#and then it was so good that i read every chapter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oo-li · 7 hours ago

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help. i would reach 30+ tags if i tried typing it all into the tags so. prepare for the yappa yappa outside the tags …. ( 𖦹‸𖦹)..

anyway memes for how this chapter had me feeling

ajsgsjgshdgbd hi i fell asleep yesterday reading this chapter (best way to sleep icl. if only i dreamed)

(i couldve dreamed of this au </3)

long tags. be warned.

to start: WDYM I WAS THE FIRST TO KNOW HOBGJOONG MADE THE COAT (kicks feet blushing)

the pineapple scent. idk why but it fits him. i enjoy it and each scent u assign to each member :3

next order of business: thinkibg about the end of last chapter and showing off softy san !!!!!! i wanna smother him in blankets and tell him its okay

also. giggling over how he drinks in this au knowing irl hes as much of a lightweight as me :3

ALSO ALSO. THE ALLEYWAY SCENE ??? im trying to like figure out who was there. like its gotta be mingi bc of the voice but who came out of the car ? hwa or joong ??

question is if swanette will remember the voice of who exited the car....

AND JONGHO MY BELOVED OUGH !!!!! i wanna bump into him on the streets meet cute style (delulu)

the maknae whisper !!!! such a good setup for us to know its him before he gives his name to swanette

AND I WAS WAITINF FOR HER TO FREAK BC JONGHO KNEW HER NAME BEFORE SHE EVER TOLD HIM !!!! safe in bed line !! so good !

wooyo offering to lace her up. melting. swanette is stronger than me lol (AND THE UNLACE LINE 🫠😵‍💫😵‍💫)

angel between two demons. the foreshadowing to the fucking first part of first chapter i fear.

side note but swanette fidgeting often is very relatable and me core so i really enjoy reading lines where she does repeated actions to soothe

as someone who stims with their necklace and clothes often. its just a very nice thing for me haha

speaking of reader being unhurt. remined me of the san icing her legs moment. blushes like a slut. ㅠㅇㅠ

WAIT I ALSO REALISED THEY MIGHT HAVE WAITED UNTIL SHE FELT NEEDED TO BE WALKED HOME BEFORE THEY STARTED TO DO IT REGULARLY ???

like yeah they dont feel the need to walk her home every night bc jongho n mingi watch over her and could protect her if needed

but idk. maybe its both good and a bit toxic of them ? toxic in the way of waiting for her moment of weakness ?

icl i wanna read this ignoring all potential toxicness in their bond with her but i fear that would ruin many beats of this story. sigh.

then again this isnt a sunshine and rainbows story. sorry maybe this tag wasnt nedded in my rambling ^^;

ANYWAY WOOYO JOKING TO COMFORT HER !!!! giggling and wiggling like a schoolgirl !!!

wtf was the restaurant scene. what was that. i know it means smth bigger but what !!!!!

tall and taller ??? our twin towers ??? WHAT DID THEY DO. DID SWANETTES HATE FOR CHEATERS BRING THIS TO IMARA AS A BUTTERFLY EFFECT TYPE SITUATION ?????

oh my god brat wooyoung teasing the fuck outta mingi. screaming over his touches longer longing. OH HOW I ADORE HIMMMMM

the S ring ? huh ??? do they have rings from seonghwa too ? couple items with seonghwa ? (delulu)

EVEN JONGHO HAD SEEN SWANETTE PERFORM IM SCREAMING OVER THIS SOBBING !!!!! i love baby bear soooo much ugh

oughhhh Julia. i do NOT like her. also im grateful the fellow members in the dance company dont realise san and wooyo love her bc i just know how much drama thatd bring

the foil of woosan. exploding. extrovert liking quieter cosy dates while the introvert likes outings. explodes pt2

i also love how wooyoung visibly lights up when swanette shows she listens and remembers what he tells her :((((

«San's gift of the coat» oh swanette. may u soon learn Joongie made it for u

ALSO ???? does the coat mean more than just joong quote unquote claiming her ? does her love her like woosan ?

has he been to a performance and no ond has known ????? i have many questions...

SCREAMING OVER THE NECKLACE BEING TUGGED !!! GOOD LORD SAN YOU WANT ME DEAD 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

side note i realised i feel like im annotating a physical book with this /pos enjoy the yapa yapa rii ramblings

«hes mine just as wooyoung and you are mine» SOBBING THATS A DREAMMMMMM

one hug from yeosang would literally fix me. im not joking.

side note the way you write is so delicious i love how it perfectly blends in her thoughts and actions into the narration... its delightful truly

GENTLEMAN SAN SWOONING

:( swanette wanting to be a star like yeosang :(((((

«there was an element of strength in him deeper than attitude» YOU TELL EM !!!!

ouch ouch ouch !!! i dont like the foreshadowing of san's discontent with the prima ballerina answer !!! :(((

not much to add to yunho in the headlines other than swanette being so innocent... ough it works so well for the story and it isnt annoying or nothing !!! adore it

rip newspaper ceo bozo u wont be missed /j

shaking the bars of my cage !!!! yeosang wanting to eat dinner with her !!!!!!! im in love. yeosang i love u

SCREAMING OVER MINGIIIIII OH MY GOD MY SHAYLAAAAAAA MY BABY

the figures in the upper window !!!! our matz !!!!

oh the tooth gems... i wonder if it holds a special meaning within ateez's hierarchy in this au

the diamond chandelier. melting thinking about mv san. sorry

KITTY :D

wait sorry i was rewatching the mv bc of the piano mention and im gonna explode. im gonna send an ask dw dw

the mv okay. FUCKIN YEOSANGS FLOWR OUTFIT GRAHHH (pulls at my hair) jongho with the cat and the piano !!!! you nailed the car too w mingi omg ?

MINGI IN FRONT OF THE DESK ??? IS THAT WHERE YUNHO AND HIS SCENE AT THE TABLE COMES FROM ???

gotta lock back into the story. sorry. (i didnt lie with my yapa yapa)

barking over iomt hongjoong mention. sorry. daddy? sorry (death by pans and pots)

ngl yunho scattering ashes on the table cloth gave me a bit of an ick 😭

he was curious about her. growls. didnt he think she was some doll >:(((((

okay. the whole dinner. (wipes sweat off brow and sighs in relief) yunho intimidating. hes the guard doggggg

oh my god but yeosangieeeee and mingiiiii my princesses. my babiesssss

god i love my yeowoosan. i do. i wont lie any longerrrr

mingi cursing had me giggling

ALSO JONGHO MY BABYYYYYY BABY BOY BABY !!!!! :D

the time jump.... kitty z we love u dont take it personally pls :(

oughhhhhh its gonna be hard waiting for the next chapter this is so good !!! ill make sure to rb again when i reread the chapters hehe

till the next update or when i reread them !!! pls take care haley !

yappa yappa over o7

like a waltz⎯ part 4: piqué.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter focuses on all the boys & reader except my beloved matz :(( (their time is coming.) series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: As trouble arises and your patrons spend more time with you, more attention gets locked on you. Their interest is thoroughly piqued by you. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e rule of cool), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, MATURE topics, canon typical violence (choking, fighting, punching, etc), canon typical gore, blood, death, guns, explicit language, stalking, alcohol, smoking, bribery, lack of privacy, allusions to exploitation in ballet, implied sexual themes, suggestive themes, kissing, intimacy, angst, fluff, voyeurism sort of, obsession, infatuation, sugar daddy themes, unequal power dynamics, food descriptions, missing people, polyamory, pain, medical drug usage, traumatic injury, injuries, reader discretion advised & 18+ readers only! Let me know if I should tag anything else! word count: 20.4k previous chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist

piqué ; french pronunciation: [piːk], ‘pricked’… or to stimulate interest or curiosity.

Creeping out of the stage-door hours after a performance was a normal thing for ballerinas. The alley way was something all the girls were familiar with just as they were with the foyer de la danse. Its damp cobblestone, nearby rotting trashcans, and the barely lit path was their red-carpet entrance. They were not allowed the luxury of entering through the grand doors of the opera house with its tall columns, brightly lit lamps, and the many steps towards its shiny, gold-painted extravagance The only days they were allowed to enter through the front doors were when the opera house was closed and they were rehearsing. The petit rats were only welcomed with glamour when the rich weren’t nearby. They had the back-entrance. This was the ugly underbelly of the pretty façade.

Dressed in her pretty coat and her warmest layers, she had said goodbye to San and Wooyoung ages ago. But then, the Madame had spoken to her and a few ballerinas in her office, relaying some notes, insisting on the girls performing the rectifications immediately. So, there they stood in the rehearsal room, satin-ribboned shoes laced up over thick winter stockings and their day-dresses on. The ballerinas repeated their motions: turning in pirouettes, performing jetes, and piquing across the hall. It was only after the city’s clock tolled twelve times that the Madame allowed them to stop with a slam of her cane into the wooden floorboards. Then, after confirming each dancer had paid their weekly bill (YN smiled, wiping sweat from her brow as she was told her patrons paid once more), they were allowed to leave. The other ballerinas had all scurried home by the time she had gathered her bag and coat once more.

It was late into the early hours, past midnight and not yet morning when she finally left the opera house and crept out into the alley.

Pushing the heavy door open with her shoulder, the chill of night soaked into her bones with a whoosh. Shivering a bit, she adjusted her pretty coat closer to her body and prepared herself for the walk home. Her boots click clacked on the icy pavement as she exited the mouth of the alley. Looking this way and that, the streets were abandoned. Seemingly abandoned. Some of the candle-lit lamps even had fizzled out in the evening with no leeries about to relight them. She continued to walk along, humming softly until she heard the noise. Loud panicked whispers. A crackling fire. The crinkling of a tin-barrel. The smell of smoke. Ahead of her, dark smoke was tumbling out of a nearby alleyway, firelight lighting the brick-walls. She paused, her foot-steps slowed.

Click. Clack.

“You fucked up the deal?” It was frightened.

Click, clank.

“I didn’t mean to; I didn’t mean to. Johnny stole some cash from them, and then-“

“I don’t care! We needed this deal – the money, before he arrives – before we all lose –“

There was the squealing of car wheels and the smell of hot gasoline in the air. YN froze, her footsteps stopping. A car door slammed open, and there was a new click-clank of boots. A startled yell, a shuffle of footsteps, voices overlapping; there was a thud of a body hitting the icy ground with a yell. YN held her breath.

“Gentlemen,” the newcomer’s voice was gravely. There were heavy footfalls and a scrambling sound of someone walking backwards. Something hit a tin-can.

“B-B-Boss.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, about that –“ the other chuckled.

“My money isn’t no laughing matter.” There was a thud like someone being shoved into a wall violently. The man groaned in pain. “You think I’m someone to be crossed? Where. Is. It?” the intimidating deep voice asked, lowly.

YN swallowed, frozen at the alley way’s entrance just out of view. When would she be able to pass? She needed to get out of here quiet and without being noticed. Or else… she was scared what would happen. This wasn’t the usual gang-dealings. Gangs would fight back, fist with fist. These men were scared.

“We can get it to you- We can- just give me some time, boss!”

“This is the second time,” the graveled voice grumbled; there was a low whistle, sharp and piercing.

And then it was quiet. There wasn’t even pleading, no whimpering.

Silence.

YN’s breath was held as she tentatively peered out from her spot. A sliver of her face was visible against the brickwork wall of the alley way. Smoke hazed the figures, but she could just make out the broad shoulders of the deep-voiced man, cornering another man to the brick wall. The man’s hand scratched at the many-ringed fingers that grasped his throat mercilessly. A gagging sound was heard. Not one of the gang-member’s allies moved to help them. Instead, they were all staring at the automobile.

A truck was reversed into the alley way. Black and large, it shined and flickered in the firelight. Its back-doors pushed open with a click, and men in dark masks tumbled out. Large, intimidating suited figures held bulky guns she had never seen before. YN had seen muskets, shotguns, and even a revolver once. These weren’t that. These were heavy, mechanical, and dangerous-looking. They piled into the alley, the metal of their weapons glinting in the firelight of the makeshift-barrel fire. The frightened figures strewn about the alley way were frozen-still; a few on the ground pleaded, praying. The masked men pointed their weapons at them warningly.

Her heart rate jumped.

This was more than just a gang fight – this seemed methodical. Frightened, her eyes darted to the other side of the alley, her path home just a few steps away. But she’d have to reveal herself… While they were distracted, she’d run. She would. She needed to get out of here quick. Like a mouse, she’d escape when the cats played with their prey.

There was the clink of a car door opening and a metallic thunk of it shutting firmly. A sigh echoed out into the air, disappointed.

“Please, boss.” The figure held to the wall managed to splutter out.

His captor pushed him up the wall with a violent thud before finally letting go. The man gasped and gaped like a fish as the dark figure took a step backwards to look towards his accomplice. The figure exiting the car didn’t have the dark masks like the others. In this light and smoke, she could only make out the shape of him. Clean cut short hair, the trail of cigarette smoke, the gleam of his teeth. He tossed the cigarette to the icy floor.

Click, clack.

Click, clack, BANG.

A gunshot went off. His hand was outstretched in a flash; the pistol in his grasp smoking. A man on the ground let out a yelp of pain; his blood splattered against ice and stone. His hand grasped at his leg helplessly in agony.

“Shall we send a message to your pals?” the new man insisted, cocking his red-hot gun again and aiming it at the man his companion had just released from a chokehold.

There was pleading; names babbled over one another until they were unrecognizable. “Sir! Mercy please!”

“I think we should,” the deep-voiced man commented, nearly growling out his words. “We knew you scum thought this was some game. And here you made it all messy.”

His teeth gleamed and glinted with his snarl.

“Let’s make it messy in return.” He finished, nodding at the other.

There was a signal, and the men fired at the others at the two tall figures’ command. Gunfire, loud, fast, and hot, blazed out across the alley way. Her voice escaped her, screaming out. Hiding quickly out of danger, YN jumped back.

“What’s that?” a voice bit out. “You got some dame in this? Find her. Get her!”

They had heard her. Ice flooded her veins. She turned to run, only to run face first into a broad chest. She screeched out again, her hand raising to muffle it. By the looks of his attire, he wasn’t one of the gang members from the alley way. No, this gentleman was dressed nicely in a midnight-black tuxedo with a black cummerbund sash around his waist like he had been at the opera house. His face was firm, almost furrow browed as he righted her with a careful hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t be in this mess; he looked so polished and unaware.

“Mis—” He didn’t get to finish his statement as she interrupted him. Her hands shoved unlady-like against his sturdy chest, wrinkling what had been previously a fine-pressed white button-up.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” She hushed. “Now!”

Her eyes dripped of innocence, of protectiveness. Her fear was palpable. His intense brown orbs met hers and, without hesitation, he nodded. Surprisingly, despite his height and stature, he let her push and pull him away from the alley way and back towards the front of the now-abandoned opera house. She tugged him by the hand up the stairs, so they could stand hidden by the columns.

Her boots click clacked with each step of the stairs. More gunshots rang out; footsteps followed after them. She stumbled a bit, yelping; the mystery man’s free hand reached out to support her waist before he pulled her into the cover of the tall columns.

She could hear gunfire echo through the street, and she jumped with each bang, bang, bang. The stranger’s hand rose to duck her closer to the column rather than hide against it himself. Curling into herself, into the man’s side, the column, her eyes shut tight. This was a nightmare. The masked figures would surely come after them. They’d pull him away and then her, and what would happen next? She was shaking. There was yelling, shouting. She flinched. A loud whisper.

“Maknae?”

No reply. There was a crunching of snow, the moaning of men in pain. There was a long pause; she didn’t dare open her eyes. And then, there was the sound of footsteps walking away, heaving and thuds of something, and finally the squeal of car wheels going far away from the scene. The smell of gun-smoke and burnt rubber and gardenias (her rescuer’s cologne she realized) was all that was left.

A silence tumbled over the square like the cold water of an ocean’s tide, overwhelming and discombobulating. She stayed frozen for a long until a single finger poked at her shoulder.

“Miss?” he prompted softly; he shook her shoulder firmly then.

His tone sounded nervous, almost afraid. Of course he would be; she was afraid! It was frightening to almost be caught up in trouble. They had been so very close to being looped into a gang fight. She swore she’d never go down that alley or any alley again - ever. Shortcuts home be damned.

“It’s okay. You can open your eyes.” His voice was melodic, soft. Warm in this icy cold.

Her eyes opened tentatively, and she took in the sight of the gentleman in front of her.

He looked down at her with those intense deep-brown eyes, his dark hair mussed over his forehead. She could see his brows furrow at her in concern; his tongue peeked out to swipe over his top lip. His clothes, presumably for the ballet, were wrinkled by her man-handling.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, glancing her over with a quick look.

He didn’t let his gaze linger, but he hadn’t let his hand up from her shoulder either. She swallowed and shook her head as she shifted her shoulders, physically gathering herself as she replied.

“I’m okay, sir. Are you?” she asked politely. Her voice trembled still.

His face smoothed into something she’d almost call relief before he nodded. “I am.” He glanced out at the road. “They’re gone.”

He spoke to reassure her, the tone firm and resolute.

“Do you want to go to the police?” he asked slowly.

He seemed not too disheveled as he took a few steps away from her. His eyes remained on the nearby street, monitoring it. There was no sounds of moaning or pain. What had happened to the gang members? The gun fire was horrible; she hadn’t seen much. Except for red, red, red. No. No! She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want any reason for those men to come find her! They heard her. They had. Her hands rubbed over face; hours old makeup and sweat was sticky against her palms. It felt like blood for a moment.

It sent chills up her spine.

“Miss YN?” her rescuer prompted again, dragging her attention to him.

“No, sorry,” she babbled out. “No.” she confirmed firmly. Her arms wrapped around herself, tugging her coat closer.

“Are you sure?” the man’s brow raised.

“It’s easier to ignore these things,” she muttered out. “Safer. To not get involved.”

The man hummed low in his throat, melodically.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, trying to shake off her fear. “For shielding me up here. And running away.”

“You warned me. You saved me I guess,” he chuckled. “Thank you.”

She smiled shakily before glancing back at the now-quiet streets. Her hands clutched her coat closer.

“Will you be alright, Miss YN?” he asked.

Her nod was preoccupied.

“I will be,” she told him, glancing up at him. He fit right in with the glamour of the opera house. She wondered why she had never seen him before. He was memorable. His face was handsome; his form strong in a different way to San’s but still imposing.

“I’ll be on my way. It’s late and I don’t want trouble. I’m glad that we are both aliv-okay.” she corrected.

“I understand,” he said. “You don’t want a chaperone?”

She didn’t even know him. She wished Wooyoung or San was here. She shook her head, and she took a step away, fiddling with her coat.

“I’ll be okay. Good night…”

“Jongho,” he answered, even if she wasn’t asking. “My name is Jongho.”

“Jongho,” she repeated. “Thank you again.”

He nodded, bowing at the waist.

“Good night, YN.”

He’d whisper, “stay safe,” but he knew he’d be following after her in just a little while. After all, her designated shadow was busy tonight, too busy taking care of business to watch over her. So, the once-street-mutt Jongho had been sent in his stead to watch over his lady. And Jongho couldn’t help but be curious about her. Even more now that he had held her in his arms and seen the sweetness of her soul in her eyes.

YN was safe in her bed that night when she realized she had never told him her name.

And yet he had said it.

Her motions were sloppy. Her pointe was weak. And her mind lost. She plied.

“Are you alright, honey?” San asked.

It was the next night - before showtime. San and Wooyoung somehow weaseled themselves into the boudoir before any other patrons could. Sometimes she wondered how much coin that costed them. The Madame had been strict with no patrons before shows – allowing the fragile privacy to warm up and prepare for the shows. It was so easily broken by the two men, but their eyes were only locked on her. And when she turned away to shimmy into a costume or fix a corset or a loose ribbon, they’d respect her. Glancing aside no matter how much temptation itched at their hands.

Wooyoung had offered once to lace her up, and he was met with a look of sharp disbelief – even if it was shadowed by a sweet blush. He hadn’t asked again, but he looked forward to the day he would be able to lace her up… and unlace her.

Tonight, they stood leaning against the barre as she continued to warm up. But, of course, San had caught her shakiness, her focus weaning.

His hand slide across her waist slowly, thumb caressing up and down.

“I’m okay,” she said honestly, leaning into his support as she lowered her leg off the barre. She flexed her feet and rose up on to a pointe for a moment before sighing out and turning to face the two men.

San’s hand ghosted after her waist, guiding her close as she came to settle between her patrons. She rested her bum on the barre between San and Wooyoung. Her pristine white costume made her look like an angel between two black-suited demons. Wooyoung flicked his cigarette bud into an ash tray he’d stolen taken from the front lobby of the opera house.

“I’m sensing a but,” Wooyoung teased. His fingers trailed lower that they had before, grazing over her the small of her back closer and closer ‘til… San slapped his hand, albeit lightly. She didn’t chuckle at his joke. In fact, it was almost like he didn’t joke at all. He frowned.

“Hm, swanette?” he encouraged again.

“It’s—things have been different around town recently. I just got scared last night,” she admitted, fingers trailing back and forth over the barre pole supporting them. Restlessly. “I think its just shaking me up today.”

“How so?” San asked inquiringly.

“I don’t know. I’ve seen two gun fights in the past month while walking home. That’s not normal. There’s all sorts of kidnappings or disappearances. It’s just,” she shivered, thinking of the fear that had clung to her bones since last night. “Scary.” Her arms wrapped around herself.

Wooyoung frowned, his thumb going to rub at her arm soothingly. He didn’t like her fear. He liked her smiling far more.

“You didn’t go to the police, honey?” San asked, brow pursing. Wooyoung glanced over at San.

“No,” she admitted. “It’s—not my business.” She shook her head a bit, not agreeing completely with her phrasing. “I mean, that’s how it’s always been. Ignore, walk faster, try to get away before being seen. If you mind your business, they’ll mind yours… unless you’re involved. I’m not. Never have been. But… there have never been gun fights. I’ve seen fist fights, even switchblades being pulled.” She shook her head again. “I sound silly. But I know there were gangs around town – I know the familiar faces of troublemakers, their tells – and they’re afraid. And if the monsters are afraid--”

She trailed uncertain. She sighed out again before her hands went to squeeze both of their hands that rested on the barre.

“Sorry, I’m just shaken up, that’s all. I’m spiraling a bit,” she reconciled. “Sorry.”

Wooyoung was first to cut her off. “No, no, pretty girl. Don’t apologize.” He soothed. “We don’t want you scared.”

“You weren’t hurt,” San clarified. It didn’t even sound like a question but still he said it.

She nodded in agreement. “Nope,” she showed her bare arms and twisted this way and that. As if it’d prove she was unharmed.

“Someone helped me,” she admitted.

San raised his brow at Wooyoung before the shorter began to fuss over her.

“My scared swanette,” Wooyoung pouted, huddling close. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he wrapped her in his arms. “Shall we walk you home from now?” he murmured. “San and I will be your personal bodyguards.”

“Uh, huh,” she teased lightly. “I’m sure you will.”

They’ve only walked her home on occasion. She knew it was in the opposite direction of the Ateez House. She didn’t expect them to walk her home. She wanted them to.

“Trust me, you’ll never get hurt around me if I walked by your side,” San promised, pressing a kiss to her cheek as well.

“I’ll make the ground you walk and dance sacred.” Wooyoung whispered. “Drench it in holy water for you.”

She laughed at that.

“Stop teasing me,” she giggled. “You’re being mean.”

“We’re not teasing, honey.” San pressed another kiss to her cheek.

“I’m sure.”

“Shall I carry you home instead? Like a damsel.” Wooyoung teased, arms sweeping underneath her legs.

Wooyoung was growing bolder by the day, and it made her cheeks flush. She let out a shriek of laughter, dragging the eyes of the other ballerinas their way. San raised his brow at them. Unbeknownst to YN, San seemed to harden when looking at anyone other than Wooyoung or her. He spun her playfully. Her mind rightfully distracted from her fear finally.

“You’ll never step foot on ground again while I’m around, Miss Swanette.”

It was dark in the restaurant’s backroom. Smokey and lowlight with flickering candlelight. The servers, the cooks, everyone had been pushed out, locked out. The long table was bare of any meal. Water in crystal glasses sat in front of each man. At the head of the table, there was a decanter of amber liquid with two empty pristine glasses. It was quiet, so quiet that the squeaking of rats could be heard in the floor board. Nervous eyes looked this way and that; bodies shifted and fidgeted. The door opened, and all eyes were sucked to into their orbit.

Two figures stood side by side. Matching Rolexes glimmered on their wrists as they both adjust their suits. One shoved their gold-lined, midnight-black suit’s sleeves up with little finesse while the other took his time, slowly peeling off his suit jacket before rolling his white button-up sleeves up. Slinging his discarded jacket across one of his broad shoulders, he then adjusted his black tie, a long silver ring encompassed his pointer finger of his dominant hand. It almost looked like a claw. The other rolled his neck, the glimmer of multiple gold and pearl necklaces matching his sneer.

Tall and taller glanced down the long table. Young and old sat there; most didn’t look like they had much. Fake luxurious hats with feathers, rings that didn’t sparkle quite right, and sweat-stained pinstriped suits. Some did have money. Their fat fingers rubbing their gold necklaces nervously. All of them shifted in their seats as the duo approached. One on each side of the table, they prowled.

“Gentlemen,” the one who spoke out first nearly growled his words in a snarl.

Rather than walk with his chin high like his companion, he tilted his chin to glare down the table. Dark eyes made darker still by anger. There was a laziness in his swagger as he walked behind one row of chairs; a hand trailed over each leathered chair.

“We have some… requests,” the taller one stated, a smile coming to his glimmering mouth.

YN watched as Imara grab Dohyun’s hand. Her words were hushed in the loud boudoir, unreadable. But she could see the panic, the tears twinkling on her lash line.

‘Don’t do this please.’

She could read the pretty dancer’s lips.

The bank owner yanked his arm away, harshly. As if they hadn’t touched Imara’s body up and down like it was his for over a year. He glanced about as he spoke, mouth moving too quick for her to catch any words.

He shook his head again as he turned and left the boudoir.

Imara had to pay for her dues the next day for the first time in over a year.

Wooyoung stood by his promise. Each night since, he or San walked YN home, winding through the streets with their fingers interlaced. Most nights it was him. He liked the shared time for just them he said. Sometimes, he grew daring and would wrap his arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder. Like two lovers taking a stroll.

The following nights had been relatively calm; there were no gun fights, no gangsters. In fact, the streets seemed boring. Not a soul was seen around them except for, of course, her loyal following shadow. Not that she’d know. He was like a ghost, sneaking around the corners and alleys to keep them in his sight.

From the darkened corners of the streets, the figure followed after them night after night. His annoyance only growing as Wooyoung’s touches grew bolder in the solitude of night. With no one there, the idea of public decency was lost to the second-youngest. It wasn’t anything explicit. He just was touchy. Touchier than if it were daylight. Holding her closer, his touches longer, longing.

Longingly, he wanted to hold her; he wanted her to curl into his arms. Her shadow-man scowled deeply. Wooyoung truly was a brat he decided. Still, he continued to trail them from far away. But every now and then, Wooyoung would turn and give him a wink over his Swanette’s head. His hand sliding up her back, slow and teasing; his fingers tickled and trailed lower and lower on her waist. He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled.

Wooyoung’s smirk was triumphant as his eyes flickered over to the shadow in the alleyway. Wooyoung was teasing. Teasing both of them.

She’d huddle closer after, and the stalking figure would whisper out a curse. Jealousy itched at his stomach, and he was sure to return home with a scowl. He wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted, and, while he was a gentleman, his thoughts felt not-so gentle. He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. Have her love him. He’d give her anything she wanted. He was already so weak for her, and they hadn’t even met.

He buried himself in the work that was piled on his desk, thanks to Hongjoong. Still, he’d get distracted, imagining fantasies of him and her. He spun a ring on the desk, the ‘S’ emblem on it taunting him.

Would he be able to see her perform soon? Seonghwa and Yeosang had visited. Even Jongho had. Maybe he’d convince Hongjoong to let him go to the foyer de la danse like Wooyoung and San were able to. Why couldn’t he?

The young man knew the answer like a bitter liquor.

Later that evening, Wooyoung and him would meet face-to-face. A smirk on his kiss-swollen lips as he popped his head into the higher-rank’s office.

“Had a nice stroll?”

It was a Friday, and Julia with the red hair had been given a private dressing room. That was all anyone could whisper and gossip about.

It wasn’t large. It didn’t even have a mirror or dressing table yet. It was a small closet of a space. But it was hers - exclusively. Her name on a golden plaque had been placed on the door with the title ‘Featured Ballerina’ etched below it. There was space for more.

The entire ballet troupe knew it had been paid for by her patron and wasn’t a result of any promotion amongst the troupe. She wasn’t prima; there was no way for her to achieve higher with no new show to audition for. It was all an act. It wasn’t talent. It was money and favoritism.

Meanwhile, Imara was despondent, cold as ice to anyone that gave her a pitying look.

