, weary sigh. The echoes of the day's cacophony—cheering fans, thumping music, and sharp camera clicks—still pulsed faintly in her ears.

The life of an idol was dazzling but relentless; every hour meticulously scheduled, every move choreographed to perfection. The glitter of stage lights, interviews under glaring lamps, and the constant churn of photo shoots were exhilarating but exacted a toll. It was as if her very soul teetered on a tightrope, balancing the shimmering allure of fame against the shadow of burnout.

Through the vast floor-to-ceiling window, the city’s neon lights painted strokes of pink, blue, and gold across her apartment walls. Seoul’s night buzzed with energy; cars zipped by, people chattered and laughed, their figures flitting like restless fireflies. The symphony of life outside mocked her solitude, reminding her of the world that saw her only as an untouchable idol, never as Yunjin, the young woman who craved the freedom to simply be.

A heavy sigh escaped her as she swept her gaze over the cluttered coffee table, its surface strewn with fan mail written in colorful inks, glossy pamphlets of upcoming events, and stacks of formal letters from the agency. Her slender fingers traced absent patterns over the scattered papers, seeking something familiar in the chaos. But then, her touch stopped on an envelope that was different. It was plain, with none of the bright markings or logos she’d expected—no sender's name, no return address, just an unassuming square of paper.

The whisper of the paper crinkling as she opened it seemed magnified in the stillness. The note inside was concise, starkly so, and as her eyes scanned the words, a shiver danced along her spine:

"Looking to escape the ordinary? We offer complete anonymity. No names, no faces—just pure freedom. For those seeking a way out, come explore a world where nothing else matters."

A URL was printed below in small, unembellished text, as though any flourish might disrupt the message’s secrecy. Yunjin flipped the paper over, searching for more—an explanation, a clue to its sender—but found nothing. The edges of the note bit into her palm as her mind wrestled with intrigue and apprehension.

Her heart thudded as she glanced around her penthouse, its luxury and perfection suddenly feeling like a gilded cage. The idea of complete anonymity was as tantalizing as it was foreign. A place where her name, face, and reputation held no sway, where the burden of fame could be shed like a second skin—was such a thing even possible?

The glow of her phone lit her face as she typed the URL. The screen flickered to life, revealing a minimalist site with no distractions, no images, just a few lines of cryptic text. It spoke of an exclusive venue, a secret haven where identities dissolved, and people interacted without pasts or future judgments. A chill coursed down her arms as she read it again, each word stoking the embers of a rebellious thought that crackled within her.

She pressed her lips together, the decision forming like storm clouds in her mind. Her usual caution warred with a desperate hunger for escape. For once, she wouldn’t run it by her manager or think about potential repercussions. She would be just Yunjin, unknown and unseen.

Shaking fingers rummaged through her closet, pushing past glamorous gowns and performance outfits until she found a pair of dark jeans and a plain black hoodie. She slipped them on, the soft fabric foreign in its ordinariness. Her reflection in the mirror was almost startling—gone were the shimmering eyeshadow, sculpted features, and immaculate hair. Instead, a girl with wide, determined eyes looked back. She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and donned a baseball cap, tucking wayward strands beneath it. Oversized sunglasses completed the disguise, shadowing her face despite the evening hour.

A small crossbody bag held her essentials, including the mysterious envelope and her phone, which she silenced before sliding it in. The muffled tick of the clock punctuated her hesitation, but the thrum in her chest urged her forward. The night was cool when she stepped out, the city’s breath washing over her as if daring her to blend into the current of people and lights.

Flagging down a cab felt like a small act of rebellion, its ordinary nature grounding her as the car hummed to life and pulled away from the curb. The rhythmic roll of the tires lulled her into contemplation. Streetlights cast fleeting halos on her window, the cityscape warping and softening in the glass’s reflection. She watched as neon signs, bustling restaurants, and late-night strollers gave way to quieter streets lined with shuttered shops and shadowed alleyways.

When the cab stopped in front of an unremarkable building, her pulse quickened. It stood under a flickering street lamp, modest and nondescript, its façade promising nothing yet holding everything she yearned for.

Yunjin paid the driver and stepped onto the cracked pavement, the city's hum receding to a low murmur. A sudden breeze lifted the edge of her hood as she pulled it lower, shielding herself from the scant light. The air tasted electric, anticipation sharp on her tongue.

This was it—a chance to disappear, to step into the unknown. The final glance over her shoulder was reflexive, a look at the life she was about to abandon, if only for a fleeting moment. With a deep breath, Yunjin pushed open the heavy door and let the shadows swallow her whole, a small smile curving her lips as the echo of her world fell away.

At the front desk, a woman with a soft, welcoming smile looked up, her glasses perched delicately on the tip of her nose, glinting under the warm glow of the overhead light. She exuded an air of quiet confidence, her poised demeanor a result of years of greeting visitors who approached with curiosity, nerves, or both.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice calm, warm, and practiced, like the embrace of a familiar song. The subtle scent of jasmine lingered in the air, a comforting contrast to the thundering beat of Yunjin’s heart. Sensing her demeanor the lady continued “First time?”

Yunjin gulped, the lump in her throat making her voice feel small and fragile. “Yes,” she replied, her tone soft and almost wavering, as if any louder would betray the torrent of emotions coursing through her.

The woman’s eyes, sharp yet kind, softened with a knowing glimmer as she slid a clipboard toward Yunjin across the polished, dark wood of the counter. The faint slide of paper against wood felt louder than it was, reverberating in Yunjin’s heightened state. “No worries, it’s all straightforward here. Just sign this waiver, and let me explain the options.” The receptionist’s tone was even, her words crafted to soothe. The clipboard itself seemed ordinary but held a gravity Yunjin wasn’t prepared for—a silent gateway between the ordinary and the unknown.

Yunjin's eyes dropped to the clipboard, the neatly printed text blurring slightly as her thoughts raced. The room felt warm, her breath shallow as she fought to calm herself. The woman’s voice interrupted her reverie, a steady anchor to the moment. “You can choose to give pleasure or receive it—whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

Yunjin’s pulse quickened, the choice startling in its simplicity yet weighted with implications. The muffled hum of distant music reached her ears, blending with the low thrum of blood rushing through her veins. She hadn’t anticipated the tension, the sudden clarity required for this decision.

“Um…” The hesitation hung between them, a breath caught in time. Yunjin’s gaze flickered from the clipboard to the woman’s reassuring eyes, and before she could rethink it, the words fell from her lips. “I’ll… give first.”

A smile curved the receptionist’s lips, gentle and knowing. She collected the clipboard once Yunjin had signed her name, fingers brushing lightly over the polished wood. “Great,” she said with a finality that both steadied and excited Yunjin. “Once you’re ready, head to the back, and follow the instructions inside. Take your time.” The words resonated like a promise, rich with unspoken possibilities.

Yunjin's feet felt both light and weighted as she moved through the hallway, each step echoing softly against the wooden floorboards. The corridor was lined with antique sconces that cast warm, flickering light, their glow reminiscent of gas lamps from another era. The scent of aged wood and varnish wrapped around her, steeped in a history of whispered secrets and uncharted desires.

The booth she entered was compact, almost intimate, its wooden frame dark with age and rich with a subtle scent of cedar. Faint scratches marred the surface, stories untold but felt through the marks of time. Yunjin adjusted herself on the worn seat, the old wood creaking beneath her slight movements. The small space was a capsule of warmth and nervous energy, making the moment feel both surreal and thrilling.

A deep breath filled her lungs as she closed her eyes, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. The booth's walls seemed to close in protectively, muting the world outside and intensifying her awareness of herself. The anticipation coiled within her, electric and alive, as she opened herself up to whatever came next, ready to step across the invisible threshold and into the unknown.

Suddenly, a slight movement near her face broke her concentration. Her gaze shifted and there it was—a small, round hole in the partition between booths, a portal to the unknown. Through it, the tip of a penis slowly emerged, its presence both startling and enticing. The anonymity of the situation only added to the allure, as Yunjin found herself face to face with the mystery of a man she could neither see nor touch, save for this intimate connection.

The member that presented itself through the partition was of a decent size, neither intimidating nor meek. It commanded Yunjin's attention, a silent invitation to a dance of lust and longing. With a deep breath, she reminded herself to take her time, to explore and savor the experience. She was an artist, and this was her canvas.

As she leaned in, the warmth of her lips met the head of the cock with a gentle, yet commanding touch. Her technique was impeccable, a result of years of honing her craft. A low groan from the other side of the partition confirmed her skill, and a surge of empowerment washed over her. She was in control, a maestro conducting an orchestra of desire.

With each slide of her mouth, her tongue traced the sensitive underside of his member, eliciting a symphony of responses from the stranger. His breathing grew heavier, punctuating the air with anticipation. The twitching of his member within her mouth was a silent testament to her mastery, a sign that she was navigating the dance of desire with expert precision.

Yunjin's own moans began to mingle with the stranger's labored breaths, a chorus that filled the small, private space. She couldn't deny the pleasure she found in this unconventional tryst. There was a unique thrill in the anonymity, a liberation in the act of pleasuring someone whose face she would never know. It was a connection that transcended the physical, rooted in the raw and real exchange of passion.

The pace of her actions increased, her head bobbing with growing urgency, the wet sounds of her endeavors a testament to the fervor of the moment. She could sense the stranger's tension mounting, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged as he approached the precipice of release.

As the tension escalated, Yunjin sensed the subtle changes in the man's breathing—a mix of shallow, quick breaths escalating into a desperate, primal rhythm. The air grew thick with anticipation, and her heart pounded in sync with his. The cock in her mouth, already swollen with arousal, seemed to pulse with an electric charge, signaling the inevitable. His body tensed, muscles rigid as his climax built to an unstoppable crescendo. With just a whisper of warning, the stranger's control slipped away. A guttural, low growl vibrated through his chest, primal and raw, echoing in the confined space around them. Then, the release. It came like a warm, forceful flood, his hot, salty essence filling Yunjin's mouth with a sudden rush. She felt the throbbing intensify, each pulse delivering more of his essence, hot and thick against her tongue. Yunjin, caught in the wave of his ecstasy, swallowed eagerly, the flavors mixing in her mouth—salty, slightly bitter, yet uniquely intimate. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation, her own arousal amplifying as she savored the taste, the heat, the sheer intimacy of the act. As he reached his peak, she could feel the tension in his body slowly ebbing away, the throbbing now a slower, gentler rhythm. The cock in her mouth began to soften, no longer the rigid rod of before, but yielding, becoming more pliable. Yunjin held him there, her lips and tongue still caressing, prolonging the connection. The afterglow of his climax lingered on her taste buds as she gently released him with a soft wet pop, her lips tracing a soft path along the now relaxed shaft, leaving a trail of warmth. The moment, intense and fleeting, left them both in a haze of satisfaction, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath.

A murmured thanks floated through the hole, a small acknowledgment of the intense connection they had shared, however fleeting. Yunjin took a moment to catch her breath, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of the encounter.

Despite the fleeting nature of their interaction, Yunjin felt a profound bond with the faceless man on the other side of the wall. It was a bond forged by mutual pleasure and vulnerability, a memory that would linger long after the carnival lights had dimmed.

Just as she began to compose herself, another surprise awaited her. From a different opening in the partition, a second shaft appeared—this one significantly larger and more imposing. Yunjin's breath hitched in her throat as she eyed the newcomer with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. The first encounter had been a warm-up, but this? This was a challenge.

She hesitated, pondering if she could accommodate such a size, but the thrill of the challenge won out. With a cautious but determined glance, she edged closer to the second hole. Yunjin was ready to take the ride.

As she steeled herself, Yunjin's gaze was locked on the formidable appendage that stood before her. It was a symbol of virility and power, and she was determined to conquer it. With a deep breath, she leaned forward, her heart pounding like a drumline in her chest. The moment of contact was electric; her soft lips met the massive head of the cock, and a surge of warmth and intensity coursed through her. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation as she focused all her strength and concentration on the task ahead.

The journey had begun, and Yunjin was committed to seeing it through. She slid her lips down the lengthy shaft, each inch a testament to her determination. The cock throbbed and pulsed in her mouth, a living embodiment of the challenge she had accepted. It was a tight fit, pushing the limits of her oral cavity, and she could feel her throat constricting as she valiantly attempted to accommodate more of the imposing member.

Gagging and sputtering were inevitable, but Yunjin's will was made of sterner stuff. She refused to yield, pushing herself further, taking in more and more until she felt the cock hit the back of her throat. The sensation was overwhelming, but she welcomed it, pausing only to adjust before resuming her rhythmic motion. Her head bobbed back and forth, the cock sliding in and out of her mouth with practiced ease, a dance of passion and perseverance.

The thrill of the challenge was intoxicating. Yunjin's pulse raced with excitement as she deepthroats the massive cock, each thrust a declaration of her own capabilities. She was acutely aware of the wet patch growing on her panties, a visible sign of her arousal, as she moaned softly, the sound muffled by the object of her conquest. She was lost in the moment, her world narrowed to the feeling of being completely filled, completely consumed by the task at hand.

Her determination was not in vain. The man's body tensed, his breaths became labored gasps, and Yunjin knew she had driven him to the brink. The moment of truth arrived as his dick twitched and pulsed in her mouth, releasing a torrent of cum. She swallowed quickly, striving to keep up with the force of his ejaculation, but the sheer volume was overwhelming. Cum splashed against the back of her throat, overflowed, and covered her chin, dripping down her chest in a testament to her efforts.

Yunjin, a woman of remarkable poise and sensuality, found herself in a scenario that would have left many reeling. She had just concluded an intense session with two well-endowed partners, each man bringing his own brand of fervor and demanding her full attention and physicality. The encounter had been a marathon of pleasure and exertion, pushing Yunjin to the brink of her sexual prowess. Yet, as the second man withdrew, spent and satisfied, Yunjin was faced with an unanticipated third act.

Through the other hole stood another man, his desire evident and his anticipation palpable. His penis, while not as imposing as the ones that had preceded it, still presented a challenge. Yunjin, ever the consummate lover, was not one to back down from a challenge. She understood that satisfaction comes in many sizes and that her journey was far from over.

With a deep breath to center herself, Yunjin leaned in, her eyes locked onto his member as she took the whole cock easily into her mouth. The warmth of his flesh against her lips was a familiar sensation, yet it brought with it a new set of expectations. She was determined to lavish upon this man the same meticulous attention that she had given to the others, to bring him to the heights of pleasure despite the lingering sensation of fullness that still resonated within her from her previous encounters.

As she worked her magic, the man's response was immediate and visceral. He quickly reached his climax, and Yunjin braced herself for what was to come. To her astonishment, his orgasm was voluminous, exceeding even the generous offerings of the two men before him, combined. The warm, thick salty liquid hit the back of her throat with a force that caused her gag reflex to activate, the excess spilling out of her mouth and trickling down her chin.

The sensation was overwhelming, and Yunjin made a swift decision. She couldn’t take any more inside of her; she had reached her limit. Instead, she guided the man to finish all over her face. With her eyes closed and her head tilted back, she surrendered to the sensory overload. The cum splattered in waves across her face, marking her porcelain skin and staining her crimson hair with ropes of his essence. It dripped down her neck, leaving trails that soaked into her LE SSERAFIM top, a badge of honor from her latest conquest..

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Yunjin. Here she was, a woman who had always prided herself on her control and composure, covered in the evidence of her sexual escapades. Yet, far from feeling debased, she felt empowered. The sensation was strange, yet not unpleasant, and in the midst of the chaos, she found a moment of quiet appreciation for the extremes to which her body and mind could be pushed.

As the man caught his breath and pulled away, Yunjin opened her eyes. A smile played across her lips, a silent acknowledgment of the journey she had just completed. She had not only endured but had triumphed, satisfying yet another partner with grace and determination. The experience had been intense, physically challenging, and emotionally exhausting, but it had also been exhilarating.

Yunjin stood, her body glistening with the remnants of her encounters, and made her way to the mirror. She gazed at her reflection, at the cum-covered visage that stared back at her, and she felt a surge of pride. She had pushed herself beyond her limits, and had proven to herself that she was capable of anything. In that moment, Yunjin embraced her strength, her resilience, and the sheer power of her sexuality.

She took a moment to catch her breath. She felt a weight lifted off her shoulders, and a sense of calm washed over her. But she was not ready to stop just yet. Quickly using the provided wipes, she cleaned herself slightly before she gathered up her remaining energy and boldly decided to continue.

Yunjin's heart danced to the staccato rhythm of her racing pulse as she navigated the dimly lit corridors of the building, her every step echoing the potent cocktail of excitement and trepidation coursing through her veins. She arrived at her destination, a secluded alcove whispered about in the hushed tones of the initiated, where the boundaries of the self are willingly blurred.

With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Yunjin began the ritual of undressing, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal the canvas of her unadorned skin. The cool air of the room kissed her bare flesh, sending a shiver down her spine, a tangible reminder of her exposed state. It was in this moment of nakedness, both literal and metaphorical, that Yunjin felt truly alive, her senses heightened to the symphony of whispers, rustling fabric, and the faint scent of desire that permeated the air.

Carefully, she positioned herself, ensuring comfort and security, but also the deliberate display of her most intimate self. The hole before her served as a portal to a world of anonymous connections, her bare pussy an offering to the unknown. As she closed her eyes, Yunjin surrendered to the vulnerability of her situation, a willing participant in the dance of the flesh.

The sounds from the adjacent room grew in intensity, a cacophony of deep moans and heavy breathing that spoke of the primal acts unfolding mere inches away. It was not long before the first of her anonymous suitors approached, his fingers tracing the contours of her exposed lower body with a reverence that belied the raw encounter to come.

He wastes no time in claiming what he sought, gripping Yunjin's hips with an urgency that communicated his need. She felt the heat of his body, the insistent press of his cock against her, seeking entry into the slick warmth of her tight cunt. As he entered her, Yunjin braced herself against the intrusion, the sensation of being filled overwhelming her senses.