Patrons came and went like the seasons – even if one thought they’d last forever, winter always came.

It made talking to either woman difficult. Julia was high on her excitement. The way she walked was like she owned the world. She would run off to her closet the moment she came off stage, even if there was hardly room for two people in the space, let alone warming up or staying warm. But, as YN exited stage left, she and the red head stumbled into one another with a clank.

They both yelped, flinching at the pain that radiated up their shoulders.

“Sorry,” YN apologized before her gaze rose and realized who it was.

“Hey Julia.” Her tone was sharper, less friendly than. Almost icy.

The red-head rubbed her shoulder scowling at the other before her own face dropped into an attitude of sorts.

“YN.”

It wasn’t said fond or with blooming respect like it had been before. Where was the respect that had been trickling down with San and Wooyoung’s support? Was it because Julia was still ever-higher than her? Was it because she had a dressing room now?

Maybe it was because they spotted one another outside of the ballet with their patrons by their side.

“Why did you lie to me?” YN spouted out, brows furrowing.

The other ballerina laughed out, too loud. She was almost heard over the orchestra playing a lofty tune as the White Swan jete’ed about on stage nearby.

“What are you talking about?” the other replied, dramatically hushing her tone.

“You said your patron never invited you out of the ballet.” YN stated. “But I saw you at the tennis match.”

There was a condescending tut that escaped the other, and it made YN’s eyes fall into slits.

“Oh, honey,” it was said cruelly. “You need to catch up. If you want to be like them, not be theirs, you must play like them.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve gone on plenty of outings with my patron.” She stated, fixing her hair.

“So, you lied,” YN clarified again, simply. What wasn’t clicking? She lied to her.

“I’m not invited; I’m expected,” she said. “I go where I want.”

Semantics. It made her roll her eyes.

“He pays for you just as mine pay for me,” YN commented. “Why didn’t you just tell me it was normal? I was worried.”

Julia finally sighed out.

“Listen, YN. Liars are the only thing that fill those rich homes. Even your boys.” She bit out. “You better learn the game, how to play it, and how to tell if someone is lying to you if you want to be upper-class so badly, YN. Otherwise, you’ll just keep playing pretend, and nobody wants a pretender.”

Then, without another word, the red head pushed past her with a huff.

The game. Julia had called it a game.

YN had always looked at the boudoir as a show. A performance between patron and protégé. Usually explicit. But Julia saw it as a game. What type of game YN wondered?

Was it chess? A game of wits? A game of checkers? A game of hopping to the next best thing?

Wooyoung and San didn’t see her as a game. This she knew in her bones. Their sweet words were too sweet. Their genuine excitement and care were a balm to her. But then, she glanced aside at Imara who was like a lost sock without her patron, use ambiguous and left lonely in the corner of the busied boudoir. She had thought the same thing about her patron.

Doubt crawled in. Trickled in her veins. Even as the pair of men strode into the boudoir after the show per usual. San fixed his vest, the white button up loosened and less appropriate, but pleasing to the eye. Wooyoung finished his drink, handed to him by the bulkier man obediently as they walked.

“Hello you two,” YN greeted.

“Hi, pretty lady,” Wooyoung replied. “How was your evening? You were lovely as always.”

“It was good.” she said.

Wooyoung presented his cheek to her, expectedly. With their increase in dates and walks home, he’d become openly affectionate now. Not that she fought against it. If she didn’t press a kiss, he’d pout but when she did a pleased hum would reverberate through his chest like a cat’s purr. It made her beam; his happiness became her pleasure.

She pecked his cheek, quick. He grinned and quickly engulfed her in an embrace. His lips danced over her face. Tiny millions of butterfly kisses were pressed over her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Giggles consumed her; his quirking lips hummed as he worked his way down to her jaw, underneath it, her neck, to her collarbone, before he was pressing fond kisses over her pearl necklace and up the column of her throat. Each one sent a tingle running through her.

“No pain?” San questioned, aware of how easily she bruised and ached.

She shook her head distractedly.

“Only a few more shows left anyways if so.” She commented. He gave her a scolding look. “Training will be less strenuous than performing. Surprisingly.” She chuckled, gasping out as Wooyoung pressed a deep kiss to the spot beneath her jaw. Not quite a hickey but close.

“Good,” the man replied. She needed a break San thought. He saw how her toes were a bright red through her tights.

“It’ll be nice to dance something new soon – but it’s bittersweet.” She just managed to get out.

San hummed out in agreement, pressing his own kiss to her forehead as he wriggled Wooyoung away from his honey to let her begin to dress into every-day clothing once more. She gave him a thankful look as she quickly went to change nearby. Her face was flushed, and her heart raced. How was her hair even more mussed from her bun? He hadn’t even touched it.

“I know,” San replied. “You must be excited?”

She smiled as she shed out of her feathers.

“Closing night is always such an experience,” she taunted.

It was. Full of celebrations, champagne, and influx of patrons spending their last pennies of the season.

“Will you be there?”

“Of course, baby,” Wooyoung cooed from San’s arms. She saw him ghost a kiss across his neck.

“We’ll be there for every closing and opening from now on.”

Wooyoung sat by her side, her hand in his as he gestured to the menu about this tea and that americano and this croissant. Their spread was already far more than either of them could finish. Large oozy cookies, steaming croissants with chocolate fillings, savory bite-sized tarts, and a large sandwich Wooyoung had already cut in half. One for him and one for her.

They had begun to have more dates like this; Wooyoung favored more intimate places such as cafes where they could cozy up close and share treats and talk while San liked to show her off at tennis matches and outings of public attention. She had liked it – but she couldn’t help but hear Julia’s voice in the back of her head.

Did she know her patrons?

Wooyoung smiled brightly and talked easily with her now; an air of comfortability was palpable as his fingers played with hers.

“Wooyo,” she prompted tentatively, interrupting his yapping.

“Hm?” he looked up from the menu, his face inquiring. Brows raised, and mouth squeezed shut.

“I have a question.”

“Ask away, swanette.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly before letting go and flexing his arms to resettle his sitting form to look at her more attentively.

“Why is it you introduced yourself as a Jung? And not a Kim?” she asked.

“Force of habit, really,” he admitted. “Hongjoong insists on us sharing his name.” He raised his coffee to his lips, taking a sip.

“Because he helped you when you needed him?” she recalled.

His grin grew wide, amused. “Yeah.” He paused, biting his lip for a moment before he scooted closer. “He took me in basically. Which is why I consider him family, close as thieves just like Yeosangie and Sannie.”

“He’s at Ateez House?” she queried, fingering a cookie. Tearing it up but not really eating as she thought.

How many were at that mansion? Yeosang, San, Wooyoung… Hongjoong and Seonghwa as well?

“There’s a lot of you there.”

He nodded as he picked up one of the crumbs she was making and pressed it to her lips. His fingertips were warm from the hot ceramic of his coffee cup. He smiled fondly as she nibbled at it. Before raising the rest of the crumb to his mouth, licking at the chocolate melting on his fingertips.

She licked her lips as she watched, chocolate fragrant on her tongue.

“There are eight of us,” he told her. “Eight men in one house, you can imagine the chaos.”

He spoke as if they shared an apartment and not a grand ‘haunted’ mansion.

“What does he do?” she mumbled, half focusing on her attempt to solve the mysteries that had plagued Ateez House’s occupants.

“Eh, a lot of things,” he sucked at the crumbs on his thumb before reaching out a wiping a smudge at the corner of her lips. “This and that. Loves art and shows and spectacle. Is a bit of a collector, more than Sannie is – you know, San loves pretty things.”

She already knew where this was going.

“Like me, Wooyoung?” she teased, beating him to his flirt.

“Just like you, Swanette.” He nudged her tea her way, urging her to drink before it went cold. “C’mon, try this too.”

And like that, her mind was sucked into his fancies as he fed her a warm tartlet that tasted richer than any food she had ever had.

It was the first night Wooyoung and San would be unable to walk her home. Wooyoung was good at keeping his promise; he walked her home for many many nights. His babbling softened with his sleepiness which was cute. It was worth it to press a kiss to her lips before she went inside, and even more worth it when he caught the shadow of a figure watching them. He’d blow him a kiss – behind her back that is.

She was anxious to walk alone. Her stomach churned at the though. Wooyoung had apologized as they rushed off to something that needed their attention – him and San. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, promising she’d be okay. He’d see her tomorrow. Walk in the light and you’ll be fine, little bird. As if she walked anywhere else anymore – all her shortcuts scared her now.

It was too late to call for a carriage or a buggy to take her home, so it was the only way. Unless she wanted to sleep on the uncomfortable settee in the boudoir (and most likely be kicked out by the janitor early in the morning. She could hear the Madame already. “This isn’t an orphanage, Miss YN.” Despite the selection of orphans that made up their ranks.)

So, YN hugged her jacket around herself and began her trek home.

And it was so peaceful. Not a whisper, not a fight, nothing. The streets were abandoned – even the men who were stumbling home drunk were absent. It was absolutely empty. Except for her.

And her stalker, of course.

San was early at the opera house the next day– so early the doors to the boudoir weren’t unlocked yet. Instead, he lingered out front, pacing this way and that.

“Sannie,” she exclaimed at the sight of him.

How did he know she was going to practice early today? The question was quickly forgotten as she hugged him. His arms wrapped around her in a warm bear hug before he pulled back to press a kiss to her nose.

Sweet, that’s what San was.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, smiling affectionately up at him.

They hadn’t shifted in their embrace; San kept her close to him as he looked down at her. There was clear fondness there. His fingers rubbed up and down her back, over her warm winter coat.

“I wanted to see you,” he admitted. “You look so cute in your coat.”

His words brought a flush to her cheeks. This was what she imagined when she thought of Julia’s words. No way could this be false. He was cooing over her, his touch reverent. It was different.

“I love it,” she replied. “It keeps me warm. Just like you.”

He laughed, warmly. He brought her close to his chest again, hugging her. It was funny. For as much as he claimed Wooyoung was touchy, San loved skinship. He liked to keep her close.

“I got you something,” he whispered after a moment, shifting one arm to reach into his pocket.

“What’s this?”

In his small hand (well, small compared to his broad form) sat a beautiful bracelet, teardrop-cut diamonds were linked together into a delicate yet unbelievably expensive gift.

“For you.”

San smiled like a content cat as he watched her fiddle with the pretty diamond bracelet. His dimples were deep in his cheeks. Her fingers brushed over the jewels admiringly. He loved pretty things and seeing her openly awe made him buzz with excitement. Carefully, he linked the clasp over her wrist and turned her hand over in his, watching the gems glimmer and shimmer in the gas light. He grinned.

“What’s this for?” she asked, brows crinkling curiously.

It wasn’t like Wooyoung’s gift – a month anniversary gift – or even San’s gift of the coat, something she had needed in all honesty. This was sudden. Strange.

His fingers brushed over the jewels before he spoke again.

“I was jealous that Wooyo had this pretty necklace around your throat.”

He leaned forward, fingering the pearls around her throat before tugging experimentally at them like it was a leash. They tightened with the pressure, choking her lightly and forcing her to lean closer to her patron. YN’s breath stolen, not in pain but in a flicker of excitement, surprise, pleasure. Her head tilted back to smile up at him. His fingers tightened around the pearls ever so.

“Oh, honey,” San cooed soft and sweet as he continued to tug her up by the collar of her necklace to capture her lips in a kiss. One kiss that devolved into many as he pushed her up against the door to the boudoir, lifting her lightly into his arms. Pressed against the door, her bejeweled hand tangled in his hair, tugging him ever closer.

They were lucky no one passed by as they devoured one another.

San may have been a gentleman, but his greed and power revealed itself slowly but surely.

Another man was missing. He had been a regular in the boudoir. A young man who spent his spare pennies to leer at them. He wasn’t missed by any of the ballerinas, but it was frightening. Too many people were disappearing or getting into trouble.

Her mother and the other ladies at the factory walked together now. To and from work, in case trouble arose. She had even pushed for YN to walk with someone to the Opera House for once.

“Your boy is a good one,” she appraised. “That Wooyoung walks you here every night now. Like a gentleman. Stick around him.”

San had invited her out to another tennis match. Wooyoung had been caught up in business (business she still didn’t know of, she lamented as they walked along the cobblestone streets. San had whispered in her ear that it was boring. Wooyoung was unlucky to not be here with her. And he, in turn, was ever lucky.)

She wore his pretty diamond bracelet on her wrist, and, every time he stole a glance, his face curled up into a pleasant happy grin. He looked sweet like a kitten.

His arm wrapped around her waist as they sat and watch Yeosang’s match. Drinking champagne, he’d offer her his flute every so often, and she’d sip away. It was an expensive brand, far more easy to drink than the piss-poor alcohol the ballerinas could afford for their own celebrations away from the leering men of the opera. Drinking the expensive liquor the men offered was never a good idea – it led to worser things.

Yeosang looked as pretty as ever. He reminded her of a ballerino the way he danced about the court. Somehow both pretty and masculine as his form bent and stretched. Muscles rippled, leaner than San’s but not any less bulging. His arms flexed and she held onto the shared flue of champagne tighter.

San’s fingers stroked over her hip.

“You’re staring, honey,” he teased.

It wasn’t the tone of a jealous lover or a scolding of a respectable man. It was lilting, gentle. Her eyes looked away from Yeosang and rested on her date. He sipped his champagne, lips pursing and brows dancing. San’s lids were heavy as he grinned. Just as cat-like as earlier but more cheshire. Like he knew a secret.

He glanced away from her and looked over the athlete. His gaze mirrored hers, she realized. A fondness… no, an attracted air radiated in his deep brown orbs.

Was he teasing her? Was he genuine?

“Now, you’re staring,” she teased in return.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he replied coyly. He glanced back at her as he leaned in. “He’s handsome, hm?”

Her cheeks flushed at that and she looked away.

“San!” she exclaimed.

His laughter rumbled in his chest as he held her closer. His lips pressed to her ear intimately.

“It’s alright, honey. He’s mine. Just as Wooyoung’s mine.” He replied easily. “Just as you are mine.” His lips kissed her skin before he pulled away. Her hand shifted to grasp his in hers. His thumb grazed over her bracelet lovingly.

Yeosang greeted them after his victory; the zing of celebratory champagne on his breath stinging her nose as he leaned forward to wrap her into an eager hug. Daring for a second-meeting. It made her worry she had been too obvious with her friendliness, her intrigue… her interest in the athlete. She did like him after all.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he beamed.

The smell of his cologne mingled with his sweat. Masculinity mixed with the soft thyme and tea of his perfume. It made her want to hug him closer. He pulled back, his eyes burning with the same intensity beforehand. A straightforwardness. He wasn’t afraid to meet her gaze. His honeyed eyes were sweet and inquiring. Taking in every feature of her – the dark coat, the pearls, the diamonds. He smiled.

“Hello Yeosang. Congratulations,” she returned.

The man nodded respectfully before he glanced over her shoulder at the tall muscled man, eyeing Yeosang with clear adoration.

“San,” he greeted.

“Yeosangie,” San replied with a fond grin. His cheeks were blushed, maybe from the champagne they shared?

The athlete rolled his eyes lightly, playfully, before he settled his gaze on the lady.

“Did you make any bets?” he asked curiously, leaning into her with intrigue.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed. She hadnt even thought of that; she was a guest after all.

“You know what? Yeosang’s right,” San retorted. His hand squeezed her waist. “Next time, you should bet some coin. We do all the time.”

Her brows crinkled, doubtfully. Not because she doubted Yeosang’s abilities. He was a powerful athlete. But betting… she swallowed a bit. She didn’t have much money to risk in general. She had just gotten used to having extra coins in her coinpurse. Her embarrassment burned at her ears.

“I’m not sure,” she said softly.

Yeosang eyed her before he hummed lightly. His gaze settled back on San, firmly.

“I’ll do it for you,” San said instead, downing the rest of his drink. His eyes reopened from the gulp and he shrugged. “I’ll buy you anything, honey. Everything.”

Yeosang laughed, lips curling. Pleased. He leaned in to whisper close.

“You’ve got our San, sweetheart. Wrapped around your pretty finger.”

The athlete’s fingers were close by still, and they tickled her fingertips playfully. If he was any bolder, he’d be holding her hand. But instead, like a tease, he pulled back. Licking his lower lip and flashing a charming smile that only a socialite had. Easy and well-practiced.

“I’ll buy you anything, too, baby,” San purred towards Yeosang. He looked at the buff man with a raised brow. He always looked so sharp, in a delicate way despite his rippling muscles.

“I know,” he teased.

Yeosang raised a hand to squeeze the younger’s cheeks fondly. San smiled, pleased, a mirror of the grin he gave her earlier. His cheeks looked plump in the other’s lean long fingers. Yeosang chuckled, squeezing them again before his hand dropped and he turned.

“Come with me,” he nodded over his shoulder. “We can talk in the shade – the weather is horrid.”

He was right; the clouds were whirling and swirling into what was sure to be a downpour soon. They walked further into the tennis court’s shaded areas – the betting shop in the corner with a long line. People, mostly men, were cashing in their rewards. San’s hands went to rest on the small of her back; if she had glanced aside, she’d see he did the same to Yeosang, guiding the pair of them this way and that.

A rush of reporters, dressed for the weather with raincoats and large brimmed hats, flooded towards the winner. Yeosang slung his black tennis racket over his shoulder, smiling and waving at the flashing paparazzi’s cameras. Her eyes shut at the bright lights. San’s hand squeezed her waist and tugged her closer.

“Sir, congratulations!” There were cries of celebration and excitement. “Good show! Good show!”

YN wasn’t used to such fanfare, and it made her fantasize of the flashing lights she was hopeful for. One day… she glanced over at Yeosang. She’d be like him. Successful. In his own right. He grinned politely at a reporter, waving with a tight structured wave.

“Mr. Kim! Is it true you know Kim Yunho?” she heard over the chatter.

Yunho… she had heard that name before. But where? She didn’t have time to think as San guided them throughout the crowd, his hand curling over her hip to keep her closer with the writhing crowd jostling them this way and that.

The athlete didn’t reply, and he let his friend guide him through the swarm until they entered a tented area. Once the tent’s curtains were tied together, Yeosang huffed.

“I despise paparazzi,” he admitted, scuffing his feet against the concrete as he walked.

The space wasn’t special, but it was private. Scattered about were a few folding chairs, a wrought-wire bench, and a grey-green locker. Yeosang went to it, and opened it with ease. Within it wasn’t much. A folded assortment of clothes, a letter plastered to the locker’s interior, an extra racket, and a water jug. He placed his dark racket within and picked up the water jug. Raising the glass jug to his mouth, he took a big gulp. San patted her hip encouragingly as he moved away going to sit on the nearby bench. YN tentatively took a seat in a folding chair.

“Your performances of Swan Lake are coming to an end, are they not?” Yeosang queried.

“Oh, yes. They are; will you be able to attend closing night… or any show anytime soon? I’d love to see you there.” she admitted.

Yeosang’s lips quirked against the water jug’s rim before he pulled it away. Swallowing, he nodded. “I would love to see you once more, Miss YN. In your element.”

“You must encourage him to come backstage,” she turned to San. Less asking and more pressing.

He nodded in agreement. Easily swayed by his lovers, he leaned back in his seat casually.

“Is it like this?” Yeosang asked; a hand went to push back his locks, sweatied and damp.

The sight of his sharp brows quirking in curiosity sent a flare of excitement through her. He was so handsome; she couldn’t help but awe. San chuckled at her ogling.

“It isn’t, Yeo.” San admitted. “The backstage is grand and too open with too many girls running about half-dressed and men staring at them.”

Yeosang’s eyes flickered to him. “Even our girl?”

San glanced at her, head tilting. “Not as of late.”

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it in between his lips. The look he gave Yeosang confused her – sharp, dark, and biting as he bit down on the cigarette before fiddling with a silver lighter. Yeosang hummed lowly.

“San and Wooyoung are polite,” she said, as if that would help the conversation. As if that was the topic at hand. “They’re the best gentleman in the boudoir. Honest.”

San grinned around his cigarette as he finally lit it. He knew she spoke the truth. She always did around him now. It made him happy to know she was so comfortable around them that she didn’t even notice the glares he sent the way of any man that dared eye her as she switched costumes.

Little did she know what would happen to one if they did.

He puffed out smoke.

“I’d rather see you outside this boudoir then,” Yeosang commented, closing the locker’s door. “I don’t wish to see you improperly, sweetheart. I wouldn’t put you in that situation.”

“We don’t mean to either,” San coughed out, the smoke scattering about bashfully. He turned to look at her with the gentlest of eyes. “You’re painting me to be a villain, Yeo.”

“No, I know,” she interrupted. “I know San and Woo mean well.”

They had said so since the beginning. Wooyoung claimed he didn’t even know he was playing as potential patron until San said so. And now, well, she felt safe around them. When she was with them, when she was introduced to Yeosang, it made her feel permanent. Not a doll on a music box to show off around the right clientele.

Imara never had this.

“Still,” Yeosang tutted. “I’d hate that. If I had those reporters watching every little move I made back here.” He bared his teeth. “I’m sorry you have to suffer that, sweetheart.”

“Do you want diamonds?” San asked.

This was the fifth time he had asked if she wanted some grand gift as they walked home. The umbrella San had kept them mostly dry in the drizzle. YN knew he felt bad about the boudoir. Especially at Yeosang’s commentary.

“No,” she let out a chuckle.

“More pearls?” Not his favorite thing, but they looked pretty around her neck and they were useful.

“No,” she giggled, swinging their conjoined hands.

“Then what, honey?” he whined a bit, sounding childlike as he squeezed onto her hand.

She was surprised this bulky beefy man was acting so openly whiney in public. He didn’t need the illusion of masculinity to cling to; there was an element of strength in him deeper than attitude. Even if he was acting like a child.

“I’m okay,” she said.

He licked the back of his lips. Doubtful. He frowned before stopping in the streets. The lamplighters were out and about, lighting the last remaining candle lights amongst the new gas-line lamps. He didn’t falter. He didn’t care if they were intimately close. His hand around her wrist as he pulled her close in the wet setting sun.

“What do you truly want, honey?”

What did she truly want? She smiled up at him. All her life she had only wanted and yearned for one thing – til Wooyoung and him and Yeosang all tumbled into her life that is.

“I want to be a ballerina. The ballerina prima,” she told him sincerely. Her hand rose to pat his cheek softly. “You are helping me get it.”

His lips pouted as he looked down at her. He didn’t like that answer. That was a harder request. But he wouldn’t tell her that. Instead, he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to her lips, so quick one would’ve missed it if it hadn’t tasted of champagne and cigarette smoke. His sweetened coffee cologne wafted over her soothingly like a chaser.

“Extra edition!” a newsboy cried out.

YN had been walking towards the newest restaurant that San and Wooyoung insisted on trying. It was expensive. Far too expensive for her, but San insisted per usual and Wooyoung pouted that without her he’d be bored. So, here she was walking the streets towards the richer side of town. The richer side of town where all the newsies made their routes; the rich had money to spare.

“Star tennis player Kim Yeosang associated with Kim Yunho, the man released on 1 million coin for murder in broad-daylight! Shocking details revealed.”

Now, that caught her attention. Her feet slowed until she came to a stop. For once, it felt like the newsies had given just enough information to lure her in. Her coin purse pressed against her thigh was heavy. Heavy enough to spare a few coins to buy the paper.

“I’ll take one, Jack,” she told him, digging into her pocket to hand him the necessary amount.

The younger grinned up at her. “Thank you, Miss YN.” He shuffled the heavy stack around, untying the twine to present the fresh-printed and warm newspaper her way.

She nodded in thanks as she unraveled it and began to read.

San and Wooyoung sat in the corner of a restaurant, talking lowly in the shadows as they waited. Only to be interrupted by a newspaper being plopped down on the table. Their eyes shifted from one another to the newspaper. Doubtful, almost darkened looks were engrained in their faces before they glanced upward to see their swanette. Haloed by the light pouring into the café, her arms were crossed; brow raised. Their expressions softened immediately like butter.

“Hello, honey,” San rumbled. He tugged the chair out for her.

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung added.

They hadnt looked at the paper yet.

“What the fuck is this?” she murmured, taking the seat easily as she shoved the headline their way.

Wooyoung licked his lips at her expletive. She didn’t curse much in the boudoir. Hearing it made his cell burn, biting at his lower lip after a moment. He glanced down at the paper; that hot feeling fizzled at the headline. He sighed, head rolling back, before he glanced San’s way. San’s expression hadn’t shifted; not even a twitch of his brow as he looked over his glasses at his partner.

“It’s a long story,” Wooyoung replied.

“I’ve got time,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “Start with the part where Kim Yunho is living in your mansion. Kim Yunho, the man who shot a near-billionaire, dead, in broad-daylight after a supposed bet gone wrong.”

Her voice raised as she retold what the inky print said. She didn’t look intimidating in their eyes. Especially with her pout. San wanted to kiss it off her. Instead, he offered, “Yunho’s got a complicated past, but he only acted in self-defense.”

“He shot a man in broad daylight. Is Yeosang safe? Are you?” she worried. “Hongjoong?”

Wooyoung scooted close at that, hating the way her voice accelerated. San chuckled lowly, shaking his head.

“Oh, little bird,” Wooyoung hummed, taking her hand. “We are safe. We are safe. You don’t need to worry – is that why you are so upset?”

She frowned at them, her furrowed brow deepening. Wooyoung cooed.

“You are, oh, baby,” he hugged her, nearly joining her on her chair. “You are sweet, YN.”

“I’m worried; you are with a criminal,” she mumbled out, making sure her words were too loud. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Wooyoung stole a kiss. “You really are a doll, an angel. We are okay I promise.”

“You can’t just kiss me and tell me it’s okay. How? How is it okay?”

“Yunho is a free-man,” San reminded. “He didn’t break out of jail; he served his time; he paid his fees; he was let go. But apparently caught the attention of the press while doing so.”

“Poor Yeosang,” YN lamented suddenly. “He hated the paparazzi and now-“ she buried her head into Wooyoung’s shoulder.

The younger cooed. His hand going to pet at her back as he glanced over at San while her back was turned. There was a rustling of the newspaper, the crinkling paper being folded over.

“Yeosang will live. He’s been reported on his entire life. Yunho will not hurt us, promise, honey.” San replied. “You’re working yourself up. I’ll get you tea.”

There was a snapping sound of his fingers. A waiter obediently came. The man whispered his order as Wooyoung murmured to YN.

“It’s alright. It really is. You’ll see.”

San and Wooyoung’s eyes met once more.

They should’ve let Yunho meet her before this all happened; their shared grimaces said so.

Not even a day later, there were rumors about town. That night whispers about her patrons were all about the boudoir. The Ateez House truly was haunted some said. It had a killer living there. It made her scoff. There were seven others in that house – how could you build a house to be broken and haunted by one person?

The next day, a man from the newspaper company, the Cromer Chronicle, was missing. He had disappeared in the night without a trace. Or well, there was a trace. A letter saying he was going on vacation for a while. But few believed it.

Gossip roared. What was even more interesting, was that the newspaper headlines the next day were completely free of any mentions of Kim Yeosang or Kim Yunho.

But on her vanity, a letter rested with her name in an elaborate script signed by a certain man. The seal was the same ‘A’ emblem that both San and Wooyoung wore on a gold ring.

Miss YN.

You are cordially invited to join Kim Yeosang at the Ateez House estate for a night of fine dining. Casual attire permitted. I am so excited to see you again – if you will join me!

Yours,

Kim Yeosang

“Did you place this on the vanity?” she asked the two men who sat side by side on a sofa. Sometimes they looked too close for comfort; tonight was one of those nights. Wooyoung was nearly draped across San’s chest, his head cradled on his muscular shoulder as he stared up at her.

“No, swanette,” Wooyoung claimed. “Our hands are clean in this.”

He raised his hands in surrender, wiggling his fingers playfully at her.

“Yeosangie must’ve liked you,” San added with a smirk.

“You’d know,” Wooyoung muttered; San grasped the other’s hip warningly.

Wooyoung giggled out almost like a hyena, head tilting back in mischief.

“You should’ve seen how he looked at her, Wooyo,” San continued, his gaze flickering towards YN from over his spectacles.

“I know,” the other giggled.

“Will you be there?” she asked tentatively.

Her fingers fiddled with the corner of the thick cardstock Yeosang’s handwriting graced. She was used to their presence. They felt safe to her. They glanced at one another. San’s fingers trailed up and down Wooyoung’s waist. Wooyoung went to interlace their fingers smoothly. Squeezing it once and then twice.

“I’m not sure, honey,” San said. “We have business to attend to this weekend.”

“Sorry, pretty,” Wooyoung pouted at her. “We may see you in passing? If you miss us so much, we can meet you here early the next day. I want to hear all about you and Yeosangie.”

She smiled sweetly at them, flushing at the idea that the pair of them encouraged her to dine and possible flirt with another. It was strange but not… unfavorable. Yeosang was handsome. He was delicate but strong. Eloquent and interesting. Understanding. She liked his company. Despite the company he kept… her mind flickered back to the elephant in the room… or yesterday’s newspaper in the nearby waste basket.

“Is… Yunho –“ she asked, shifting this way and that. San couldn’t help but think she looked so sweet, so innocent, so naïve in her little feather tutu, all virginal white. “Is it safe for me - with Yunho there?”

They didn’t even need to look at one another. Wooyoung’s hand held San’s tighter as he shifted his gaze to simmer on her.

“Yunho would never hurt a lady, honey,” San replied, sincerely and instantaneously.

His hand outstretched for her to take. Which she did. It was San after all. Secure, sweet, strong San. He’s been so straightforward. She trusted him. His fingers caressed over her knuckles, “Especially you.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “I believe you.”

“Yeosang will be excited.” San promised, raising her hand for him to press a kiss to her knuckles. “We can deliver the news to him when we get home.”

He pressed a peck to each knuckle before continuing up her hand to press kisses over his bracelet. He placed a final sweet kiss to her pulse before pulling away, and pulling her towards their embrace. San could hold both of them in his lap after all. Wooyoung slid further down on the settee until his head rested on one of San’s thighs. His lips curled.

“I will send a car for you, swanette. You won’t have to lift a foot,” Wooyoung promised, reaching a hand up to tuck hair aside as she sat on San’s rippling thigh. “Easy-peasy.”

It was her first time in an automobile. She had traveled in carriages and open buggies but never something so expensive as a brand-new automobile. Something so polished and metallic and rich. Her excitement was almost like a child’s; her smile was bright at the sight of the car sitting curbside. Its lacquer was a deep-olive color, gleaming in the golden sunlight peeking out of the rain-heavy clouds. The chill that nipped at her heels and the rain that itched at the sky made her thankful that Wooyoung had sent a car for her – even if every single one of her neighbors were being nosey. She could see their faces pressed to their windows with curtains shoved aside haphazardly. No cars came here. And certainly, no car like this.

The driver was tall and handsome, his dark brown hair styled sharply across his forehead. A multi-layered suit with shimmering gold detailing looked expensive on his form, a long-coat making his appearance look clean cut and sleek. Just like the car.

His entrancing eyes were dark, siren-like as they locked onto her form as she hopped gracefully down the icy steps. He felt his breath catch. A mix of excitement and fear tumbled through his stomach. She looked so pretty. Her hair was done nicely and modern. Her day-dress was a pretty (if a bit washed out) green color, complimenting the car’s hue perfectly. The sparkle of her pearls around her throat and her diamond bracelet peeking from beneath the sleeve of the dark fur coat made him smile. His full lips quirked into a smirk of a close-lipped smile.

His eyes haven’t left her form yet. Not even when her mother stepped out to awe at the car and the man waiting for her on the curb.

“Hello, doll.” He greeted her, polite with a deep-voice.

His hand, covered in multiple rings, opened the passenger door for her.

“Hi,” she smiled at him, and he wanted to swoon then and there. But he stayed firm, icy, tall. It wasn’t his turn. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. But he knew the way to her house; he had a car. And he was higher than Wooyoung or San in the hierarchy. He’d do what he wanted to do… as long as the Captain allowed that is.

His eyes didn’t leave her as she entered the automobile, tucking her dresses beneath her lady-like. He closed the door behind her and circled around the car to enter the driver’s seat. He took a shaky breath before entering; he felt like a school boy. When was that a feeling he’s felt recently? (The Ateez House would say every time he whined and pouted at them like a princess.)

The interior of the car smelt expensive, too. The well-taken care of leather, the wiped down metal accessories, everything reeked of rich maintenance. Her eyes ate up the new machine, looking at the gearshift, the polished controls. There was even a record player in the dash.

She never realized how rich they were. It surprised her. He ate up how her eyes widened, and she sat so delicate, hands in her lap as if touching something would bite her. She was so cute. His lips curled into a smirk as he turned the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and she let out a little sound of surprise.

He chuckled low, the sound reverberating around her. She glanced over at her driver. He looked casual in the driver’s seat. One hand was on the wheel; the gleam of an expensive watch shone at her. He was leaning back, his hand cupping the back of her car seat carefully as he began to pull the car away into the street.

He didn’t want to intimidate her. Wooyoung had said she was already so nervous about Yunho. So, he didn’t speak, didn’t tease, didn’t do much except drive. He enjoyed her gaze on him though. He watched her so many times that it made the back of his neck and the tips of his ears burn pleasantly. He tongued at his canines, hiding his smirk. His plush lips pursed instead.

Her awe shifted as he sped up, her eyes flickering to the streets that passed by, faster, faster, faster. Faster than any carriage or bike or trolley. It sent a whirl of excitement in her stomach.

“This is my first time in an automobile,” she admitted into the silence.

“It is?” his voice was deep as honey, and it made her spine tingle.

He glanced over at her. He wanted to show her so many new things. He was glad to have one of her firsts. Wooyoung had stolen so many. Her first date, her first kiss, her first embrace. He’d at least be her first car ride – one of many. He’d take her in any of his cars – if they were in the countryside rather than the city, he’d show her how fast these automobiles can go. He’d impress her. They’d go one day, he imagined. They’d go all sorts of places together. He’d show her the world if she wished it.

She hummed out in agreement, pulling him from his daydream.

“It’s nice,” she complimented, shifting her seat.

A flood of rose-petal aroma consumed him. Her perfumed skin. She put so much care into this; into them. It was intoxicating. His eyes locked on the road, his fingers trembling lightly. He flexed his hand and gripped the leather of the wheel tighter.

“Thank you, darling.”

The car ride was a quick one. Ateez House was on the outskirts of the city but not too far away to be a long journey. Just far enough to be private amongst the trees and rolling hills. It looked more alive than it had ever been in all the years she lived in Cromer. While the estate was sprawling and the mansion itself large and imposing with a complicated layout, it always looked abandoned. But now, there were crystal windows gleaming with light, gardeners trimming bushes, and luxury cars pulling into a nearby car garage. People tended to the large fountain in the center of the roundabout driveway, despite the threatening rain that rumbled in the sky. The mansion’s greyness seemed to fade with the orange-light the windows poured into the evening.

It was a phantom resurrected; the flame of life was burning within the house once more.

Mingi cleared his throat. “Welcome to Ateez House, YN.”

Her eyes were locked on his home; winding over the overlapping rooftops, grazing the glowing windows to see if anyone was looking out at them. Two figures, dark silhouettes at most, stood on the upper floor, one short and the other tall.

Her head tilted in curiosity before they walked off.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him before going to open her door. “And thank you for the drive.”

There was a squeak of leather as he shifted closer suddenly. His arm outstretched over her, bracing over her chest. Her gasp was all the sound that filled the air between them. Her head turned and they were nearly nose-to-nose.

He was so close. The blood-orange of his cologne licked at her senses, mingling with the polished leather so refreshingly. He smelled intoxicating and sharp. His face was only inches away; the fabric of his long-coat brushed against her. His hand closed around the metal handle of the car door, gently nudging hers aside. He laughed out nervously. His eyes were wide and gentle. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he flashed the sweetest grin she had ever seen, all toothy and bright. It sparkled… wait, he had diamonds on his teeth. His canines were adorned with gems that gleamed in the setting sun.

“Let me,” he bumbled out. He opened the door from within, before pulling his arm back. His cheeks were painted a rosy color that only made his flustered appearance look more sweet.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a grin of her own.

She hoped he wasn’t too surprised by her own initial surprise. He was just trying to be a gentleman she realized. Bowing her head, she quickly ducked out of the car, closing the door behind her with care.

The only thought that filled his brain – besides the intoxicating smell of YN – was ‘damn you for winning, Yunho.’ After a long moment of breathing the remains of her deep into his lungs and watching her form walk towards his house, Mingi restarted the automobile with a rumble to guide it back to their private car garage.

Everything reeked of extravagance. Tall walls with recess ceilings and wainscotting details. Gilded gold and glowing gas-lamps. Italian-Renaissance inspired tiles of saints, angels, and the Heavens were inlayed in the ceiling. The floor was patterned, a rich expensive textile making up the carpet.

There were butlers lining the walls of the foyer; all in matching midnight pin-striped suits. It was almost eerie. They were like statues, repeating over and over and over. Expressionless. Each face was stoney, eyes ahead. It reminded her of when the ballet troupe lined up in their matching leotards and were separated by height; row after row. Slicked back hair, delicate body lines, starving ribs. Identical and indistinguishable until they reached prima title.

None of them acknowledged her except for one, a rogue, that walked up and nodded at her politely.

“Welcome to the mansion, Miss YN. Please, come.” He outstretched his hand to encourage her further into the lavish space.

She curtsied, uncertainly. One of the many ghostly butlers took her coat as she walked down the foyer’s hall. Her kitten heels were soft against the carpet flooring until they rounded a corner. They click-clacked across marble flooring, polished ‘til she could see her reflection.

“Mr. Yeosang has requested a meal to be prepared at the West Wing. Please follow me.” The same butler spoke once more before he turned to lead the way.

Following after him, she was awed by the space. The very place that had been teased and taunted and ghost storied about was a gleaming jewel. As they walked, she realized how each hallway, each living space was opulent. The current path had walls that were painted an ice-cold baby-blue. Yet there were touches of warmth everywhere. Fine art in gold-leafed frames, elaborate trims around columns and the floor were the same shining gold. The art was all heavenly. Literally. Gods, angels, and disciples portrayed in blurred brush strokes, painted with colors that ached of softness. Everything was all gold, fluff, and magnificence.

The ceiling had multiple heavy hanging chandeliers of pure jewels. Diamonds dripped from its wire frame and sparkled in the gas-light. Everywhere was gaslit; she was surprised. No one had notice workers here and yet it was modern. Not a speck of dust or age present anywhere – besides the ancient art she supposed.

She slowed as she passed a large Renaissance-esque painting full of cherubs with feathered wings and glowing haloes. Squinting, she saw one figure wearing a ski mask. Huh? A cat meowed nearby. Her attention was caught, her head turning to the sound. She stilled as she glanced down a nearby hall, one that seemed darker than the others. Doors lined each wall; all shut except for one at the end of that hall. It was opened just a crack, the siren call of a piano trickled out, and a little cat peered around its corner. The sweet cat was a midnight-black, almost blue-ish in tone; her tail twisted behind her as she meowed out again.

YN’s eyes lit up at the sight; the cat meowed again as it wiggled itself out of the doorway. Its paws and claws clinked against the tile, almost in rhythm with the piano music playing. Large green eyes peered up at her curiously as the cat approached; the collar around its throat was expensive – a leather thing with jewels, pearls, and a large silver bell that jingled out the closer it got.

She meowed at her again.

The piano stopped; the reverb humming out discordantly.

“Z?” a voice called out before a gentle melodic whistle chimed out.

The kitty’s attention was caught again, its ears perking up and meowing as if answering the call of its owner. It began to stroll back where it came from.

“Miss YN,” the butler’s monotonic called out.

Her head snapped towards him, answering his call immediately. She stood from the slight crouch she had taken for the kitten’s approach. Her butler stood some feet away, arms behind his back. She expected a disapproving look, but he provided none.

“Please follow me, Miss. We wouldn’t want you disappearing.”

That was almost worse! It sounded so ominous coming from his stone-faced mouth. She swallowed.

“Sorry,” she apologized before she quickened her pace to catch up to him.

“We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

They continued to walk down this hallway and that hallway. Someone could easily get lost here. It was like a grand castle. Finally, after crossing some carpeted stairs, they were in front of a grand hallway of windows. As they passed, she could see a dreary exterior. Rain had begun to pour, fogging the outside in grey. But she could distantly see a maze of hedges, rose bushes, apple trees, and all sorts of gardens awaiting. She awed at the sight as they continued down the carpeted hall to come to a set of dark oak doors.

“One moment, Miss,” the butler warned as he entered the room quickly.

“Boss, er, sir – “

The doors shut behind him before she could hear any more. She was left alone. YN glanced aside at the wall opposite of the windows. There were inlayed gas lamps, glowing a soft yellow. A portrait hung nearby, painted in a similar style as the painting she saw before.

It was of a young man, a handsome one at that. His inky-black hair was slicked back in shiny waves, a singular strand curled over his forehead daintily. He was in all white, soft silken tunic and oversized bowtie of virginal white. Despite the softness of his attire and of the atmosphere surrounding him (he was almost painted with his own divine halo as if he was an apostle), there was sharpness to his midnight-black eyes and the smirk of his mischievous smile. His ears were pierced up and down, pearls and fine metals looping them in sparkles. A twinkle was shining at the corner of his grin as if his teeth gleamed in the heavenly light around him. He was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel like his dark eyes were staring her down.

The tall doors opened behind her suddenly. YN turned to see the reveal of a dining hall as luxurious as the rest of the mansion. But the aroma that wafted from its interior was far more intoxicating.

“Enter, Miss YN.” The butler encouraged, beside the door.

He held them open for her as she took a stride inside. Her lips widening into a smile as she prepared to greet Yeosang at the head of the table. But this was no Yeosang she realized as she gazed down the long, lavish table to meet the dark gaze of a stranger.

With a calculated look, he stared at her from the head of a ten-chaired, decadent table of hot food. It was more than she had eaten in months even with San and Wooyoung: sizzling side dishes, steaks covered in thick luscious sauces, cracked fruits that had a sweet nectar gleaming on them, chocolate-oozing pastries. An open bottle of red wine rested in a frosted chest of ice; eight crystal glasses sat upside down. One glass of red wine sat in front of her spot; the other in the grasp of the man’s hand. The ruby liquid gleamed like blood. A sea of lit-candles decorated the spare space of the table; the chandelier above keeping the candles instead of trading them for their gas-lit counterpart. The orange glow illuminated the intimate room in a hazy feel. Smoke trailed out of his mouth in a long plume, perfuming the delicious air with the heady scent of tobacco.

“Hello.”

His voice was a soft drawl. His close-lip smile was the same. Soft, slow, and confident. His eyes were illuminated by the flickering candles, making the darkness there look like a night sky spattered with stars rather than with blood. He tapped his cigarette into a crystal ash tray with his long fingers. Rings after rings curled over his knuckles; some sharp and some with the emblem ‘A’ just like San and Wooyoung shared. He raised the cigarette back to his lips to take another drag into his lungs.

“YN.” The smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke her name tenderly.

She should’ve left then, knowing it was different from what she had agreed to. She should’ve asked him where Yeosang was immediately – and who was he? But she already knew, didn’t she? She had worried about this man since she read the newsprint that bore his name.

She shifted, fingers tugging at her skirt as she heard the heavy wood doors shut behind her. The butler that led her here disappearing, leaving her with him. Her fingers pressed into the door behind her, tentatively. It didn’t budge beneath her. In the shadows of the room, she saw there were men lining the wall. Like ghosts, they didn’t speak or move – they simply stood like gargoyles surrounding a castle. One broke the line to pull out her chair opposite of her dining companion. Her eyes flickered back to the man at the head of the table.

“Hello,” she said instead. “Yunho.”

It wasn’t a stutter, but there was a pause in her words. Yunho’s laughter was almost fond as he chuckled out a plume of smoke before she was urged forward with a flick of his hand. Ashes splattered across the white dining cloth, sizzling burns into the fabric. She sat down in the chair pulled out for her; the servant pushed her in towards the table with a screech of the wooden legs against the wood.

The silverware in front of her was polished, gleaming in the candle-light. A perfectly folded napkin rested on the center of her gold-lined plate. The initial ‘A’ in a circle was embroidered fancifully in shiny black thread on the pristine white fabric.

Her fingers flexed against the wood arm rests of her chair as she looked down the table, over candles, meats, cheese, and vegetables at the intimidating man. He was far away, but perhaps that was the safest option for her.

“I like you already,” he proclaimed, his words solid and confident. His smile simmered.

“Please,” Yunho gestured to the piles of food in front of them with a hand, swinging the cigarette and a trailing path of smoke about. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Her stomach felt tight with nerves, but even so it grumbled at the sight before her. Everything smelt so nice and rich and oily. Decadent. She licked her rosy lips, dragging her eyes up to look at him once more.

“Where’s Yeosang?” she asked finally.

He smiled, a peak of glimmering teeth shining in the candlelight. No, it wasn’t his teeth that shined – it was the inlayed diamonds on his canines that twinkled. Just like the driver. Just like the painting.

“He’ll join us,” Yunho reassured. “He’s running late from a previous engagement. I promise.”

Her gaze was doubtful. Why didn’t he just tell the driver to alert her? She could wait. She was used to waiting upon rich men.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I was curious of you.” He stated as he raised his cigarette to his mouth once more. As he breathed out, he gestured again at the food. “Please help yourself. Wooyoung told me some of your favorites.”

There were her favorites; steaming and hot. Some tartlets from their recent date sat on a pearlescent serving tray. Tempting. Her stomach grumbled. Watching him carefully, she reached out a fork to stab into a piece of meat and plating it.

“I’m just a ballerina,” she claimed, eyes flashing to look at him as she picked up her utensils to cut at the singular item on her plate.

Yunho’s lips quirked up on one side before he glanced aside at a man. He nodded towards her and she couldn’t help but jump as a suited butler approached. Yunho’s gaze took in the small tension that rippled through her.

The butler began to pile up her plate with this and that. Steaming vegetables, savory pastries, fluffy mashed potatoes scented with garlic, sticky soy-sauce braised meats, pasta with a rich cream sauce, seafood with clarified butter. It was more food than she could finish. The amount of food laid out was enough to feed eight men.

“You’ve entranced my brothers for being more than just a dancer,” Yunho commented. “I wanted to see what was so special about their swanette.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. She felt like a trapped bird in a zoo being observed. She tried to imagine the boudoir around her rather than the intimacy of a dining table.

“I’m a good dancer,” she told him boldly. They like bold, an older ballerina’s voice was in her ear once more.

Yunho smiled. “I heard. I apologize for never attending a performance.” He said.

“You’ve been… busy,” she said. But not too bold. Another ballerina warned.

It was a dig, and Yunho knew it. She knew it too with how wide her eyes became. And still, his lips curled into a smile, his eyes simmered.

“Its no wonder Wooyoung took to you,” he breathed.

He raised his glass of wine to his lips and took a long sip. At the mention of Wooyoung, he saw the way the muscles in her face flickered. Lightening. Interesting. Placing the glass down, he leaned forwards, hand resting under his chin as he stared at her, intrigued.

She was intriguing. She had four members of the family wrapped around her little finger and here she was in his sticky webs. Yunho ached to figure her out, dive deeper. The vein in his forehead bulged a bit with his intensity.

His eyes felt magnetic. She had cut up her slice of steak into tiny bites at this point, but all he had done was stare at her. He had not a lick of food on his own plate. It felt more like an interrogation than a meal at this point.

So, she stared back. Her eyes met his, swallowing down her fear. The twisted mangled amalgamation of fear, intrigue, and something else. She was safe, she chanted internally. Wooyoung promised. San promised. He hadn’t done anything to her…yet.

She took in his appearance. While his eyes were a hypnotizing thing, his entire face was like one of a siren’s. Handsome with chiseled features. Sharp cupid’s bowed lips, sharp brows, sharp clean lines of his suit. A pair of glasses were tucked into his pocket… he needed glasses just like her Sannie. Her eyes darted up the line of his throat. His hand rose to bring his cigarette back to his lips. He tilted his head, the midnight-black hair swaying over one eyebrow smartly.

How were all these men so handsome? The driver, her patrons, Yeosang, Yunho. All breathtaking compared to the oil-grubby handed rich men of Cromer. It made her soften just a smidge, guard walls lowering as he breathed out smoke once more. Lips pursing delicately. Cheeks soft, she noticed. It was quiet. The clinking of her utensils against her meal was the only sound in the hall.

“Do you like dancing?” she asked. Dancing was safe. Dancing was all she knew.

“Enough,” he said. “My brothers like it more than myself.”

Brothers he said again. It was strange. Wooyoung spoke of the others as friends, dear ones – explained that the shared last name was something pushed upon them. Yunho embraced it.

“Then, sports?” she countered. “Tennis perhaps?”

Yunho chuckled lowly, and it felt like a tiger’s rumble. “No,” he laughed. “Not particularly – though, I have good hand-eye coordination.”

Her mind flashed to the shooting the newspaper relayed – a fictionalized imagining in her head bloomed. Him and his gun aiming and firing with ease, just like that man in the alley way.

“Oh,” she breathed.

He wondered if she knew how blatant her face revealed things. Her fear, her thoughts, her soul. It was strange though. Yunho didn’t want her frightened.

“I play against Yeosang often,” he clarified.

“Oh,” she repeated, a different tone trickling into her exclamation. Her knife scraped against the plate’s china, screeching out suddenly like a soprano at an opera house. Her gaze turned to it, surprised.

Her meat was completely shredded now. Almost inedible with how much she had sawed into it over and over.

Yunho laughed again, the sound warm and full. “Darling,” he cooed out, soft. “Please relax and eat. I insist. Yeosang won’t mind.”

Yeosang. Of course, that’s why she was prolonging it. Her smile was bashful and Yunho’s eyes swallowed it up just like she bit into a piece of her meal finally.

“Will you not eat?” she asked.

Innocent, sweet. Yunho’s eyes simmered as he reached out to grasp a fruit from an intricately weaved wired basket. He bit into a red apple, sharp and vicious. Juice dripped over his fingers, down his chin. He raised a black napkin to the corner of his lips wiping it away. His eye contact never ceased. Did he just wink?

“How long have you lived in Cromer?” he asked.

“My entire life,” she admitted.

He hummed out. “And the ballet almost as long I suppose?”

“Ballerinas are taught young,” she said.

“The best way to shape someone.” He snubbed his cigarette out in his ash tray.

“I suppose,” she admitted. “But I love dancing. Truly.”

It was spoken sincerely, passionately. He nodded. “It’s been mentioned. They say one can tell by just the way you breath. You are full of it.”

“D-dancing?” she queried.

“Love.” he countered. “Passion.”

Her eyes blinked owlishly. “Oh.”

“Do you love them?” he asked directly. His head tilted curiously.

The topic had shifted in tone dramatically suddenly. Her heart raced to its hummingbird speed once more. Her face blushed. Yunho drank it all in like the wine in his glass.

There was a clambering down the hall way, muffled by the oak doors. Her gaze broken from his, and she looked over her shoulder at the doorway.

“Here he comes now,” Yunho whispered.

As predicted, Yeosang came busting through the doors. His hair askew, his eyes burning with the cruel fury she had only seen on the court. His elegant clothes looked rumpled; the softness of his sweater that cut into a deep v revealed more skin that she had seen of the sportsman yet. A rose was pinned on his chest, gentlemanly, and yet somehow tempting her to stare at his chiseled chest more. A decorative scarf wrapped around his throat, disheveled.

He glared at Yunho with such contempt before it was washed away at the sight of her. He glanced her up and down, quickly as if his lingering gaze would be scolded. Appropriately for such an inappropriate action. His lips parted gently; his rounded face soft with a gentle blush.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he immediately apologized, head bowing.

The long strands of russet-brown hair that framed his face swooped over his cheeks. His hand rose to tuck one strand back. “I was caught up with something unexpectedly.”

With little show, she stood, discarding her utensils to greet him. Her smile was soft, reassuring, genuine. She ducked her own head to catch his gaze – he was still glaring through his lashes at the man at the head of the table she noticed. But when he saw her own face come into view he straightened sweetly, awkwardly. But in such a charming way somehow. Yeosang was so charming even in his anger and discomfort. She didn’t want him to be in discomfort.

“Its alright,” she reassured him.

“We’ve just been chatting,” Yunho chimed from the end of the table. Unhelpfully.

Yeosang adjusted his leather gloves nervously, tugging them off finger by finger.

“I see that.” Yeosang rumbled.

His eyes settled back on her like she was his seas’ moon.

“You look lovely, YN,” he complimented. Her smile lit up the room, he swore.

He licked his lips, deep voice humming out as he looked over the table.

“I-I,” he gestured to the table, the meal he had ordered the chef to prepare, “I have those tarts you liked at the café on Riverfield Street.”

She smiled at him; he was so cute.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “And I saw. They look perfect.”

He breathed out a little, fixing his clothes once he tucked his gloves into his back pocket.

“It’s been perfect,” she tried to reassure him, sensing his anxieties. His blooming nerves. Her hand reached out to squeeze his.

He jolted at her touch, just enough for her to catch it. His ears were red. Yunho’s grin was wide, sparkling.

“Thank you for the invite.”

“Of course, I wanted –” he glanced at Yunho’s leering gaze. “I wanted to get to know you better, sweetheart.”

“And we shall,” Yunho agreed. “Sit, Sangie. Let’s eat.”

A butler appeared to pull out a seat for him. It wasn’t near either of them, in fact. It was the third seat to the left side of the table. Yeosang glanced at the butler silently before pulling out the chair directly beside YN and seating himself.

He was served a selection of the meal, silently. She went to break the silence.

“How are you?” The headline still brandished itself in her mind. His words about paparazzi left a lasting impact.

Yeosang huffed out. “Well,” he replied. “News articles come and go. I’ll remain on top of my game regardless.”

Yunho nodded steadfastly from across the table. “It’ll be nothing by the next game.”

Yeosang offered her a smile. “Thank you for worrying about me. I’ve survived worse.”

She nodded solemnly. “I don’t like it still.” Yunho watched the interaction carefully. His brow quirked.

“How are you liking Cromer?” she asked. She was used to asking men how they enjoyed the show… but that wasn’t an option here when the room lulled into silence.

“It’s different. But I’ve seen places as beautiful as Aurora, as desolate as the Strictlands, and as rural as Paradise. Cromer reminds me of Aurora in a different way.” Yeosang explained. “It feels homely.”

She smiled. “Ateez House is yours, correct?”

“Its in the family,” Yeosang replied.

“What do you think of it?” Yunho queried.

“Its very nice,” she politely said.

Yeosang tilted his head fondly at her. “Meaning?”

Her brows crinkled in surprise. “Its—nice?” she repeated.

“Shall I remind you what San encourages you to do, sweetheart?”

To be honest. How did he know about that? Her neck and ears became a soft pink in the candlelight. Swallowing, she glanced to the side.

“It is genuinely nice – its just… this house has been called haunted my whole life,” she told them. “There are ghost stories linked to this mansion. It’s strange being here and seeing that it is, in fact, not rotting or some supernatural force of nature.”

Yeosang chuckled out, smiling sweet.

“There are stories?” he leaned in. “Do tell!”

“I love a good gruesome story,” Yunho commented.

But for some reason, the way the words lilted in his tone didn’t make her flinch like before… in fact, was he teasing her? Her eyes flickered from Yeosang’s open form to Yunho. His cheek rested on his hand; elbow pressed into the table as he eyed her with Yeosang.

He smirked at her as they met one another’s eyes. He nodded, urging her. And so, YN went into the ghost story she had been told as a little girl, sitting among the tutu’ed training ballerinas while her mother did alterations on the prima’s show-stopping costume.

“The story goes that this house was home to a Captain,” she started, twirling pasta about her fork as she spoke.

Yunho and Yeosang’s eyes locked.

“The Captain was no ordinary captain; he was the fiercest pirate king of all. With his crew, the Black Pirates, they terrorized the seas and reaped countless treasures. When he grew old and hoarding like a dragon, he docked at Cromer under a false name. Ateez House was built upon blood-soaked jewels and coins; they say the pirate captain passed in his vault, hidden deep in the mansion’s basements. His bones are still there, unrested. His ghost terrorizes the house and refuses to let any soul except his pirates’ prowl.” She dramatically told.

Her fingers wiggled sensationally. “Or that the treasure was haunted by those they robbed and killed mercilessly. Their ghosts remain and haunt these halls.” She shrugged her hands landing back in her lap. “The story changes every so often.”

“What a story,” Yunho breathed. “Do you believe it?”

“It’s just a story. Maybe there are some real parts but… ghosts aren’t real. I’m not that silly of a girl.”

“You aren’t,” Yeosang commented immediately.

“But everyone in town knows it, so it sticks,” she told them, reaching out for the glass of wine in front of her and taking a sip.

“Cromer loves its gossip.” Yeosang commented.

“They’re stuck in their ways,” Yunho added.

“What do you think of Cromer?” she redirected to Yunho.

He took a small breath in. His previous grimace faded and his brow crinkled as he looked at her thoughtfully. His lips pressed together before replying.

“At first,” Yunho said, tilting his chin. “I did not like it… but now…”

His gaze felt hot, ever present. There wasn’t a barrier of modesty she often felt with other men. Yeosang’s was intense. San’s was careful, observant. Wooyoung’s eager and challenging. Yunho’s was steadfast. Confident. Even the men in the boudoir knew there were limits. They had their wives. They had their image with the other men within the boudoir itself. Here she felt both hunted and examined. Admired but equal. He was looking at her soul.

“Now, I like it.” Yunho purred. “Very much, darling.”

He placed his silverware down with a clink. He leaned forwards, hands pressing into the table.

“There’s more to you that meets the eye,” Yunho commented. “I see that, so now I will let you speak your mind, truthfully.”