The man's thrusts were fast and deep, driven by the intoxicating tightness that enveloped him. Yunjin's moans melded with the symphony of sounds that filled the room, her body responding to the relentless rhythm. Having spent the earlier part of the night pleasuring a succession of faceless men, now it was her turn to bask in the waves of pleasure that threatened to engulf her.

Yunjin's body trembled uncontrollably as wave after wave of intense pleasure coursed through her veins. She could feel every inch of the man behind the wall. His thrusts were relentless, almost brutal in their intensity, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded to his touch.

She could hear the man's grunts and groans growing louder with each thrust, his hips slamming into her with a primal urgency that made her heart race. It was clear that he was chasing his own high, focused solely on the intense sensations coursing through his body.

Yunjin tried to match his rhythm, meeting each thrust with one of her own, but she was quickly overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure coursing through her. She could feel her orgasm building deep within her, the tension coiling in her belly as she gasped for breath.

Yunjin, in that moment, was just another warm, wet body used solely for pleasure. An extension of the overwhelming stimulation that threatened to swallow her whole. The scent of sex was thick in the air of the crowded room, mixing with the heady aroma of cologne and the musk of aroused bodies.

All around them, others writhed and cried out in ecstasy. Moans and screams filled the air, punctuated by the wet slap of flesh on flesh. It was a debauched scene straight out of Yunjin's wildest fantasies. And yet, even as her body climbed higher and higher towards the peak, her mind felt strangely detached. It was as if she was watching the whole thing unfold from outside herself.

The man's thrusts grew more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own end. Yunjin could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core, her nails digging into the supple leather beneath her as she teetered on the very edge of oblivion.

With a final, powerful thrust, Yunjin's body tensed as she felt her world shatter into a thousand pieces. Her orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave, a rush of intense pleasure coursing through her veins and leaving her breathless. She threw her head back and cried out, the sound echoing through the room as she reveled in the indescribable sensation.

The man, still buried deep inside of her, let out a low groan as he felt her climax. He could feel her muscles contracting around him, pulling him deeper as she rode out the waves of pleasure. With a few more thrusts, he followed suit, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her. The warmth of his seed filled her to the brim, a delicious sensation that only served to prolong her own orgasm.

"Ohhh yes!" Yunjin cried out, her voice filled with pure ecstasy. The intensity of the moment was etched into her memory, a moment of pure bliss that she would never forget.

As the first man finished his climax, he pulled out, leaving Yunjin's hungry hole exposed and glistening with a mixture of sweat and the evidence of his pleasure. But there was no time for respite in this den of hedonism. No sooner had he withdrawn than another figure loomed, his member rigid and ready. Without hesitation, he plunged into her cum-slicked opening, claiming her for his own.

He started pumping with an urgency that matched the rhythm of her own racing heart. The wet sounds of their union resonated throughout the room, a testament to the slick, fervent fucking that was underway. Yunjin's body responded instinctively, her hips rocking back to meet his every thrust, her fingers clawing at the edges of the bench that supported her.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she panted, her voice a symphony of lust and longing. She was a vision of abandon, her body undulating with each powerful drive of his cock. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back in ecstasy, as she rode the wave of another impending climax.

The man showed no signs of slowing down, his own desires stoking the fire within Yunjin's core. She could feel the essence of her previous partner being churned inside her, the concoction adding to the intensity of the experience. "Mmmm it's so messy!" Yunjin gasped, the sensation of fluids squelching with each thrust only heightening her arousal.

He used the slickness to his advantage, fucking her with wild abandon, his hips a blur as he hammered in and out of her willing body. The room was filled with the sounds of their coupling—the slap of skin, the wet suction of her sex, and the growing crescendo of Yunjin's moans.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna cum!" Yunjin wailed, her voice cracking with the intensity of her impending orgasm. Her pussy clenched around him, the sensitive walls of her sex gripping him tightly as she reached the precipice of pleasure. Her whole body shook, racked by the force of her climax, a climax that seemed to tear through her like a storm surge, leaving her spent and trembling in its wake.

As her orgasm subsided, the man continued to thrust, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure from Yunjin's satiated form. Finally, with a guttural growl, he too found his release, adding to the cum-slicked mess that Yunjin had become.

Exhausted but thoroughly sated, Yunjin collapsed onto the bench, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She was a writhing, moaning mess, her body marked by the intensity of her encounters. Yet, even as she lay there, the knowledge that this was but a moment in her endless pursuit of pleasure brought a knowing smile to her lips.

In the dimly lit confines of an intimate chamber, Yunjin found herself amidst a symphony of desire, a realm where pleasure was the only currency. After a series of passionate trysts, she braced herself for the final act of her evening, a performance that promised to be as memorable as it was intense.

As her body, still quivering from the reverberations of her last climax, began to settle, Yunjin sensed the approach of another. She was acutely aware that this would be her final partner for the night, and there was something decidedly different about him. The anticipation of his touch rekindled the warmth and pulsating sensitivity of her pussy, remnants of her recent orgasmic journey.

The man's presence was commanding yet tender as he teased her entrance, his warmth radiating against her sensitive flesh. She recognized him by his formidable size—the same man she had pleasured orally earlier. His endowment, both exciting and intimidating, had left a lasting impression, and the recognition only stoked the fires of her arousal.

As he began to enter her, Yunjin braced herself for the sensation of being filled beyond what she had ever known. His size was not just impressive; it bordered on the edge of her comfort zone, yet she found herself craving more. With each deliberate inch that slid inside, her body stretched to accommodate his girth, yielding to his impressive member with a mix of trepidation and eagerness.

The intensity of fullness was almost too much to bear, but it was swiftly replaced by waves of pleasure that accompanied each of his thrusts. Her body was being pushed to its limits, but in the most exhilarating way imaginable. She could feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft, creating a friction that sent shivers of delight coursing through her.

Instinct took over, and Yunjin began to match his rhythm, eager to feel him reach the deepest parts of her. The man responded in kind, increasing the force of his thrusts, making her gasp with each powerful drive. The room echoed with the raw, primal sound of their bodies uniting, a testament to the pleasure they were creating together.

Yunjin's heart raced, each beat a drumbeat echoing in her ears as she scaled the heights of her pleasure. Her legs trembled with the exertion, her muscles coiling tighter with each passing second. The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity, a palpable tension that begged for release.

"I'm so close," she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, laced with the raw edge of desperation.

He responded with a powerful surge, his body moving with an intensity that matched her own fervor. Their rhythm was frenzied, a dance of two souls seeking unity in the most primal way.

"Please," she begged, her pride forgotten in the face of the overwhelming need that consumed her.

His answer was a focused, deliberate motion, a targeted strike against her inner walls that made stars explode behind her closed eyelids. Yunjin's world shattered as she reached the pinnacle of her climax. Her voice broke the stillness, a cry of pure, unadulterated bliss that filled the room.

"FUCK… you’re so big!" she exclaimed, her body arching into his, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

Her inner muscles pulsed around him, a rhythmic clenching that milked his own release. He threw his head back, a look of pure ecstasy on his face as he let out a deep, resonant groan. Yunjin felt the heat of his climax as he spilled into her, the sensation drawing out her own pleasure until she was utterly spent.

For a moment, they existed in a perfect state of satiation, their bodies still intimately connected. Yunjin's breaths slowly evened out, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal. She lay there, boneless and content, a soft smile playing on her lips as the aftershocks of their union rippled through her.

As the intensity of the moment subsided, Yunjin savored the feeling of completeness. The warmth of his release spread through her, a sensation that was both comforting and deeply satisfying. Her body, now spent and limp, was a testament to the pleasure he had wrought.

In the afterglow of their erotic encounter, she lay back on the leather that clung to her skin, her body a canvas of pleasure and fatigue. Her breaths came in slow, deep waves, each one a testament to the intensity of the experience they had just shared. She was in a state of blissful exhaustion, every muscle in her body seemingly liquefied in the wake of her climax.

The mystery stud, still poised behind the wall, looked at her quivering folds, his gaze held a mixture of pride and satisfaction. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye he leaned in for one final, electrifying farewell.

His hand came down on her sex with a sure, resounding slap that echoed through the room, its sharpness jolting her senses. The stinging sensation arched her back, drawing a surprised moan from her lips as the sound lingered—a provocative reminder of their raw, unrestrained passion.

Before she could fully process the shock, his mouth descended with a searing kiss to her throbbing clit, warm and intent. The heat enveloped her, sending a fresh wave of pleasure rippling through her. His tongue moved deftly, coaxing her sensitive flesh to life with skilled flicks and gentle pulls, each movement reigniting her body’s desire.

A gasp escaped her as she shivered, goosebumps rising over her skin. Still sensitive from her previous release, she felt her body surge with renewed intensity. Her every nerve responded to him, the initial sting of his touch melting into the tender warmth of his kiss, the sensations mingling in a dizzying contrast that left her breathless. She was caught in the duality of it—the lingering sting meeting the sweetness of his lips—a perfect balance between the need to retreat from the intensity and the desire to lose herself in it entirely.

With a final, lingering kiss, he pulled back, leaving her body trembling and her chest rising with deep, satiated breaths. Covered in a light sheen of sweat, she had long since lost count of her climaxes, each one more powerful than the last. As she lay there, immersed in the warmth of their connection, she knew that this night would remain etched in her memory—a moment where passion, intensity, and an unspoken bond came together in something that transcended the physical.

She rose slowly from the plush cushions her legs trembling slightly from the exertions of the evening. Standing in the dimly lit room that had been her sanctuary, she caught her reflection in the nearby mirror. Her gaze drifted over her own form—a canvas marked by the unmistakable signs of release. Her skin was damp, glistening with the mingled residue of sweat and pleasure, each trace a testament to the intensity of the night.

She felt wonderfully full, her body carrying the subtle reminders of her encounters, tokens of the night that would stay with her as she stepped back into the world.

Yunjin moved to the bathroom, her steps careful, almost reverent. Warm water streamed over her, washing away the physical remnants of her indulgence, swirling down the drain in a quiet cleanse. Yet even as the evidence vanished, she knew that the essence of the night would remain—a secret, a sense of renewal that she would carry back into her public persona.

Dressed once again in her street clothes—a chic outfit that belied the wildness of her evening—Yunjin gathered her belongings: a sleek purse, comfy sneakers, and a renewed sense of self. She paused at the mirror, captivated by her own reflection. The woman staring back was radiant, her eyes alight with a new fire, a private victory that fame alone could never quite evoke. It was a glow that belonged to her alone.

At the front desk, Yunjin was met with the same quiet discretion as when she’d first arrived. The hostess, ever the silent guardian of this hidden world, handed her a sleek business card—a subtle invitation to return. Yunjin responded with a slight smile, a silent promise to herself that she would indeed revisit this sanctuary of indulgence.

Just as she turned to leave, a familiar voice rang out behind her.

“Hi, Ms. Jeon. Welcome back!”

Yunjin froze, her heart skipping as she spun around to see none other than her friend, Jeon Somi, standing just a few feet away. Somi’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and she cocked her head, taking in Yunjin’s slightly disheveled appearance. Blood rushed to Yunjin’s cheeks, embarrassment rising fast—of all people, she hadn’t expected to see Somi here.

“S-Somi?” she stammered, caught off guard. “What… what are you doing here?”

Somi chuckled, enjoying Yunjin’s flustered reaction. She took a step closer, her gaze warm but curious. “I didn’t know you knew about this place.”

Yunjin shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. “Yeah, well…” She trailed off, unable to find the words, but Somi simply grinned and leaned in slightly, her expression softening.

Without a word, Somi’s eyes glinted with mischief as she inhaled, catching the faint scent lingering on Yunjin’s clothes—a subtle hint of musk and release. She pulled back, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“I’m here for the same reason as you, I presume?” Somi teased, raising an eyebrow.

Yunjin’s face grew hotter, mortified that Somi could sense exactly what she’d been up to. She bit her lip, laughing nervously. “I… guess so,” she mumbled, managing a sheepish grin. “Didn’t think I’d… run into anyone I know here.”

Somi chuckled warmly, patting Yunjin’s shoulder with a playful smile. “Hey, we all need a place like this sometimes, right? No judgment.” She glanced back toward the hallways, her voice softening. “Anyway, I had a long day. I’ll see you around.”

Before Yunjin could respond, Somi turned and headed toward the dimly lit corridors, her footsteps fading into the quiet shadows of the hidden world they both shared. Yunjin watched her friend disappear, feeling a strange mix of relief, embarrassment, and an unexpected sense of camaraderie.

Left standing by the entrance, Yunjin took a steadying breath, her heartbeat gradually slowing. Tomorrow, she would return to her carefully crafted public life. But tonight, she carried the thrill of her private indulgence—and the quiet comfort of knowing she wasn’t alone in seeking a place to shed her public self, if only for a moment.

#kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop smut #girl group smut #kinkvember #kinkvember 2024 #le sserafim smut #huh yunjin #jennifer huh #yunjin #huh yunjin smut #yunjin smut #le sserafim #le sserafim huh yunjin #le sserafim yunjin #yunjin le sserafim

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solxamber · 10 months ago

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How Not to Court Your Crush: A Disaster in Six Acts - Malleus Draconia x reader

You're trying to court Malleus so why is he acting so weird? Malleus is trying to court you, so why are you acting so weird.

aka you try fae courtship and malleus tries human courtship, you both fail spectacularly.

Scene 1: The Offering of... Chaos?

You were determined. Absolutely, one hundred percent determined to win over Malleus Draconia’s heart the fae way. You’d done your research—well, half-researched. You might’ve skimmed some books. Okay, maybe you watched some video where a guy talked about it for 10 minutes. But still! You were ready to tackle fae courting, head-on.

Which is why you were standing in the middle of the campus courtyard holding a potted mandrake. Because, according to some source (you couldn’t quite remember which), gifting rare plants was a surefire way to court a fae prince.

Unfortunately, no one told you that the mandrake in question would scream like a banshee as soon as you yanked it out of the dirt.

"Behold!" You shouted, thrusting the potted terror toward Malleus, who had appeared in his usual fashion—stealthy and majestic, like a dragon perching on a mountain. "A rare gift for the noble Prince of Briar Valley!"

The mandrake, in all its wailing glory, let out a soul-piercing shriek. Nearby students flung themselves behind trees and bushes. Sebek fainted. Silver, as usual, napped through the chaos.

Malleus blinked at you. Once. Twice. His face was a mixture of confusion and slight amusement. "Are you... trying to summon something?"

You frowned. "Summon? No! This is for you!" You held the screaming mandrake higher, like an offering to some ancient god. "As a... token of my appreciation! You like plants, right?"

The mandrake let out a final, particularly blood-curdling scream before going silent, wilting slightly in the pot. Malleus blinked once. Twice. “I... do like plants, yes. But usually... not ones that wish to harm me.”

You grinned, proud of your extremely thoughtful choice. “Well, this one just has personality!”

Malleus cautiously took the pot from you, staring down at the now exhausted mandrake. “Thank you,” he said, sounding unsure if you were joking or being sincere. “I’ll... treasure it.”

Somewhere in the distance, Ace and Deuce exchanged pitying looks. “Man,” Ace muttered, “he doesn’t deserve this.”

Scene 2: The Worst Poem Ever Written

Malleus had been doing his own research—much more thorough than yours, of course. He’d read books. Lots of them. Mostly ancient tomes from his castle library that were centuries old. After all, human courting customs couldn’t have changed that much, right?

His plan was foolproof: Humans enjoyed poetry. Therefore, he would craft you the most beautiful, heart-stopping poem ever written, and your affection for him would blossom like the midnight roses of Briar Valley.

He found you sitting under a tree near the school, probably recovering from your last spectacular fae courting attempt (the less said about the mandrake incident, the better). Malleus approached with all the grace of a dark prince, his black cloak billowing in the wind, carrying a scroll in his hand.

"Dearest," he began, as you looked up from your phone. "I have composed a poem for you. An ode to your beauty and grace."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yes. Please, allow me." He unfurled the scroll dramatically.

You sat back, intrigued. This was either going to be a disaster or absolute gold. Either way, you were ready.

Malleus cleared his throat, then began to read with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor:

"Your hair, like the moss that grows on the oldest tombstones,

Your eyes, like the deepest, darkest, creepiest of wells,

Your voice, as soothing as the distant scream of a lost soul..."

You snorted. "What?"

"Your beauty is like the moon, that I can never reach, because it is in the sky... far away... and also made of rock." He paused, glancing at you hopefully. “Do you like it so far?”

You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh. "Um... It's... something. Keep going."

Malleus beamed. "There’s more!"

"Your hands, soft like the belly of a small woodland creature..." He continued, and you finally lost it, howling with laughter. “Is it not... moving?”

You waved your hands, barely able to breathe through your giggles. "Malleus! Are you... Are you serious?!"

“I thought humans liked dark poetry,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.

“Well, some do, but—” You stopped yourself, trying not to laugh. “No, wait, keep going. I want to hear more.”

Malleus, relieved, continued. “Your beauty is like the full moon—cold, distant, and surrounded by darkness.”

Somewhere behind a nearby tree, Lilia was biting his lip to stop from laughing, while Ace and Deuce shared looks of absolute pity for their friend and Malleus.

Ace shook his head. “Poor guy. He’s trying so hard.”

Scene 3: The... Ambush?

Since the plant-gifting thing didn’t go quite as planned, you decided that maybe a more public display of affection would be the ticket. According to something you half-remembered (and maybe misunderstood), fae really appreciated grand gestures of intent. So, naturally, you chose the school cafeteria at lunchtime as your stage.

As you climbed on top of a table, all eyes turned toward you. Malleus sat at a corner table, watching you with his usual calm, collected demeanor, but you could see the confusion in his eyes.

"Prince Malleus!" you shouted dramatically, lifting your arms in the air. “I declare before all of these witnesses that I shall offer this to you!”

The cafeteria fell into dead silence. Well, except for Lilia, who was quietly choking on his laughter in the background.

Malleus blinked, his expression unreadable. “You... what?”

"Yes! I offer you—" you pulled out the cabbage you’d swiped from the kitchen earlier—"this symbol of my devotion!"

Malleus stared at the cabbage in your hands. "Is that... a vegetable?"

“Yes! It’s a sign of fertility or... something.” You weren’t entirely sure, but it sounded right. “I picked it myself!”