Her heart nearly stopped. Was he going to ask her about her love again? In front of Yeosang?! Her eyes remained on him steadily. Her ears burned.

“You’re frightened of me, yes?” he said.

It was strange to feel relief at the confirmation of something so horrible. Because she was still nervous around him, for his boldness frightened her just as much as his previous actions. Yeosang’s eyes shifted to her, widening as he watched her nod.

“Sweetheart,” he reached out for her hand, petting her phalanges but not grabbing it. He simply wished to reassure her. Just as she had done for him earlier.

“San and Wooyoung said I didn’t have to be,” she replied. She licked her lips.

“Ask me what you want to know.” He stretched back into his chair, neck flexing as he met her gaze.

“Is it true? Should I be frightened?”

“That’s not it,” he laughed a bit, lip curling almost scornfully, scoldingly. He raised a brow, head tilting as if weighing his options. “But no, you don’t need to be frightened. Ask another.”

“I don’t have another question.” She countered, only to state simply and firmly. “You shot a man.”

And he smiled. “I did.” Yunho confirmed.

“On purpose?” she asked.

“Yes, darling.”

Her blood felt cold. She hadn’t met someone like him and it sent her stomach into a cramping mess. Yeosang did take her hand now. Interlacing his fingers softly. He glanced over at his elder as he rose from his chair. Oh, Yunho was tall. Very tall, in fact. With them sitting, he looked giant. His heels thudded against the floor.

“Why?” she asked. Yeosang felt her hand tighten in his grasp.

“He tried to fool me, steal from me,” Yunho stated, walking towards them. “Lied to me. I don’t like being played.”

There wasn’t a moment for the words to sink in for YN. Instead, like a game of tennis, she shot back.

“So, you shot him? Just like that?”

“For your information, yes.”

“That’s frightening.”

“Yes.” Yunho was beside Yeosang now.

“But!” Yeosang was the next to interrupt. “If you must know… Yunho isn’t some cruel man, sweetheart. It was done in self-defense.”

“Self-defense?” she asked doubtfully. Wooyoung and San said so themselves as well.

The air that Yunho carried seemed to be more than that. He wasn’t exactly proud, but he was at peace with what he did. Yunho’s face pulled into a tight thing as he rested a hand on Yeosang’s shoulder. They both looked at her inquiringly.

“He pulled a blade on Yunho,” Yeosang interjected. His gaze flashed to her. “He has the scars to prove it.”

They had an answer to everything. It was self-defense. Not a thing of violence. Of necessity.

She stared at them

“It wasn’t… he struck first?” she repeated slowly.

They glanced at one another before smiling at her with dual grins. Yunho tapped his fingers on Yeosang’s shoulder before he pulled back. A hand went to his chest, gentlemanly and earnest in nature.

“Yes.” He ensured.

Her eyes flickered to Yeosang. He had been a sensible figure – likeable, nothing formidable. If he trusted him, if her Wooyoung and San did. Yunho spoke with such authority. He valued truth just like San did.

Her defensiveness, something she didn’t even see in her body language, softened. Yunho’s sigh was one of understanding as he walked back to his seat, stealing a glance at her. He smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the cande light.

“YN.” He spoke her name luxuriously. “If there is one thing you should know about me. I don’t do mess.”

He plucked a dessert from his plate, biting into the chocolate with slowness. Calculated. He kept her gaze. It sent a thrill through her; he sent a thrill through her. Swallowing together, the corner of his lip curled. He raised a napkin to his lips, gentlemanly.

He was a gentleman, straightforward and powerful. He had to be telling the truth.

“I’m not a messy man, darling-doll.”

The dinner didn’t last much longer. Yeosang encouraged conversation; Yunho threw in some topics, mostly of things she had mentioned to San and Wooyoung. It struck her then that they shared many stories about her. They must’ve talked about her a lot. It made her cheeks flush as red as the chocolate strawberries Yunho ate.

Their eyes were hot on her; it felt like they were captivated and it made her heart race. Like she was on the stage.

She liked it.

Surprisingly, her two patrons made an appearance at the end of the meal. Wooyoung, of course, was the one to pop his head into the grand dining room.

“Swanette!” he beamed at the sight of her.

Yunho took in how her shoulders softened and her chest heaved at the sight of Wooyoung, at his voice. He smiled, softer and truer than any other smile he shared tonight so far.

Wooyoung was dressed the most casual she had ever seen him. A fashionable patterned white-and-black button-up shirt was barely buttoned, revealing a black ribbed tank-top beneath it. His hair was pushed back casually and messy; a rolled cigarette was behind his ear. His slacks were a deep black, loose and flowy rather than a structured fabric.

“Woo,” she barely got out, her mouth dropping at the sight of him.

He smirked, arms slinking over the chair and over her shoulders.

“Hello hyungs,” he greeted the others, barely glancing at them before ducking his head and pressing a less-than-decent kiss to her mouth. Smothering and all consuming. She squeaked into it. A ringed hand rose to cup her guide her head in the kiss, icy cold against her flushed red cheek.

Yeosang and Yunho chuckled out. The sound was a mixture of fondness and annoyance. Yunho’s brow twitched. Yeosang’s hand held hers tighter… he hadn’t let go, of course. But YN hadn’t noticed the entire dinner and dessert. ‘Til now. Her fingers flexed in his as Wooyoung swiped his tongue across the seam of her lips.

“Alright,” San scolded Wooyoung, his hand going to the back of the shorter’s neck. He nearly pried him off her. “Wooyoung!”

“I missed her,” Wooyoung said simply, flushed face and breathless.

His hot breath fanned over her rosy face; his lips were spicy and left hers burning. Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he stole another kiss from her lips. San pulled him back again with a harsher hand.

It was then she got a glance of her other patron. San had freshly washed hair, the locks combed out and dripping over his forehead. He wore a similar tank top to Wooyoung, but in a white shade. Shockingly, he had a pair of workman’s light-washed blue jeans hugging his thighs. Thick thighs, muscular shoulders, tawny honey skin. It was tantalizing, tempting. But when she looked over his face, her mouth dropped in surprise. A bruise kissed at the corner of his lips; his sweet smile tarnished with a purple-red watercolor splotch.

She couldn’t help stand immediately, half in the clutches of Wooyoung. Her hand rose to cup San’s cheek.

“Honey!” he exclaimed out in surprise.

He didn’t shift away, actually bending at the knee for her height, but San was certainly surprised. He had taken the lead between them often. YN rarely made the first move with either of her patrons. But what he had mistaken for sexual tension only led to pain. He was shocked when her thumb’s brush against his lips made pain radiate up his face.

“Ow,” he whimpered, frowning. His brow furrowed.

Yeosang laughed nearby. “He forgot he’s hurt,” the athlete commented.

“It’s been a while,” Yunho added, finishing his drink as he watched the interaction play out.

San’s lips pressed together, blinking rapidly before taking in the concern look on her face.

“Oh, honey, I’m okay,” San tried to reassure. His hand rose to cup her hand that was pressed to his jaw, thumb brushing over it soothingly. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“You just said ow, you liar,” she scolded him, brows furrowing. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine,” he swore, tilting his head to press a kiss that stung his mouth to her palm. “Promise.”

“This town is getting more and more dangerous,” she breathed out.

Her thumb brushed over his cheek softly. His pretty face marred. Without his glasses on, she could see how his eyes sparkled in the chandelier’s candlelight. Soft and starry, as if she hung the world.

“You are an angel,” he murmured. “I’m okay. I’ll live.”

“Wooyoung, will you tell me what happened?” she prompted, not moving. Wooyoung pressed to her side made a humming sound.

“The streets are rough around here,” he said. “Someone really ought to fix that.”

Yunho huffed from across the long table.

San smiled at her again, eyes falling into half-moons. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips stung to do so, but she was worth it. “Thank you for worrying.” He told her. His stomach did somersaults at the thought of her jumping to his aid.

“Shall we walk you out, swanette?” Wooyoung directed instead, head tucking over her shoulder to look at the table. “Yunho has a meeting to attend unfortunately.”

Yunho hissed in through his sparkling diamond-inlayed teeth. “Does the—”

San nodded.

He breathed in through his nose before offering YN a simmering smile. Full of warmth. “It was lovely meeting you, Miss YN. I hope to see you very soon.” He bowed politely before with long-legged strides left the room. Wooyoung winked at him as he passed.

“I’ll join you,” Yeosang offered YN. “You must come visit again soon – in the spring, the gardens are beautiful. We could have tea or -”

“Yeosang likes to take long strolls through the gardens – even if it’s raining,” Wooyoung revealed, finally peeling himself off her back to look at the selection of food laid out. He plucked a grape from a platter.

“You gossip like the upper-class now,” Yeosang commented, raising a brow.

Wooyoung laughed brightly at his friend before popping the fruit into his mouth. “Eh, they rub off on you – I had to keep up with you, Sangie.”

Hmm, it was an interesting interaction. Playful but also… strange. She knew their pasts implied they hadn’t always been wealthy… Yeosang had been a protégé tennis player at a young age but how did he meet Wooyoung? Was it all because of Hongjoong?

San’s hands squeezed her waist. When had both of his hands shifted there? “You sleepy, honey?” he asked.

“Too filling of a meal,” Yeosang complained as he rose to his feet.

As if the food was her reason to getting lost in her head.

“It was perfect,” she countered, taking a step back. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“Thank you for gracing us,” Yeosang replied, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A picture of a gentleman. But he was quick to wrap her arm up into his, pulling her into his side now. Surprisingly daring for the Yeosang she knew.

“Shall we?”

Their exit seemed to take forever just as before. Yeosang lead her down hallway after hallway after hallway. It almost felt like they were navigating a maze. San and Wooyoung framed the two in; Wooyoung on her side and San on Yeosang’s.

“How was Yunho?” San prompted, tentatively. “He didn’t scare you?”

“Did he frighten you – when you were alone with him?” Yeosang repeated, arm tightening around her.

“No, no, he wasn’t frightening,” she reassured them. “He was a surprise certainly.”

“Ah, Yunho was sneaky. He doesn’t like the opera, so he found his own way to meet you,” Yeosang sighed. “I feel like he caused the trouble for me on purpose, so I’d run late. You’re popular around here, sweetheart.” He squeezed her arm teasingly.

“Who else here?” she chuckled. Seonghwa? Hongjoong? She hadnt yet to see either of them – like they were ghosts.

“You’d be surprised,” Yeosang commented before leaning in and admitting. “I quite like you, too.”

He made her cheeks burn red, and Wooyoung giggled.

“She likes you too, Sangie,” he crowed out, fingers reaching to tickle her waist. “I’ve seen her blush over San, over you… Do you like Yunho as well?” Wooyoung queried, his words becoming less and less playful. They were almost inquisitive, as if testing the waters instead.

There was a crack as he lit a match across a gold-leafed frame. He placed the cigarette that was behind his ear to his lips and lit it.

“I did,” YN told him, honestly, as they continued through the foyer. Wooyoung chuckled out, smoke puffing out in front of his face in surprise. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so fast.

“Not like that,” she interrupt his giggles, face burning. “I just—”

Looking down another hall they, she made out Yunho’s form, tall and slim walking down the hall with purpose. His back to her as they turned into the foyer finally.

“He was kind. Even if he was a bit intimidating… he wasn’t cruel or harsh. Just… confident.”

Yeosang smiled close-lipped. Wooyoung blew out his smoke to the side, the plume passing over the butlers’ faces. Not one flinched or coughed.

The smell of expensive tabacoo wafted over her face warmly as Wooyoung walked in front of them to push open the large heavy doors of the mansion.

“So he wasn’t so scary after all?” he teased. “Wait ‘til you meet Hongjoong and Hwa-hyung. They’re properly-”

“Wooyoung, don’t tease her,” Yeosang defended.

The younger raised one of his hands in defense as he held open the door for them. “I’m just saying – she got pass the guard dog.”

“She hasn’t met Jongho yet,” Yeosang giggled lightly. “He’s truly got a bad case of looking gruffer than he is. He’s our baby.”

Jongho. She had only heard that name once, and it was that night. Her ears rang.

“Jongho?” she queried softly.

He had been at the opera! He was one of their ‘brothers’.

“Or Mingi--Ah, here he is now,” San commented, smiling over at the man standing in front of the green-painted car.

“Hello,” the driver greeted, voice as deep as earlier. His eyes flickered to her arm in Yeosang’s.

Wooyoung smirked at him. “Mingi, I didn’t know you were driving today,” he said.

“I thought you and San were doing business today.”

“It was a fast deal.”

Mingi looked unamused, his siren-eyes looking him and San up and down. “Uh huh.

“You know a Jongho?” she turned to Yeosang as they spoke.

“Jongho is the youngest of us. You’ll meet him soon, sweetheart,” he reassured, squeezing her arm. “He’s busy too often. I think they overwork him; he’s just a boy.”

“He’s only a year younger than us,” Wooyoung commented with a pout.

“He’s a baby,” San agreed offhandedly.

“I think I—"

“Is she going the hell home or not?” Mingi bit out. Before looking bashfully at her. “Sorry, doll,” he apologized for his gruffness. “I’m not used to a dame being around.”

“Its okay,” she mumbled out. Her mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out why Jongho was at the opera… without his supposed family knowing.

Mingi pouted at that. “No, its not.” He admitted. “Don’t take disrespect.”

Her distracted gaze rose and nodded softly, not really processing his words.

Wooyoung tsked out. “Here he goes about respect,” he sighed out. “Hurry up, swanette, or else we will be here for hours.”

There was a rumble of chuckles in the group. Yeosang squeezed her arm once more before pressing close to her ear, cheek to cheek. A whispered “next time it’ll be just you and I, hm?” was hushed into her ear before he unwound himself from her and allowed the others to hover about. “I’ll see you next time, Miss YN.”

San pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. “And again, I promise you, I’m fine.” He pressed another kiss to her hairline before guiding her into Wooyoung’s arms.

He was warm and smelt of smoke. His grin was playful, wolfish as he leaned down and stole her lips into a kiss. He was getting bolder and bolder. His kiss was hot, a lick of his tongue into her mouth this time. She squeaked and he chuckled deeply.

“Mmm,” he moaned as he pulled away just a fraction. Wooyoung smiled as if he was innocent but his teases were devilishly. “Perhaps I should call you little mouse instead of swanette.”

She pushed at his chest, playfully. Wooyoung tugged her closer, grinning. Her face was akin to a rose.

“Let her go, Wooyoung,” Mingi said from the side. His face was sharp as he glared at the other. He didn’t appreciate the teasing. “She must be tired.”

Wooyoung heaved a sigh as if this was the hardest thing to do. He pouted at her before stealing a kiss, pressing a peck to her nose. “Fine,” he relented, unwinding her from his spider web embrace.

“See you soon, pretty. Mingi will make sure you get home safely.”

Mingi nodded steadfast before he offered her his hand.

“Shall we, baby-doll?”

Next time, when she woke, it was to a cat’s sandpaper-esque tongue licking her cheek. Little tiny licks with the familiar nuzzle of her wet nose, Z investigated her like any other day. The little more-blue-grey-than-black cat sniffed at her, the talkative pet meowing loudly. Her green eyes blinked slowly at her before she nudged her cheek with her forehead once more.

Her body didn’t burn. It didn’t ache. It didn’t feel like anything. Whatever drugs she was on, they were good. She blinked at the kitten, slow to do anything once more.

She was still in Yeosang’s room. The smell of him was all around her, Jongho’s familiar gardenia aroma mingling in the sheets. YN tried to move. Pushing herself upwards was easier than before but the slightest shift in her legs reminded her of the heavy casts that wrapped her ankles. The pain nothing like before but there was still the zing up her knees that made her pause. Her breath caught as she stared at her limbs before her.

Her reality. Bedbound, grounded. It was a depressing thought. Even more depressing when she realized she wasn’t sure what day it was nor what hour. How many shows had she missed? Did her mother know she wasn’t well? Was she just the same as those folk written about in the papers? Missing and forgotten.

She let out a shuddering breath as she laid back into the fluffy luxurious pillows, contemplating what to do. Should she cry out for them? Hongjoong was the last face she remembered but she didn’t want to see him. Or Seonghwa. Or any of them. Really. Anger burned her throat like the nearby fire place. Z’s whiskers dusted over her arm, nudging at her for attention as she let out another inquisitive meow.

“Leave me alone, Z,” she mumbled into her pillow. The little tongue peaked out to lick her again. “Stop, Z; go away.”

Her tone was raising with her rising grief. That was the only way to describe what she was feeling grief – a mixture of hoping, pleading, that everything had been a dream only to be reawaken to reality. Anger and sorrow clashed like cymbals in her head.

The cat nuzzled her again, and she snapped this time.

“Z, go!” Her hands shifted the quilts aside in a huff, making the little cat hop away, back arched.

“Z, come here,” a voice, melodic as it was masculine, called. The doorway creaked open, the gaslight in the hallway illuminated his figure, bulky in the best way. “Love isn’t in the mood to play.”

She frowned over at him, even if Z hopped off the bed and went towards Jongho eagerly. Her little body pressed against his leg as she passed him, purring softly. He smiled after his kitten before his gaze settled back on his love bed ridden.

“Hi love,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” she told him.

“But not in pain,” he smiled.

The youngest crawled up onto the bed, sheets rustling and ruffling as he settled beside her. Jongho wasn’t one to be silenced by a glare or dirty look. He was made for this world – his hyungs’ beloved aegi was used to getting what he wanted. And she was his baby. His love. He wanted her.

She turned her rageful eyes his way. He simply smiled just like the others. “I know,” he hummed. “I tried to warn you.”

He had. He cried to her last night… or a few nights ago? Her anger was quenched by those tears now. Her eyes softened just a smidge, and Jongho took a mile. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss. His arms wrapped around her ‘til she was caught in his embrace, warm and coddled.

He indulged in the way she didn’t pull away or yell. He had heard her shouts at Yeosang’s attempts at affection.

“What happened? I remember waking up in pain – why?” she murmured into his chest. Trying to gather information from when she was asleep.

Even now, she felt safe in his embrace. It caused a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

He heaved out, her head rising and falling with his chest. “You had an infection – the doctor said it was possible dirt from that alley way. It entered your injury for too long. He fixed it.”

“Is he alive?” she mumbled.

“By Yunho’s grace.”

She felt the ebbing and flowing rage, the despair rush over her again. Almost as if sensing it, Jongho shifted, his chin tilting into his chest to look down at her. He moved to tilt her own chin to meet his gaze. Fiery passion burned there. He liked it better when her passion burned for her dancing… but he supposed it had to go somewhere while she was incapable.

“It’s the way things are,” he told her. “Stop fighting it.”

Stop fighting and give in. Look what fighting did. Just let them control her…

YN scoffed. “I’m not some doll,” she bit back. “Or some—"She wriggled like a worm on a hook. Jongho’s eyes ached, and he reached for her hands. He cupped them in his. His bloodstained ones. How many time had he scrubbed away ichor? Dug it from under his nails? Her hands were dainty.

“It’ll never touch your hands,” he interrupted earnestly. “You’ll never bear it. Our work. Our lifestyles. If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m bearing it now,” she whispered to him, voice breaking. “I’m afraid of you.”

He frowned, his face firm and thoughtful. He was always thinking her Jongho. He never stopped. His thumbs brushed over her palms, his forehead pressing to hers intimately.

“You tried to leave,” he said. “I didn’t want this. None of us did. If you hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You understand what that means – I’m just something you control like your butlers and your members and your-.”

“No.” Jongho interrupted soft and earnestly.

“You are no pawn, my love. You are our priority… our treasure. Always.”

#i wasnt lying when i said it was a lot 😭😭#rii's reading #fic recs #fic: like a waltz

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sillylilsquid · 2 days ago

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Real life Romance book pt. 3/?

✨alternate universe Hyun Ju x reader ✨summary: in which you meet Hyun Ju at your work, and quickly become friends. you've never dated a woman, but something about Hyun Ju was different. She made you feel a fire in your chest, and though you didn't understand it you were ready to try. ✨trigger warnings: afab reader, eventually: mentions of bullying, transphobia, sexual content, 18+ only minors DNI ✨1.8k words

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In the morning you texted Hyun Ju, telling her that you had an opening shift at the bookstore and asked her to meet you there at 4pm. She was quick to respond telling you she won’t be a minute late. In fact, she came 30 minutes early. You sat behind the counter, counting some inventory when the bell rang. “Welcome in!” you called out, yet your eyes stayed glued to your task. You whispered to yourself as you counted and when you heard someone clear their throat you jumped. “Oh! I’m sorry, I hope you weren’t waiting too–” cutting yourself off when you saw Hyun Ju. She had a slight smirk plastered on her face as she slid a book across the counter. “I’d like to buy this.” she stated simply. She spoke so casually which made your cheeks burn, because how was she always so calm when you were such a mess? Your fingertips brushed hers when you reached to grab the book. It was the same one you’ve been reading for book club. Your face lit up, “This one’s really good, I’m only chapter six but you’re going to love it!” She replied with, “I was hoping if I bought this I could keep coming to book club with you.” you nodded quickly, knowing you looked silly but you wanted her to know she was more than welcome to continue attending.

“I know I’m here early, I just didn’t want to wait until 4…I won’t bother you, just let me know when you’ve clocked out.” Hyun Ju said, grabbing back the book and heading to the small sitting area the store had. You watched as she sat down, seemingly way too tall for the tiny chairs but it made her appear even more adorable. You tried your hardest to concentrate on your work but every so often your eyes would wander to her. She kept her promise and sat there silently reading her book to make sure she didn’t distract you from your work, but little did she know that was somehow even more distracting than her talking to you. The way she tucked her hair behind her, the way she would gently bit her lip and furrow her brows–it drove you insane.

Once the clock hit 4pm you clocked out, grabbed your bag and headed towards Hyun Ju. She didn’t notice you there at first and you didn’t want to interrupt her reading so you just stood next to her, watching for a couple of minutes. If anyone else looked over at you two they would think you were some sort of stalker. Slowly you reached your hand out and placed it on her shoulder. She tensed, turning her head quickly and when she realized it was only you she relaxed. “Let’s go,” you spoke offering her your hand. Hyun Ju placed her hand in yours as the two of you walked out of the bookstore. “What do you have planned?” she asked, and you shrugged, not wanting to ruin the surprise. You walked her across the street to the coffee shop and ordered you each a drink, before pulling her back outside. You walked with purpose, but even your fast pace wasn’t enough to keep up with her much longer strides. “Your legs are too long! I can’t keep up.” you teased her, playfully bumping into her side. You noticed how she slowed down her pace and tried taking smaller steps for you. The simple act made you smile.

As you two arrived at the park nearby you picked a quiet spot away from the crowd of people and reached into your backpack. You pulled out a blanket laying it on the ground, motioning for her to sit. Once she was comfy you sat down next to her, closer than you ever had. Your shoulder was flush with her arm and your thighs touched. Hyun Ju looked down at you, eyes searching your face. “You look nice today.” she commented, slowly reaching up to move a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. You closed your eyes briefly at the gesture. “So do you,” you returned the compliment. After a moment of silence you laid back, staring up at the clouds. “Last night, at the restaurant you asked questions all about me, now it’s my turn. I wanna know more about you.” your eyes stayed trained on the clouds passing by and you felt her lay down next to you. Her hands rested on her stomach and she let out a soft sigh. “Okay…but you have to promise just to listen. No questions, no comments. Please.” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. A confused look came across your features and you turned your head to face her, she stayed staring at the sky, her face expressionless. You went to ask why, before realizing that’s exactly what Hyun Ju didn’t want you to do. Turning back towards the sky you said, “I promise, Hyun Ju.”

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes and your heart pounded with anticipation to hear more about the beautiful woman’s life before you met her. She knew she needed to tell you, she had to be honest with you. When she began to speak, you froze wanting to soak in everything she had to say. “I was in the special forces, worked my way up to sergeant.” you sat there in shock at what she said, but you stayed quiet. “I was discharged, a little over a year ago,” her voice wavered and you turned back towards her. Her eyes were glassy and you wanted to comfort her but decided to wait until she was done speaking. “I’m trans, y/n.” she admitted, a single tear falling down her cheek. “My family, my friends, my job… I lost everything. And I completely understand if I lose you too–it’s a lot to handle, and I don’t expect you to deal with that.”

You were not expecting to hear what she just admitted to you. It made sense; her tall, muscular frame, deeper voice it all made sense now. Hyun Ju turned her head to the side and finally met your eyes. “Can I speak now?” you asked, your voice holding a playful tone in hopes to break the uncomfortable feeling in the air. “Yes, please.” she laughed, nodding. You hesitated, but reached out and wiped away her tears with the cuff of your sweatshirt. “You’re not gonna lose me that easily,” you teased. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with all that–I can’t even begin to imagine how you felt during that. Just know that I don’t care who you are, to me you’re just Hyun Ju. The girl from the bookstore who was embarrassed to admit she wanted to read romance books.” she let out a laugh at that, her tears starting to dry up. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you.” you admitted, your hand still cupping her face.

Hyun Ju let out a deep breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. The tension eased out of all her muscles and her heart swelled, for once she felt at peace. Very few people accepted her once they found out about her surgeries, and to know you did made her feel so special. Her eyes drifted down to your lips then back up to your eyes which were glued to hers. A smile spread across her face as she leaned in just enough that your noses pressed together. Then she kissed you. Just a small, simple kiss that didn’t last more than a few seconds. Your body felt a burn from the desire that had been building up the past two days. You knew your cheeks were bright red with a blush. Hyun Ju laid back, looking up at the sky again and you two just sat there; in a comfortable silence. Your hand had reached over, grabbing hers off her stomach and lacing it with yours.. The nerves you had about being attracted to a woman, wanting to kiss a woman, they all faded away. You both laid there in blissful peace.

An hour passed when Hyun Ju slowly sat up. She stretched which revealed the bottom of her stomach as her sweater raised ever so slightly. You felt yourself practically drooling. You sat up and sipped your coffee, not wanting your time with her to end. “Just wait until my friends at bookclub hear about that kiss.” you said giggling. She raised her eyebrows as if to tell you to continue. “They insisted that inviting you to bookclub was a date, I kept telling them no! But they didn’t believe me…wait until they hear about this.” Hyun Ju laughed along with you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You hadn’t realized you were shivering from the change in temperature. The sky had long ago become gray as if it was going to storm, but you were glad it hadn’t. “We should head out before we get stuck in more rain.” Hyun ju said and you nodded. She helped you fold your blanket and tuck it back into your backpack, and on the walk to the car she kept her arm hung loosely around your waist. Her fingers brushed against your hip bone, the feeling making your stomach grow tight. Once in the car she drove you back to your apartment, the ride was over way too fast. You weren’t done with her, a new found confidence rolled over you. “Do you want to come inside?” you asked, looking up at her with innocent eyes. Hyun Ju hesitated then nodded, turning the car off. You two entered the apartment building and climbed the stairs to your second floor apartment.

Digging in your backpack for your keys you felt how close she was standing to you. Your back was flush against her chest, making you fumble as you tried to grab the key you needed to unlock the door. “It’s really small, and kinda messy.” you admitted as you turned the lock, stuffing your keys back in your bag. Hyun Ju reached around you, turning the handle and pushing the door open. As you two stepped in, she pushed the door closed and before you could say anything she pounced. You were trapped against the wall by her larger frame as she captured your lips in hers. The kiss was more feverish, more passionate than before. Your bag made thud as it hit the floor as you brought your hands up to grasp onto her muscular arms. Her hands held your face gently compared to how she kissed you. After a moment you two broke apart to catch your breath. She took a small step back, fixed her hair and stared down at you–smirking as she saw the effect it had on you. You stayed leaning against the wall, chest heaving as you tried to calm yourself down. Before you could say anything she was on you once more, kissing you like she would never get to again.

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✨a/n: i literally cannot stop writing for hyun ju. she makes me feral oml.

#squid game #squid game x y/n #cho hyun ju x reader #hyun ju #hyun ju x reader #cho hyun ju #alternate universe #player 120 x reader #player 120

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misshoneyimhome · 2 days ago

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What’s up, buttercups! 💕 Welcome back to chapter two of The Benchwarmer! First off—thank you so much for all the love and excitement you’ve shared for this story already. Seeing your reactions has been the absolute best, and I’m beyond excited to keep unfolding this journey with you!

Now, in case you’re wondering—will there ever be any intimate interactions between Reader and Auston? Oh, absolutely ✨ Have I made this a painfully slow burn that’s torturing even me with the suspense? Also yes🔥 Happy reading, my darlings! 💕✨

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, no warnings

Word count: 6.3K Chapter one

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter two: #MysteryQueen

“Dearest Toronto readers, it seems we have a mystery on our hands. Last night’s charity gala gave us glitz, glamour, and a moment that has the internet on fire. Forget the perfectly tailored suits, designer gowns, and champagne flutes—because what truly stole the show was one unexpected stumble and the instant chemistry that followed.