Malleus blinked again, clearly trying to process this information. “I... appreciate the gesture."

Lilia butts in. "Beastie, I’m afraid cabbages aren’t typically used in fae courting rituals.”

You pouted, hopping off the table. “What? But I read that—"

“Perhaps... next time, try flowers?”

Behind you, Ace facepalmed. “Oh, man. They're hopeless.”

Scene 4: The Gift of... Dirt?

Malleus was now absolutely convinced that something was seriously wrong with you. You seemed... more chaotic than usual, and while he enjoyed your enthusiasm, he had no idea why you were suddenly thrusting vegetables at him.

In his effort to reciprocate (and maybe figure out what was going on), he decided to give you a gift of his own. A very special one. From his homeland.

After all, humans liked sentimental gifts, right?

That’s why, one morning, he approached you with a small velvet pouch in his hand, his face filled with sincerity. “Child of Man, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, curious. “What’s that?”

He handed you the pouch, and you opened it, only to find... dirt. Black, slightly glittery dirt.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the dirt. “Is this... dirt?”

“Yes,” Malleus said proudly. “From Briar Valley. It’s a very special soil, infused with the magic of my homeland.”

You blinked. “You got me dirt.”

“Very magical dirt,” he corrected, as if that made it better.

You bit back a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. “Um... thanks?”

Ace, watching from a distance, nudged Deuce. “Man, They're gonna end up with a garden at this rate.”

Scene 5: The Unnecessary Duel

Clearly, you had been doing something wrong, because your attempts at fae courtship had been met with nothing but polite confusion. But you were nothing if not determined. The next step in your (completely misguided) strategy? Prove your strength in battle. Duh.

You marched up to Malleus one afternoon, sword in hand, and pointed it at his chest. "Malleus Draconia! I challenge you to a duel!"

Malleus blinked at you, clearly baffled. “A duel? With... me?”

“Yes!” you declared, brandishing the sword with a flourish. “I shall prove myself worthy of your admiration through combat!”

Malleus tilted his head. “You... wish to fight me?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! To the death! Or until someone taps out. Whatever works.”

Malleus looked utterly bewildered but amused. “I... see. But are you sure this is necessary?”

"Absolutely. I need to show you my strength." You tried to strike a dramatic pose, but the sword was way heavier than it looked.

Lilia, perched nearby, was barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this is too good.”

Malleus raised his hand. “Perhaps another time. I would not want to harm you.”

You frowned. “Harm me? Pfft. I’m tougher than I look, dragon boy.”

Scene 6: The Romantic Walk—Through a Thunderstorm

Malleus had one last idea. Humans, he’d read, liked romantic walks. That was simple, right? No vegetables. No poetry. Just a quiet stroll. What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, he decided to take you for a walk through the forest on a day when the sky decided to unleash the full wrath of a thunderstorm. And because he was a fae, storms didn’t bother him.

You, on the other hand, were not a fan of being drenched to the bone.

The rain came down in sheets, lightning crackling overhead as you both trudged through the mud. You tried to keep your umbrella steady, but the wind whipped it inside out almost immediately.

“Malleus,” you called over the storm, shouting to be heard. “Why are we walking in this? Are you trying to drown me?”

Malleus, entirely unfazed by the downpour, turned to you, his face serious. “I thought a walk through nature would be a calming experience for you.”

You stared at him, your hair sticking to your face, clothes soaked through, and boots filled with mud. “Calming?! I’m about to be struck by lightning!”

He blinked, as if only now realizing the storm might be an issue for you. “Ah, I see. Humans are... more susceptible to storms. My apologies.”

“Ya think?” You huffed, clutching your now-ruined umbrella. “A ‘romantic stroll’ usually involves good weather.”

Malleus frowned, looking genuinely troubled. “I thought the power of the storm would inspire awe.”

“Yeah, it’s inspiring me to run back inside.” You sighed, shivering. “This is... sweet, I guess. But, uh, maybe next time we check the weather before planning any ‘romantic’ activities?”

As you struggled to wipe rain from your face, you caught a glimpse of Lilia again—he was standing under a tree, dry as could be, watching the scene unfold with glee. His mischievous grin practically radiated from the shadows.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” you shouted toward him, but Lilia just waved, clearly loving the chaos.

Malleus, still deep in thought about his failed attempt at human courtship, suddenly looked serious. “Perhaps a different form of human bonding is needed next time.”

Behind you, Ace and Deuce were trailing a safe distance away, both dripping wet but trying to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Man,” Ace muttered, shaking his head. “They're gonna give the poor guy a heart attack one day.”

Deuce nodded solemnly. “Or he’ll get us all killed.”

After days of mutual confusion and failed courtship rituals, you found yourself, once again, sitting with Malleus in one of the school’s many quiet courtyards.

“Y’know,” you began, squinting at him. “I feel like you’ve been acting weird lately.”

Malleus gave you a similar look. “I’ve been thinking the same about you.”

You blinked. “Wait, me? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Malleus said, his brow furrowed, “you’ve been offering me... odd gifts. Vegetables. Challenging me to duels. Declaring intentions in public spaces. It’s... unusual.”

You froze. “That’s... fae courtship. I’ve been trying to... y’know...”

Malleus’ eyes widened. “You’ve been attempting to court me?”

Your face flushed. “Well, yeah! I thought you were acting strange, so I figured you were waiting for someone to, I don’t know, woo you.”

Malleus’ confusion quickly shifted to amusement. “I’ve been trying to court you this whole time.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re what?!”

“I believed you were in distress, so I attempted human courting rituals. Clearly, they didn’t go as planned.”

You both stared at each other for a long moment, the realization of mutual failure sinking in. Then, unexpectedly, you burst out laughing, and Malleus, after a moment, chuckled too.

“Well,” you managed between laughs, “we really suck at this.”

“Indeed,” Malleus agreed, his eyes warm with amusement. “Perhaps next time, we should... communicate better.”

“Yeah,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “That might help.”

From a safe distance, Lilia watched, his face beaming with pride. “Ah, young love,” he sighed dramatically. “How wonderfully chaotic.”

Ace shook his head, utterly done with the entire situation. “They’re hopeless.”

Deuce nodded in agreement. “At least it’s finally over... right?”

They're so stupid (affectionate)

Masterlist

#malleus x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #malleus draconia x reader #malleus #malleus draconia #malleus x you #malleus draconia x you

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lazy-ahh · 3 months ago

Text

A BEAUTIFUL, MONSTROUS THING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

they call him a monster. you call him yours. (and when he smiles at you—all sharp teeth and ruined cities—you don’t flinch. you smile back.)

you always knew something was wrong with you. you never felt it before, not like this. the blood, the gore, the guts, the screaming—it never bothered you. or rather, you never bothered with it. it just… was. but now, with so much of it around you, splattered at your feet, clinging to your skin, how could you not notice? how could you not think about it?

you knew it was supposed to be wrong. when teachers talked about wars in history class, when news anchors whispered about innocents slaughtered by villains, you’d nod along. that’s not right, you’d say. and then? nothing. no lingering horror, no sleepless nights. just empty agreement before moving on.

you always thought it was odd. not the lack of feeling—but the way you could mimic it so well. in discussions, you’d frown at the right moments, sigh when others did. no one ever looked at you sideways. in fact, they looked at you with awe. you were a hero, after all. you pulled survivors from rubble, handed out soup at shelters, smiled for cameras when they asked why you did it.

"to help people," you said, voice steady, eyes warm. "what could be any better reason than that?"

to impress him, you thought.

mark grayson had always loved superheroes. of course he did—his dad was one. he’d ramble for hours about powers, about saving the world, about standing side by side with the greats. and you? you listened. you dreamed, too. not of justice, not of glory. just… him.

you’d close your eyes and see it—the two of you, flying side by side, fists covered in the same blood, grinning at grateful crowds. you’d look at him, your best friend, your something more, and—

then you’d wake up.

you were just as excited as he was for his powers to come in.

so imagine your shock (well, not really—somehow, you’d always known, hadn’t you? lurking in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream, the certainty that of course it would end like this, of course he’d choose this, of course he’d be magnificent at it) when you finally found him.

mark hovered above the ruins of a skyscraper, the city below him a jagged wound of fire and twisted metal. his suit—once bright, now painted in slick, dripping red—clung to him like a second skin. his face was streaked with it, blood drying at the corners of his mouth where his grin split too wide, too sharp. his father loomed beside him, a monstrous shadow, but your eyes didn’t waver from him. from the way his chest rose and fell with exhilaration, the way his fingers flexed, still warm from the crush of bone.

you’d been sent by cecil to stop them. or, more accurately, to delay—because what were you, really, against the might of omni-man? against mark, who moved like a storm given flesh? you were a distraction. a stalling tactic. a sacrifice wrapped in spandex.

you flew toward him anyway, your mouth already forming words you didn’t mean. "mark, this isn’t you—" isn’t that funny? like you were scolding a child for tracking mud inside, not staring at the aftermath of a genocide. your voice almost carried the right note of disappointment, the practiced heroism, the performance of horror—

then he turned.

and you stopped.

because mark looked at you as he lifted his boot from the ruin of a man’s skull, the last wet crack still echoing in the air between you. his eyes were dark, endless, alight with something that made your breath hitch. his smirk curled, challenging, like he knew what you were. what you really were.

your hand flew to your chest.

your heart—

did it just stutter?

yes.

because oh—

oh.

there was something beautiful in the way he ruined things. in the way the fire painted his silhouette in gold and shadow. in the way his laughter rang, bright and unhinged, as the city burned beneath him. in the way he didn’t apologize. in the way he wouldn’t.

your eyes snap to nolan—his massive frame already turning toward you, shoulders squared, fists clenched in that way that means meat is about to become paste. the air around him hums with violence, the kind that flattens cities. the kind that ended cities, just minutes ago.

but before you can so much as tense, mark’s voice cuts through the smoke, lazy and dripping with amusement.

"it’s fine, dad. he’s not gonna do anything."

his tone is smug, unbearably so, like he’s sharing a private joke with the universe. and when you look at him—really look—he’s already staring back, head tilted just slightly, his smirk a razor’s edge of playful cruelty. blood is drying in his eyelashes. you wonder if he even notices.

you raise an eyebrow at him, lips pressed into that familiar, practiced line of defiance. the hero’s frown. the "this isn’t right" expression you’ve worn a thousand times before.

"oh? and why’s that?" you ask, voice steady.

mark’s grin widens.

because he knows.

he knows you’re not going to ball up your fists. he knows your pulse is racing for all the wrong reasons. he knows you’ve always been a liar.

and worst of all?

he knows.

he knows you like it - the way your breath catches when his fist sinks into concrete and flesh alike, how your traitorous heart pounds not in horror but in something far more damning. he knows how your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and trace the blood splattered across his cheekbone like war paint.

he knows that if you weren't pretending to be the hero right now, you'd simply float there, suspended in the carnage, drinking in the way the firelight dances across his sweat-slick skin. how you'd commit every detail to memory - the way his chest heaves with exhilaration, how his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when the killing gets good.

he knows you'd admire it all - the broken bodies, the screaming, the destruction. but most of all, he knows you'd admire him - your beautiful, monstrous mark - as he remakes the world in his father's image, and you'd think, with terrifying certainty:

"yes. this is how a god should look."

mark’s grin widens—slow, like blood seeping through fabric. he drifts closer, close enough that the heat of his body mingles with the acrid smoke clinging to your suit. when he speaks, his voice is a velvet-wrapped razor, meant just for you:

"because you’ve never stopped me before."

his thumb brushes your chin, smearing a streak of blood—his? someone else’s?—across your jaw. "not when we were kids and i shoved that bully through the cafeteria window. not when i ‘accidentally’ snapped that villain’s spine last month." his fingers curl around the back of your neck, possessive, knowing. "and definitely not now, when you’re looking at me like this."

his other hand gestures to your face—your real face, the one you never let the cameras see. the one where your lips part too eagerly, your pupils swallow all the light, your chest rises with the kind of breathless anticipation usually reserved for altars.

"admit it," he murmurs, nose brushing yours, "you’ve always wanted to see how far i’d go."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

and god, how far he’d gone.

mark isn’t good. you know this. you’ve memorized the way blood spatters his lashes when he laughs mid-kill, how his shadow stretches long and monstrous across entire city blocks. it’s been weeks since chicago fell, since he and nolan painted the sky with fire and turned streets into open graves—and now every city after wears his fingerprints, cracked pavement still warm where he pressed his palms and pushed.

but you don’t care. you don’t want to.

you want to lick the rust from his knuckles, suck the violence from his fingertips. want to whisper "again, again" against his mouth when he comes home stinking of gasoline and regret. his cruelty is a living thing, coiled under his skin, and you love the way it bites—love the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he wouldn’t ruin (wouldn’t let him ruin).

he’s possessive. he’s cruel. he’s everything they warned you about.

you worship him for it.

"you’re mine," he snarls one night, fingers bruising your hips hard enough to stain your skin purple for days. you don’t mind. you crave it—the way he’ll spend those same days apologizing with his mouth, pressing tender, open-mouthed kisses over each mark as he looks up at you through dark lashes. his eyes are soft brown in the low light, honey-sweet if you ignore the vicious storm churning behind them, the way his pupils swallow all the warmth when your fingers tighten in his hair.

his teeth drag along your pulse, sharp enough to tease, to make your breath hitch—but he doesn’t bite. not yet. never where it’ll show. never where the cameras could catch it, where some hero might glance at the column of your throat and know. (but you wish he would. god, you wish he’d brand you right there, where everyone could see.)

"was there ever any doubt?" you gasp, arching into him like a prayer, like your body knows no other language but his. your fingers knot in his hair, yanking until his groan vibrates against your throat, until his hips jerk forward and the hard line of him presses against you, desperate. you can feel his smile, all feral edges, as you drag him closer—close enough to taste the copper on his tongue, the iron-sharp tang of someone else’s blood still clinging to his lips. he smells like burning buildings and something unforgivable, like gasoline and the ozone-crack of his own power, and you breathe him in like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he kisses you like he’s carving his name into your ribs, like he wants to rewrite your DNA with his teeth. and you let him. he kisses you like he's starving, and you let him devour you whole. let him ruin you in all the ways that matter, let him peel you apart with every slick slide of his tongue. let him swallow every moan, every broken "yes, yes, mark—" like it’s the only word you remember, the only one that ever mattered.

(and maybe it is. maybe you forgot your own name weeks ago, lost somewhere between his teeth and the wreckage he calls love. maybe you don’t care. maybe you’d let him ruin cities just to keep his hands right here, right now, mapping your skin like he owns it—

because he does.

he always has.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"hey, can we talk?"

the voice cuts through the dim hum of the underground bunker, too gentle for a world ending above you. you turn slowly, arms crossed tight over your chest - the perfect picture of a weary hero barely holding it together. the concrete walls feel like they're pressing in, the stale air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. you'd rather be anywhere but here.

anywhere but here means tangled in bloodstained sheets with the boy who lit the sky on fire.

eve stands beside you, her once-lustrous red hair now gone as she pulls down her hood, revealing her buzz cut. the girl who used to laugh while flying through clouds now carries shadows under her eyes deep enough to drown in. you keep playing your part, even now. no one knows about the nights you spend curled against mark's chest, tracing the scars on his knuckles while cities burn.

"yes, of course. what do you need, eve?" you uncross your arms, letting your expression soften into something resembling concern. your voice is all practiced warmth, the kind that used to comfort civilians after villain attacks. the irony tastes sweet on your tongue.

eve fidgets, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "well... it's just..." she looks away, toward the flickering emergency lights. "this sounds ridiculous, and i'm sorry but... are you... okay?"

the question hangs between you, almost funny in its innocence. because you've never been better. mark's hands in your hair last night, his teeth at your shoulder this morning, the way he whispers "mine" like it's the only truth left in the world -

"yeah... yeah, i guess i'm doing fine. better than last week, at least." you let your voice crack just right, tilting your head down so she can't see the way your lips threaten to curve. the exhaustion in your tone is a masterpiece, honed through weeks of performance.

eve reaches out, her hand warm on your shoulder. "hey, it's okay," she says, and god, she means it. her kindness is a physical thing, radiating through her touch. "i know it feels impossible right now, but we'll get through this. together." her thumb rubs small circles against your jacket. "you're not alone in this, okay? we're all struggling, but we've got each other."

for a moment - just a moment - you feel it. the guilt, sharp as a knife between your ribs. she's so good, so earnest, standing in the ruins of everything and still trying to comfort you.

but then you remember mark's laugh against your skin, the way the flames reflected in his eyes when he told you "this is just the beginning", and the guilt melts like wax under a match.

you cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently. "thanks, eve. that... that means a lot."

(she'll be dead in a minute. along with everyone else here. you won't warn her.

some loves are worth more than the world.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

people call you crazy for loving him. maybe you are. but when he comes home with blood crusted under his fingernails and the scent of burning flesh clinging to his clothes, you don't flinch. you just card your fingers through his hair - matted with someone else's life - and whisper "beautiful" against his temple like it's a prayer.

"you're fucked up," he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, voice ragged with something between reverence and hunger. his hands are still warm from the carnage, leaving smudges of red on your hips as he pulls you closer.

"takes one to know one," you breathe back, laughing when he nips at your jaw in retaliation, all sharp teeth and darker promises. the sound catches in your throat when a wet, choked sob cuts through the moment.

eve.

she's sprawled on the rubble-strewn floor like a broken doll, her body paralyzed but her eyes burning with betrayal. tears carve clean streaks through the dust on her face, her glare so full of hate it almost makes you shiver. almost.

the memory of your last conversation with her plays behind your ribs like a favorite song:

"is it wrong that i still love him?" you'd asked, letting the mask slip just enough to watch her squirm. your head tilted, the picture of innocent curiosity even as your fingers twitched with the urge to hurt.

eve's face had cycled through shock, confusion, then dawning horror. "how could you still love him after... after all this?" her voice cracked like the foundations above you.

you'd made a show of considering it, humming while tapping a finger against your lips. "give me one good reason why i shouldn't."