Our beloved Ice King, Auston Matthews, found himself caught in an uncharacteristically warm moment with an unidentified woman whose presence has ignited more conspiracy theories than a Stanley Cup drought. A fleeting touch, a lingering gaze, and now a photo has been seen around the world. Toronto can’t stop talking about it, and #MysteryQueen is trending faster than you can say, ‘Hat trick.’

Could the Ice King’s frosty demeanour finally be thawing?

Now, let’s not forget the timing, dear readers. With Matthews stepping into the captain’s role this season, his every move has been scrutinised. A new relationship would add fuel to the fire, making the stakes higher than ever. But this columnist can’t help but wonder—does the man who keeps everyone at arm’s length finally have someone worth letting in?

Stay tuned, Toronto. This season has just begun, and the story is heating up – so you know I’ll be here to bring you every detail.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer.”

Monday -

The shrill sound of your alarm cut through the quiet of your bedroom, jolting you awake with a groggy start. You fumbled to silence it, groaning as you buried your face back into the pillow. The events of the gala were already slipping into a hazy blur—clinking glasses, polished speeches, and that awkward but fleeting moment with Auston Matthews. Another long night of work, another day ahead. Same routine, different Monday.

Except… your phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.

The incessant buzzing broke through your grogginess like a second alarm. You squinted at the screen, your vision struggling to adjust to the early morning light filtering through the blinds. Notification after notification lit up your phone, the vibration almost rattling it off your nightstand. You reached for it, dread prickling at the edges of your still-sleepy mind. Why was everyone blowing up your phone?

You swiped it open only to see your group chat with Jess and Maya was on fire.

Jess (7:23 AM): OH MY GOD, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?

Maya (7:24 AM): You’re all over X! #MysteryQueen is trending, babe!

Your heart skipped a beat, confusion settling in your chest like a lead weight. Trending? That couldn’t be right. With trembling fingers, you tapped the link Jess had sent, a sinking feeling in your gut as the page loaded.

It took a moment—your Wi-Fi felt sluggish, though it was probably just your nerves slowing time to a crawl. When the image finally appeared, your breath caught.

There it was: the photo. The one everyone seemed to be talking about.

Auston Matthews’ hands were firmly wrapped around your torso, his smirk that perfect mix of charm and confidence, while your face betrayed every ounce of surprise and embarrassment you’d felt in that moment. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide—you looked like you’d stumbled straight out of a romance novel and into his arms.

The lighting, the angle, the backdrop—it was all too good. Soft, golden hues framed the two of you like the culmination of a carefully planned rom-com climax. Whoever had captured the moment had turned a fleeting accident into what now appeared to be undeniable chemistry.

Above the photo, the headline read: “Has the Ice King finally been dethroned? Who is this stunning Mystery Queen?”

Your stomach churned as you scrolled through the attached comments. They were relentless.

“Who is she???”

“She’s gorgeous! Can we ship this already?”

“Ice King has a Queen! Loving this”

Memes were already circulating: the two of you photoshopped onto movie posters, side-by-side shots of you under headlines like “Toronto’s Hottest Couple?” Theories ranged from harmless to absurd—everything from claims you were his secret girlfriend to guesses about your astrological compatibility.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jess (7:26 AM): You broke the internet, Queen. Do we bow now, or…?

Maya (7:30 AM): You’re literally famous. Like, for real. Can we talk about how hot Auston Matthews looked holding you?

A groan escaped you as you tossed your phone back onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. “This can’t be happening…”

You stayed like that for a moment, letting the panic wash over you. Your mind raced as you replayed the moment in question. It had been nothing. A stumble, a quick save, a polite exchange, and you’d moved on. How had it spiralled into this?

Your laptop sat on your desk, its sleek, black screen staring back at you like it dared you to confirm just how bad things were. Hesitating, you opened it and typed in the dreaded hashtag: #MysteryQueen.

The search results were overwhelming. Page after page of posts, photos, and speculation. Your name hadn’t surfaced yet—thankfully—but that didn’t stop people from trying to piece together every detail about you. Some users had gone so far as to zoom in on your necklace, debating whether it was a gift from Auston.

You groaned again, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your temples. Stress bubbled in your chest, threatening to spill over. Jess and Maya’s texts kept pinging, a mix of teasing and encouragement that you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

Jess: “So… when are you introducing us to Auston?”

Maya: “Not to be dramatic, but if you don’t milk this for all it’s worth, I’ll be mad.”

You snorted despite yourself, though the laugh was hollow. You opened your email, desperate for a distraction or a sense of normalcy, but the subject line at the top of your inbox snatched that hope away: “We need to talk about last night.”

It was from your boss.

Your stomach sank further as you glanced at the clock. 7:45 AM. Not even time for coffee.

“Perfect,” you muttered, slamming your laptop shut. This wasn’t just damage control anymore—this was survival. You needed to get ready for work, figure out how to salvage your career, and pray the internet had a short attention span.

The soft hum of the city buzzed faintly in the background as Auston Matthews stood in his kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile floor. He scrolled through his phone with one hand while expertly cracking an egg into a sizzling pan with the other. The aroma of coffee brewing filled the space, mingling with the faint sound of the egg frying. It was a typical morning—except for the buzzing chaos of his phone on the counter, vibrating with relentless notifications.

His phone rattled against the marble again. He leaned over, smirking as the latest messages lit up the screen.

Mitchy (7:15 AM): “Nice work, Captain. Saving PR girls in distress now?”

Auston chuckled softly, shaking his head. Mitch’s commentary was always reliable.

A second buzz followed.

Willy (7:20 AM): “Does she have a sister? Asking for a friend.”

He snorted, typing out a quick reply: “You’d have no chance, Willy.”

Sliding the eggs onto a plate, Auston grabbed a bottle of Prime from the fridge. He leaned back against the counter, sipping casually while thumbing through social media. There it was—the photo that had set the internet on fire.

The hashtags were as relentless as the messages from his teammates:

#MysteryQueen

#IceKingAndQueen

#CoupleGoals

Fans were analysing every pixel of the image: the way he leaned slightly toward you, his smirk soft and almost intimate, the subtle tilt of your head that made it seem like the two of you were the only ones in the room. It was absurd, the way a split-second interaction had been turned into a viral sensation.

His phone buzzed again.

Mitchy (7:32 AM): “So? You bringing her to practice? Or is this another ‘one night and done’ thing?”

Auston rolled his eyes and typed back, “Jealous, Marner?”

The reply came instantly.

Mitchy: “Of you? Never. Of her? Maybe.”

Auston let out a low laugh, setting his phone down with a soft clink. The teasing didn’t bother him. If anything, it amused him. Let them speculate. Let the internet obsess over the photo. He had always been good at playing into the media’s games while staying one step ahead.

He finished his breakfast in thoughtful silence, his mind briefly wandering back to the gala. The night had been standard fare: sponsors, schmoozing, and carefully crafted soundbites. But then there had been you—stumbling into his space, equal parts flustered and sharp-witted. You had been anything but predictable, and that, more than anything, had caught his attention.

The photo had turned a fleeting moment into a viral phenomenon. Now, he was caught up in the swirl of speculation, but unlike most, he didn’t mind. It was fun.

For now, though, there was training to get to. Auston grabbed his bag and headed out, smirking at his phone one last time before silencing the endless stream of notifications. The Ice King wasn’t worried—he was just getting started.

Arriving at the office felt like stepping onto a stage where you were the unwitting star of a play you hadn’t auditioned for. The usual hum of activity—clicking keyboards, ringing phones, snippets of muted conversation—was still there, but today, it had a charged edge. Every sound felt sharper, every glance lingered a second too long, and the air seemed to buzz with anticipation, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

You pushed through the glass doors, clutching your bag tightly as your heels clicked against the polished tile. The receptionist, a chipper woman named Clara who usually greeted you with a bright smile and a cheerful good morning, faltered for a split second before recovering. Her eyes flicked to her computer screen, her cheeks pink as if you’d caught her mid-gossip. She returned your nod with a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her hand nervously adjusting a stack of papers on her desk.

You offered her a polite “Morning” and continued down the hall, the weight of invisible eyes trailing you like static electricity. The whispers started almost immediately, barely muffled by the thin partitions between desks.

“Is that her?” a voice murmured, not even bothering to lower the volume much.

“I told you it was!” another hissed in reply. “She’s the one from the photo. Did you see how close they were?”

You felt your skin prickle, a flush creeping up your neck. It wasn’t just the whispers—it was the sidelong glances, the quick turns of heads as you passed, the way conversations halted the moment you entered a room. They didn’t need to say your name for you to know exactly what they were talking about.

The now-infamous image of you and Auston Matthews—locked in what looked like a moment of intimate connection—had spread through the office like wildfire. It had morphed you from a background player into the unwelcome centre of attention. Each step felt heavier than the last, your confidence sinking further as you imagined the scenarios they must be concocting. Yet, despite the murmurs, no one dared to approach you directly. They simply stared, whispered, and speculated, leaving you to endure the attention in silence.

By the time you reached your desk, your nerves were stretched taut. You dropped your bag next to the chair and slumped into the seat, staring blankly at your computer screen. The open layout of the office, which usually fostered collaboration, now felt stifling. Every glance felt like a spotlight, every quiet chuckle like it was aimed at you. Your chest tightened as if the walls were closing in.

A soft ping from your computer startled you. You opened your inbox with shaky hands, hoping for a mundane email to ground you. Instead, your heart sank as you read the subject line: “Meeting: 9:30 AM – Mr. Manion’s Office.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course. Your boss wasn’t going to let this slide without a formal discussion.

The clock read 9:30 AM sharp when you stood outside your boss’s office, taking a deep breath to steel yourself. The glass door reflected your image back at you—your blazer slightly wrinkled from the walk, your fingers clutching a tablet like a shield. You forced yourself to smooth down your hair, adjust your blouse, and plaster on a neutral expression. You knocked twice, the sound sharp and hollow.

“Come in,” came the brisk reply.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing the imposing space. Your boss’s office was the epitome of professionalism—sharp lines, muted tones, and a sense of order that bordered on sterile. Framed photos of MLSE milestones lined the walls, alongside neatly mounted jerseys signed by players he'd worked with countless times - hockey, baseball, basketball. The desk was immaculate, save for a single folder that sat directly in the centre. You didn’t need to look closer to know what was inside it.

Mr. Manion, your boss, a no-nonsense man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetually stern expression, gestured for you to sit. You perched stiffly on the edge of the leather chair, gripping the armrests like they might keep you grounded. The silence in the room stretched, the tension palpable as he flipped open the folder and scanned its contents.

Finally, he looked up, his brows knitting together in faint disapproval. “You’re aware of the situation, I assume?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, your voice steady despite the unease twisting in your stomach. “I’ve seen the photo.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied you. “Good. Then you understand why this is an issue. This photo—and the ridiculous frenzy it’s caused—has overshadowed what was supposed to be a highlight of our season. The charity event. The teams. Not…” He gestured vaguely toward you, his gaze unyielding. “You.”

The words landed like a slap, even though you’d braced yourself for them. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “I understand completely.”

“Do you?” His tone sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “Because right now, this office looks less like a PR department and more like the set of a reality show. And if there’s one thing I don’t tolerate, it’s distractions. Our focus is the client. Always the client.”

You nodded quickly, your cheeks burning. “I’ll fix it.”

He leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting. “Good. I’ve organised that you'll be at the hockey game tonight. You’ll work with the MLSE media team to redirect the narrative. Shift the attention back to the players, the franchise—anything but this viral nonsense. Understood?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice firm even as the weight of his expectations settled on your shoulders.

“And another thing,” he added, his tone softening but his expression remaining stern. “You’ll be working with Chase.”

Your stomach dropped. Of all people. Chase, the golden boy of the department who had an uncanny ability to make every situation about himself. Smug, self-assured, and relentless in his pursuit of credit for others’ work, he was the last person you wanted to be paired with.

“Chase?” you repeated, unable to keep the dismay out of your voice.

“Yes,” Mr. Manion said with finality. “He’s handled high-pressure situations before, and I expect you two to work together professionally to resolve this. No more distractions. No more headlines.”

You forced a tight smile. “Understood.”

“Good,” he said, closing the folder with a decisive snap. “Don’t let me down.”

The walk back to your desk felt even longer than the one to his office. Chase. Seriously... You could already picture his self-satisfied grin, the condescending tone he’d use to offer “advice.” The idea of spending the evening with him—let alone relying on him—made your skin crawl.

You slumped into your chair, your head spinning. The whispers around the office seemed to grow louder, like static building to a crescendo. You wanted to disappear, to crawl under your desk and wait for the world to forget the photo. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t an option.

Maybe, you thought for a brief moment, this could be an opportunity. Not the one you’d envisioned, but a chance nonetheless. If you could handle the media circus, Chase’s smugness, and the weight of your boss’s expectations, you’d prove you belonged here—not just as a worker, but as a leader.

Straightening your spine, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from your blouse. No more photos. No more moments. No more headlines. Just fix this and move forward.

Easy enough. Right?

The Maple Leafs’ locker room was alive with its usual pre-practice energy. The air buzzed with the familiar sounds of hockey prep—sticks being taped with meticulous precision, skate blades being checked and tightened, and gear bags being unzipped with sharp zings. The smell of sweat, leather, and faint traces of menthol liniment filled the room, but today, the usual pre-game hum carried an extra spark.

All eyes were on Auston Matthews.

“Yo, Tony!” Mitch’s voice broke through the din, instantly commanding attention. He was perched precariously on the bench, one foot up like a man about to deliver the Gettysburg Address. “So, do we call her your soulmate, or was she just your ‘weekend highlight’?”

The room erupted in laughter. Mitch, ever the instigator, milked the moment with exaggerated gestures, holding his heart like he’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Auston, unfazed, shrugged off his jacket, hanging it neatly in his stall as though Mitch hadn’t spoken at all.

“Neither,” Auston replied, his tone so smooth and casual it bordered on bored. “But thanks for your concern, Mitchy. Really warms my heart.”

“Oh, I’m concerned,” Mitch shot back, leaping down from the bench with dramatic flair. “It’s not every day our Captain makes romantic headlines off the ice.”

Matthew Knies chimed in next, leaning back lazily in his stall. His grin, wicked and knowing, spread like wildfire across his face. “You gonna share the story, or are you keeping this one all to yourself? Come on, Cappy. Did you at least get her number? Or is this just another no-strings situation?”

Auston finally glanced over, one brow arching in mock amusement. “Don’t you have a mirror to stare at, Kniesy? Go admire yourself somewhere else.”

The laughter doubled, bouncing off the walls like a puck ricocheting off the boards. Even the more reserved players smirked as the banter escalated.

Reaves, stretching out his shoulders, added in his deep baritone, “Bet her phone’s already blowing up. She’s probably sitting there right now, trying to figure out if she’s ready to handle the ‘Ice King.’”

“Or,” Mitch interjected again, holding up a finger like a professor making a critical point, “she’s trying to figure out why she’s trending while he’s already onto the next one.”

Auston rolled his eyes, dropping onto the bench as he reached for his skates. “You guys seriously need better hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” Mitch feigned outrage, clutching his chest theatrically like he’d been mortally wounded. “This is our hobby! Watching you fumble around women like it’s your first time stepping onto the ice.”

Even John Tavares, usually the stoic leader of the group, couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he taped his stick with methodical precision.

“You’re gonna need a new nickname after this,” Conor Timmins called out, grinning as he adjusted his shin guards. “Something like… Loverboy Matthews.”

“Or Prince Charming,” Max Domi suggested, leaning against the wall with a toothless grin. “You swooped in, caught her mid-fall—classic fairy-tale move. You practicing for a movie, or what?”

Auston didn’t miss a beat. “Just trying to remind you guys what grace under pressure looks like.”

The locker room erupted into hoots and cheers, players slapping their thighs or sticks against the floor in exaggerated applause. Even Auston, usually unflappable, couldn’t suppress the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s not forget the most important question, eh,” Mitch said, raising his voice to cut through the noise. “Did you or did you not close the deal? Because if you didn’t…” He let the sentence hang, his grin turning mischievous as the room erupted again.

Auston shook his head, leaning down to lace his skates with deliberate precision. “You guys are fucking awful. It was nothing. She’s just a PR manager doing her job. That’s it.”

Reaves shook his head, chuckling. “You’re telling me that look she gave you was part of the job? Please. If that’s her work face, I need to hire her immediately.”

“Let me guess,” William said, his grin widening. “You gave her your best smoulder, and she melted, didn’t she? Ice King strikes again.”

“Smoulder?” Mitch nearly doubled over laughing. “He probably just stood there and grunted. That’s his move. ‘I’m Auston Matthews. Be impressed.’”

“Don’t forget the eyebrow raise,” Max chimed in, waggling his own brows for emphasis. “That’s his closer.”

Auston grabbed a towel from his stall and lobbed it at Mitch, who narrowly dodged it with a dramatic yelp. “Keep dreaming, Marner. You’re just mad you’ll never have my moves.”

The room roared with laughter as Mitch held his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, please. I don’t need your moves, buddy. I’ve got personality.”

“Personality?” Auston repeated, finally looking up with a smirk. “That what you call it now?”

Before Mitch could fire back, a sharp whistle cut through the chaos. Chief’s voice boomed from the hallway. “Alright, enough! Let’s go! Save the soap opera for after practice.”

The laughter died down, though the smirks and knowing glances lingered as the players turned their attention to gearing up.

As soon as Auston stepped onto the ice, the locker room antics faded into the background. The cool air hit his face, sharpening his focus as he took his first powerful strides across the rink. The sound of blades slicing across the ice and sticks snapping against pucks filled the arena, a symphony of precision and power.

“Alright, boys, let’s dial it in!” Auston called, his voice cutting through the hum of activity.

His every movement on the ice was fluid and deliberate, his passes snapping perfectly to his teammates like they were guided by some invisible force. He commanded the flow of drills with the confidence of a seasoned leader, his focus razor-sharp.

Even when Mitch skated past during a drill, leaning in just close enough to whisper, “Hey, Prince Charming—don’t forget to teach us those moves later,” Auston didn’t miss a beat.

“Don’t worry, Mitchy,” he replied, his tone calm and cool. “I’ll save the lessons for when you finally learn how to backcheck.”

The nearby players burst into laughter, and Mitch groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. Auston smirked as he returned to the drill, his focus unwavering.

Back in the locker room, the banter picked up again as the players peeled off their gear and hit the showers. Auston wiped sweat from his forehead, grabbing his phone from his stall out of habit. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications, but one message stood out.

Mom: “Hola, mijo! Saw the news. You have a girlfriend now? Why didn’t you tell me? Qué sorpresa! Call me later. Besos!”

Auston groaned, leaning back in his stall as he rubbed a hand over his face. Of course, the rumours had made their way all the way to Arizona. His mother never missed a thing.

He quickly typed out a reply:

Auston: “No girlfriend. Just the media blowing things out of proportion. Promise I’ll call later.”

From the stall next to him, Mitch leaned over, his grin as wide as ever. “Let me guess—Mama Matthews wants to meet her future daughter-in-law?”

Auston groaned, tossing another damp towel at him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Marner?”

“Not until I hear how you’re gonna explain this to her,” Mitch quipped, dodging the towel with a laugh.

Auston shook his head, smirking despite himself. It was going to be a long day. The Ice King wasn’t just trending—he was thriving.

“Oh, Auston. A commanding captain on the ice, a knight in shining armour at the galas—tell us, is there anything you can’t do? From blistering wrist shots to a disarming smirk that leaves reporters and fans alike spellbound, you’ve mastered the art of being Toronto’s shining star. Perhaps Mitch Marner should take notes—not just on your hockey technique, but on handling attention with your signature, infuriatingly effortless charm. And William Nylander? He might need a crash course in keeping up with your knack for drawing the spotlight without even trying.

But every kingdom needs balance, doesn’t it? A king isn’t a king without his loyal support. The rookies may watch your every move, but the city is watching, too—an entire court of adoring subjects, dissecting every detail, every headline, every photo. Careful, Matthews. It’s easy to rule the ice, but when the lines between the rink and the spotlight begin to blur, kingdoms can crumble under the weight of their own grandeur.

Your throne is solid for now, but your court is hungry for more. What will you give them next? - The Benchwarmer”

The Scotiabank Arena buzzed with pre-game anticipation, the hum of excited chatter blending with the sharp sounds of skates cutting across the ice during warm-ups. Fans clad in blue-and-white jerseys filled the air with energy, their collective excitement palpable as they streamed through the wide doors. The aroma of buttery popcorn and sizzling pretzels wafted through the concourse, mingling with the chill that radiated from the rink below.

You adjusted your blazer with a sharp tug, clutching your tablet tightly as you made your way to the media section. This was your arena of expertise—coordinating interviews, ensuring the narrative focused on the team, and staying invisible in the process. But tonight, the stakes felt impossibly high. The viral #MysteryQueen photo wasn’t just following you; it was plastered in the eyes and whispers of everyone around you.

As you approached the media room entrance, Chase was already waiting, predictably pristine in his perfectly tailored suit. His signature smirk was firmly in place, the kind that always made you want to roll your eyes. He leaned casually against the wall, looking as though he were preparing to deliver a victory speech rather than assist you in damage control.

“Well, well,” he said as you reached him, his tone dripping with mockery. “If it isn’t Toronto’s newest viral sensation. Tell me, how’s life as #MysteryQueen treating you?”

You shot him a glare, your jaw tightening. “Let’s just focus on the job,” you replied curtly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chase said, falling into step beside you as you walked into the room. “I’m here to make sure you don’t turn this into an even bigger mess. You’ve done enough of that already.”

You clenched your teeth, your grip on the tablet tightening. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Chase.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Because from where I’m standing, you could use a crash course in PR basics. Like staying invisible and not ending up as the story. Rookie move, don’t you think?”

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him with an icy glare. “Are you going to help, or are you just here to gloat?”

Chase raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin unrelenting. “Relax. I’m just here to keep you in line. Wouldn’t want you tripping over Matthews again and handing the internet more fuel for their fire.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at the jab, but you forced yourself to take a deep breath, counting silently to three. “Let’s just get through tonight without any incidents,” you said, turning on your heel and walking ahead without waiting for his reply.

The pre-game interviews began in a whirlwind of camera flashes and bustling reporters. Auston Matthews entered the room right on time, his presence commanding immediate attention. Every camera lens turned toward him, capturing his perfectly composed demeanour as he prepared for the barrage of questions.

You stood to the side, tablet in hand, observing quietly as he answered each question with ease. He was a natural—calm, polished, and confident. His responses were precise yet charming, a masterclass in handling media under pressure.

Chase leaned in slightly, his voice low but laced with condescension. “Look at him—perfect posture, perfect answers. You’d think he rehearsed this a hundred times.”

“He has,” you shot back under your breath, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

Auston’s gaze flicked in your direction, his eyes catching yours for a fleeting moment. For a split second, a glimmer of amusement danced across his face, as though he’d overheard your exchange. He smirked slightly, turning back to the reporters, but somehow the gesture felt like it was meant for you.

When the interviews concluded, you stepped aside to check the evening’s schedule, your focus shifting back to logistics. Of course, Chase remained close, ready to offer unsolicited commentary.

“You know,” he began, his voice teasing as he leaned against the wall, “if you’re trying to stay out of the spotlight, you might want to stop looking at him like that.”

Your head snapped up, a frown forming on your face. “Like what?” you demanded, sharper than you intended.

“Like he’s the only person in the room,” Chase replied with a smug grin. “Just saying.”

Before you could respond, the crowd began to disperse, the pre-game atmosphere shifting as fans filed toward their seats for the national anthem. You let out a frustrated breath, forcing yourself to refocus. Chase wasn’t worth your energy. Not tonight.

As the game began, the arena roared to life, the crowd erupting with every rush down the ice and save by the goalie. From the media section, you watched the game unfold, your tablet propped on your lap as you took notes and ensured the schedule ran smoothly. Auston was, as always, in his element, commanding the ice with every stride. He directed plays with a sharpness that reminded everyone why he wore the captain’s “C.”

But even amidst the game’s intensity, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time you glanced up, it felt as though the whispers of fans were louder than the cheers. You caught glimpses of people pointing in your direction, their phones raised discreetly—or not so discreetly—to snap photos.

The hashtag wasn’t going anywhere. If anything, the spectacle was growing.

Chase leaned over during a break in play, his smirk firmly in place. “You’re a hit, you know. The internet can’t get enough of you.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, keeping your eyes on the game. But his words lingered, gnawing at your already frazzled nerves. This wasn’t the kind of attention you wanted—or ever asked for. Worse, you couldn’t tell if Auston was ignoring the attention or quietly revelling in it.

As the final buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted in cheers, you exhaled deeply, the weight of the night still pressing down on you. But this was only the beginning. There was still so much more to face.

The buzz of the post-game crowd echoed faintly through the tunnel, a mix of jubilant cheers and the hum of arena staff preparing to wind down for the night. The air was thick with energy, but you barely noticed, your thoughts consumed by the task ahead. You stood just outside the media room, shifting your weight between your heels as if the motion could steady the whirlwind of nerves building inside you.

Your tablet felt heavy in your arms, not because of its weight but because of what it symbolised—your professional armour in a moment that felt far too personal. The image of the viral photo flashed through your mind for the hundredth time that day. The teasing. The whispers. The relentless #MysteryQueen hashtag that refused to die. You hadn’t asked for this spotlight, but it seemed determined to follow you.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and when Auston Matthews stepped out of the media room, your pulse quickened. His shirt was damped, the faint sheen of exertion still clinging to his skin. He exuded a casual confidence, as if he were entirely unfazed by the chaos swirling around him. His gaze swept the hallway before landing on you, and just like that, his professional mask slipped into something more playful.

Raising a brow, he smirked, his tone low and teasing. “Waiting for me?”

You let out a huff, trying to summon the last reserves of your professionalism. “We need to talk,” you said briskly, nodding toward a quieter corner of the hallway.

Intrigued, Auston fell into step beside you, the faint click of his shoes on the concrete floor adding to the tension. Once out of earshot from the lingering media, he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in a relaxed pose that was the polar opposite of how you felt. His posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching you with open curiosity.

“Alright,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his smirk never wavering. “What’s on your mind, Mystery Queen?”

The heat rushed to your cheeks, and you resisted the childish urge to stomp your foot. “Can you not call me that?”

“Fine,” he replied, clearly humouring you, though the amusement in his voice only grew. “What’s the issue, boss?”

Taking a steadying breath, you tightened your grip on your tablet, the hard edges grounding you. “I need you to address the rumours,” you said firmly. “Publicly. Tell everyone there’s nothing between us.”

Auston tilted his head, his smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. “Why?”

“Because,” you said, struggling to keep your frustration in check, “my boss isn’t thrilled about the attention. I’m supposed to be behind the scenes, not… trending online. I have a career to build, and this whole spectacle is not helping.”

He nodded slowly; his expression thoughtful. For a fleeting moment, you thought he might agree. But then, a different light sparked in his eyes—something calculating, almost mischievous—and his smirk returned, sharper than before.

“You want people to take you seriously, right?” he asked, his tone almost too casual.

“Yes,” you said cautiously, narrowing your eyes. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“And you need to stand out? Get noticed by your boss?”

The suspicion prickling at the back of your neck deepened. “What are you getting at?”

Auston straightened slightly, his relaxed stance giving way to something more deliberate. “What if… we don’t deny it?”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“Think about it,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone that could probably charm half the city. “The attention isn’t going away anytime soon. If anything, it’s only going to get worse. So why not use it to your advantage?”

“You’re suggesting we… fake it?”

“Exactly,” Auston said, his confidence radiating like heat from a fire. “You want people to notice you? They will. You’ll look like the PR genius who landed me. And I get the media off my back for a while. Everyone thinks I’m ‘taken,’ and they stop asking me about my personal life. Win-win.”

You blinked at him, completely stunned by the audacity of his proposal. “That’s insane.”

“Is it?” he countered, his tone steady, his expression calm. “You said you wanted to build your name. What better way to get people talking? We use this Benchwarmer columnist to our advantage - the gossip she’s writing about me. Us. It’s pure strategy - something you’d know all about. Huh?”

Logic screamed at you to walk away, to tell him he was out of his mind. But another part of you—the part that had endured Chase’s relentless teasing, your boss’s stern lecture, and the whispers of your co-workers—paused. Was this really any more ridiculous than the situation you were already in? And if you played it right, couldn’t this be an opportunity?

You chewed your lip, your gaze darting toward the hallway where the faint buzz of the arena still lingered. “If this has to work,” you said hesitantly, “it has to be believable. No half-measures.”

“Believable,” Auston repeated, his smirk widening into a full grin. “That’s my specialty.”

You let out a resigned sigh, shaking your head. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy works,” he said with a wink, leaning in just enough to make your pulse skip. “Trust me.”

You searched his face for any sign that he wasn’t serious, but all you found was confidence and a glimmer of mischief. Against every ounce of better judgment, you nodded slowly.

“Alright,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do it.”

The grin that spread across Auston’s face was triumphant, almost wolfish. “You won’t regret it,” he said, his voice low and assured.