"he's murdered thousands of people-"

"i said a good reason, eve." your interruption came with a smile, cold and knife-sharp. the way her breath hitched when understanding crashed over her sent a thrill down your spine.

"wait... the survivors in your group. you didn't... you didn't kill them, did you? you lied about them getting killed by omni-man. you said you had barely managed to get out." her voice trembled, the pieces slotting together too late. "why would you-"

the ceiling exploded before she could finish.

concrete rained down on screaming survivors as mark descended through the dust like some wrathful god, nolan standing beside him. your heart had leapt at the sight - at the way mark's eyes found you first, always you, even amidst the chaos.

"told you we were close," nolan said to mark before the carnage began.

"you did a good job, gorgeous. loved the way you caught them for me." mark presses a tender kiss on your cheek. he'd purred later, licking the blood from your knuckles with a devotion that bordered on worship.

now, watching eve's tears mix with the debris, you feel nothing but the press of mark's lips against your pulse and the sweet, certain knowledge:

you'd burn the world a thousand times over just to keep his hands this warm.

2.8k words of sinister mark and his equally deranged partner—congrats, you’ve stumbled into the toxic love story of your dreams! kidding! this is for my fellow dark romance people, the ones who like their kisses bloody and their devotion downright blasphemous. hope i did our favorite unhinged viltrumite justice (and that i’ve successfully dragged you into this invincible variants hole that i'm in). enjoy, you beautiful bozos—teehee <3

#lazy-ahh #invincible #mark grayson #invincible variants #sinister invincible #sinister mark grayson #invincible x male reader #sinister invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #sinister mark grayson x male reader #male reader #x male reader #AHHHHH MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT DARK ROMANCE #PLEASE BE GENTLE #ohoho poor angstrom #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #IT'S STUCK IN MY HEAD #are you sure?

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deadpanjisung · 4 months ago

Text

♔ the monarchs’ quarrel ♔

pairing: versace prince!hwang hyunjin x versace princess!reader MDNI!!!!! genre: enemies to lovers, angst, smut warnings: y/n and hyune are both assholes (soz), swearing, insecurities, a lot of bickering, jealousy, references to monarchy but only inside versace, pet names (princess/prince), kinda roleplay-ish, unrealistic scenarios, breast play, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), missionary sex, unprotected sex, cre4mpie, cumplay, etc. (sorry if i missed any).

wc: 6.6k feedback is encouraged ◡̈ i hope you enjoy♡ -˚₊‧꒰ა ginny ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Hotel, Milan, 2025, 5:30 p.m.

“Can you get me a pin, please?” You asked your makeup artist. She nodded and scurried over to the dresser.

You weren’t supposed to pin anything up by yourself, but your usual stylist was too busy assisting Donatella’s golden prince for his appearance in Milan Fashion Week. And your appointed stylist was recording an interview. Therefore, Yuri handed you the pin, you carefully folded a piece of fabric on the inside of your dress and pinned it up.

Your gown was regal, nothing less for Versace’s (now overlooked) princess. A stunning black lace gown with red and purple accents cascaded down your body. Your hair was tied up in a high ponytail in attempts to make your stunning gold tiara stand out. Golden, sapphire and amethyst beads adorned your neck, wrists and ears.

You loved this life, royalty at her finest. But you couldn’t resist feeling jealous of Hyunjin. You were Versace’s favorite ambassador before he came. Donatella used to flaunt you a year ago. You used to design your outfits with her for months before Hyunjin became an ambassador. Now she splits her time between you and Hyunjin. “Envy” was a more appropriate term for what you felt. You were casted aside when he came into the scene.

You couldn’t stand being next to him for the fashion show, you couldn’t stand to be the face of the new campaign along him, and you could barely digest the fact that your companies arranged him to be featured in one of your songs. Hyunjin was appropriating everything that you did. And he did it better than you. Being stuck next to him, pretending to be friends with your biggest opponent in the industry was psychological torture to you. But you loved Donatella even amidst your abandonment issues, you did it for her. You couldn’t be the person that burst her dream of having you and Hyunjin as the new faces of Versace. It wouldn’t be fair after how much she helped you grow. Of how she’s actively making your biggest dream come true.

“Y/N? Can I finish applying your lipstick?” Yuri asked, interrupting your internal monologue.

“Yes, of course.” You replied, sitting back down in your gorgeous, but uncomfortable, dress.

You didn’t expect Donatella to barge into your hotel room, but there she was, in all her glory. Your fashion role model since you could remember.

“My princess! You are stunning!” She exclaimed upon seeing you and sent a flying kiss towards your way. You blushed.

“Nothing but the best to represent you, the queen of the fashion industry.” You replied. Donatella laughed.

“You flatter me too much, princess! You are this brand’s future, you do know?” She said, “You and Hyunjin, of course. My little monarchs. My prettiest duo.” It took a lot of self-control for you to not roll your eyes at her mention of Hyunjin’s name. You smiled.

“You give us too much credit. The prince is certainly handsome and I, must be beautiful in your eyes, but we are just a speckle of the myriad that is your vision.” You added. She laughed once again.

“Thank you. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. I will see you at the show.” She threw you another kiss and exited the room. Your makeup artist chuckled as she left.

“Yuri, c’mon!” You whined.

“What? I just think it’s funny that she’s completely unaware that you and Hyunjin don’t like each other.” Yuri commented. “Plus, it’s funny to see your princess act in real time.” You snickered.

And stared at yourself in the mirror. Your dark purple and gold makeup matched your dress and accessories. You looked beautiful, a version of yourself that would never again exist when you took off your makeup and your gown. You sighed at the thought of losing her, the best version of yourself. The only version you rendered worthy of being perceived.

“Okay, Y/N. You’re fabulous. Let’s go!” Yuri said, softly yanking at your sleeve.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Milan Fashion Week, 2025, 7:30 p.m.

You arrived at the venue, feeling nervous and bashful and everything in between. Paparazzi took pictures of you as you walked inside, slowly and confidently, as a mask for your insecurity.

You instantly spot Donatella; and next to her, Hyunjin, as expected. You hadn’t seen him since you shot your promotional pictures for the collection. You had heard that he had cut all of his hair off, but you didn’t expect him to look so… nice …with a buzzcut. You strode over to Donatella and Hyunjin.

“There she is!” Donatella exclaimed. Hyunjin looked back at you, his blue contacts burning into your eyes. “Absolutely breathtaking!”

“My princess,” Hyunjin bowed. “You look beautiful, as always.”

“My prince, you are truly a sight for sore eyes tonight.” You curtsied. “It is only my luck that I will be standing next to you.” You mostly hated this character, it did amuse you at times, but most importantly, Donatella loved it.

“It is my pleasure to be in the company of the most stunning person here.” He added. “Only after, our ethereal queen, of course.” He looked at Donatella.

“Oh! Hyunjin, you are too much!” She laughed. “The love you have for each other is perfection, my prince and princess. Make sure to show it at the carpet, okay?” You both nodded. She was dragged away by one of her assistants.

Once Donatella left, your demeanor changed completely. Neither of you smiled, you took out your phone.

“My princess…” Hyunjin mocked. “Do we have anything prepared to say tonight?” You rolled your eyes.

“My prince.” You sighed. “Yes, deny a relationship between us, duh. Then, promote the campaign, tease our musical collaboration, take pictures together and, my favorite: avoid each other until the next event.”

“Well, princess. I don’t think that’s very loving of you.” He snickered and extended his arm to you. You apprehensively locked arms with him as you stepped into the carpet. Flashing lights overwhelmed you as you tried to keep a straight face for the cameras. Hyunjin was a natural at this. At times, you would just stare at him in annoying admiration for his beauty and talent.

“Prince and Princess! Is this what it looks like?” A reporter asked. “Are you hard launching a relationship tonight?” You both chuckled.

“It would be an honor, but I must deny that. My princess and I are undeniably together in soul, but in body just to promote our new collection that’ll be presented tonight!”

“It is so honoring for us to have worked on these designs with the one and only, Donatella. She is always the main event. My prince and I are just assistants to her genius.”

“I bet STAY will be relieved to hear that!” The reporter added. “Anything we should expect from this collection tonight?”

“A mix of our styles and personalities is the most characterizing thing.” Hyunjin replied.

“C’mon, anything else? For the viewers?”

“The prince and I do enjoy keeping some things in the dark, don’t we?” You teased. Hyunjin nodded.

“I’ll just say this… you should expect a lot from us very soon.” Hyunjin agreed.

“Oh! I’m intrigued now. I encourage you all to follow the prince and princess very closely, then.” The reporter commented. “You both look absolutely spectacular! Thank you for your time!”

You and Hyunjin recorded about ten more interviews along those same scriptures. You took countless pictures together, faking smiles, laughs and hugs. You sat next to each other during the runway show, but you paid no attention to each other unless someone else was talking to you as a pair.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Milan Fashion Week Afterparty, 2025, 11:00 p.m.

The club’s dimmed lights engulfed your vision, the bitter taste of alcohol flooded your taste buds. You changed into a shorter, purple dress, an outtake designed for the same campaign. Your body was sticky from dancing. You exchanged harmless gossip with your fellow ambassadors in amicable manner over some drinks.

You couldn’t anticipate that during the afterparty, Hyunjin would keep you at arm’s length. He left you for a few minutes at a time and eventually returned to your side during the entirety of the night. You didn’t even talk to each other, not even bickering. His hand lingered on your waist for pictures and friendly conversations with others. He asked you to dance, keeping your act for Donatella’s sake. Hyunjin fetched your drinks for you in a false attempt to look like your ever so chivalrous prince.

“Princess, you look tired.” He whispered, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “It’s not a good look. Can I take you to your hotel?”

“Gee, thanks, my prince.” You replied, tipsiness making your speech slur. “I don’t need you to take me anywhere.”

“Princess. I mean it. You don’t really know anyone here. I’d rather take you; it’s on my way.” He said, sternly.

“Hyunjin. I basically don’t even know you either.” You spat. “This is only a gimmick.”

“Look, Y/N. JYP and Donatella would both kill me if anything happened to your bratty ass. Whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. Complain all you want. Better safe than dead.” He argued. You rolled your eyes and wriggled away from his grip, only for Hyunjin to grab your wrist and yank you back towards him.

“Hyunjin.” You whispered, aware that whining would draw too much attention to you. “It’s fine. I can stay here. It’s okay, really. I’ll call a taxi when the party’s over.”

“Sorry, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort my princess to her chambers?” He snickered; you rolled your eyes in defeat.

Hyunjin dragged you away from the party, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close to his warm, sweaty body. You said your goodbyes distantly. Nobody questioned you, everyone must have assumed you and Hyunjin to be involved as well.

You managed to divert away from the paparazzi through a secret exit that Hyunjin’s bodyguard was barricading. You had realized why Hyunjin was so adamant for you to leave with him, you had no security with you for the night. An irrevocable mistake from your manager. In your tipsiness, you didn’t think this would be an issue, but you were thankful that he was insistent. You knew that Hyunjin was a pompous asshole, but you were also aware that he didn’t want anything harmful for you, either.

You entered the black, oversized SUV after him, its cold interior contrasted the heat and humidity of the Milan nightlife. You shivered and Hyunjin took his coat off, throwing it to your side. You didn’t actively accept its warmth, but you didn’t return it either. You didn’t speak to him. He knew where you were going. You had agreed to meet over breakfast the next day, before he returned to Korea, to coordinate the logistics to the music video for your song.

“Can we stop at my hotel first?” He asked the driver. “You can take her afterwards.” The driver silently nodded. You looked over at him. He stared at you blankly and returned to use his phone. You scrolled through social media, until the SUV came to a halt.

“Hyunjin, I need to pee. Can I use your bathroom quickly?” You asked.

“Wow, very princessy of you. You can use the bathroom in the lobby.”

“With this puffy dress? I wouldn’t fit in the stall.” You argued.

“Ugh. Fine. Wait a few minutes before you come in, though.” He negotiated. You nodded, rolling your eyes. He handed you a keycard.

“We will wait here.” His security guard said, looking back at you. You put on the coat that Hyunjin had left beside you and exited the car.

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Hyunjin’s Hotel, Milan, 2025, 1:45 a.m.

You entered the hotel with the spare keycard in hand. It was fancy, way fancier than yours. It didn’t surprise you, though. Hyunjin had grown his fame a lot during the last few years. Which is part of why you agreed to this prince and princess gimmick and all of those collaborations despite loathing the guy. He kept you relevant in more ways than one. His fans made your name trend, for better or for worse. They bought your designs just because his face was next to yours in the cover. They streamed your music and sent you gifts and love, in the most part. You were grateful for that. You couldn’t stand the guy, but you admired how fiercely loyal his fans were. Even if you received the occasional death threat from them.

His floor was one of the last ones, having a gigantic suite all for himself, something that you shamefully saw on social media. When you arrived, there were security guards standing in front of the doors. The female guard patted you down.

“Not to be dramatic, but this is highly offensive to me.” You spat. “Hyunjin gave me access, you know?”

“Mr. Hwang, should I have her sign the NDA now?” The other guard asked, as he opened the door. You laughed.

“Ew, no! This is the Versace princess, Y/N. We’re just business partners.” He spoke.

“Oh! I am so sorry, Miss Y/N.” The guard apologized, a blush creeping into his serious demeanor.

“Don’t worry. That was hilarious.” You chuckled, patting his shoulder as you entered Hyunjin’s suite.

The dark night couldn’t even dim the suite’s brightness. The room was adorned with flower arrangements galore. You didn’t even notice Hyunjin’s suitcase, opened and messy next to the couch. The room smelled wonderful, of vanilla and various florals.

“Wow. This suite is so nice!” You said, looking around it.

“You’re here to use the bathroom and leave, remember?” He spat.

“Sheesh!”

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Hyunjin’s Suite, 2025, 2:00 a.m.

Once you washed your hands, you stared at yourself in the mirror. You had retouched your makeup before the afterparty, but it had smudged anyways. Your lipstick was barely visible, your foundation nonexistent and your mascara looked more like eyeliner.

“Y/N!!” You heard Hyunjin shout. You hurried out, ready to snap at him but you were met with a very preoccupied Hyunjin.

“Hyunjin, what happened?”

“Literally the worst possible thing. Fuck!”

“Need more info?”

“Fucking hell. We were followed.” He said. “There’s a swarm of paps out there.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah! Ugh. My manager’s talking to yours right now. It seems they didn’t recognize you with my coat on and your hat.” He announced.

“That’s good.”

“No, it isn’t!” He argued.

“Why?”

“Because they think I’m hooking up with some random girl now!”

“Would you rather they think that you’re hooking up with me?” You protested. “The paps know this isn’t my hotel.”

“Fuck no! I don’t know what’s worse, honestly.” He said, grasping his head. “Shit! If only you would’ve held your pee for like ten minutes! We could have avoided all of this!”

“You were the one who insisted on bringing me with you!” You argued.

“I didn’t want you here, though!”

“Okay. It’s okay. I’ll book a room, and I can leave tomorrow morning.” You added, trying to remain cool. “We can just say that I lost my room key at the hotel, and I was too tired or something. And I’ll have the evidence that I stayed here.”

“Wow, the beauty and the brains. You think a hotel like this has vacancy during fashion week?” He asked, sarcastically.

“I don’t know! Let me call my manager.”

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Hyunjin’s Suite, 2025, 2:45 a.m.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let him know. Thanks. Good night. Sorry, again.” You told your manager before hanging up.

It took forty-five minutes from back-to-back calling your managers and the hotel and your companies to agree that your best move would be to stay the night at Hyunjin’s suite, and you’d have a plan for the morning. You feared the possible outcomes: you could get into a dating scandal and get cancelled, you could break your squeaky-clean reputation and lose all hype, you could lose all your contracts and ambassadorships. But, Hyunjin looked absolutely terrified, pacing back and forth in the living room.

“So?” He asked. “Do we have a plan?” You nodded.

“Well, kind of.” He sat down on the sofa and lowered his head. “I’m staying here for the rest of the night. So, you’ll have to let me borrow some clothes to sleep in. Our managers have a scheduled meeting in a few hours, and they’ll discuss what’s our best bet here. My manager said it’ll probably be one of these. So, he could bribe the hotel to fake a reservation but that could get too messy in the future. Or… we’ll have to play the drunk/sick card. Either I’ll be shitfaced and unable to go alone to my hotel or you be shitfaced and ask me to take care of you… That’s what they came up with. We’ll have the script in the morning.”

You looked out of the window to see paparazzi standing outside with their cameras. You pulled the blinds down.

“Shit. I was so careful too. Fuck!”

“It’ll be okay, Hyunjin. Whatever plan they choose to go with will be the best for both of us. My manager said it’s no big deal and that it was actually good that I was caught alongside you and not some other person. The media thinks we’re really close so it shouldn’t be too hard to explain, okay?” You reassured, he nodded, unconvincingly.

“Fine. Let’s see what happens. We can’t do shit now, anyways. This is what I get for being nice to you.” He mumbled.

“God, you’re such a prick.” You rolled your eyes. “Look, prince, want me to be honest? In any possible outcome I’ll be faced with the major repercussions. Stop acting like a kid. If we go with the "I’m drunk and he helped me”, why would I get drunk in the first place? I’m a lady; a princess. And you’ll be a hero because you helped me. And, if it’s the other one: ‘Wow, Hyunjin is so sensible. He knows when to ask for help. He’s such a darling boy. And she stayed with him because he’s such a good friend to her.’. Or they’ll call me a whore. We’ll get dating rumors for like a month and everything’ll be alright, okay?”

“Will you just shut up for a second? I can’t even think with all your fucking nonsense.”

“Fine. Fuck you, Hyunjin. You’re an asshole. And I hate the fact that I have to share my place as Versace royalty with someone as superficial and narcissistic as you! I worked my ass off for this and you come in being all pretty and get everything you want!”

“Oh? So, you think I don’t deserve this? You think I haven’t worked myself to the bone to get to where I am? Princess, you’re so fucking wrong. I’m right where I should be. Stay in your lane. You aren’t any better than me.” He barked at you, with a tone that you had never heard him use. A tone that made you feel young again. It made you want to cry. That’s when you knew that you had gone too far. Your eyes welled up with tears.

His expression softened when he saw you tear up, as if he realized that he had gone to far as well. That you were in this together, whether you liked it or not. He sat back down and sighed. You sat on the floor in front of him, rubbing your glossy eyes and further ruining your intense makeup.

“Why don’t you go shower? We both need to cool off. I’ll get you something to wear.” He spoke up, his voice was gentle. You nodded and stood up, walking towards the bathroom again. “There’s a clean robe in there. You can wear that until I find something for you.”

You peeled your dress off and stepped into the shower. The warm water making you feel better almost instantly. You lathered your body with Hyunjin’s, appropriately convenient, lavender soap, which made you relax a bit. You cleansed your face with his expensive cleanser and washed your hair with the shampoo that smelled like him. A little citrusy for your taste.

You dried yourself off as quickly as you could, becoming aware that he probably needed to shower as well. You placed the soft, pink, fuzzy robe on your body and secured it with a knot. You were met with Hyunjin, sitting in the sofa.

“Uh… I left some clothes for you on the bed. I don’t have underwear for you so… uh… you can keep the sweats. Your manager called and said that he arranged for someone to bring you a change of clothes in the morning. You can use my skincare, if you want…” He said, awkwardly.

“Thanks.” You replied.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s room, Milan, 2025, 3:45 a.m.

You changed into Hyunjin’s clothes and looked around his room. You spotted the skincare he told you about and smeared into your face; making sure you didn’t use too much. You looked your name up on social media and it seemed that people have caught up that you were, in fact, the person that arrived with Hyunjin. You sighed upon seeing people’s reactions. There were a lot of negative comments, usually about you but also about him. And you suddenly felt bad for him. Fans were asking to send protests to JYP premises against Hyunjin’s freedom to date or to interact with females. You felt guilty for asking to come into his room in the first place.

“Hey.” Hyunjin greeted, entering the room.

“Hyunjin, I’m sorry for being a bitch and for getting us into this mess. I didn’t mean to.” You sobbed. “I know we don’t get along, but I didn’t want anything to happen to you… or me… or the companies.” Your tears kept running down your cheeks.

“Sheesh, don’t get soft on me just because you feel bad for me.” Hyunjin smirked, in attempts to calm you down. You just kept crying. “Y/N, princess, we’re in this together. You said it, we’re friends to the public so we probably won’t have too many repercussions.”

“Hyunjin, I fucked up so bad.”

“It’s fine, Y/N. We’re basically even friends after this. Shit will work itself out.” He reassured. “We just need to have each other’s backs here. No fucking anyone up. We’ll own up to our mistakes and everything’ll go as planned. If this fucks things up, it’s fine. Whatever. We’ll keep going.”

You remained quiet.

“You’re really freaking annoying, I mean it…” He added, “but I’d rather be here with you than with anyone else. You’re savvy and things will be okay.”

“Ah… thanks for reassuring me, Hyunjin.” You smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m really grateful that you insisted that I left with you. I was too tipsy to reason at that moment.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want anything to happen to someone that I’m so strangely close to. Like, we’re not friends yet you’re my princess and we have a whole song coming out and a video. And we’ve designed campaigns together. It’s weird. I apologize too; I shouldn’t have screamed.” He chuckled. He sat on the bed beside you.

“I get it. You’re a dick but we’re basically, kind of, family…”

“Ew, no. We’re not siblings.”

“We don’t have to be siblings! I could be married to one of your siblings or something.”

“I’m an only child!” He corrected you.

“Oh… me too.” You said. “Maybe I could marry one of your members, then.”

“Gross, no.”

“Well, we’re back to siblings again.”

“Maybe you could be my ward, like Morgana.” He suggested.

“Morgana was supposed to marry Arthur, though. I think.” You countered.

“But… uh…okay. We’re engaged, then.” He joked. “But it’s an arranged marriage and we don’t get married in the end.”

“Fine by me, my betrothed.” You joked back. He laughed. “This is so stupid, my dearest princess. We’re so dumb.” He yawned.

“We are.” You agreed. “Truce? We’re friends now?” You extended your hand to him. He shook your hand in his, significantly bigger, hand.

“Friends and pledged to be married, don’t forget.” He reminded. You pulled your hand away.

“How can I forget? You’re very obnoxious.”

“We just called a truce, c’mon.”

“Sorry, force of habit.” You apologized. “So… can we sleep now?” He nodded.

“I’ll take the couch.” He volunteered.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll take it.” You said as you stood up.

“Please, as if I’ll let my betrothed, fake or not, sleep in an uncomfortable floral deathbed.” He said.

“Are you okay with sharing the bed, then, my prince?” You asked, he gulped.

“Y-yeah. But no funny business.” He smirked.

“Please. The bed’s big enough to fit your security guard in here with us. You won’t even notice I’m in the bed.”

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s bed, Milan, 2025, 5:00 a.m.

You tossed and turned, being unable to sleep despite your body screaming for you to do so. You heard Hyunjin’s soft snores next to you, scooting closer to you with every passing minute until you could feel his warm breath against you. You were unable to turn because you’d be face to face with Hyunjin. You felt an arm snake over your waist, Hyunjin pulled himself closer to you, closing the gap between your bodies.

You stiffened upon feeling his touch. Your mind raced with questionings of how you despised and envied him the day before and now, you’re in his bed with Hyunjin cuddled up to you. His breath tickled your neck, making you feel goosebumps. When you started to relax into his touch, you felt a hardness press against your back, and you prayed that it was just Hyunjin’s knee. Until it throbbed. And your body stiffened once again. You knew it was normal for guys to get erections when they slept, but you definitely did not expect to feel Hyunjin’s erection pressed up against you any time soon.

You shifted a bit to look at him. Hyunjin was, in fact, still asleep, his plump lips were parted, you scanned his face. You knew why Donatella and every other woman in this planet was obsessed with him. He was beautiful, a beauty for the ages. It was hard to deny that, especially when he was even prettier up close. Not many people look that effortlessly gorgeous without a silver of makeup on. The type of beauty you hoped to be. Still, you knew that you needed to be decorated to achieve it.

Hyunjin stirred in his sleep, making you look forward again. You grabbed your phone from the night table and scrolled through your messages and emails. The reunion had already taken place, your manager updated you on a summary on the decisions they made. They would issue a notice about the situation, instead of having us talk to the press about it. He wrote that the situation would be taken care of before afternoon. And ended the text saying that he wants us to rest after such a stressful night. You dismissed the messages, relieved that they found a way to manage the situation. You didn’t mind if your reputation needed adjustments after the statement. You were just glad that things were handled.

“Princess?” Hyunjin whispered, his voice was deeper and raspy.

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay?” He asked, maintaining his sleeping position, cuddled next to you.

“Yeah. Just checking my messages. Our managers worked things out. They’re releasing a statement at noon.” You said. He buried his face into the back of your neck and sighed in relief.

You could still feel his boner pressing into you, but you tried to ignore it. However, when Hyunjin pressed his lips to the back of your neck, you couldn’t disregard it. You tensed up again.

“My bad, princess.” Hyunjin apologized. “You just smell really good; really comforting.” You shivered when you felt his breath as he spoke, the rasp of his voice rang in your ear.

“You’re just sleep deprived. Try to rest up.” You diverted.

“You know, I always imagined having you in my bed…” Oh. “Still, I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

“What are you talking about, Hyunjin?”

“I don’t know about you, but I think you’re magnetic, princess.” He explained. “You’re so quick-witted. That’s so hot.” O H. And, for the weird part, you were actually enjoying this. You felt goosebumps on your skin, you rubbed your thighs together in order to satiate the ache between your legs. “And… I think you feel similarly about me.” He pressed his bulge harder against your ass. You moaned at the feeling, quickly covering your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re annoying.” You said as you turned to face him. He laid there, staring at you expectantly with an annoying smirk. Checkmate. You crashed your lips against his, harshly.

“God, if you weren’t so hot. I think I’d hate you for real.” You said in between kisses.

“We both know that’s not true.” He interrupted the kiss. “You’re equally attracted to my personality. Admit it.”

“Shut up.” You said. “You look better when you’re quiet.” You continued to kiss him.

His plump lips against you made you feel electricity. He was a messy kisser, desperately biting your lip and dancing with your tongue. He moved his hands from your waist to your hips and up to your waist again.

“Now, I’ve seen you staring at my tits before…” You teased. A light blush perked onto his cheek. “You can touch them.”

He took no time in obliging, hands groping at your mounds in a harsh manner. You smirked into the kiss when he moaned at the feeling of your soft breasts and hard nipples below the fabric of your shirt.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” He moaned at the overstimulation of sensations he was experiencing. “Fuck. I’m so glad you got us into this mess.”

He resumed making out with you, chaotically and intricate, just like him. His mouth was hot against yours, making you both moan at the friction of your lips moving together. Hyunjin shifted to be on top of you, and you were able to see his beautiful face, illuminated by the dim lamp. He took his shirt off, leaving his lean yet muscular torso visible to you.

You took your time admiring him, and he seemed to enjoy the attention. His hands toyed with the hem of your shirt, silently asking to take it off. You indulged him, lifting up your arms so he was able to remove it from you. It was his turn to stare at you and you liked it too.

Hyunjin suddenly dove in, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth; both of you moaning at the contact. He ground his hips against yours and you followed suit, in search for some friction where you needed him most. His teeth softy nibbled on your pebbled bud. You moaned at the feeling of Hyunjin’s teeth tugging at your sensitive nipple. He released your bud with a pop and didn’t even say a word before giving you other breast the same treatment. You moaned louder than you should have, the feeling of Hyunjin’s delicious lips on your breasts, the cool air against your wet nipple made you a whining mess. After an agonizingly long time, Hyunjin released your other nipple.

“Fuck. I could do that all day.” He groaned. “Will you let me suck your tits every time we see each other, my princess?” You nodded desperately, instantly taking a liking to his pet name for you. “I can’t wait to eat you out.”

He trailed wet kisses down your stomach until he reached the waistband of your sweatpants. He looked at you and you nodded in approval. Your sweats and underwear were quickly pulled down by Hyunjin’s expert hands.

“You’re so wet, princess.” He teased your folds with two fingers. “I knew you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” You moaned when he inserted those two slender fingers inside of you, your damp folds sucked him in perfectly. He dragged his fingers in and out of you a few times before slipping them out. He licked your juices from his fingers.

“You taste heavenly, my princess.” He noted, lowering his head to be face your glistening folds. Hyunjin dove in as soon as he said that.

Hyunjin ate you out like a starved man, like nobody had ever eaten you out before. He was messy yet cautious, he listened carefully to your reactions and rapidly identified what made you feel good. Hyunjin took long, slow licks through your folds, making sure to savor you, making sure that you moaned as loud as you could. Hearing your moans satisfied him like nothing else. Hyunjin sucked your clit, earning spasms from you. He teased your folds with his tongue and fingers and held your hand as you came around them with a prayer of his name.

“Your moans are making me ascend.” He said, “I think I’m addicted to you.”

You could barely even speak; your emotions were running wild. You hadn’t felt raw pleasure in so long, your need to be in control didn’t allow you to let go like this.

“Let me take care of you, princess.” He asked, gesturing to his hard cock. You nodded.

“Y-yes, Hyunjin. Please. I want to make you feel good.” You moaned, as you reached to tug at his pajama bottoms. He stopped you.

“No, princess. I want to make you feel good.” He corrected. “This is about you.”

You watched as Hyunjin lowered his bottoms and underwear simultaneously, staring in awe at the breathtaking sight in front of you. Hyunjin’s cock was impressive, more so than you expected. He was long and girthy in an ideal way, one that wouldn’t hurt when he entered you. His cock was veiny, dripping a more-than-generous amount of precum. He spread the pre-cum through his shaft and pumped his cock a few times. He grabbed a condom from his bag to which you shook your head.

“Can I go in?” He asked once his cock was coated with precum.

“Of course, my prince.” You begged. “Please. I need you inside me.”

“How could I ever make you wait, then?” He asked, rhetorically, as he lined up with your entrance.

Your folds welcomed him, your wetness engulfed his cock so sweetly; despite that, he was still a stretch. Hyunjin went in slow, moaning as he bottomed inside you. You clenched around him impatiently, needing to feel some friction. His lips found yours again after what seemed like ages, more desperately than before. You could still taste yourself on his mouth and all he wanted to consume was you. He needed to feel you in every way possible, just as much as you needed to feel him. You kept clenching around him because he still hadn’t moved.

“Hyune, please move. I want to feel you.” You cried.

“Fuck, are you always this impatient?” He moaned as he thrusted in and out of you. You shook your head, barely even registering what he said. “Am I the only one that makes you this desperate, princess?”

You moaned at his words, feeling filthy for even being in this position in the first place. He kept a slow pace, groaning lowly every time he bottomed out, face buried in your chest. Hyunjin sat up and helped you put your leg up to his shoulder; making you feel every vein of his cock inside of you. You both moaned at the new feeling of him being impossibly deeper inside of you. Your bodies connecting like they hadn’t connected before. Even Hyunjin didn’t have any snarky comment to make about how that felt. Your moans grew more uncontrollable with each erratic thrust he made.

Hyunjin took his time to make you feel good, his thrusts were sultry and calculated one moment and harsh and erratic the next, always attentive to how you reacted. His hand sneaked between your bodies to rub soft circles on your clit. You moaned at the contact, begging him for more friction. He lowered your legs, and you wrapped them around his waist. His thrusts grew sloppy once your moaning increased, louder than he ever expected.

“I should have done this a while ago, huh?” He remarked while panting. His warm fingers felt glorious against your swollen bud. You couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone a comeback for him.

“Fuck.” You let out after a particularly deep thrust, that made your insides flutter. “Hyune, I’m going to cum.”

“Are you going to cum around me, princess?” He groaned, speeding up his thrusts.

“Y-yes.” Was the last word you let out before you came.

Your orgasm took over you in the form of a spasm, you clenched your cunt and simultaneously tightened your legs’ grip on Hyunjin’s waist. Hyunjin came right after you with a guttural moan of your name. Not even being able to pull out before he was shooting warm, thick spurts of cum inside of your cunt. You knew that you shouldn’t have had sex without a condom, and it was even more dumb of you to let Hyunjin come inside. But, in the moment, you weren’t really reasoning.

“Fuck, princess.” Hyunjin panted. He kissed your lips and looked down to your cunt. He stared at it in awe. “My cum looks so good inside of you.” He dragged his fingers through your wet folds. “Fuck. I think I might be in love with you.” He mumbled that last part before kissing you again and collapsing next to you.

You shifted to your side to stare at his beautiful features, so real and so raw next to you. He caressed your hand that laid on his stomach and sweetly placed a kiss on top of your head.

“Sorry for cumming inside. This is really not like me…” He said, reaching for some wipes on the night table.

“It’s okay. I could’ve stopped you if I didn’t want you to…” You reassured, flinching as Hyunjin wiped your cunt with the cold, wet wipe. He smiled at you and placed a kiss on your overstimulated, clean cunt.

“I liked this.” He said, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I mean… ugh… I like us getting along instead of fighting.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d much rather do this than argue with you.” You chuckled.

“Glad to know we’re on the same page, my princess.” He grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on it.

“Crazy to think that we didn’t come here to have sex, and we still did.” He laughed, wrapping a protective arm around you, snuggling his face into your neck.

“Fate has some weird shit going on.” You replied. “If this hadn’t happened, we’d be eating breakfast and arguing over who’s Donatella’s favorite monarch.” He laughed.

“I’m just glad that it happened.” He spoke. “Can…we do this more often?”

“Like, having sex… or are you asking me out?” You inquired.

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Sure, then.”

“To which one?” He asked.

“To either.” You answered.

“Just to be clear, I’ve always wanted to get to know you. I’m not asking you out just because we had sex.” He clarified, staring into your eyes. You kissed him.

“Let’s see how things go, my prince.” You replied, cuddling up to him, basking in his warmth next to you.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Korea, 2025, 10:00 a.m.

“Breaking news: Versace Prince and Princess caught in a scandal! Hyunjin and Y/N were seen entering Hyunjin’s hotel after the Versace Fashion Week Afterparty last weekend. More interestingly, the couple were seen eating lunch the morning after. The pair were also spotted yesterday holding hands at a café near the idol’s workspace, right after their companies denied any romantic involvement between the two of them. Talk about relationship goals! We wish the Versace monarchs a life full of love and we cannot wait for their next move!” You read, snickering at the article’s writing. Hyunjin laughed.

“We’re in so much trouble, huh, princess?”

“Who cares?” You replied placing a kiss on his cheek, making him chuckle.

You received a call from your manager.

“I don’t know if you’re with Hwang or not but ratings on your songs are through the roof now! Keep it going!” He said excitedly. You chuckled.

Oh, how the tables have turned for everyone’s favorite monarchs.

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flaminandgooo · 5 months ago

Text

Bucky, who loves reading and finally gets to sit down and enjoy all the literature he's missed for the past decades.

And Sam. Who watches that stunning smile bloom across his face like a morning glory at the first rays of sunshine the first time he gifts him a new book and decides he wants to witness that sight again and again and again.

Sam, who eyes the ever growing piles of books scattered across Bucky's apartment with a fondness that has long since done surprising him and snorts at Bucky's stupidly proud smirk when he compares him and his book herding to Smaug herding the dwarves' gold in the Hobbit (they did a buddy reading of the Hobbit, LotR and the Silmarillion on Bucky's insistence, which was about when Sam found out that 1) Bucky could talk non-stop for at least half an hour with enough motivation, and 2) the asshole had no concept of time when he talked about books and Sam had woken up half a dozen times to at least one 20 minutes long audio message from Bucky rambling about Tolkien lore).

Sam, who learns how much Bucky loves poetry on a random night during a stake out because the man mentions that the only thing he's grateful for when it comes to the Winter Soldier conditioning is all the languages they've put inside his head so now he can enjoy poetry in every language that he speaks, because no poem is more beautiful than in the language it was originally written in.