As you turned to walk away, your heart pounded in your chest, your thoughts racing faster than the cheers that still echoed faintly through the arena. You couldn’t help but wonder: What have I just gotten myself into?

“Dear Toronto readers, it seems we have yet another moment destined for the record books. The Ice King himself, Auston Matthews, and his so-called Mystery Queen were spotted in an intimate exchange in the depths of Scotiabank Arena, away from the roar of the crowd and the cameras—well, most of them.

Sparks, dear readers, are flying faster than pucks on a power play.

The city is buzzing louder than the boards after a hard check, and why wouldn’t it be? For a team as iconic as the Maple Leafs, even the smallest whisper of a new royal couple in their kingdom is enough to set the fandom ablaze. And this particular pairing? It has all the makings of a modern fairy tale—complete with a little mystery and a lot of chemistry.

But let’s not forget the rest of the court. The rookies may be loyal subjects, and the veteran players ever-watchful advisors, but every kingdom comes with its share of intrigue. Whispers from the locker room suggest a reign of strategy, while murmurs in the stands lean toward romance.

Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: this King and Queen have the entire city watching their every move. Will their story be one of triumph or turmoil? Only time will tell.

So, stay tuned, Toronto. The season is young, and the drama is only just beginning.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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vampiriito · 1 day ago

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Summer was my first muse.. (JJ Maybank X shy! kook! reader) Part 2

A/N: Hey loves! this is the second installment of summer was my first love and i just wanna say i love ya'll. You're all so nice, even the people simply liking, means a lot that my work is getting read. And the people asking to be on the taglist- you make my day. Anyway, here's your chapter, we're getting another interaction which I'm quite frankly very proud about. I like to think the reader is so funny, without actually trying, love her for wandering around the beach in skating attire. This work is dedicated to my friend, gwen :) love you wifey.

Summary: JJ Maybank spots you on the beach and discovers that his so-called good conversation skills are basically useless when it comes to you :) (although he still tries.)

You didn't know why you fell in love with JJ Maybank. He wasn't exactly the type of guy your parents would want you bringing home. Not with the reputation he liked to carry around just like you carried your camera or board. Well, until one day in 5th grade when your mom snooped through your diary and realized just how much you had been crushing on the blond hellion. Since then, your parents took a liking on the idea of you bringing home the guy who charmed his way into the heart of little 3rd grade you. But that was wishful thinking on theirs and Maisy's parts.

God, he was beautiful. His eyes were a shade of blue that you never quite managed to color match when looking for paint colors. The dimple on his cheek never failed to make your knees buckle and your tummy do a flip. You liked to think that if you actually had the courage to ever paint him, you'd paint JJ Maybank with gold specks deep in his baby blue irises and a boyish grin that managed to honor his dimple and the crow's feet by his eyes.

From this angle, the sun hit his hair just right, and despite being shrouded by the tree line you could still see the way the breeze brushed gently through the strands, messing them up and making them dance around his head like a halo. He's smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners like they do every time he's laughing or telling a story, and your finger hovers over the shutter-release button for a few moments simply just admiring him, before snapping a picture. It was like he was created to be photographed or painted, his smile and features so symmetrical that you envied him sometimes.

You watch as leans down and grabs a beer can, not paying too much attention at the hand offering it to him. He retrieves a small switch-blade from his board shorts' pocket and makes a small incision at the bottom of the of the can and bringing it to his lips. He successfully shot guns the can of Natty light and one-two-three.. click! another picture. You lower the camera and study the picture on the display, reaching up to adjust your glasses with a soft flick of your finger.

You liked photographing other things aside from JJ Maybank. Nature being second best on your 'favorites' list. The sky was so beautiful and the marsh and beach were your favorite places. The small creatures and the greenery or the ocean were your favorite attractions and no matter how many times you photographed them, they never looked the same. But as you wandered through the marsh that summer day, you ended at the edge of the tree-line, on the beach sitting none other than JJ, surrounded by his usual crowd of people, John B, Pope and Kiara, Sarah Cameron being an addition to their group a little later.

You didn't follow him out here. Much less with the intention of snapping secret snapshots from between the trees. Still, you felt like a creep... You raised the camera to your eyes again, capturing another shot. JJ was now gazing out at the water, pointing to the waves and laughing about something you couldn't hear. The scene was beautiful, his joy infectious. You lowered the camera and finally stepped out from the tree line onto the beach, frowning to yourself as you stepped on the sand, the texture of it already annoying you given you were wearing your beat up sneakers. There was a considerable distance between you, JJ and his crowd, so you weren't worried about being spotted or approached by him or his friends.

As you walked along the shoreline, your eyes were drawn to a starfish that had been washed up by the waves. Its delicate limbs sprawled out on the sand, glistening in the sun light. You decided to photograph it before releasing it back into the water. Crouching on the soft sand, you brought the camera's lens closer to the small creature, snapping a picture and then inspecting it happily.

The starfish, a fragile beauty against the damp sand, seemed to encapsulate a moment of pure serenity. A stark contrast from your everyday internal dialogue. How lucky was she, getting to live in complete silence and have people like you release her back into the ocean after being photographed?

JJ was still chatting and laughing with his friends, completely oblivious to your presence on the beach. He was in the midst of explaining the importance of timing waves while surfing when he suddenly caught a glimpse of something in his periphery view. He turned his head slightly and spotted you for the first time, kneeling on the sand a few yards away from him and his friends. He stopped mid-sentence, his attention momentarily shifting from his friends to you. He watched you kneel in the sand, taking pictures of a starfish that had been washed up by the waves.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to figure out why you always seemed to show up in the most random places, and why the hell were you wearing jeans and a hoodie to the beach? He had never really paid much attention to you before, but now he couldn’t help but be slightly curious about you.

He watched as you photographed the starfish, your face completely hidden behind the camera. He wondered what was so interesting about a simple starfish, but the longer he looked at you, the more intrigued he became.

You gently lifted the starfish after capturing its delicate beauty through your lens. With careful hands, you released it back into the water, watching as it gracefully disappeared beneath the waves. Your focus shifted to the rhythmic dance of the sea.

Raising the camera once again, you framed a shot of the sun's golden reflection on the waves. The light shimmered and danced on the water's surface, creating a breathtaking scene. This picture would need a bit of editing, but it was certainly worthy of posting on your Instagram. Aside from the pictures of JJ, of course. Those were just for you. You knew it might sound a bit strange and even creepy, but you weren't doing anything with the pictures. Besides, JJ wasn't the only one you photographed; he was just particularly captivating through your lens.

JJ continued watching you as you released the starfish back into the water, his curiosity growing with each passing second. He watched as you lifted your camera once more, snapping a picture of the sun reflecting off the waves. He couldn’t help but wonder what you found so interesting about the simple waves. He usually found himself taming the waves when he was out on the water, not admiring and taking pictures of them.

He found your interest in photography and natural beauty to be almost foreign to him. He’s always thought that everyone's interest laid in parties and surfing, not something so pure and quiet.

He sat there for a few minutes, continuing to watch you as you took more photographs of the ocean and the shoreline. He kept waiting for you to look over in his direction, to notice his eyes on you, but you seemed completely immersed in the viewfinder of your camera. He found himself watching with a mix of curiosity and fascination, trying to figure out what was going on in your head.

The Boneyard was a breathtaking place—a hidden gem where the ocean met the land in a dramatic embrace. Sun-bleached driftwood trees stood like skeletal guardians along the shoreline, giving the beach its haunting name. The sand was cool beneath your sneakers, a mixture of fine grains and crushed seashells that shimmered like tiny pearls. The air was crisp with the scent of salt and the faint aroma of wildflowers that clung stubbornly to the rocky outcrops.

You were still aware that JJ was further down the beach, his laughter occasionally carried to you by the gentle sea breeze. Unbeknownst to you, his gaze had settled on you, a curious look in his aquamarine eyes. Oblivious, you turned away, your back now facing him. Your attention shifted to a new angle where the waves caught the sunlight just so, each crest adorned with a glistening spray that made the ocean look like it was covered in a blanket of diamonds. The water reflected hues of gold and silver, harmonizing with the deep blues and greens of the sea.

The Boneyard's beauty was a photographer's dream. You lifted the camera once more, framing the shot where the sun's rays kissed the waves, creating a mesmerizing sparkle that danced across the surface. The images of JJ, however, were different. Those were just for you—a secret collection of candid moments that captured something genuine and unguarded. It might seem a bit peculiar, maybe even intrusive, but photography was your way of connecting with the world, and JJ looked like he was made to exist through your viewfinder..

As you moved along the shoreline, the sound of the waves provided a soothing soundtrack, each crash and whisper syncing with the rhythm of your heartbeat. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows and bathing everything in a warm, golden light. Seabirds called out to one another as they swooped and dived, their silhouettes cutting gracefully through the sky.

The rugged beauty of the Boneyard captivated you. Clusters of sea grass swayed gently atop the dunes. You felt a profound sense of peace here, as if time itself had slowed down to let you absorb every detail. Raising your camera yet again, you captured the interplay of light and shadow, the textures of the driftwood, the endless horizon where the sea met the sky.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the concerns, the self-consciousness, even the awareness of JJ somewhere behind you. It was just you and the vast expanse of nature's artistry. You took a deep breath, the salty air filling your lungs, and smiled softly. This was why you loved photography—not just for the images it produced, but for the way it allowed you to see and appreciate the world in all its transient beauty.

JJ watched as you turned away from him, now facing the other direction. He took the opportunity to look at you without you noticing, his eyes scanning your form from behind. He noticed the way you moved around, trying to find new angles to photograph the waves. He was almost envious of how easy it seemed for you to just get lost in the moment, completely unbothered by anything or anyone around you.

He found himself wondering what it would be like to be so detached from the people and the world around you, just being completely focused on something as simple as the waves. He continued to watch you for a few moments, his eyes still fixed on your figure, before suddenly realizing that he had been staring for far too long. He quickly looked back to his friends, trying to play it off like he hadn’t just been blatantly staring at you.

He forced himself to keep his eyes off you, trying to tune back into the conversation that he was supposed to be a part of. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but keep sneaking glances in your direction, watching you as you moved and photographed the beach.

He found himself silently cursing the fact that he couldn’t just walk over to you and ask why you were so intriguing to him. He was JJ for crying out loud, he could talk to anyone he wanted.

As he continued to sit there with his friends, he couldn’t help but feel frustrated with himself. He was a confident guy, but for some reason he found it hard to approach you. Maybe it was because you were always so quiet and shy around him, or maybe it was because you seemed so engrossed in your photographs that it seemed like you didn’t want to be bothered. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted to get to know you, but he also couldn’t get up the courage to take the first step.

He tried to distract himself by joining in on his friends’ conversation, but his mind kept wandering back to you. He kept thinking about the way you knelt down in the sand, the way your face was hidden behind the camera, the way your hands moved effortlessly to adjust the settings of the camera.

Finally, his frustration got the best of him. He couldn’t sit there any longer, pretending that he wasn’t completely captivated by you. He decided it was time to act on his urges and finally talk to you, even if it meant facing your shy and awkward demeanor.

He stood up from his spot on the sand, the others in his crowd giving him quizzical glances, but he didn’t pay them any mind. He dusted off his shorts, his eyes still fixed on you, and began walking in your direction.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he got closer to you, his mind racing with thoughts of what he was going to say to you. 'What if you’re weird? What if you hate me? What if you start stuttering again?’ he worried while his legs carried him towards your form.

After capturing a series of shots of a seagull pecking at a stray French fry beside your feet—its feathers ruffling gently in the salty breeze—you felt a small surge of satisfaction. The gull was engrossed in its meal, oblivious to your presence, allowing you to document its simple pleasure, the sight of it quite funny to you. Just as you raised the camera, a shadow filled your viewfinder, causing you to flinch slightly. Startled, you realized that JJ's face had come into sudden, unexpected focus, his features accentuated by the golden hues of the setting sun.

Your heart skipped a beat as you lowered the camera shakily, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Adjusting your glasses, you looked up to find JJ standing startlingly close, his baby blue eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite decipher. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of you, the distant crash of waves and the call of seagulls fading into the background. A flush of heat crawled up your neck. Anxiety twisted in your stomach like a coiled serpent. Had he noticed you taking pictures of him earlier? The mere thought sent a cold rush through your veins, making you almost queasy. The idea of him confronting you for your inadvertent creepiness was mortifying.

JJ came to a halt a few feet away from you, his eyes fixed on you. He stood there for a moment, studying your face, the way your eyes glanced at him nervously behind the frames of your glasses. He could see the anxiety written all over your face.

"Hey, mouse."

He said in his usual cocky and confident tone. He hoped he didn’t look as unsure as he actually was.

"Uh hey.." you said in an unsure tone, letting your camera dangle from your neck lazily, the strap snug around your neck. He was still calling you 'mouse', so he remembered the other night at the party, and the whole ordeal of getting shoved in a closet together. Of course he did, it's not everyday you get locked into a small space with a socially inept stranger.

JJ stuck his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning you up and down. He watched as you lowered your camera, letting it dangle from your neck. He couldn’t help but notice the way you fidgeted with the strap, seemingly uncomfortable with him being so close.

He tilted his head slightly as he looked at you, his face wearing a slight smirk. "So, taking pictures of seagulls now, huh?"

"It was eating a french fry.." you laughed weakly, pointing vaguely to the spot where the seagull was just a few moments ago. The little fucker had flown away, leaving you pointing to an empty space on the sand beside your feet. Suddenly the notion of it eating a french fry wasn't as funny anymore.

JJ let out a soft scoff, a small smile forming on his face. He looked at the spot you pointed to, where the seagull had once been.

"A seagull eating a french fry is picture-worthy to you?"

He raised an eyebrow, teasing you.

You nodded mutely, fidgeting with the strap of the camera nervously.

JJ watched as you fidgeted with the camera strap, your nervousness apparent. He couldn’t help but find your shy and awkward behavior interesting, although he would never admit that out loud.

"So, why seagulls and starfish and all that?" he asked, genuinely curious about your interest in taking photographs of mundane things.

You shrugged, gnawing at your bottom lip. The mention of the starfish made your ears perk up, 'so he was watching me for a little longer and more intently, if he saw me take a picture of the starfish.' you observed internally. The thought almost made you excited. "They look interesting.." you stated simply, humming faintly.

JJ's eyes lingered on you as you gnawed at your bottom lip, the action making him feel something in the pit of his stomach. He watched as your brows seemed to perk up slightly when he mentioned the starfish, silently finding that quite adorable. He had been watching you more intently than he would like to admit, but he couldn’t help but be drawn to your behavior.

He raised an eyebrow at your simple response, still watching you. "Interesting, huh? Interesting how?"

You stepped closer hesitantly, flicking through the pictures until you landed on the starfish, tilting the camera screen so he could study the picture himself, your actions silent. You watched his face as he leaned in studying the picture curiously, taking the time to study him, while he studied your picture. He was breathtaking. He smelled like cheap beer and his usual smell of ocean water and weed.

JJ furrowed his eyebrows as he leaned in closer to the camera screen, his eyes scanning the picture of the starfish that you had taken.

He had to admit, the picture was pretty damn good. The way you had captured the textures and colors of the starfish was fascinating, and he found himself looking at it intently.

He tilted his head to the side slightly, his eyes flicking up to your face as he continued to study the picture.

"Damn, you really know how to use a camera."

JJ continued to watch your face as he looked at the picture, noticing the way you observed him silently. He wondered what was going on in that shy brain of yours, and part of him felt almost nervous under your gaze.

Finally, he looked up from the camera and at your face again. He had to admit, there was something about your eyes that was oddly captivating.

"You take pictures like this often?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of curiosity.

A small smile made its way onto your face at his compliment. You hated taking compliments when it came to your photography or any of your other hobbies, but with JJ it seemed like it was almost welcome. Maybe your were just biased since he was the object of your pathetic pinning for almost 9 years.

You nodded, your mind wandering to how you took pictures of him secretly and you felt creepy again. It was a bad feeling, you hated it, you truly just liked how he looked through a camera and that's how you captured your love for him. Poets and painters used their paints and words and you... You used your camera.

JJ noticed the small smile that graced your lips as he complimented you, and he found himself feeling strangely satisfied with himself.

He knew that receiving compliments was probably not your thing, considering how shy and reserved you were, but he couldn’t help but want to keep drawing those smiles out of you. He found himself weirdly drawn to the way your face lit up when you were happy.

He watched as your eyes lost focus for a moment, a hint of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on flickering across your face. He furrowed his eyebrows slightly, wondering what you were thinking about, seemingly an occurring thought the longer he spent around you. You seemed to go to your own world for a moment, a subtle shift in your expression, an almost sad look in your eyes.

He took the opportunity to study your face yet again, his eyes tracing every detail. The way your eyelashes flickered, the way you gnawed at your bottom lip, the way your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your camera.

He wanted to ask you what you were thinking about, but he hesitated. Would you even tell him? He knew that you weren’t exactly comfortable in his presence and you always seemed a bit shy around him, but for some reason he wanted to know what was going on in your head.

He decided to try his luck, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"What’s on your mind, mouse?"

Your eyes snapped to his again, blinking a couple of times. You shrugged slowly pressing your lips in a thin line, "nothing.."

JJ’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched you snap back to reality, your eyes meeting his again. He could tell that you weren’t being completely honest, he could see it in the way you pressed your lips together.

He took a step closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. He knew you were hiding something, but he wasn’t sure what. "I call bs, mouse. Spill it."

"Are you this forward and personal space invading with every stranger?" you found yourself asking softly, surprised at how easily the words just rolled out of your mouth. Maybe it was the fact that you were nervous and you felt cornered. And besides you still sounded like a weak and quiet whimp. Your response gave you deja-vu.

JJ raised an eyebrow at your response, surprised that you had actually said something to him that wasn’t a simple one-word answer. He was even more surprised that you had actually called him out.

He took another step closer, leaning in slightly, his eyes still on your face.

"No, I usually don’t care about what strangers are thinking. But you’re different, mouse." He paused, continuing to observe you. He was standing pretty close now, but he wasn’t backing away.

You hummed nodding, taking a small step back to put some distance between the 2 of you. Close proximity wasn't your thing, especially when the other person was none other than JJ.

You probably looked rude, your body language was probably giving off repulsion, but you were just so shy and flustered, and you didn't want to look like a dumbass in front of him by stuttering and blushing like a schoolgirl. That would be so embarrassing, god. If you and JJ kept interacting, you'd probably end up getting a nose-bleed.

JJ watched as you took a step back, creating some distance between you. He noticed the way you seemed on edge, your body language giving off a repellant vibe. He knew from experience that you were probably just feeling shy and flustered, which was understandable given how shy you usually were around him.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for invading your personal space like that. But, he also was enjoying the fact that he was making you so flustered. The two feelings were crashing with each other in his brain and he wasn't sure if he liked that. "Sorry, mouse. Didn’t mean to crowd you."

Every time he was apologetic about something he did without meaning, which he thought made you uncomfortable, your heart fluttered for him. He seemed so much more different with you, in the 2 times you had interacted, like actually interacted. That made you like him more if it was possible. You were absolutely, mind bogglingly whipped for this dude, and what was even funnier- He had no idea. Absolutely comical.

You were silent as you stared up at him for a few seconds, before speaking up softly trying to reassure him as best as you could, "it's okay.. don't worry."

JJ listened carefully as you spoke, your soft voice sending a strange flutter through his chest. He noticed the look in your eyes as you looked up at him, and it made his stomach do a little flip.

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was doing. He didn’t usually care this much about a stranger, but something about you had him completely enthralled. "Okay, mouse. I’ll try not to get too up in your personal space again."

He said, his voice softer than usual.

JJ stared at you for a few more moments, taking in your features. The way your hair fell softly in around your face, braided into two loose braids, the way you continued to fidget with the strap of your camera, the way your lips parted just slightly as you breathed quietly.

He found himself feeling oddly drawn to you, and he didn’t quite understand why. He had always thought of you as just "that shy girl from the country club," but now he was starting to realize that there might be more to you than he first thought. Maybe he shouldn't judge the people at the country club so quickly. 'What a dumbass conclusion to come to, 'm not prejudiced..'

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

You knew that JJ didn't care about personal space much, given you saw how he interacted with his friends or even girls he was trying to chat up at parties or around town. So his reassurance actually meant something to you. Although you kinda wanted him to invade your personal space now, despite knowing you'll probably die on the spot.

You studied him intently too, the way his blonde hair almost glowed in the sunlight and the way it was ruffled gently by the breeze. His eyelashes and those blue eyes which you loved to photograph so much when you had the chance. You suddenly wanted to make him laugh somehow, to also see the small dimple on his right cheek, but that was wishful thinking given you were just standing there mutely. Nothing was charmingly funny about being awkwardly quiet.

With the 2 of you standing there silently, just studying each other, JJ couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes scanned over his face. He wasn’t used to someone staring at him so intently, especially someone he didn’t know very well.

He wasn’t sure what you were thinking in that brain of yours, but the intensity of your gaze made his stomach do another weird flutter.

He cleared his throat once again, breaking the silence.

"So, uh... you like taking pictures, huh?" he almost face-palmed from how obvious that question was, especially with the camera dangling from your neck, basically rolling its eyes at him as soon as the words left his lips. What the hell was happening to him? Why couldn't he socialize properly?

You let out a huff of genuine amused laughter at his obvious question. You shook the camera gently as if it to say 'what gave it away,' studying his slightly awkward stance. Never in 8 years of liking him, have you ever seen JJ Maybank actually awkard. Of course he'd be awkward around you, that's what happened when people spoke to you.

"No i just carry the camera for bragging rights..." you spoke up suddenly, your tone sarcastic and amused but still soft and quiet.

JJ couldn’t help but smile slightly as you quietly laughed at his question. He felt another spark of satisfaction at himself upon hearing the surprisingly pleasant sound.

He raised an eyebrow at your sarcastic response, his smile turning into a smirk.

"Bragging rights? Damn, mouse. Didn’t peg you for the cocky type."

You shrugged, feigning smugness as you shifted awkwardly in your spot, looking up at him.

"Why?... i mean why are you asking me if i like taking pictures.." you spoke up again, blinking quickly, silently cursing yourself for stuttering a bit as you gathered the courage to ask the simple question.

He noticed the way you shifted awkwardly, and the slight stutter in your voice as you spoke. He could tell that you were uncomfortable, but he didn’t quite understand why. He just wanted to get to know you better.

JJ chuckled softly, his smirk widening a bit.

"Just making conversation, mouse. Plus, I figure something this expensive has got to mean something to you."

He gestured to the camera around your neck.

"It does... my mom got it for me." you spoke softly, looking down at your camera and adjusting your glasses.

You still remembered how happy you were when you got the camera, finally able to capture as many pictures of things you liked but couldn't quite put into your paintings. Although your relationship with your mom and parents in general was a little-.. Strained at the moment, you loved the camera as much as you loved your board, the two constantly battling for second best in your heart. Obviously JJ was first best.

He listened as you spoke softly, his gaze softening as he watched you look down at your camera.

He could sense there was more to the story than just "my mom got it for me," but he didn't push you. He knew that you were a private person, and he didn't want to push you too far out of your comfort zone.

He took a step closer to you, his hand darting out to gently touch the camera around your neck.

"Your mom has good taste."

JJ watched as you flinched slightly as he touched the camera, and he quickly pulled his hand back.

He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so he took a half step back again, giving you some space.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke up again, his voice softer than before. "Why do you take pictures of things like starfish and seagulls?"

You were surprised as he took a step closer, startled that he wanted to touch your old camera, but the feeling melted into disappointment when he stepped back.

"To paint them. It's much easier when the thing you're trying to paint doesn't move." you explained gently, you didn't have the courage to start painting him though. Across these years you took so many pictures but never actually had the courage to try and paint him.

JJ nodded slowly, understanding your reason for taking pictures of such mundane things. It made sense to him that you needed a still subject. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at you, his eyes locking with yours for a moment.

"You paint? What kind of stuff do you paint other than starfish and seagulls?"

"Scenery... my family... random things I like..." you listed awkwardly, your words trailing off as a faint blush warmed your cheeks. Humming in thought, you tilted your head back to gaze at the endless expanse of sky. Wisps of cotton candy clouds drifted lazily across the azure canvas, and the soft hues of twilight began to creep in. The vivid images of the paintings flooded back into your mind—rolling hills bathed in golden sunlight, candid snapshots of laughter-filled family gatherings, and close-ups of everyday objects that held secret significance.

JJ watched as you hummed in thought, your eyes cast up to the sky. He could tell you were thinking about your paintings, and he found himself wanting to see your paintings. He was curious about what your art looked like.

He cleared his throat, pulling your attention back to him.

"Have you ever painted a person?"

"Aside from my family? no..." you mumbled, your eyes setting into his once again. Maisy was an exception, sometimes she forced you to paint her. Your favorite painting of her was of her one morning, with a massive hangover, makeup ruined and strawberry blonde hair sticking out in every direction.

He nodded slowly, noticing the way your eyes set into his. There was something about your gaze that was both captivating and nerve wracking at the same time.

He took a small step closer to you, and for some reason, he couldn't stop the words from falling out of his mouth.

"What would you paint if I were a still subject?"

"What do you mean?" you asked a bit confused, swallowing a small lump that was threatening to form in your throat.

JJ smiled slightly at your confusion, amused by how innocent and naive you could be sometimes.

He took another step forward, closing the distance between the two of you even more.

"I mean, if I sat completely still and acted as your still subject, what would you paint? Like, would you paint a portrait of me or something different?"

"Oh.. probably your eyes." you spoke without realizing, your eyes snapping up from the sand under your sneakers to look up at him with a slight panicked look. The response was vague and what you meant to say was: 'you'd paint a portrait of him' but the words came out weirdly.

JJ's eyebrows raised in surprise at your words. He wasn't expecting your answer to be so direct, but it honestly made him feel weirdly giddy.

He leaned in a bit closer to you, his eyes narrowed slightly. "My eyes? Why my eyes?"

"Well they're blue." 'yeah dumbass.. he knows his eyes are blue.' you scolded your self internally for your simple and dumb answer.

You resisted the urge to face palm at the simple and quiet statement whipped out in a nervous rush, just staring at him blankly, fidgeting with your glasses.

JJ chuckled at your response. He didn't know why, but he found it amusing that you answered his question with such a simple and obvious answer. He couldn't help but tease you a bit. "Yeah, I'm aware they're blue."

He said, his voice sarcastic and amused. He took another step closer, now standing only a foot away from you. He could almost see the panic in your eyes.

You felt like a dumbass. Who has the conversation skills of a baked potato? you seriously needed to get it together this was absolutely pathetic. His teasing statement didn't help how you felt either, growing more embarrassed as he spoke, the tips of your ears burning from being so flustered.

JJ could see the way you were mentally kicking yourself for your simple response. He found it slightly endearing how flustered and anxious you were at the moment, just because he was close to you and you couldn't string together a coherent sentence to save your life. It made him want to tease you even more.

He leaned in slightly closer, his face now only inches away from yours, his breath lightly touching your cheek.

"You know, you're adorable when you're nervous, mouse."

Which is all the time-... what? did he just? Refer to you as adorable? You felt as if your heart stopped for a second and started beating way too fast at the same time, your face heating up visually probably. You were so PATHETIC, ugh. Why couldn't you just take conversations in stride, just like he did, or any other fucking normal human on this planet?

JJ could see the way your face flushed with color, and it only made his smile widen. He found it incredibly endearing how flustered and anxious you were, and he was enjoying every second of it.

He reached up, his hand gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're blushing, mouse. Why are you so nervous around me all the time, hm?"

"I'm nervous around... everyone." you choked out, cursing yourself mentally once again for sounding so affected. It was seriously comical. You were wondering how he wasn't making fun of you by now. Also the tender gesture made your insides melt even more, despite hating when people touched your hair.

His smile softened at your admission, feeling a pang of sympathy for you. He didn't realize that you were nervous around everyone, he thought it was just him. He hummed softly, his hand still gently fiddling with the strand of hair he was holding.

"Everyone, huh? Why? Don't you have friends who make you feel less nervous?"

He continued to study your face, noticing the way your eyes darted around nervously and the way your cheeks were flushed a pretty pink color. He could see the anxiety in your expression, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Part of him wanted to tease you even more, but another part of him wanted to reassure you that everything was okay.

"You know, mouse, you don't have to be so nervous all the time. I don't bite. Well, not hard anyway."

You sighed, your fingers nervously twisting a loose strand of hair around them. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't help it—you always clammed up like this. Words seemed to get stuck in your throat, despite the whirlpool of thoughts swirling in your mind. It was worse now, with JJ standing right in front of you; his mere presence amplified your anxiety, turning your usually rowdy internal monologue into static.

Your gaze shifted to the side, drifting over his shoulder. You noticed his friends in the distance, trying to get his attention. They were waving in your direction, their gestures frantic and eyes wide with impatience. Gathering a bit of courage, you pointed shakily toward them, your eyes meeting his briefly as you did so. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, your heartbeat echoing in your ears as you waited for his reaction. A flush crept up your neck, the tension between wanting to say something—anything—and the frustrating quiet that held your tongue.

JJ followed your gaze looking over his shoulder, his eyes landing on his friends in the distance. He could see them waving and gesturing for him to come back, and he knew they were probably wondering what the hell he was doing.

He hesitated for a moment, torn between staying with you and going back to his friends. He turned his attention back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Looks like my friends are getting impatient."

He let out a small sigh, not wanting to leave you just yet. But he knew he had to go back to his friends eventually, otherwise they'd just come over and drag him away.

He gave you one last glance, taking in your nervous expression. He smiled softly, his hand still lingering beside your ear. "I'll see you around, mouse. Don't disappear on me, okay?"

You were feeling disappointed that he had to leave. But you let a relieved breath out as he took a small step back. The close proximity was making your breathing go crazy and stuttery and your face heat up. You glanced at his friends and then at him, your eyes lingering on his face in an almost awe expression before nodding and humming, your hands fidgeting with the strap of your camera.

JJ couldn't help but notice the way your eyes lingered on his face, and he felt a small flutter in his chest at the expression on your face. He wasn't used to someone looking at him like that, especially you. He gave you one last smile, his hand reaching out to gently pat your head before he reluctantly took a step away from you.

"Behave yourself, mouse."

He said with a smirk and a wink before turning and strolling back to his friends.

As soon as his back was turned to you and he was walking back to his friends you let out a breath that you didn't know you were holding. Your hands reached up to fan your face gently, walking along the beach in the opposite direction.

You could definitely get used to interacting with JJ alone, have him look at you and call you mouse like that in his soft tone despite his boyish voice. Although the nickname was meant to be teasing, you still felt your heart do somersaults every time he called you it casually.

As JJ walked back to his friends, he found himself unable to keep his mind off of the interaction he just had with you. He couldn't get the image of your blushing face and wide-eyed expression out of his head.

His friends quickly pounced on him the moment he returned to them, their voices loud and excited.

"Dude, what was that all about?"

JB asked, his eyes widening with curiosity.

Pope chimed in with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah man, since when do you talk to the girl who's terrified of you?"

JJ shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing.

"I don't know, I was just making conversation." All four of his friends looked at him skeptically, not buying his casual response.

John B leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper so that no one else could hear their conversation.

"Do you like her or something?"

JJ's eyes widened in surprise at the question, and he quickly shook his head, trying to play it off.

"No way, man.. What, are we in 7th grade to be asking these types of questions?"

—♡‧

A/N: Here's the second chapter! God, you guys don't understand how happy i am. What do you think about the second interaction? I appreciate when you comment, or leave asks telling me what you think, so don't be shy! these can be read as stand-alone one-shots too but this is gonna be an entire story. Also i don't plan on following the main story-line of the show :( This and all my works will be written freely because i wanna give JJ the life of a teenager instead of a treasure hunter.

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip, @stanseventeen Have fun reading every one and I'll be seeing you all in part 3!

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chaamenos · 2 days ago

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𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑. disjointed caleb lads character study. i need to test how i’m gonna write this guy

warnings: uhhhh smth smth there’s a cannibalism metaphor in here somewhere. also there’s intentional lowercase . pseudocest (like one like mentioning that you two are siblings). this is written on mobile. anyways i really dont even know what to tag this with so go in here expecting some weird shit.

a/n: caleb is so. boy what strand of cocaine did they put it you. anyways, this is meant to be read within the context of the main story (homecoming voyage chapter 1), so not with any of the relationship establishment his cards and myth give

dividers by @/fairytopea

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘. caleb believed himself to be a good child. athletic , good grades, never late, easily made friends. but something always felt… off, when it came to you. a feeling that made his hands twitch, and his body grow cold. though constantly pushed it back as just stress. being an older sibling is difficult, especially with a family with such messed up backgrounds like yours. hormones will mess with a teenager, this is normal. . .

but no matter how often, or how hard he drowned out that part of his brain, it never went away. the part that had him wanting to put his hands on you. dig his nails in until the skin breaks, sink his teeth in and swallow you whole. to clip your wings and have you rely on him forever, to be a part of him until the world ceases to exist.

it was horrifying how the brain can twist things into explicit images. spooked him enough that he made it a point to always be extra nice to you. of course, he was always nice to you, but a little extra doting wouldn’t hurt. he didn’t mind letting you get away with anything, covering up for your misbehaviour, spoiling you rotten. perhaps if he was nice enough, he can fool you into ignoring the obvious issues and thoughts that threatened to consume him from the inside out.

𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆. farspace fleet duties were incredibly mundane in its rotation, and exact in its time slots. meetings never go above 3600 seconds, mission reports never longer than 1800.

expressions and responses also fell into his calculated routine. smile for no more than five seconds, crinkle your eyes to make it authentic, don’t hold eye contact for too long lest you put them off.

it was all tiring, and boring. not at all the life he envisioned for himself as a child.

he could feel his hands twitching, fleeting flashes of you dancing across his vision.

now that he’s an adult, he’s no stranger to this obsession that erodes people from the inside out. an indescribable hunger that drives one made. he’s no different from a wanderer, in that aspect. The only difference being he’s capable of controlling himself.

. . .

At least, to a degree.

𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆. when he sees you again, it’s like being pricked with billions of needles. he couldn’t tell if it was the year he spent away from you, supposedly dead— or if it was the toring chip rewiring his brain, amplifying every feeling tenfold. for the moment he saw you on that landing pad, it took every fibre of his being to not tear you to shreds, and make his home inside you.

it has been approximately 31,816,800 seconds since he’d last seen you, let alone be in your presence. getting both in the same moment was almost too much for him.

but he refrained. this was business, not pleasure. you both are strangers at this moment.

. . .

he was plagued by sleeplessness the moment he’d let you into his home. sweaty palms, a visceral emotion that had his fingernails digging into his now mechanical arm. the both of you were adults now, but that didn’t make his feelings any less potent. in fact, it made them worse.

you were just a room away, so easy for him to have his way with. to intertwine the two of you in ways he’d never even thought of. it was forbidden, and depraved.

hands covered his face, nearly tearing the hairs from his scalp

. . .

you were driving him insane in ways he didn’t know how to deal with

#eden.fics #xia yizhou #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lnds #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #haha hehe goofy man no i need him fucked up.#BADLY.#also the hyperlinks go to abbey by mitski

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th3mrskory · 3 days ago

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Chapter 8: Unfinished Business

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan Warning: none.

A/N: Alright, here we are—Chapter 8. The one I’ve been lowkey (okay, highkey) dreading. If you’ve made it this far, first of all, I love you. Second, please remember that I write with love, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

This chapter is a lot. It shifts things, breaks things, and maybe hurts a little more than it should. Just know that every word was intentional, and no, I don’t take joy in your suffering (okay, maybe a little, but only in a writerly way).

So, deep breaths. Read when you’re ready. And if you need to yell at me afterward, my inbox is open.

Word count: 8.5k

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The cottage was filled with the quiet sounds of preparation—the faint click of a cassette case, the rustle of fabric as Evelyn folded clothes into her suitcase. Outside, the wind carried a bite that seeped into the wooden frame of the house, but inside, the warmth of the fire kept the chill at bay.

Logan leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, silently watching her. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned over a plain henley, the leather jacket hanging from the back of a chair. His gaze was steady but soft, like he was taking in every detail to tuck it away for later.

“You really think all that’s gonna fit in one bag?” he asked, his voice low and carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’d be amazed at what I can cram into a suitcase.”

Logan raised a brow, pushing off the frame to walk closer. “Not sure I’d call it a skill worth braggin’ about.”

She rolled her eyes, returning to folding her clothes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Minimalist. Not all of us can live out of a duffle bag.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hands slipping into his jeans’ pockets as he glanced at the mixtapes stacked neatly beside her bag. “You takin’ all those with you, or you just makin’ it harder to close that thing?”

“They’re essentials,” she said, mock-serious as she tucked a couple into the suitcase. “I’m not about to risk getting stuck with my mom’s radio choices for a whole week.”

Logan smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Can’t blame you for that.”

The playful rhythm of their banter quieted as Evelyn zipped up the suitcase, the moment settling into something softer. Logan reached over to grab something from the arm of the couch—a thick, worn sweater—and held it out to her.

“Here,” he said, his voice lower now. “This’ll keep you warmer than whatever you got packed.”

Evelyn blinked, caught off guard by the simple gesture. She took the sweater, her fingers brushing his as their eyes met. “Logan, I can’t take this. It’s yours.”

“Yeah, and I’m tellin’ you to take it,” he replied, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Don’t argue. Just don’t forget to bring it back.”

Her chest tightened at the unspoken care in his voice. “Alright,” she said softly, folding the sweater and placing it on top of her suitcase.

When everything was packed, they walked out to her truck together, the cold air biting at their faces. Logan stayed close, his hand brushing against her lower back as they crossed the gravel.

As she opened the truck door, Logan lingered, leaning a shoulder against the frame. “You sure you’re good drivin’ this long on your own?”

Evelyn laughed softly, turning to face him. “Logan, it’s a few hours.”

“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it,” he muttered, his tone quiet but firm. His eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, the words he didn’t say filled the space between them.

She smiled, stepping closer. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll call when I get there, okay?”

Logan’s hand came up, brushing against her arm before moving to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along her skin. “You better,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.

Before she could respond, he leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow and steady, as though he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

When they finally broke apart, she exhaled softly, her forehead resting against his. “You’re making it really hard to leave, you know that?”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk returning. “Good. Might make you think twice about goin’ next time.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping back with a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he replied, his tone teasing but his eyes warm.

Climbing into the truck, Evelyn started the engine, the rumble breaking the stillness of the moment. As she pulled away, Logan tapped the roof lightly, his hand lingering there for a second longer than necessary. He watched her until the taillights disappeared down the winding road, the cold air biting at his skin as he stood there, alone but somehow content.

The road stretched out before Evelyn, the winter sun casting long shadows across the frost-dusted trees. The faint hum of the cassette player filled the cab, a mixtape she’d thrown together for the drive keeping her company. But even with her favorite songs spinning through the speakers, her mind drifted back to Logan—the warmth in his gaze, the rough gentleness in his touch, and the way his smirk softened into something almost shy when she kissed him goodbye.

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. He had a way of sticking with her, even when he wasn’t around.

The familiar sight of her parents’ house came into view, a two-story colonial tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. The front lawn was adorned with Christmas lights and a plastic Santa that had seen better days, its red suit faded by years of winter storms. Pulling into the driveway, Evelyn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Home.

Stepping inside, Evelyn was immediately wrapped in the warm embrace of home. The living room smelled of pine and cinnamon, the Christmas tree shimmering with mismatched ornaments that had been collected over decades. Her dad sat cross-legged in front of the TV, muttering under his breath as he fiddled with the VCR. Meanwhile, her mom moved between the kitchen and the dining room, her apron streaked with flour and her hair pinned up in the way she always wore it when things got hectic.

“There she is!” her dad called out, looking up with a wide grin as Evelyn stepped into the room. “Thought you might’ve gotten lost on the way back.”

“Or decided not to come at all,” her mom added, bustling into the living room with a tray of cookies. Her eyes softened as she set the tray down on the coffee table. “How was the drive, sweetheart?”

“Long,” Evelyn admitted, shrugging off her coat. “But it’s good to be home.”

Her dad stood, dusting his hands off and pulling her into a brief but tight hug. “Glad you made it safe. Car still holding up?”

“Barely,” she joked, earning a laugh from him.

Her mom was next, wrapping Evelyn in a flour-scented embrace before stepping back to study her. “You look good,” she said, her tone both approving and surprised. “The fresh air out there must be doing wonders.”

“It helps,” Evelyn replied with a small smile. “How’s everything been here?”

“Oh, you know,” her dad said, gesturing to the VCR. “Just trying to keep up with the latest technology. This thing refuses to cooperate.”

Her mom rolled her eyes. “He’s been saying that about every gadget we’ve had since the coffee maker broke in ‘68.”

The light-hearted conversation drifted into updates on family friends, neighborhood gossip, and holiday plans. Her mom filled her in on the latest drama from the church choir, while her dad complained about the new neighbors who always parked too close to his driveway.

The comforting aroma of roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, and freshly baked rolls filled the kitchen as Evelyn tied an apron around her waist. Her mom stood at the counter, chopping carrots with precise movements, while her dad rummaged through a cabinet, muttering under his breath about the missing gravy boat.

“You sure you’re up for peeling these?” her mom asked, nodding toward the bowl of potatoes on the table.

“I think I can handle it,” Evelyn replied with a teasing smile as she picked up the peeler. “It’s not rocket science, mom.”

Her dad turned from the cabinet, holding up the gravy boat triumphantly. “Found it! Knew it wasn’t lost.”

Her mom shook her head with a fond smile. “You always say that, dear.”

“Because I’m always right,” he shot back, winking at Evelyn as he set the boat on the counter. “How’s that cottage of yours holding up? Pipes not freezing, I hope.”

“Not yet,” Evelyn replied, focusing on the potato in her hand. “Logan’s been helping me keep it in shape. Fixed the roof, patched up some leaks...”

“So,” she began casually, though her tone betrayed her eagerness. “How’s life been out there? Are you settling in okay?”

Evelyn nodded, her fingers playing with the edge of her sweater. “Yeah, it’s been good. Quiet, but... good.”

“And the town?” her dad asked, leaning against the armrest. “People treating you alright?”

“They are,” Evelyn said with a faint smile. “It’s a nice place. Small, but the kind of small where everyone knows everyone.”

Her mom’s eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of teasing in her expression. “And Logan? How’s he treating you?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said, her cheeks warming.

“What?” her mom replied innocently, her hands spreading wide. “We’ve heard all about this Logan—well, from Martha mostly—but we haven’t met him yet. We’re allowed to be curious.”

Before Evelyn could reply, a familiar voice chimed in from the couch. “Good point, Mrs. Bennette,” Martha teased, leaning back with a knowing smirk. “I’m starting to think you made him up just to keep us guessing.”

“Martha!” Evelyn exclaimed, her face lighting up as she turned to see her best friend leaning against the doorframe with a mischievous grin.

“I mean, is he a man or a myth? Because I’m starting to think she made him up.” said Martha playfully.

Rolling her eyes, Evelyn set the peeler down. “He’s real. He’s just busy this time of year.”

“Busy chopping wood?!?” Martha teased, earning a laugh from her dad.

Her dad laughed. “Now that’s a proper job.”

“Actually, yes,” Evelyn replied, pulling off her apron. “Now, if you’re done making jokes...”

“Not a chance,” Martha said, leaning against the counter, a smile tugging at her lips. “Speaking of Logan, I thought he’d have come with you. But hey, do you have a picture of him? We’ve heard so much about him, but we need the proof before I can say he’s real.”

Evelyn hesitated for a moment before reaching into her bag. She pulled out the polaroid she had taken of Logan and handed it over.

Martha let out a low whistle. “Well, well, well. You weren’t exaggerating. He looks like he stepped out of a western.”

Her dad leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the photo. “Looks like he knows his way around an ax.”

“Oh, he does,” Evelyn said, her smile softening.

Her mom took the photo, studying it closely before handing it back. “Alright. He passes the first test. But we still want to meet him.”

“You will,” Evelyn promised, tucking the photo back into her bag.

“Good,” her mom replied. “Because we just want to make sure he’s the real deal. Especially after... you know.”

Martha nudged her. “When’s the wedding?”

“Oh, stop,” Evelyn said, laughing.

The laughter and teasing flowed effortlessly as dinner approached. The dining room was warm and inviting, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight reflecting off garlands draped along the edges of the table. Plates of roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and cranberry sauce were passed around as conversations overlapped in the way only family meals could.

“Alright, so what’s new with the neighbors?” Evelyn asked, spearing a bite of turkey.

Her dad rolled his eyes dramatically. “New folks moved in last month, parked their moving truck right across our driveway for two hours. Two. Hours.”

Her mom sighed, shaking her head. “Oh, leave them alone, Frank. They’re nice kids.”

“Kids who don’t know how to park,” her dad muttered, earning a chuckle from Evelyn.

Across the table, Martha chimed in. “Still better than the guy who let his dog dig up your flowerbeds last year.”

“Don’t remind me,” her mom said, groaning. “That man owes me an apology—and a hydrangea.”

The lighthearted banter carried on, giving Evelyn a moment to soak it all in. It wasn’t just the conversation or the food—it was the feeling of being surrounded by people who knew her so deeply, even the parts she tried to keep hidden.

The fire in the living room crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was late, the kind of quiet that only settled after a long day. Evelyn and Martha were cocooned under a heavy knit blanket, their mugs of cocoa sending curls of steam into the cool air. Bing Crosby crooned softly from the record player, a fitting backdrop for the cozy scene.

Martha took a sip of her cocoa, her mischievous grin already in place. “Alright, enough stalling. You and Logan. Speak.”

Evelyn groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “Why did I know this was coming?”

“Because I’m me, and you knew I wouldn’t let you off the hook.” Martha set her mug down on the coffee table, turning to face her with an expectant look. “So, what’s the deal? I need details. Is he as rugged and mysterious as the picture made him look?”

A smile tugged at Evelyn’s lips as she swirled the cocoa in her mug. “He’s... everything I didn’t know I needed. He’s steady, patient, and...”

“And?” Martha arched a brow, leaning closer. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Evelyn exhaled, her voice softening. “And he makes me feel safe.”

The teasing faded from Martha’s expression, replaced by something warmer, more sincere. “That’s good, babe. That’s really good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of those words settling between them. Martha reached for her mug again, taking a slow sip before breaking the stillness. “So... have things gotten serious yet? You know, serious?”

Evelyn nearly choked on her cocoa, setting the mug down hastily. “Martha!”

“What? It’s a fair question!” Martha held up her hands, feigning innocence. “I mean, you’ve been seeing this guy for months now, and from what I can tell, he’s the real deal. So, have you...?”

Evelyn shook her head, her cheeks warming. “We’re taking it slow.”

“Slow as in...?”

“Slow as in I want to be sure.” Evelyn picked at the edge of the blanket, her voice quiet but firm. “After everything with... you know who, I can’t just rush into something like this. I need to know it’s real.”

Martha nodded, her teasing replaced by understanding. “And he’s okay with that?”

“He is.” A small smile crept across Evelyn’s face. “He’s patient. He doesn’t push. He just... gets it.”

“Sounds like a keeper to me.” Martha leaned back, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “But don’t let your nerves mess this up. The guy sounds like he’s crazy about you.”

Evelyn let out a soft laugh, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “I think I’m falling for him.”

“You think?” Martha shot her a look. “Babe, you’re head over heels, and everyone but you can see it.”

“That’s what scares me,” Evelyn admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What if I get it wrong again?”

Martha reached over, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not getting it wrong. Not this time. This Logan guy? He sounds like he’s in it for the long haul. And from what you’ve told me, he’s exactly what you deserve.”

Evelyn blinked back the sting of tears, nodding slowly. “Thanks, Martha.”

“Always.” Martha leaned back with a content sigh. “Now, do me a favor and bring him around next time, okay? I need to see if he lives up to the hype in person.”

Evelyn chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.” Martha shot her a wink, pulling the blanket tighter around them.

As the fire burned low and the record spun to its final song, Evelyn felt the tentative stirrings of hope. Maybe this Christmas wasn’t just about coming home. Maybe it was about finding a new one, too.

The bedroom was dim, the moonlight spilling through the curtains casting faint silver streaks across the walls. Evelyn shifted restlessly under the covers, her thoughts chasing themselves in endless circles. She missed Logan—his steady presence, his warm touch, the way his voice had a way of grounding her when her mind wandered too far.

Her gaze drifted to the rotary phone on the nightstand. The pull to hear his voice was stronger than her hesitation, and before she could second-guess herself, she reached for the receiver and dialed the number.

The line rang a few times before a familiar gruff voice answered, tinged with sleep but still unmistakably him.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” she whispered, feeling her cheeks warm even though he couldn’t see her. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

A soft huff of amusement came through the line. “No. What’s on your mind?”

She hesitated for a moment, twisting the cord around her fingers. “I just... couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe talking to you might help.”

There was a pause on the other end, and she could almost picture him sitting up in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did. “Missin’ me already?” he teased lightly, though the warmth in his voice sent a soothing ache through her chest.

“Maybe,” she admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “How about you?”

“Wouldn’t be answering the phone at this hour if I wasn’t,” Logan replied, the hint of a smirk audible in his tone.

She laughed softly, the tension in her chest loosening slightly. “My parents and Martha have been asking about you, you know. You’re kind of a big deal around here now.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice carried a lazy curiosity. “What’re they sayin’?”

“Well, my mom wants to know when you’re coming to meet them,” she said, her smile widening. “And Martha... she was pretty convinced I made you up until I showed them the Polaroid.”

“The Polaroid?” Logan’s voice shifted, a touch of playful exasperation creeping in.

“Yes, that one,” she replied, grinning.

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “Didn’t know I was on display.”

“You weren’t,” she teased. “It’s just... they’re curious. My mom said you pass the first test, by the way. But they still want to meet you.”

“Figured as much,” he said, his voice softer now. “How’d you handle all the questions?”

“I survived,” she said, letting out a small laugh. “But I think they’re just worried. After everything that happened... they just want to make sure I’m okay. And that I’m not making a mistake.”

Logan was quiet for a moment before speaking, his tone steady but filled with quiet conviction. “You’re not makin’ a mistake, darlin’. Not with me.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, all the noise in her mind faded, leaving only the sound of his voice. “I know,” she said softly. “But hearing you say it helps.”

“Good,” he replied. “’Cause I mean it.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the hum of the line connecting them across the miles. Finally, Logan spoke again, his voice tinged with amusement. “Anything else you wanna tell me? Or you just callin’ to butter me up?”

“Actually,” she said, smiling, “I just missed you. And the sound of your voice.”

“Yeah, well,” Logan said, his voice low and warm, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’ll have me drivin’ out there tonight.”

She laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. “I’d better let you get some sleep, then.”

“You sure?” he asked, his tone softening.

“I’m sure,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, Evelyn,” he murmured. “Call if you need me. Anytime.”

As the call ended, she set the receiver back on the cradle, her heart feeling lighter. Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she closed her eyes, the memory of his voice lingering in the stillness.

The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the furnace and the occasional clatter of dishes as Evelyn moved through the kitchen. She’d been trying to keep herself busy, but her thoughts kept drifting—to Logan, to the cottage, and to how strange it felt to be back in her childhood home for so long.

Her mother’s soft cough echoed from the living room, pulling her from her thoughts. Peeking around the corner, Evelyn saw her mom bundled under a quilt, her head resting against the arm of the couch. Her dad was in his armchair, snoring lightly, the TV playing a muted rerun of a Christmas movie.

Evelyn smiled faintly before stepping back into the kitchen. She was just about to start chopping the rest of the carrots when the phone rang, startling her. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and picked up the receiver, the old rotary clicking slightly as she adjusted her grip.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Logan’s voice rumbled on the other end, warm and steady. “Caught you at a bad time?”

The tension in her shoulders eased immediately, a smile tugging at her lips. “Not at all. How are you?”

“Still in one piece,” he replied, his tone light but tinged with something softer. Figured I’d check in, see how Christmas went.”

Evelyn glanced toward the living room, where her dad sat fiddling with the knobs on the TV, and her mom rested on the couch with a blanket draped over her lap. “It was nice. Quiet. A little different, though, being back here for so long.”

“Different good or different bad?” Logan asked.

“Good,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “Mostly good. Just... takes some getting used to.”

Logan hummed in understanding. “Glad you made it through, anyway.”

“What about you?” she asked, her voice softening. “How was yours?”

“Spent it with Pete and his family,” he said, the faintest hesitation in his voice. “His wife insisted I stay for dinner. Kids roped me into playin’ some board game. Don’t ask me what it was—I’m pretty sure they made up half the rules as they went.”

She laughed softly, picturing Logan sitting awkwardly at a cluttered table, kids climbing over him while he tried to make sense of the chaos. “Sounds like you were the life of the party.”

“Hardly,” he muttered, but there was a faint chuckle beneath his words. “Pete’s wife sent me home with leftovers, though. Guess I didn’t screw up her kitchen too bad when I was helpin’ her cook.”

“You cooked?” Evelyn asked, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Mostly peelin’ potatoes,” Logan admitted. “But she didn’t throw me out, so I’ll call it a win.”

Evelyn shook her head, grinning. “Sounds like you had a better time than you’re letting on.”

“Maybe,” he said, and for a moment, there was a quiet warmth in his voice that made her chest tighten.

Evelyn’s smile softened, her heart giving a small, unsteady thud. “And the cottage? Holding up without me?”

“It’s lonely,” Logan teased, though there was a hint of truth in his words. “Roof’s still got that damn leak, but I’ll take care of it.”

“Maybe it’s waiting for me to come back,” she quipped, though her voice faltered slightly at the end.

“Could be,” Logan said, and for a moment, his tone shifted—deeper, more certain.

She hesitated, her fingers twisting the phone cord as she tried to put her feelings into words. “I miss it,” she admitted softly. “Miss you.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. When Logan spoke again, his voice was quieter, rougher. “Same here.”

Evelyn exhaled slowly, glancing toward the doorway to make sure no one was listening. “How’s everything else? Are the guys at the site keeping you in line?”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh. “As much as they can. They’ve been askin’ about you, though. Wonderin’ when you’re comin’ back.”

“Tell them I’ll be back in a couple of days,” she teased, her smile widening.

“They’ll like that,” Logan said, a faint smirk in his tone.

The conversation drifted for a while—Logan asking about her parents, Evelyn filling him in on her mom’s slow recovery and the small, familiar chaos of being back home. But as the minutes ticked by, the weight of her absence grew heavier.

“If it gets too much,” Logan said suddenly, his voice low and steady, “you call me. Don’t care what time it is.”

Her breath caught at the quiet conviction in his words. “Logan...”

“Just sayin’,” he added, his tone softening. “You don’t gotta do all this on your own.”

The lump in her throat grew tighter, but she swallowed it down, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”

“Don’t gotta thank me,” Logan replied. “Just come back when you’re ready.”

“I will,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I promise.”

“Good,” he said simply. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“You too,” she whispered.

When the call ended, she stood there for a moment, the receiver still warm in her hand. Setting it down gently, she pressed her palm against her chest, trying to steady the ache blooming there.

Logan’s voice lingered in her mind long after the dial tone faded, his quiet reassurance wrapping around her like a blanket.

The morning was brisk, the kind of winter chill that clung to your skin and settled in your bones. Logan, Pete, and Rick were on the roof of Evelyn’s cottage, bundled in thick flannels and jackets. The sound of hammers and scraping metal filled the air as they worked in a steady rhythm, shingles and nails in hand.

Logan paused for a moment, scanning the roofline for any weak spots. His expression was focused, but there was a tension in his movements that hadn’t gone unnoticed by his coworkers.

“This place is coming together,” Pete said, wiping his brow and glancing at Logan. “She’s gonna love it when she gets back.”

Logan grunted in response, driving another nail into the shingle in front of him.

Rick climbed up the ladder, carrying another bundle of shingles. “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Howlett. Something on your mind?”

“Nope,” Logan replied, though the sharpness in his tone suggested otherwise.

Pete smirked, leaning on his hammer. “Come on, man. We’ve known you long enough to know when something’s eating at you. Let me guess—it’s her.”

Logan shot him a look, but Pete just grinned. “Thought so,” he said. “What’s the problem? Trouble in paradise?”

“No,” Logan said sharply, then softened. “She’s just... not here. Staying with her parents for a while.”

Rick leaned against the truck, crossing his arms. “And you’re what? Pining?”

Pete laughed. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Shut it,” Logan muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Rick raised an eyebrow, studying Logan for a moment before smirking. “You miss her.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the slight tension in his shoulders was answer enough.

Pete clapped him on the back. “So, go see her.”

“It’s not that simple,” Logan said, his voice low.

“Why not?” Rick asked, genuinely curious. “You’re over here fixing up her cottage like it’s your full-time job. Might as well check in on her while you’re at it.”

Logan hesitated, his jaw tightening. “She’s with her family. It’s not my place to just show up unannounced.”

Rick snorted. “You’re kidding, right? You’re the guy she calls when there’s a busted pipe or a leaky roof. If anyone’s got a place, it’s you.”

“Besides,” Pete added, grinning, “you’re not exactly the flowers-and-candy type. Showing up’s probably the most romantic thing you could do.”

Rick sat down on the edge of the roof, pulling off his gloves. “Seems to me like you’re overthinking it. If she’s been talking about you to her folks—and let’s be honest, she has—they’d probably be happy to meet you.”

Logan’s grip on the hammer tightened, but he kept working.

Pete chuckled, crossing his arms. “You don’t even know where she is, do you?”

Logan shot him a warning look, but Pete just laughed harder.

“All this time, you’re patching up her place, missing her like crazy, and you don’t even know how to find her.”.Pete said.

Logan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the roofline.

“Bet there’s something in the house with her parents’ address on it,” Rick said casually, glancing toward the open window below. “Mail, a note—anything.”