Sam, who from then on buys Bucky poetry books. English classics, of course. But also Spanish and Turkish. French and Arabic. Japanese and Hebrew. Xhosa, Hindi, Greek, Portuguese. Old and modern alike.

Sam who listens with his eyes closed when Bucky reads him his favorite poem of each book, losing himself into the sudden softness of Bucky's voice, into his surprisingly beautiful diction, asking 'how about another one you liked?' when he feels especially greedy and wants to bask in the velvety quality of the man’s voice just a little longer, Bucky indulging him, always, too happy to share, the shyness of the first few times he'd done this long gone now.

Sam, who listens with a bleeding heart to Bucky as he explains why Tommorow, At Dawn and 'Tis A Fearful Thing are his favorite poems.

Sam, who goes on a cruisade against the Smithsonian to get his hands on Bucky's belongings from the war because he mentioned once a beat-up copy of the Ghost of Canterville he used to drag around everywhere with him across Europe because it was his favorite tale, the one his mother had read to him time after time when he was little, and it reminded him of home.

Sam, who gifts Bucky a collector LotR bookset he got from a small artist for his birthday, with handmade leather bindings and painted edges.

Sam, who has to sneak away and step out on the front porch for a second at the look of pure adoration Bucky sends his way once he's done running his flesh and bone hand along the carefully crafted leather spines of his brand new books, taking advantage of his nephews making a show of bringing their own gifts to their Uncle Bucky to calm the wild beat of his heart against his ribcage. (And if he pointedly ignores Sarah's knowing look on his way out, it's nobody's business.)

Finally, Sam. Who sucks in a sharp breath that same night when mismatched arms pull him into a strong embrace just as he's about to leave Bucky with a fluffy pillow and a warm quilt on the couch, the softest of thank yous dropped directly in the shell of his ear, two words that have never sounded so tender, echoing in his head long after he retreated to his own room.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #winterfalcon #captain america #the winter soldier #i'll post the other part a little later in a different post #gigiwrites

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hurtspideyparker · 6 months ago

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After Peter takes Tony on a poor person's tour of New York City (Part 1), Tony decides to get some revenge by bringing the kid to California to see how the other side lives

First order of business: a tailored suit. Peter stands awkwardly while an elderly man takes his measurements and adjusts his posture. "Which side do you dress?" he asks. Peter's eyebrows crinkle, "um, I dress all my sides?" Tony snorts. "No Pete, he's asking which side your di—" "OH"

They take the private jet of course. "I've actually done this part you know Mr. Stark," he tells him smugly. "Yes I do know, Happy complained about it for 20 minutes after we dropped you off. Do you even have a passport?" "Nope!"

Tony's Audi R8 is waiting for them in the parking lot in all its hot red glory. Tony tosses Peter the keys. "Really!?" "All part of the experience kid. Wait till you get on those long Malibu roads, bet we can watch the sunset on the beach if you step on it."

Peter does in fact step on it. Tony regrets ever opening his mouth. "I thought you said you had your driver's license!" "I do! Well, learner's permit. Y'know Spider-Man stole a car once. It was awesome." Tony tightens his grip on the seat.

Tony makes him pull over when he sees an ice cream shop. Peter is very excited to get a cone, and Tony is very excited that Peter made it this far without driving off a cliff. (Peter is not allowed to drive again)

They walk along the beach while they eat, Peter rolls up his pants and wades barefoot into the shoreline waves. As much as Tony planned this trip to get revenge on Peter for the chaotic day in New York, he can't help but smile at the boy's contentment

-When they get to the mansion Peter takes it upon himself to look into every single room. "That's a linen closet." "IT'S THE SIZE OF MY BEDROOM."

There are five guest rooms. One has a foosball table and mini fridge, another with a tv the size of a wall. there are two downstairs and two in a separate upstairs hallway. Tony tells Peter to pick whatever one he wants... he picks the room right across from Tony's (he should have expected that)

They hit LA the next day. "You didn't bring a hat or something?" "No, why?" Tony hands him a pair of his ostentatious sunglasses. "Borrow these." Peter wears them on their way to get lunch and it becomes clear very quickly why when within 20 minutes there are half a dozen paparazzi following them and snapping photos while yelling questions

"Mr. Stark who are you with?" "Stark what are your thoughts on the floods in Libya" "young man what is your name?" "hey kid how do you know Stark?" "Mr. Stark is this your illegitimate son?" "what does Ms. Potts think about your past sexual history?" "does this have anything to do with the child labour accusations against Stark industries?" Tony keeps his head up and continues walking down the street without pause when he speaks. "This young man is part of SI's intern program, and he's exceptional enough to work directly with me. No further questions please," and with that he grabs Peter's arm and pulls him into a cafe

"Woah," Peter says dizzily. "Yep." Tony replies simply

Tony orders them some sandwiches and smoothies—"14 dollars for a small?! What's it made of, gold?" Peter exclaims. Tony shrugs with a sip of the straw. "Probably, they put that stuff in everything nowadays. All it does is rack up the bill and stick to your teeth"

They don't spend too much time out before they need to go home and get ready for a charity gala. Tony watches in amusement as Peter struggles with his tie for five minutes before stepping in and tying it for him. He also puts on Peter's cufflinks for him. "These look expensive..." he examines the silver squares with a subtle P.P. monogram. "Meh, just six hundred." Peter balks while staring at the small accessory. "Mine were 3k," Tony says with a smirk, showing off his own cufflinks in a much more garish T.S. shape. Peter pales nauseously.

Peter sticks close to Tony in the large ballroom, shaking a dozen hands of old white men who all look the same and women who waddle around in their long dresses (Peter steps on one woman's train causing her to trip into a wobbly drunk woman, sending them both sprawling on the ground. Peter decides to inconspicuously speed walk away after brushing off the evidence of his footprint on the stiff fabric. Tony nearly gives him away with his laughter)

Peter grabs a glass of champagne at a waiter's offering, only to have it immediately taken from his hand by Tony. "Hey!" "you really thought I'd let you drink right in front of me?" Peter pauses. "Alcohol? I thought it was sparkling juice or something. Why'd the waiter give it to me, do I look 21 in a suit?" Tony scoffs at the hopeful flush to Peter's round cheeks. "Yeah no, but most aristocrats are alcoholics by 15 so the wait staff don't discriminate."

Tony orders him a virgin shirley temple from the bar and he's content

Peter later comes out of the bathroom with a stiff posture and quickly makes his way back to Tony. "Um, some people just offered me cocaine?" "did you take it?" "no..." "then we're good." Peter's eyebrows furrow as Tony moves on

"Here, you pick the amount," Tony says as he hands his checkbook and a pen to Peter. "Um, what is this for again?" Tony pauses. "Either youth literacy programs or LGBT suicide prevention." Peter shrugs and writes down 5000. Tony takes it back with a nod and then adds another zero

Tony doesn't say anything as Peter looks over the appetizers spread out on a white cloth table. Most of it is confusing or disgusting, and none of it looks very filling. He picks up something seemingly innocent, meat on a cracker. "I thought this was ham, but it's kind of greasy," he comments as he chews. Tony smirks at him. "It's foie gras." Peter stares at him blankly. "Duck or goose liver. They overfeed the birds to fatten them." Peter subtly spits it out into a cloth napkin that is way too nice to get dirty

They get burgers on the way home.

Later that evening Ned sends Peter a text with a TMZ article: Tony Stark and New Company Heir in LA. "You're in LA?!?? YOU'RE GONNA BE A CEO?" Peter face palms before texting back. "I'm boujee now Ned, don't talk to me again until your net worth is at least 3 mil"

#irondad and spiderson #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #mcu #marvel #marvel mcu #irondad fanfiction

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irrevocableloves · 1 year ago

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gold rush

cedric diggory x fem!hufflepuff!reader

taylor swift series: part one

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ masterlist ₊ ⊹

summary: everybody wants him, everybody wonders what it would be like to love him, but he loves you. (inspired by taylor swift’s gold rush!!!)

warnings: lil bit of angst, self-pity, mentions of alcohol, FLUFF <3

words: 1.8k

what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?

cedric diggory. the prefect of hufflepuff. the captain of the hufflepuff quidditch team. your best friend. but that was all he was... a friend.

the secret you bore that you had fallen in love with him along the way of your friendship had burned a hole into your heart, believing that deep down that he was never destined to fall for you.

sure, you'd hoped things would slowly work out in your favor. but in your eyes, it didn't seem very likely.

but to (almost) everyone else, his eyes were only on you.

everyone knew from the moment you and cedric were seen running around the halls together on the first day you were both sorted into hufflepuff that the two of you were completely enamored with one another. it could be seen in many other ways throughout the years.

cedric was a gentleman to everyone of course, but to you? he was an absolute angel. the way he'd listen to every word you had to say even if it was the most ridiculous, hold your books for you in between classes, skip his classes and take care of you if you were sick, just the way he looked at you… you swore the glint in his eyes had felt so much different. but you’d also considered that you’ve just gone completely mad…

you noticed his gestures of course, but you thought that was just cedric's nature. he was a hufflepuff wasn't he? well, he was practically the face of hufflepuff. at hogwarts, mostly everyone wasn't 100% of their house, but you were convinced cedric was the only true hufflepuff.

the girls hoarding around cedric never helped, but you never noticed the way he acted around them. uncomfortable. and not so much entertaining them, but more-so feeling guilty for them (and also because he's a a major pushover).

with the tri-wizard competition and with cedric as a champion, the crowds piled around him. not just girls, but hufflepuffs who wanted to bash around in his glory.

you missed him. you didn't even want him to put his name in the stupid goblet to begin with, but you couldn’t bare the look of disappointment on his face when you didn’t approve of it. he thought the world of you. he wanted to do this for you, to prove that he could finally make the house you shared worthy of the limelight, to make him worth of you…. but you didn’t know that yet.

but now, every chance you had to spend with him was always ruined by the crowds stealing him away. everyday for a week since then he’d been pulled away from you. his usual spot next to you in the great hall remained empty and no one else had come to claim it, your friends knowing it was his spot. well other people tried… like when ernie didn’t make it time to be cedric’s little side-kick, he’d try to squeeze himself in beside you, but everyone hollered him off when you didn’t have the heart to.

you’d seen cedric make the effort. every single time he did, but he would be pulled away by his growing posse. sometimes you’d just wish you were able to scream, yell, or even simply ask him to stay loud enough to be heard over the boys and their banter, but alas, it never worked in your favor. you also wished that he would tell his friends that he wanted to stay back and just have at least one second with you. just one conversation. but every time he managed to get out a word of retort, his cheeks had gone so red and his voice in a fit of stutters that he’d just let his growing group lead him elsewhere.

you noticed the girls. of course you did. how could you not?

it’s not like girls had never craved the attention of cedric diggory, but after his name shot out of goblet of fire, it’d almost been too much for you.

the girls, especially those from beauxbatons, stared and erupted giggles every time he’d passed by and sent glares at you whenever he’d try and stop to talk to you, but those were always quickly interrupted by his herd of new friends. even anthony, his bestest friend, had grown tired of the crowds and relinquished back to his normal spot the great hall, matching your sighs whenever you’d hear the crowd boast over him.

one night, when you had just managed to finish hours worth of work on a history of magic paper, once you were satisfied, you let yourself bury into the covers of your bed. it was a friday night and there was a party in the hufflepuff common room to celebrate cedric once again, but you were exhausted. you’d purposefully planned to be cooped up in your room all night while the rest of your school mates partied away. no one would miss me surely.

knock knock.

you were tempted to just lay there, pretend you were asleep in hopes they would leave you to your solitude, but the fits of knocks didn’t stop and they soon turned to mutters that would make your heart almost stop completely.

“y/n? y/n/n? you awake?” cedric. even in his slightly drunken state, he was soft-spoken, only gently knocking and whispering in case you hadn’t been awake.

any other time, you would’ve gotten up immediately. but after this week, you were hesitant. it wasn’t his fault. really, it wasn’t. you couldn’t help the built up insecurities and the fact that cedric didn’t have time for you anymore. he always did before, but this time, there was just too much in the way, too many people watching his every move and wanting every bit of attention just as you did.

just as you were sure he’d left, you heard a soft huff and an odd noise hitting your door.

when you finally made your way to open the door, you slid it open gently, seeing cedric leaning up against it, sliding alongside it while you cracked it open.

you gasped at the site, grabbing cedric’s hand with the two of yours and hauling him up. “ced?” you grunted, struggling as you pulled him. “why are you here?”

“wanted to see you.” his cheeks were flushed red. he’d been drinking. not quite a lot. you knew when he’d gotten to his breaking point. right now, he’d only had a couple shots in fire whiskey him, otherwise he would’ve been completely knocked out and unintelligible. “why didn’t you come down?”

his speech was hardly slurred, he just seemed really tired.

“um…” the paper excuse sounded lame. were you really holing yourself up in your dorm all because a boy hadn’t given you his undivided attention? that excuse would never hear the light of day, but even then, you knew it was pathetic. “was tired…” now that was even more pathetic.

you sat over on your four poster bed and he followed in suit, but instead of sitting, he fiddled with the curtains, as if he’d seemed more interested in the velvet fabric than you. no. he was distracting himself. he was just as nervous as you were.

your eyes went to his, then to your twiddling hands. a moment of silence had aired throughout your dorm. then you felt a dip on your bed.

“y/n/n ‘m sorry.” you looked up, his cheeks reaching even deeper level of pink. once your eyes met his, he was a stuttering mess. “it’s just—the tournament. i-i know you didn’t want me doing it and-and i don’t know i didn’t think i’d really get picked you know? then…” he made an explosion sound with his mouth and you struggled not to stifle up a giggle. you loved when he was so nervous that he just rambled on to no end and you didn’t dare to stop him just yet.

he continued on, “and i just got caught up in it? like i’d won a quidditch match, but times a hundred. maybe a thousand? and-and i didn’t want to disappoint anyone… even if the crowds are a lot. overwhelms me a bit… just wanted to hang out with you.” you looked up at him, debating whether to speak up yet. you didn’t.

“merlin, i feel horrible…” he got up from your bed and started pacing around your room. “you didn’t even want me to put my name in that cup to begin with, but my dad… he’d sounded so proud in his letter when i told him about it. i couldn’t let him down. but then you… i shouldn’t have put in.”

he continued on, “i just thought… that perhaps… i could make your proud. you always talk about how hufflepuff gets no recognition.”

me? but why?

“and i know that you didn’t even want me entering the stupid thing in the first place… but i didn’t wanna let you down.” he huffed, finally sitting back down, his fingers still fidgeting.

“you could never do that.” you simply said. it was true. there was nothing he could do that would ever disappoint you. it was quite infuriating.

“i feel like i-i already have.” that’s when you placed your hand on his, grasping his fingers to stop his nerves.

“it’s not your fault.” it really wasn’t. but you struggled to find the words as to why as you found as fingers playing with your own.

“it is. the crowds… i wanted to tell them to shove off, but i just didn’t wanna let anyone down. it’s stupid…” one of his hands found its way to his hair, tending to one of his nasty habits. once he nervously pulled at his hair and squinted his eyes shut, you finally found the words.

“it’s my fault too.” you said, he shook his head in defense. “no. i mean… i know how overwhelmed you get and i feel terrible for not realizing that soon enough. look at you! you’re a mess and i-i wish i could’ve been there. but the crowd and the people and i just-i just thought..” you felt even embarrassed to say it out loud. “you didn’t need me anymore.” you finally let out.

you could feel his eyes on you. that’s when he used his other hand to lift up your chin, bringing your wandering eyes up to his.

“i’ll always need you. look at where i’m at without you.” he chuckled, his cheeks flushing an even brighter red.

“yeah… drunk and crawling up the girl’s dormitory stairs.” you giggled. “how’d you even manage the counter-spell?”

his eyebrows furrowed, a look of confusion on his face. “i don’t quite remember…?”

“you’re not even that drunk!”

“and how do you know that?” he challenged.

“well, first of all, you managed to make it all the way up here. and second, you’re not completely incoherent.”

“yeah…” he admitted. “party’s no fun without you. i’d much rather stay here with you.” your cheeks reddened.

“well, then stay. i’ll make you a tea.” you were surprised you didn’t make a complete mess of your words.

you swiftly got up off your bed, grabbing a mug from your shelf and then a kettle, using aguamenti and then a simple water-heating charm afterwards.

“chamomile and honey?”

a/n: anyone up for a part two???? he was a lil drunk so i didn’t feel comfortable about any confessions and kissing </3 BUT I DO HAVE IDEAS FOR MORE SOOO !!!

tags: @measure-in-pain @brekkers-whore @rejectedbimbo @leilanileila @anothercoffeeblogx @cevans-winchester @trawberry-fire @nephilimsss @itszzmoon @astrovampie @cryingoverfictionalmen @boxofbadsenses @ttnaanj @iheartprettygurls @aoi-targaryen @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @mystifiedgrace @ladybirdbeetle7 @celi-xxmoon (i don’t rmr how many of u wanted to be tagged for cedric </3)

taglist ₊˚⊹♡

#cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory #cedric diggory x you #cedric diggory x female reader #harry potter #cedric diggory fanfiction #goblet of fire #robert pattinson #robert pattinson x reader

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heliads · 1 year ago

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boy; girl; dragon

Hiccup only needs two things. He knows he can rely on both forever.

masterlist

There is a boy, and he has a girl. And also a dragon.

The order matters. He had the girl first, even if he didn’t know it yet. She didn’t say a word to him about the feeling beating against the bars of her ribs like a dove in a cage, not until he did first. The dragon helped things along, surprisingly. Usually, fire-breathing reptiles can only complicate a situation, but when two young people are soaring through the sky with only the billowing light of the sun and stars around them to bear witness to the truths they have to tell, secrets end up not so secret anymore. Hiccup told you he loved you. You said the same.

The dragon watched, and listened, and waited. It, of course, had known the whole time. Almost everyone did. Tact is a rare occurrence among the Vikings, but the people of Berk could tell that interference in the story of you and him, him and you, would not bode well. You and Hiccup were something different, something special. You didn’t need anyone but each other. And the dragon.

Loving a Viking is dangerous. Loving Hiccup was so far along the line of adventure and risk that even your first kiss felt like throwing off your armor to embrace a knife in your chest. If this was pain, though, it was the loveliest anguish you had ever experienced in your entire life. Falling in love with Hiccup was brilliant, like dragonfire; exhilarating, like tumbling in freefall; unfailing, like the son of a chieftain knowing that he would send his entire village to keep you safe from harm or die trying. Staying in love with him was soft torchlight, quiet mornings, wispy clouds around your temples when he took you up to see the stars. Easy. Perfect. And yours, all yours.

The two of you are together now, sitting side by side on the edge of a cliff. Most of Berk is rocky with occasional splashes of slate blue or chestnut wood to break up the monotonous grey, but tenacious patches of grass have managed to crawl up to the top of the cliffside here, providing you with a threadbare emerald blanket on which you can rest your legs.

A cool wind whistles through the air, toying with your hair and clothes before plunging off the edge of the rock face. You watch it go, taking a few errant leaves with it, and consider the drop down to the sea below you.

“If I fell right now,” you say to Hiccup, “off the side, you would catch me.”

“I would catch you,” he affirms. “Dragon or no dragon.”

“What if I fell too fast and you couldn’t reach me in time?” You ask.

He takes your hand, voice soft and gentle in the early morning. You’ve heard him louder and more assertive when directing the villagers, but you like him best like this, when Hiccup’s peace is only ever meant for you. There is an entirely different young man who exists only when he’s alone with you, a Hiccup that no one will ever know as well as you do. It is a delight to keep the secret of this second, inner boy. It’s a treasure that will only ever be claimed by you, a sparkling spread of gold and jewels captive to one person and one person alone. Not even blood relations can claim that sort of glory.

“There is nowhere you could go that I would not follow,” Hiccup asserts. “Not off the cliff. Not into the sky. I would follow you past the sun, or a hundred thousand lengths in the sea. I would search the world to find you, if I had to, and I would bring you back with me. Always. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” you whisper. “Always.”

“Always,” he repeats, and presses a kiss to your temple.

This is loving Hiccup, then. Always. Always the guarantee of a heart beating in tandem with yours. Always the confidence that you will not be alone in this world of yours, even as it seems to stretch out forever, even as it looms to hide a hundred friends or a thousand enemies. If the odds are with you or against you, you will have Hiccup to guide you through the trials and tribulations of this life of yours. It is written in the stars, and it is sworn by the one you love. No promise could be greater.

The two of you will descend into legend, into myth, into folklore. Never in the world have any two people loved each other more, and never will they again. Every young pair thinks that they could have this, a love to last a lifetime, but you and Hiccup will do them one better and last a thousand more. You could love him in every universe, every incarnation of yourselves, and Hiccup has already promised to be by your side no matter who you two were. Gods, maybe. Heroes or villains. Ordinary lives or glorious ones. All of them will feature the two of you together. Always.

A shadow briefly blots out the sun overhead, a pair of jet-black wings soaring through the early morning skies. As it loops and wheels towards the two of you, its shade flickers across the trees, dappling them with night’s fury even as the sun climbs higher into the sky. It occurs to you that you’d like every day to start and end like this one, for each one of your hours to be filled with this sort of blissful joy. You don’t need riches, you don’t need a legacy. All you need is right here before you. A boy and a girl. And also a dragon.

disney tag list: @blondsauduun, @lovesanimals0000, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @avadakadabra93

also tagging @hope92100 bc HICCUP

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months ago

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The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 1: He Will Come Again In Glory]

A/N: I've had this idea since I saw Conclave in October, but I never imagined it would coincide with an ACTUAL papal conclave 😅 Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy "volcano fic" at long last!!! 🌋❤️

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church...and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“Are you responsible for the koi?” a man asks.

You whirl, spilling pellets of fish food across the pebble pathway, sand-colored tuff made of volcanic ash. Cardinal Targaryen is standing there, and of course you recognize him immediately. His hands are clasped behind his back, his head is tilted thoughtfully to the side. He wears a gold cross, a zucchetto upon his still-blonde hair, and a cassock, scarlet to symbolize the blood a martyr is willing to shed for the Faith; it has exactly thirty-three buttons, one for each year Christ spent on earth. You grin proudly. This is a promotion, an escape from doing the washing in a basement full of spiders. “I sure am, Your Eminence!”

“Including that one?” He points: by the edge of the pond, a large red-and-white koi is floating with dull, dead, lidless eyes.

“Oh no,” you moan, taking a closer look. “No, no, no, it’s rooted. This is not good.” You turn back to the cardinal. “Please don’t tell Sister Augustina. She already thinks I’m an idiot because I don’t know how to work a fax machine.”

Cardinal Targaryen chuckles. “A fax machine?”

“I didn’t think people still used those.”

“I didn’t either.” He’s still watching you closely. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Eminence.” You saw him arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae this morning—rolling his luggage, handing over his phone, sequestering himself from the outside world—but it was other nuns who tended to him, not you. You had been assisting Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania, who probably has first-hand experience with stegosauruses and mastodons.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t recall who...” Cardinal Targaryen studies you for a little longer, then beams benevolently. “Well, the Lord commands us to be compassionate, and so I will help you hide the evidence and spare you from Sister Augustina’s wrath.”

You should protest—surely this is beneath him—but you are so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment you forget this. “Oh, bless you!”

As the cardinal scoops the deceased koi out of the pond with two large, cupped hands, you use your fingers to dig a makeshift grave under a lemon tree. It is December, and the Vatican Gardens are not dead but slumbering, the air cool and the sky grey, the soil soft and dark and damp as you burrow until you hit the impassible layer of clay beneath. Cardinal Targaryen lays the koi to rest in the trough, then together you hastily inter it. When the hollow has been filled and the dirt smoothed, he looks around the nearby flower beds for a large stone and finds one, places it atop the koi’s clandestine crypt, and stands back, admiring his work.

“Now you will escape all suspicion,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He bows his head in greeting, holding his hands behind his back again. His speech is formal and measured, crafted in English-taught boarding schools, just a ghost of Mediterranean inflection like the lingering pink of a sunburn. “I’m Cardinal Targaryen of Greece.”

You tap your own left cheek, indicating his scar. “I know who you are.” But you would even if it wasn’t for his mutilation, his eye that was permanently stitched shut. Three years ago when he was thirty-eight, the same age you are now, Aemond commandeered a fishing boat and saved a group of fifty tourists from a volcanic eruption on Santorini, where he was a priest at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. He instantly became a pop culture phenomenon—news interviews and televised sermons, statements on current events and viral memes—and was made a cardinal soon after. Miracles are so rare in the modern world; those who wield them must be elevated to prove the magic still exists.

You give him your name, and the cardinal—you cannot bring yourself to think of him as Aemond, too informal, too intimate—surmises: “You’re here for the conclave.”

That is sort of true. “It’s such an honor.”

“Hm.” He is scrutinizing you again, his remaining eye sharp and blue and fascinated. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t know where we would have, I’ve never been to Greece.”

“Perhaps on one of my diplomatic missions. The Philippines, Indonesia, Colombia, Japan, China, Bangladesh.”

You smile. “Never been to any of those either.”

“You’re from Australia.” Your accent makes this apparent. He’s touching his chin, he’s determined to puzzle it out. “Which part?”

“Up north in Queensland, originally. But I’ve mostly lived in Sydney for the past fifteen years.”

He shakes his head, mystified and frustrated by it; not much eludes him. “I visited Sydney once but it was forever ago, I was just a kid.” He is still thinking. On other pathways through the gardens, red dots of cardinals are walking off their flights from six different continents, murmuring solemnly to their colleagues or lost in the solitude of prayer. “How was this arranged, you traveling to the Vatican?”

And so you tell him the most abbreviated version: Mother Maureen Ashwell of the Sisters of Charity of Australia wrote to Sister Augustina, a friend for decades, a pen pal of sorts, and asked if she could use you. When the cardinals convene each time a new pope must be elected—ten years since the last conclave, or twenty, or thirty—there is a great need for labor, and particularly the labor of women, anonymous and thankless and uncomplaining: washing, cooking, serving, scrubbing, safeguarding, the endless, ever-patient matrilineal caretaking. Sister Augustina acquiesced, and so you flew to Rome with another nun from your convent, Sister Rhaena, who is very young and very in awe of everything all the time. Whatever affection Sister Augustina has for Mother Maureen has not translated to you. She scowls, she huffs, she loathes how you fold clothes and make beds. When Rhaena playfully tried to give her the nickname of Sister Tina, she received a pair of cuffed, ringing ears in return.

As you speak, Cardinal Targaryen gazes at you fixedly; and then his jaw drops open in amazement. “Dear God,” he says, his remaining eye wide and starry. “You’re the girl from the beach.”

~~~~~~~~~~

How old must you have been? It comes back like sandbars revealed by low tide: you are around nine, and Aemond perhaps twelve, and you meet when your parents have—separately yet providentially—planned family vacations to Sydney for the same week in December, when the Northern Hemisphere is shivering and the South is in the early days of summer.

You drove ten hours south from Toowoomba, he flew over nine thousand miles east from Athens, and you fall into step together on wet sand that collapses into the shape of your footprints. And while your respective siblings are elsewhere—getting slathered with marshmallow-white sunscreen, being fished out of the rough waves—you and Aemond build sprawling sandcastles and decorate them with seashells, and make banners out of dried seaweed impaled on pieces of driftwood, and share the picnics your parents packed: you have Vegemite or tuna sandwiches, meat pies, Tim Tams, Granny Smith apples, and Illawarra plums, while Aemond contributes soft triangles of pita and a platter of accompaniments, tzatziki, hummus, other spreads made of feta cheese or eggplant or fish, the cold crisp relief of a Greek salad wet with olive oil.

You find each other each morning of that week, an infinitesimal eternity. He is the first boy you see as a man—his shadow tall, his voice patient and wise—and there is a powerful pure drive to be close to him, a phantom longing for something you don’t know exists yet. You make him smile and laugh; he loves the way you say sanger instead of sandwich, and esky instead of cooler box, and togs instead of bathing suits, and defo instead of definitely. You tell Aemond you want to move to Greece with him. He tells you he wants to marry you one day. He weaves you a ring made of seaweed greener than any emeralds, but you leave it on your nightstand before going to sleep and wake to find that your mum has thrown it away because it smelled like the ocean, salt and sun and eons of lives coming full circle in the depths.

On your last night in Sydney, the four parents arrange to have dinner together at a pizza place by the boardwalk, and you hear them chuckling as they make light, patronizing exchanges: too bad long-distance phone calls are so expensive, awfully sad for them to have to say goodbye, kids have such short memories, they’ll get over it. As Aemond leaves with his family—he’s the last one out the door, glancing back at you again and again—you watch him vanish into the inky darkness and the glare of the streetlights, and from a little black radio beside the till there is a song playing, maybe Dylan or Joel or Springsteen, one you’ve never been able to remember well enough to find again.

And when you arrive home after an impossibly long day of driving and open your suitcase, the seashells you hid in the bottom have been jostled and crushed until only the dust of them is left, and the loss hits you, sharp and deep, and you begin to sob so loudly your mum comes running, thinking you must be bleeding to death.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds you where you are plating the antipasto to be ferried to the cardinals—cured salami and prosciutto, tomatoes, olives, pepperoncini, artichoke hearts, ribbons of fresh basil, and cubes of provolone and mozzarella glistening with olive oil—and tells you to follow him. You want to listen, and you have to anyway; in the Church all men outrank all women, and the distance between a cardinal and a nun is particularly vast, a transcontinental flight, the depth of an ocean.

You step away from the plates, looking back at your compatriots. Sister Augustina is glaring at you, bruise-blotched hands gnarled but steady, eyes like a basilisk’s. Sister Rhaena’s lineless face is alight; Tell me everything he says! she mouths, as if Cardinal Targaryen is a celebrity she’s had tacked to her bedroom wall since she was in secondary school...and actually, that might not be too far off the mark. The other three nuns you find yourself working with most often—Sister Penny from the U.K., Sister Nuru from Kenya, and Sister Helvi from Finland—watch you leave with puzzled, transfixed stares.

At first you’d found it impossible to use his given name, but now that you remember him, it’s very difficult not to. You have to remind yourself that you are not alone, not children on a beach where roos hop in the rust-fire dawn; you are in the midst of one hundred and six cardinals, plus a few who are eighty or older and therefore ineligible to vote, yet have nonetheless come to lend their wisdom to the deliberations. Some of their faces you know, many others you don’t, even after hours of research before your arrival in Vatican City.

You say as you trail Aemond uncertainly: “Cardinal Targaryen...?”

“Sit,” he orders when he reaches his table, pulling out a chair. You peer back at the nuns again. Sister Rhaena is exuberant; Sister Augustina looks like she’d enjoy burning you at the stake. You drop sheepishly into the red velvet chair and shrink under the intrigued gazes of the four cardinals who are seated with Aemond. You recognize Cardinal Orlando Almazan of the Philippines and Cardinal Luckson Louissaint of Haiti, whose large dark eyes roll to Aemond as he sips his wine and smiles to himself. Aemond tells his allies as he sits down beside you: “This is Sister Sydney.”

“Welcome, Sister Sydney!” booms a chubby man in his fifties, a warm perpetual flush in his full cheeks, salt-and-pepper hair, a short tidy beard.

You titter and bow your head, deferential. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, resting uneasily on the white wool of your habit. “Thank you, Your Eminence, but that’s not actually my name.”

“Are you from Sydney, Sister?” Cardinal Almazan asks; he is a small quiet man who is easy to lose in a crowd. He is presently doling out lollies and bikkies with labels you’ve never seen before; he must have brought them with him from the Philippines. He slides one over to you. Jelly Straws, the colorful package reads.

“We met there as children,” Aemond says. “About thirty years ago. And we hadn’t seen each other since.”

“C’est pas vrai!” Cardinal Louissaint exclaims as the others chatter incredulously. “Really? Is it possible? And now you find that you have both come to the Church by different paths? Incroyable.” He introduces himself with a broad grin and another curious glance at Aemond.

“How fortuitous for the Lord to bring you together again,” Cardinal Almazan says. He tells you his name and gestures for you to open the Jelly Straws.

“Yes,” Aemond muses, almost like it’s an afterthought, as if divine intervention hadn’t occurred to him. While you’re still hesitating, he rips open the Jelly Straws and takes a green one for himself, crystals of sugary coating snowing down on the table. “Mmm. Watermelon.”

“Aemo, give me a mango one,” the loud salt-and-pepper haired man says, holding out an open palm. And you recall abruptly, like something shattering against the floor: Did I call him that on the beach? I think I might have.

Aemond tosses him an orange Jelly Straw, and then tells you, pointing at the man: “Kazimierz Nowak of Poland.” Then he indicates to the last attendee, fluffy brown hair and round glasses, composed, bookish, mid-forties, the second-youngest cardinal here in the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the residence of the cardinals for the duration of the conclave. “Shane Campbell, American by birth, now serving in Mongolia.”

“Easiest assignment,” Cardinal Nowak mutters as he tears open a package of Sky Flakes, and the other men chuckle.

“Kazi, you are being rude again,” Cardinal Almazan scolds him, but he’s smiling. Unfamiliar snacks rotate around the table: Fudgee Barr, Kopiko, Super Stix, Hello Panda. Cautiously, you take a pink Jelly Straw from the package and pass the rest along. It tastes like strawberries, sweet and summery, golden sun beating down like it has in every other December you’ve ever lived through.

Cardinal Campbell tells Kazi: “I would happily die by arrows or being roasted over a gridiron if it would at last win me your esteem.”

“You could just lose four fingers like Jake,” Kazi suggests. He waves to a cardinal at a nearby table: Jacob Green, a Brit serving in Iran. You know his face; last year his capture and torture by a militant group was widely publicized, as well as his commitment to remain in Iran after the Church paid a hefty ransom and arranged for his safe release.

Cardinal Campbell holds up his hands and ponders them. “Which fingers could I spare?”

“Start with the ring fingers,” Cardinal Luckson Louissaint says. “You won’t need them.”

You all laugh, and Rhaena appears with plates of antipasto, including one for you. She cannot disguise her excitement; she is glowing with it, she is beaming, she almost drops Aemond’s serving on the floor as she goes to set it in front of him. “Thank you very much, Sister,” Cardinal Almazan murmurs as she scurries off again.

The men begin to eat. They speak with great familiarity and have nicknames for each other: Aemo, Kazi, Lucky, Lando, Cam. You pick up your fork and peer nervously around the dining hall. Many cardinals are watching you now, some amused, some fond...but others are frowning.

“Eat, Sister, eat,” Lucky urges you. He is short and round and has a gruff voice and hands calloused from the sort of work most cardinals abstain from. “You are in the right place, I promise. This is the kids’ table.”

Cardinal Orlando Almazan, Lando to his friends, appears startled. “I’m sixty.”

“That’s mid-twenties in cardinal years,” Kazi says. “Hey, Lando, did you ever watch that show I emailed you about?”

“Oh, it was awful.” He spears a chunk of salami with his fork.

“What show?” Aemond asks.

“Cribs,” Kazi says, and the others snicker.

“So wasteful!” Lando laments. “All those bedrooms, bowling alleys, movie theaters, garages for ten cars...all I could think about was the good those resources might do elsewhere.”

Kazi sighs. “You can’t look at anything without seeing orphans.”

Lando opens his hands. “And is this such a failing?”

“Well, it’s not very interesting.”

Lando grins. “Interesting men make poor cardinals. We figured that out in the 1500s when they kept murdering each other.”

“Might be a good tradition to revisit,” Lucky jokes, but in a very low voice. And he nods towards a table across the room, where several cardinals are glaring and hissing conspiratorially amongst themselves. You recognize some of them, older men with forceful fields of gravity: Bernardo Ferrari of Italy, Florent Auclair of France, and Matej Jahoda of the Czech Republic, a favorite to be elected pope.

Kazi says: “Jahoda thinks he is entitled to lead the Church because atheists killed his family.”

You are horrorstruck, a palm pressed to the white wool over your heart. “Did they really?”

“Prague Spring,” Aemond tells you, a phrase that carries with it vague connotations from Modern History in secondary school: 1960s, Eastern Bloc, Soviet invasion, self-immolations, tanks and smoke in the streets.

“It is very sad, what happened to his people,” Lando says softly.

“Yes, of course, but you cannot buy the Chair of Saint Peter with tragedies,” Lucky replies, then winks at Aemond. “Although perhaps you can earn it with miracles.”

“It wasn’t a miracle,” Aemond demurs, as he is expected to. To agree would be sanctimonious, prideful, unholy. No cardinal may campaign for himself, nor be seen to covet the papacy. It is disqualifying to be perceived as ambitious; and so those who want it most become good at pretending.

Cam leans across the table to whisper to Aemond: “Jahoda calls you The Cyclops.”

Aemond smiles as he crunches on a hunk of cucumber. “For something to be a monster, you have to be afraid of it.”

You take shy nibbles of your antipasto. On the other side of the dining hall, Cardinal Jahoda rolls his eyes and glowers at you and Aemond, then turns to say something you can just barely hear to his companions: “He will do anything for attention.”

“What was that, Cardinal Jahoda?” Kazi shouts across the void, and a hush ripples through the men dressed in red, the women in white or blue or black—depending upon which order they belong to—skittering soundlessly on the outskirts as they fetch water and wine and bowls of pancetta and pea risotto, the next course. Over one hundred souls wait to see what will happen next. The lines have been drawn and the frontrunners are no secret: the conservatives favor Jahoda or Leopoldo do Carmo of Portugal, the moderates are split between Jacob Green and Gideon Saati of South Sudan, and the liberals by and large are planning to vote for Aemond when the cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel.

Slowly, Cardinal Jahoda rises to his feet. He is an imposing man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and large hands that could have gone to war if he’d chosen a different vocation. His voice is not gravelly like Lucky’s, but clear and deep and colored with a strong Czech accent. “Brothers, this is a time for reflection and solemn prayer, not fraternizing.”

Aemond stands. Enraptured gazes follow him, eyeglasses are put on; some cardinals smile, others glare, others only observe, opening their hearts to be swayed in either direction. “Cardinal Jahoda, surely you do not believe that our sisters are fit to prepare our meals but not to share them with us.”

Jahoda is dismissive, as if Aemond is a child to be shushed. “Ah, you do nothing with pure intentions. Do not pretend you care for her.”

“You are upset,” Aemond says with mock earnestness, and there are chuckles in the audience. “Perhaps you are lonely and in need of better company. Perhaps you would like to invite one of the other sisters to join your table.”

“God has ordained different roles for us. I would not presume to alter them.”

“And this is the thinking that has left our Church in such a precarious state,” Aemond says, and there is a chorus of responses: groans and objections from the conservatives, cheers and water glasses thumped on the tables from the liberals, the moderates splitting the difference. “You would not presume to question anything, and so you are content with an institution that stands still as the world keeps moving.”

“The Holy Father, may God rest his soul, was a progressive,” Jahoda counters, sparring with words like blades that clang together and slice just millimeters from the blue shadows of veins. “And for all his triumphs—serving the poor and the destitute so faithfully, welcoming with open arms migrants and refugees—he failed to strengthen the Church. Millions around the world are leaving Catholicism to become Evangelicals. The Vatican is deeply in debt. Recent press coverage of the Holy See has been marred by misinterpretations and vagueness, mixed messages, claiming to champion human rights while enabling China and Russia—”

“Concessions must be made if we are to have inroads to reach the people of these nations.”

“And so you would negotiate with tyrants.” Jahoda gives Aemond a hard, searing look, as if this is a betrayal. “Appeasement is not the solution to our problems.”

“Neither is alienation from modernity! We can choose to challenge ourselves and our Faith in order to meet the needs of the time we live in and reinvigorate the Church. We can explore the possibility of ordaining female deacons, we can extend blessings to same-sex couples, we can make celibacy optional for our priests as so many other religions have done already, we can do more to protect the climate which will in turn save countless human lives, we can allow the divorced and remarried to participate in communion!”

But this is too much: the conservatives are jeering and the moderates look startled, as if a fire alarm has just gone off. The liberals are gamely trying to drown out the opposition with cheers, applause, bangs of fists and water glasses against the tables. The nuns clutch their rosaries. You exchange a glance with Rhaena, who stands nearby carrying a bowl of risotto she’s completely forgotten about. She is mesmerized by Aemond. She mouths to you: Can you believe him?

You can, but you can’t; he’s exactly the same as the boy from the beach, he is so different, he is still watchful and clever, he is sharper and bolder and scarred.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Cardinal Blaise Seaborn is pleading. He is the dean of the College of Cardinals, responsible for summoning them for the conclave and presiding over the proceedings. He is eternally flustered, his hair in disarray and his cassock rumpled. “We can discuss these matters in the general congregations tomorrow. Now is not the time. You’ve traveled so far and you must be exhausted. Please, I implore you, take your seats and finish your meals that the sisters have worked so diligently to prepare.”

Jahoda waves a hand flippantly as he lowers himself back into his chair. “You cannot understand, Cardinal Targaryen. But it is not your fault. You do not have the wisdom. You’re just too young.”

And as Jahoda retreats, Cardinal Auclair leaps up from the same table and strides to the center of the dining hall. He is tall and lean like Aemond, white-haired since his thirties, fiendishly quick, a fox, a peacock, a mercenary. No one would ever vote for Florent Auclair to be pope; it is well-known—yet never said aloud—that at home in Paris, there is a widow he has taken a special interest in and three children that share his aquiline nose and small, icy eyes. But this does not mean he is impartial. In your corner of the room, Lucky is drumming his knuckles heavily on the tabletop. Kazi passes you a half-eaten Choc Nut.

“Your Eminences,” Auclair begins with a sweep of his hand. Cardinal Seaborn peers around as if searching for someone to stop this, as if it isn’t his job. “The Holy Father was known for his humility and his gentleness. Let us now bring balance to the Church with a leader who is strong, and experienced, and attuned to the ancient history of our Faith. Not an idealistic youth.”

“I wonder about this fixation upon age,” Aemond says, and all eyes snap back to him. Cardinal Seaborn looks on wearily, feebly. “We believe in a Savior who redeemed the world at thirty-three, but a man at forty or fifty is not fit to lead His flock?”

Auclair is incensed. “You compare yourself to Christ?!”

“You pretend to know my mind!” Aemond thunders. “And the gifts that God has bestowed upon others. There is no greater arrogance.”

Auclair mocks venomously: “What is the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope leaves it as a cardinal.”

“And I have voiced no such aspirations.” But he has led Auclair into the trap of speaking them to life, and now they are loose in the air like fireflies and no one can forget them.

Auclair switches to Latin, and Aemond follows him seamlessly. Then Auclair pivots to French, a language that many of the cardinals have at least some proficiency in, and Aemond hesitates; you have the impression he can understand most of what is being said, but Auclair talks so swiftly—surely this is intentional—and Aemond stumbles over his words when he tries to defend himself.

Lucky surges up from the table and meets them in the middle of the dining hall, assailing Auclair with a deluge of French. Aemond gracefully retreats. As the emperors stand back, the gladiators bloody the floor. Now the cardinals are in uproar, a deafening rumble of palms and fists against the tables, an incomprehensible storm of languages. Kazi and Cam are bellowing to cheer Lucky on. Lando looks at you, smiles placidly, shrugs, takes a bite of his risotto.

“Cardinal Louissant, please!” Cardinal Seaborn begs. “Please, Brothers, let us return to our seats! This is no way to honor the memory of the Holy Father!”

The cardinals fracture away from each other, Auclair returning to one side of the room, Lucky to the other. Auclair hisses at Aemond as he withdraws: “Even your hero Saint Thomas Aquinas agreed that pride is the most reprehensible of the seven deadly sins.”

Aemond says: “And fortunately for you, Your Eminence, lust is the least.”

“Le salaud!” Auclair roars, and again the cardinals erupt into chaos. “Le crétin, la bête!”

As the dining hall is engulfed in jeers and laughter and applause, Aemond stands by his chair and sips his wine, cool, composed, too statuesque to be human. You gaze up at him and think: What happened to that boy from the beach? Cardinal Seaborn physically places himself in Auclair’s path to stop him from crossing the midpoint of the room. Sister Augustina is crossing herself.

“You still need one more miracle to be a saint, Targaryen,” Auclair seethes as Cardinal Ferrari coaxes him back to their table. “Surely that is what you dream of. No throne on earth is high enough for you.”

Aemond does not reply. He sits as if no one has said anything and eats his risotto, neat but famished forkfuls. Lucky, Kazi, Cam, and Lando give him encouraging thumps on the back. In return, Aemond flashes them a sly, crooked smirk. Then he turns to you. “Tell me about the work you’ve done with the Sisters of Charity of Australia.”

It’s a command, not a request; still, you deny him. You stand, casting a wary glance at Sister Augustina, who is lurching towards you on jolty, arthritic legs. “I really must go serve dinner with the rest of the sisters, I’m only here in Vatican City with Sister Augustina’s blessing and I fear she is dangerously close to revoking it.”

Aemond’s companions wish you goodnight, but he’s not quite done with you yet. “That’s not why I did it,” he says, indicating to the seat he led you to. “To prove a point.”

“I know, Aemond.” And you should have called him Your Eminence or Cardinal Targaryen, but you didn’t, because he’s not just a cardinal. He’s your friend.

As you depart, Aemond picks up a pack of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes from the table and offers them to you. “Bikkies, right?”

You grin. He remembers. “Too right.” You take the Sky Flakes; you’ll share them with Rhaena tonight.

But when dinner is over and the dishes have been cleared, Aemond finds you again, this time at the threshold between the dining hall and the corridor that leads to the stairwells and the elevators. The Domus Sanctae Marthae—Latin for Saint Martha’s House—is essentially a hotel, built in 1996 by Pope John Paul II for guests to Vatican City and to house the College of Cardinals during a conclave. It can accommodate one hundred and thirty-one souls in small, spartan rooms: no televisions, no radios, no computers, no cellphones, no worldly distractions, no undue influences upon the cardinals’ meditations. They are to listen to the whispers of God, not journalists, not family or friends, not bribes or threats or pleas, not even the crowds of faithful Catholics that gather in Saint Peter’s Square with handmade signs and flickering candles.

Aemond asks, spotting the plain iron medallion hanging from your throat: “Who are you wearing?”

“Saint Agatha.”

“Bona of Pisa would have been better. The patron saint of travelers. Or perhaps Mary MacKillop, the patron saint of Australia.”

“Yes, Aemond, you’re very smart.”

He chuckles and watches you, and even when he doesn’t say anything you feel no instinct to leave; this is unfinished. His hands are clasped behind his back again, as if he is afraid of what he will do with them if they are untethered. A scarlet torrent of cardinals lumber past as they journey to their rooms. Rhaena, curious but not wanting to intrude, loiters a ways down the hall as she waits for you.

“I still remember saying goodbye to you, isn’t that mad?” you tell Aemond. “We were with our families at that pizza place, and it was dark outside, and as you left it was like you vanished into the white glow of the streetlights. And there was some song playing...I don’t know, I’ve never been able to find it again. But it was sad, and I think it had a harmonica.”

Surely he thinks you’re a bit gone for holding on to that moment from almost exactly twenty-nine years ago; maybe he’ll even think you’re making it up. But instead, Aemond gazes off into the Red Sea of cardinals—a lava flow, a bloodrush—and then after a while he comes back to you. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song,” Aemond says quietly. “It’s called Atlantic City. If you look it up when all of this is over and we’re no longer sequestered, I think you’ll discover you recognize it.” And as you stand there, speechless and thunderstruck in your spotless white wool, he begins to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sydney.”

“Defo,” you reply; and when Aemond blinks at you, stunned, you smile.

He smiles back, touches the gold cross that hangs from his neck, turns away from you and is lost in the gore-red current.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone agrees he is smart, but how far has that gotten him?

He has leapt from one island to another: born on Nisyros, educated at British boarding schools and seminaries, and finally assigned to Santorini, and it is here that he waits to become someone. The Church has been the refuge of superfluous sons for two thousand years, a throne that requires no inheritance, a ladder to material comforts, security, status, power, fame, immortality for those who climb high enough. And what is the price you must pay? A relatively painless sacrifice when one considers the rewards: you may not marry, you may not have children, you may not experience romantic love if you are still under the belief that such a thing exists.

He came to the Faith through his mother, Irish by birth and always yearning for somewhere that was cool and wet and green. But perhaps its roots cannot thrive here in the dry air and volcanic soil. Of Greece’s ten million inhabitants, only one percent are Catholic, and while that number grows with each new wave of refugees from Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq, he finds himself languishing in scenic Mediterranean irrelevance. At the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, he ministers to sunburned tourists and dozing old people. He has a plan, but it’s happening so slowly; and patience is a virtue but he has no illusions that he possessed many of those.

It’s summer, hot and glaring and the height of tourist season, when he feels the earth shift beneath his feet as he is ruminating on his disaffection at the Old Port of Fira. Across a narrow strait of the Aegean Sea, he sees the sky change color above Nea Kameni, an uninhabited island and popular site for hiking and sightseeing. Because he was raised on Nisyros, he knows what signs foretell an eruption. Because he’s been on yachts with his boarding school friends—sons of dukes, daughters of prime ministers, bottles of vodka and MDMA pills—he knows how to sail.

It’s late in the day, nearing dusk, and so most of the tours are already back; but there is at least one group left on Nea Kameni, and he knows this because he can just barely see their boat moored to the dock and thrashing on suddenly murderous waves. And then the crater of the volcano explodes, and smoldering rubble pours down onto the dock, and the boat is crushed and they are stranded. He can almost hear their screams. He can imagine the lethal red heat of the lava that will soon be swallowing them like Jonah was wrenched into the belly of a whale.

For the very first time in his life, Aemond could almost believe in God, in divine intervention, in miracles; because in the scorching black plumes of poison rising from Nea Kameni, he sees the white of the smoke when the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Should we have a cuppa?” you ask Rhaena as you place a kettle on a hotplate in the small kitchenette. A corner of the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae has been set aside for the nuns, each bedroom containing two single-sized beds; you and Rhaena are roommates.

“That’d be lovely.” She sighs as she sits down at the table and rips open the package of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy.

“You alright?”

Rhaena nods. “I’ve just been flat out since the second we got here. And I still have another load of washing to get done tonight. Did you see those spiders in the basement?”

“Oh yeah, heaps of them.”

Rhaena shudders, then perks up when she takes a bite of a Sky Flake. “These are good though.”

“I’ll help you with the washing.”

“Is he like you remember?” she says, and you know who she means. Light floods back into her face; gravity lessens in her bones. She is sitting up straighter. She is entranced. “Was he the same way as a boy? So clever and fearless and magnetic?” Then Rhaena gasps and glances worriedly at the third nun in the room, whom she had forgotten about: Sister Augustina is at the opposite end of the table, collapsed with her head resting on her forearms, her body eerily motionless. She’s always doing this.

You smile. “She’s asleep, Rhaena. She can’t hear us.”

Nonetheless, her voice drops to a whisper. “She won’t stop hitting me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pull back your sleeve to show Rhaena the discoloration of a bruise left by one of Sister Augustina’s clawlike hands. “Keep your distance as much as you can. I’ll try to distract her.”

Rhaena gives her unconscious tormenter one last mistrustful look. Despite Sister Augustina’s mortal faults, you have compassion for her. Wrath comes from pain, a vivid red like stoked flames or fresh blood, and something terrible must have happened to her: a lost loved one, a suffering nation, betrayal, rejection, abuse. But she’s still in the Church, she still has faith, and you find that beautiful. She wears a black habit and a medallion depicting Saint Zita, the patron saint of servants, housekeepers, and lost keys.

Rhaena prompts you: “Well?”

Her question still burns in your skull, low like embers: Is he like you remember? “It’s difficult to explain,” you say slowly. “Sometimes he’s just like that boy from the beach. And then in other moments he looks like a stranger.” He is cunning, he is prideful.

“He would make an extraordinary pope, don’t you think?” Rhaena says wistfully as she nibbles on her Sky Flake. “He’s so well-versed. He’s young, he’s charismatic. And he’s performed a miracle. The lava stopped when he held up his hands, that’s what the tourists he saved told the reporters. What other cardinal can say that? Who else could claim to have been chosen by God?”

Your reply is vague, and not only because you’re supposed to believe God alone will decide who the next Holy Father will be; you aren’t sure how you feel about Aemond being pope. “We’ll have to see what happens.”

“And we get to witness it...right here, where Saint Peter founded the Church two thousand years ago...” Rhaena is in awe of your good fortune, Sister Augustina and the spiders and the endless chores notwithstanding. “What was it that you said to Mother Maureen to convince her to send us to Rome?”

You haven’t told Rhaena the real reason why you’re here. It would hurt her, you think; you are like an older sister to her, or perhaps even a mother, a resurrection of the one she lost to a postpartum hemorrhage when she was a girl. Engraved on her plain iron medallion is Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

So you lie. “Papal conclaves are so rare, maybe once every ten or twenty years. I won’t have many more opportunities to see one. When the Holy Father passed, Mother Maureen and I were discussing it, and I mentioned how fascinated I’d always been by the process and how I would love to assist with a conclave someday. And she made a call to Sister Augustina that same night.”

Rhaena smiles warmly. “Mother Maureen is so kind.”

She really is. “We are very fortunate to have her.”

You pour boiling water into two cups with one teabag each—Yorkshire Tea, of course, brought in your luggage—and let them steep. Then you turn to contemplate Sister Augustina, still sleeping.

“Don’t,” Rhaena pleads.

You smirk guiltily. You can’t bring yourself to exclude her. It’s not the right thing to do. “Sister Augustina, would you like some tea?” you ask loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Leave her alone,” Rhaena begs you. “She’ll just find something to snap at us about!”

You try again: “Sister Augustina!”

She still doesn’t move. Now you and Rhaena are perplexed; it’s never been this difficult to rouse her before. You go to Sister Augustina and prod her shoulder, then scream as she spills bonelessly across the floor.

She’s dead.

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