Logan finally set down his hammer, wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re here to fix the roof, not go digging through her stuff.”

“Relax, no one’s saying snoop,” Pete said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But if it were me, I’d want to know where to find her. Just in case.”

Logan exhaled sharply, standing and stretching his shoulders. “Roof’s almost done. Let’s finish it up.”

But as he climbed down the ladder to grab more supplies, his eyes drifted toward the kitchen window. The thought of finding her address lingered in his mind, a quiet pull he couldn’t quite shake.

The late morning sun cast long shadows across the cottage as Logan stepped inside for a moment to grab more supplies.He brushed his hands on his flannel, his boots clunking softly against the floor as he moved toward the kitchen.

The countertop was cluttered with the usual—mugs, an old notebook, a pair of gloves Evelyn had left behind. As Logan reached for the tool bucket by the sink, his eyes caught sight of an envelope tucked partially under the corner of a cookbook.

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly as he pulled it free. The envelope had her family’s last name neatly written on it, along with an address.

He turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing against the edge. His gaze lingered on the handwriting for a moment before he exhaled, setting it back down on the counter.

But something about it stuck with him.

“You find the shingles?” Pete called from outside, his voice muffled through the walls.

Logan grabbed the bucket and headed back out, the cold air hitting him like a wall.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, setting the tools down near the ladder.

Pete and Rick were leaning against the side of the truck, sharing a thermos of coffee. Pete raised an eyebrow when Logan approached. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Logan shot him a pointed look but didn’t respond.

Rick, ever the observer, glanced between them. “Let me guess. You found something?”

“No,” Logan said sharply, but Pete wasn’t buying it.

“What was it? A love letter?” Pete teased, smirking.

Logan’s jaw tightened, and he muttered under his breath as he grabbed another bundle of shingles.

“Come on, man,” Pete said, chuckling. “If it’s something that’ll get you closer to her, maybe you oughta take the chance.”

Logan paused, one hand on the ladder. He didn’t look at either of them as he said, “It’s her parents’ address.”

Rick let out a low whistle. “Well, there’s your answer.”

Logan climbed back up to the roof without another word, his mind racing even as his hands worked mechanically. The idea of showing up unannounced wasn’t sitting right with him, but the thought of seeing her—making sure she was okay—was something he couldn’t shake.

The workday wrapped up with the sun dipping low, casting a golden glow over the yard. Logan stood by the truck, rolling up his sleeves as Pete and Rick packed up the last of the tools.

“So, you gonna do it?” Pete asked, leaning against the tailgate with a grin.

Logan glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Go see her,” Rick said, smirking.

Logan exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right, showing up unannounced.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “It’s Christmas, Howlett. If now’s not the time for grand gestures, when is?”

Rick nodded in agreement. “Worst-case scenario, her dad hates you. Best case? You get to spend a few days with the woman you’re crazy about.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You two don’t quit, do you?”

“Not when we’re right,” Pete said, grinning.

Logan climbed into the truck, his thoughts swirling as he started the engine. As the truck rumbled to life, Pete leaned in through the open window. “You’ll thank us later.”

Logan didn’t reply, but as he pulled out of the driveway, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. The idea of seeing her—of finally meeting her family—wasn’t as impossible as it had seemed just hours ago.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the bare trees, casting long shadows across the snow-covered lawn of her parents’ house. Evelyn had just finished stacking firewood along the side of the house when the low hum of a car engine broke the quiet. Wiping her hands on her coat, she turned to see a sleek, black sedan pulling into the driveway.

Her stomach dropped as the car door opened, and a figure she never thought she’d see again stepped out. William.

“Are you kidding me?” she muttered under her breath, yanking off her gloves and storming toward him.

He flashed her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to see you too, Evie.”

“Don’t call me that. What are you doing here?” she snapped, keeping her voice low but firm.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, his breath puffing in the cold air. “Heard your mom was under the weather. Thought I’d stop by and see how she’s doing.”

She glared at him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “You ‘heard’? From who?”

“It’s a small town,” he replied smoothly, leaning casually against his car. “People talk.”

“You have no right to be here,” she said, her voice sharper now. “My family doesn’t want to see you. I don’t want to see you.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his tone softening as he took a small step closer. “Because the last time I checked, we had years together, Evelyn. I know I messed up, but does that really mean you want to erase all of it?”

She flinched, his words landing like a slap. “You didn’t just mess up. You humiliated me in front of everyone I cared about, and then disappeared like a coward. There’s no fixing that.”

His expression wavered, and for a moment, she thought she saw something genuine in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. But then he took another step closer, his voice dropping to a softer, more calculated tone.

“I’ve been trying to move on,” he said quietly. “But every time I think I’m getting there, I think of you. I miss us, Evelyn.”

Her throat tightened, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, to push him further away, but the words got stuck.

He took the hesitation as an opening, reaching out to gently touch her arm. “I’m sorry for what I did. If I could take it back, I would.I’m here now.”

She shook her head, her voice trembling. “You can’t just show up here and expect me to forget everything you put me through. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” he said, stepping even closer. “I’m asking for a second chance.”

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them and leaned in. His lips brushed against hers softly, tentatively, and for a split second, she didn’t move.

Her mind raced, a chaotic storm of emotions swirling in her chest. The shock of the moment rooted her to the spot, but just as quickly as it started, she shoved him back, her voice trembling with anger.

The sound of footsteps crunching against the snow made her whirl around. Rounding the corner of the house, Logan came into view, his broad frame taut with tension as he took in the scene before him.

His gaze locked on hers for a brief moment before flicking to her ex-fiancé. His expression was unreadable—stone-faced, his jaw set tightly—but there was a flicker of something in his eyes that made her stomach drop.

“Logan,” she breathed, panic surging through her chest.

Her ex-fiancé’s voice broke through the haze, dripping with false charm. “Well, well,” he said, his smirk cutting like a knife. “Is this the infamous boyfriend? Saw you at the fair. Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

“Logan,” Evelyn said softly, her voice shaking as she took a step toward him. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, torn between relief at his presence and terror at what he must think. “This isn’t—”

Logan’s gaze moved from her ex to her, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—those eyes she had come to trust so deeply—were shadowed with something raw. Hurt. Disbelief.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice calm but cold. He stayed where he was, his boots crunching on the snow-covered driveway. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Yes, you should have,” she said, her voice rising, almost desperate. “Logan, this isn’t what it looks like. He just showed up, and—”

“Seems like bad timing,” her ex interrupted with a smirk, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets. He glanced at Logan, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s a little funny. You showing up right now.”

“Shut up!” she snapped, spinning on him. “You’ve done enough damage.”

Logan didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but the way his jaw tightened was like a hammer to her chest. He was standing so still, so composed, but she could feel the weight of his silence.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said finally, his voice so quiet it felt like a blade slicing through the cold. “I shouldn’t have come unannounced.”

“Logan, no,” she pleaded, stepping closer to him. Tears burned her eyes, but she forced herself to keep looking at him. “Don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

But Logan just shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Take care of yourself, Evelyn,” he said, turning back toward his truck.

“Logan!” she cried, reaching for him, her voice breaking. “Please, I—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back. The door slammed shut behind him, and the truck roared to life. She stood frozen, helpless, as he drove off.

As the taillights disappeared down the road, the silence left behind was suffocating.

Her ex let out a low chuckle, his voice grating against her frayed nerves. “Well, that went about as expected. I guess he wasn’t—”

“Shut up!” she screamed, the words ripping from her throat as she turned on him. Her hands shoved him hard, her fury exploding like a dam breaking.

He stumbled back, his cocky smirk faltering for the first time. “Whoa, hey—”

“Get out!” she yelled, her voice raw and trembling. Tears streamed down her face as she shoved him again, harder this time. “Get out of here! You’ve ruined enough!”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. But his eyes hardened as he straightened. “Jesus you’re overreacting.”

Her chest heaved as she glared at him, her voice shaking with fury. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to show up here and ruin my life again!”

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at her with something akin to surprise. Then, without another word, he climbed into his car and drove off, the headlights casting long, mocking shadows across the driveway as he disappeared into the night.

And then it hit her. The weight of it all crashed down on her shoulders, and she collapsed to her knees in the snow, her sobs tearing through the stillness.

“Logan,” she whispered brokenly, the word slipping from her lips like a prayer. But the night swallowed her voice, leaving her alone in the icy darkness.

The sound of the front door opening was muffled by her cries, but the warmth of her father’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to the moment.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, kneeling beside her in the snow. His voice was steady, calm, but there was a deep concern in his tone that only a father could carry. “Come here.”

Before she could protest, he pulled her into a tight hug, his strong arms wrapping around her as if to shield her from the world. The warmth of his embrace broke something loose inside her, and she clung to him, her tears soaking into the fabric of his coat.

“I ruined everything,” she choked out, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “He’s gone. He—he thinks I...” Her words dissolved into sobs, her body shaking in his hold.

Her father held her tighter, his hand smoothing over her hair in a soothing rhythm. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured firmly. “This isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.”

“But, Dad,” she cried, her voice breaking, “he saw... he saw that, and I—”

“Shh,” he interrupted gently, leaning back just enough to look her in the eyes. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “Listen to me, okay? Whatever happened, it’s not the end of the world. You care about him, right?”

She nodded, her breath hitching.

“Then you’ll fix this,” he said simply, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “Logan’s a good man, from everything you’ve told us. He’s not going to walk away from you over a misunderstanding. You’ll explain it to him, and he’ll see what we see.”

Her lip quivered, fresh tears threatening to spill over. “What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not too late,” he said firmly, his grip on her steadying her as she wavered. “Sometimes things get messy, but if this man cares for you even half as much as you care for him, he’ll listen. He’ll come back. You just need to give it time.”

The certainty in his words was a balm to her frayed nerves, and though her heart still ached, she felt a small flicker of hope light up in the darkness.

Her father pulled her into another hug, his chin resting on top of her head. “You’re strong, kiddo,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been through worse than this, and you’ve always come out the other side. This time won’t be any different.”

She clung to him, her tears beginning to slow as the weight of his words settled in her chest. His presence, solid and unwavering, reminded her that she wasn’t alone in this.

Finally, he pulled back, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Now, come inside,” he said gently. “You’re freezing, and I’m not about to let you catch your death out here.”

She managed a shaky nod, her legs unsteady as he helped her to her feet. Together, they walked back toward the house, her father keeping a steadying arm around her as they stepped into the warmth of home.

The pain was still there, raw and unyielding, but her father’s words gave her something to hold onto—a promise that things could, and would, get better.

As the door closed behind them, the warmth of the house wrapped around Evelyn, but it did little to soothe the icy ache in her chest. Her father guided her to the couch, his arm still firmly around her shoulders. She sank into the cushions, her head bowed, and fresh tears threatened to spill again.

Her dad watched her for a moment, his expression torn. Then, with a deep sigh, he patted her hand. “Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll be right back.”

Evelyn barely registered his words, her mind a storm of regret and panic. She buried her face in her hands, the memory of Logan’s face as he walked away replaying in her mind like a cruel loop.

In the kitchen, her father picked up the phone, his fingers pausing over the rotary dial before dialing a familiar number. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?” Martha’s voice was bright, but it quickly shifted to concern when she heard who it was. “Mr. Bennette? Is everything okay?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. “It’s about Evelyn. She’s... she’s not doing too well.”

“What happened?” Martha’s voice was sharp now, all traces of levity gone.

Her father explained in brief, measured tones—how her ex-fiancé had shown up, how things had spiraled, and how Logan had seen what he wasn’t supposed to see.

“She’s a mess, Martha,” he said finally, his voice heavy with worry. “I don’t think she’s in any shape to sort this out on her own, and she’s worried about leaving her mom.”

There was a pause on the line before Martha spoke again, her voice resolute. “I’m coming over.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Mr. Bennette,” Martha interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You know as well as I do that she’s not going to fix this while she’s here, stewing in her guilt. I’ll come and look after Mrs. Bennette. You just make sure she goes after Logan.”

He let out a slow, relieved breath. “Thank you, Martha. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Well, she owes me big for this,” Martha said, her tone softening just a bit. “I’ll be there in a couple of days. Make sure she’s packed and ready by then.”

When her dad returned to the living room, Evelyn hadn’t moved, still curled into herself on the couch. He crouched down in front of her, resting his hands on her knees.

“Martha’s coming,” he said gently.

Evelyn blinked at him, confusion flickering across her tear-streaked face. “Why? What for?”

“She’s going to help with your mom,” he explained, his voice steady but kind. “So you can go take care of something more important.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

“Logan,” he replied simply.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You need to go to him, sweetheart,” he continued. “He doesn’t deserve to be left hanging, thinking the worst. If what you told me about him is true, he’ll understand. But you’ve got to tell him the truth. In person.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she shook her head. “What if it’s too late? What if... what if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

Her dad reached up, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. But something tells me that man cares about you too much to walk away that easily. You just have to let him know you feel the same.”

The storm of emotions in her chest finally stilled as she stared at him. His words settled something deep within her, and after a moment, she nodded, determination flickering in her tear-filled eyes.

“I’ll go,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute.

Her dad gave her a small, proud smile. “That’s my girl.”

The following morning, Evelyn sat at the foot of her mother’s bed, a tray of tea and toast balanced on her lap. Her mother’s cheeks had regained some color, but her sharp gaze hadn’t dulled despite the fever.

“You look tired,” her mom said softly, taking a sip of tea.

“I’m fine,” Evelyn replied, offering a small smile. “Just worried about you.”

Her mother set the cup down on the tray, studying her daughter intently. “That’s not all, is it?”

Evelyn hesitated, her fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “It’s nothing important.”

“It’s about him, isn’t it? Logan.”

The sound of his name sent a pang through her chest. She nodded slowly. “He... he saw something, something that wasn’t what it looked like. But he left before I could explain.”

Her mother reached out, her frail hand covering Evelyn’s. “Men like that don’t come around often. Don’t let fear stop you from making things right.”

Tears blurred Evelyn’s vision. “What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

Her mother squeezed her hand gently. “Then you hold your head high and know you did your best. But from the way you’ve spoken about him, I don’t think he’ll turn his back on you so easily.”

Two days later, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway stirred Evelyn from her restless thoughts. She peeked out the window, her breath fogging up the glass as she spotted Martha stepping out of her car, bundled in a thick coat and balancing a casserole dish in her gloved hands.

“Hope you’re ready for reinforcements!” Martha called out, her voice bright despite the chill in the air.

Evelyn opened the door, the cold wind brushing past her as she stepped outside. “Thanks for coming,” she said, managing a faint smile as she stepped aside to let Martha in.

Martha kicked off her boots and set the casserole dish on the kitchen counter, pulling off her gloves with an exaggerated flourish. “First order of business,” she announced, “this is my famous ‘everything but the kitchen sink’ casserole. Guaranteed to keep everyone alive while you’re gone.”

Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh softly, though the sound was tinged with exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Martha waved her off. “Please, your parents love me. I’ll have your mom eating out of my hand by tomorrow morning.” Her expression softened as she turned to face Evelyn. “Your dad filled me in. You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn admitted, her voice cracking slightly. She wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” Martha said firmly, stepping closer and placing her hands on Evelyn’s shoulders, “first things first: you’re going to go find Logan. And while you do that, I’ll take care of everything here. Your mom, your dad, the casserole consumption. Deal?”

Evelyn hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the living room where her father was stoking the fire. “It feels selfish, leaving like this.”

“It’s not selfish,” Martha said, her voice resolute. “You’ve been here, taking care of everything and everyone. Now it’s time to take care of yourself.”

As if on cue, her father entered the kitchen, dusting his hands off as he closed the fireplace screen. His expression was warm, a quiet pride shining in his eyes as he looked at his daughter. “She’s right, sweetheart. We’ve got everything handled here. You’ve done more than enough.”

Evelyn felt her chest tighten, the weight of her guilt and hesitation threatening to crush her. But as she looked between her father and Martha—two of the people who knew her best—she felt a flicker of determination spark within her.

“Okay,” she said softly, nodding as the resolve began to take hold. “I’ll go.”

Her father smiled, pulling her into a tight hug. “That’s my girl.”

Martha clapped her hands together, her grin returning. “Alright! Let’s get you packed. No time to waste.”

As Evelyn headed toward her room to grab her things, her heart still felt heavy with the weight of uncertainty. But for the first time in days, she also felt a glimmer of hope—a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could make things right.

Chapter 7

______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

@coocoocachewgotscrewed @latinapiscess @littlebunnybigheartfics @themareverine @pandapetals @logansbaby @the-quick-red-fox @throwmethroughawindow @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @galacticglitterglue @whos-nin1

@thisismajortom21 @may-vol-6 @Oh-basic @sarahbarbosa22 @luvpalepinkjazz @irish-pooka @yologans @equilight @lxrxvsp @h4nluv @uncannywolverine @thesecretlifeofmo @mystifiesjdmtcw @socisse @thickynicky547 @peculiarpiscess @tezooks @greenturtlegirl @greenbearplaidbow @eummm @benispunk @th8mz @jounal3sports @alsoprettyinpink @softepiloguemylove @manicandobsessive @b-y-3-n @blahkateisdone @karencaribou @sidkneeeee @theworstwolvie @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @lunellas-library @pedroscurls @britttzy267 @aliensfeltmyjoy @steviebbboi

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fanganfessions · 2 days ago

Note

I believe Wolfgang was a genuinely good, but misguided character.

And I believe if he hadn't died in chapter 1, he only would've become more misguided. But in a way that's entirely justified from his POV but terrible from Damon's and Eva's.

For example, imagine that he reads into Damon and Eva's speech from chapter 1, and how they think group bonding is only a way to get other people to lower their guard (at least from them). He also sees them being apathetic to idea of murder. He then sees Damon and Eva getting along with the others and participating in bonding moments they themselves basically deemed only useful for potential killers. Wolfgang overthinks this and spends the whole night up awake worrying about everyone else.

Heck, about Eva, he'd be correct in the case of canon, her bonding moments with the larger group (gaming tournament) were only a cover-up for murder. But this isn't canon, and we're basically going off of the AU idea that Eva spends more time thinking about the killing game tuan the postee, gets dragged to the tournament by Diana who isn't busy that day, and has fun and bonds with the group, especially Cassidy with their niche favorite video game (You could also have Eva not bond with the group, but just not commit murder as well for this AU).

But Wolfgang doesn't see this. He only sees people who deemed bonding moments murder opportunities engaging in those exact moments. He overthinks this so much that he distorts his own perception of Damon and Eva, from classmates who accused people of being potential murderers and sabotaged the group's spirit (still a horrible thing to do, but not as horrible as what he thinks they are in this AU), to possibly cold-blooded murderers who are taking their opportunities (big emphasis on possibly here, he doesn't see them as monsters, but he also doesn't really see them as people due to his twisted perception).

And he starts doing what he thinks is right. He begins asking Diana and Kai whether they feel safe at night, whether they'd like to switch rooms to room with eachother or Grace and himself, that its fine for them to ask to do so and no it won't inconvenience anyone in the slightest, he asks Toshiko to stay away for them, as shes in potential danger because of her age, he asks Desmond to keep an eye on them as Desmond's a marksman and he'd surely be able to defend himself incase anything happened, he starts being a little more vocal about them being suspicious then more and more, he keeps an eye on them every time he sees them with the group, whenever they're close to being left alone with only one other person he makes sure to stay behind so nothing happens.

But just because he's the hero of his own story, trying to protect his friends from people he thinks are going to hurt them (to reiterate, this isn't entirely ungrounded in fact, Eva did murder him in canon) doesn't mean he's not the coldhearted villain of another. Damon and Eva don't see these action as "harmless" or "preventative". They see him trying to ostracize him, asking Desmond to basically stalk them, making Toshiko run away, sabotaging their relations with their respective roommates to make them alone and less safe at night, never letting them be alone with one of their classmates and fostering distrust between the group while preaching the exact opposite. They see him as a giant hypocrite who is entirely delusional.

in short, I really think villains who are nice and kindhearted to everyone but the protagonist are cool and should be featured more.

(Most of this is AU but I think it could've had a decent chance to become canon if Wolfgang and Eva were long-term characters)

⠀

#fanganfessions #project eden's garden #project edens garden #p:eg #wolfgang akire

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goldsbitch · 3 days ago

Text

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 2 - A bit of a bad boy

It's no coincidence Cruel Summer came out that year...

or - ✨ Austria 2019.✨

word count: reasonable warning: hard racing

Two entire races go by before he gets so much as a glance from Charles. In both of those, Charles ends up ahead of Max. It feels like getting personally kicked in the balls. Max plays the PR game the best to his abilities and self-control, but behind the scenes, it's a total mayhem. Anyone who questions him about anything receives a snapshot answer. He hands out sarcastic comments like Halloween candy. The only time he laughs is when he beats Daniel in their little video game nights.

The first week, Max loses all remaining inhibitions and keeps blasting Charles' phone up with calls and texts. Unhinged amount of advances, jokes and random questions. No reaction.

The second week, he goes radio silent and tries to get hold of Charles around the paddock. He never goes looking for other drivers after the race, especially when they get to stand on the podium and he doesn't. As always, restraint regarding Charles never comes as easily. However, the Monegasque is always two steps ahead of him.

Alas, finally, they end up next to each other in a post-qualifying media pen in Spielberg. Max is not subtle about trying to catch Charles' eye. For a brief moment, he does. It turns his stomach over immediately. Max searches Charles’ face like it holds an answer, some kind of hidden message buried beneath the surface, but there’s nothing. Not a flicker of hesitation, no softness, no ghost of the Charles he used to know. They used to share a look that would say it all. No trace of that now.

His expression is cool, unbothered, a perfect mask of professionalism. The same way he looks at a journalist asking a pointless question, or a sponsor he doesn’t particularly care about. Detached. Uninterested.

Max wants to do anything else than be swamped by useless questions now. Not when he's eating crumbs in the form of overhearing Charles' voice. He has to force himself to even look at the journalist standing in front of him, let alone take in what she has to say. Charles, on the other, does not seem to share this problem. His voice is passionate, excited and his words land like a punch in the face. Max can't see it, but since he'd studied Charles from every angle possible, to be able to picture his smile clearly, just based on the tone. It's the nonchalant, I'm-the-world's-sweetheart smile that always works on everyone. Max is secretly present on social media, he has seen the fan edits of his - well, not boyfriend apparently.

"Charles, you seem to be on a great run of form lately, have you and the team at Ferrari found good rhythm after the unfortunate Monaco Grand Prix?"

Max has heard many things on that topic from the restless Reb Bull strategists. All of them flaunting ideas and theories around, none of them realizing what Max knew. That the magic fuel Charles is running on is spite. He asks the journalist in front of him to repeat the question, while he focuses on Charles' answer.

"Ah, you know how it is...The start of the season has been challenging. Changing teams, new environment...All of this takes time to process. But, I am stronger than ever. I've cut away all unnecessary distractions keeping me from being locked in on the target and pulling me to the wrong direction. With the amazing team I have - I am finally recognizing myself in the mirror after few strange months."

Charles must know that he can hear every word coming out of his mouth. Max's blood boils and freezes at the same time. He doesn’t react. Giving away anything more seems like a direct pathway to hell.

He stands there, nodding absently to whatever the journalist in front of him is saying, his mind busy with reading in between the lines, Charles' words echoing through the media pen like a fucking death sentence.

Distraction. That’s all he's reduced him to. His heart beats like it's about to go to a fight. The realization settles in his stomach, cold and heavy. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch Charles in his peripheral vision.

He’s still talking, crafting the perfect story. His posture is easy, he's leaning closer to the reporter than one probably should, his voice is smooth and warm. It has the word likable written all over it.

It's hardly a surprise that the reporters eat up every single sentence he says, playing up to be the golden boy everyone wants him to be.

And maybe he is. Charles keeps getting better and better at this - playing the part, giving people what they want. He’s charming and sharp, smart enough to be a goddamn PR dream but ruthless enough to keep them all at arm’s length. Except he wasn’t like that with Max.

No. With Max, he was real. Unfiltered. Messy. The kind of Charles who picked fights just to feel something, who grabbed Max’s face like he couldn’t breathe without kissing him, who pressed his forehead against his in the middle of the night and whispered things he could never say in the daylight. The kind of person who acted on what his heart desired, instead of what reason demanded. That's not the Charles standing next to him.

Something inside Max cracks. It doesn’t come in a rush - it settles, careful and slow, a icy coldness spreading through his chest.

Fine.

If Charles wants to erase him, to pretend he was just a mistake, Max will make him remember. Not with words. Not with apologies or late-night texts, stupid fucking phone calls or dangerous public driving.

Tomorrow, on track - where it’s just the two of them, where he can't pretend or avoid him endlessly. Charles will feel exactly what happens when you try to push Max Verstappen away. If he wants to pretend Max was just a distraction, Max will remind him that distractions don’t just disappear into thin air.

"It's great to be on pole, but points are tomorrow. But of course, the idea of a first win is something you can't not get exited about," he hears the last part of yet another one of Charles' speeches and this time he smiles. Time to prove everyone wrong. Make the damn strategists happy for once again.

It's hell. Pure, unfiltered hell. Charles arrives in Maranello in a state of a complete breakdown. He was running on some sort of manic fuel the whole Monaco drive. All was somehow bearable - until Max stopped chasing behind him. The absence of his headlights in rear-view mirror worked like a bomb detonator. He is a crying, miserable mess the whole drive. One time he has to stop over, because his breath gets stuck in the lungs and it sets his head into a dizzy spin. He collapses onto his bed in the small Maranello safe house and spends the night fighting terrifying nightmares.

After losing the next day by being glued to his phone, waiting for Max to call for one more time, he decides he can't take that anymore. He missed his chances. Ran away, fucked up everything and tired Max out. He knows him - if he stopped calling, he stopped caring. Charles can't bare himself to get to be the one to make the desperate move, especially after he let so blatantly known that he's totally under Max's spell. He cried in front of him. Nearly begged - but who knows, the whole conversation is becoming a blur, like an old tape wearing thin from being rewound too many times, the sound glitching, words distorting until they barely make sense anymore. So, the first evening after the fight, he blocks Max's phone number. This way, he can still hope that he is trying to reach him and he does not have to stare the unbearable truth in the face. That Max does not, in fact, call anymore.

He completely drowns himself in work. His trainer has to remind him to eat, even though the thought of food makes him sick. He's floating around, allows the team to handle him about and keeps his focus on racing exclusively. Because, that is the only means of communication with Max he's got left. On track, nothing changed. They still cruise around each other, expertly read each other's moves and for once, it all works out in Charles' favor.

The irony of him finally getting a grip on racing when he feels like he'd rather jump under the car instead is not lost on him.

The first step into the paddock after their fight feels heavier than it should. No matter how much he tries to shake it, there’s still a glimmer of hope that he and Max can fix this. But hope, in all its twisted absurdity, only makes him avoid Max more. Because, if this is suppose to be the end, he wants prolong this uncertain period as much as he can. His own misery is becoming the only thing he has left from Max and if that is the truth, he will cling on it. It's him and Max. Any reminder of that is better than nothing.

Red Bull ring. Half of the grandstand is covered in eye-searing orange, the other in signature deep blue that keeps haunting him. They are all waiting for him to fail. He can't. If he has to suffer, because of his feeling towards the Dutch driver, so should everyone else. No matter how mellowed down their devotion to Max might be compared to his own.

It's scorching hot. As is should be in hell anyway. Charles is sitting in his car, front row providing a clear view to the task ahead. Beat Max on track. It's like he can't see any other of the remaining eighteen cars. Lights out and away we go. The all familiar noise of roaring engines makes his ears hurt. His reaction is perfect, almost divine. He launches forward, sliding through the first turn like a man possessed, and when he glances at his mirrors, Max is gone. Buried in the chaos behind him, swallowed by his own mistakes. A chuckle bubbles up in Charles’ throat, raw and breathless, nearly manic again. This is what he wants. Him being able to prove that he is sharper, better and faster when giving as similar chance as Max. Not only that. To himself, and in extension Max too, he needs to prove that he can exist without Max fucking Verstappen.

He flies away, leaving the rest of pack behind. It's only in lap two where he figures out that Max fell five places down. There is a momentary wave of sorrow, one intrusive idea about Charles wanting to be the only to beat him, regretting that other drivers are doing so too. But they're both on their own. Max would never share this sentiment towards him. Whatever Charles is doing must be working, because it looks like he got into Verstappen's head. He's slowly extending the lead, keeping Bottas in a safe distance, far enough no DRS.

Ten and few more laps later, he notices Max working way up the field quite effectively. He keeps calm, because with every car Max passes, Charles makes up a second on Bottas.

Max's got the fastest lap now. Charles is managing tires, bracing for the future. Pit stop - the one thing he truly fears - gone right. He's in a completely calm and periodic rhythm, none of the cars providing a real challenge. He prays to the gods of racing for no mechanical failure this time. Destiny owes his at least that. Give him the right tools, he won't ask for help when all it lies on is his own abilities. He's making his way through the traffic, lapping cars and occasionally looking behind his back at Verstappen fighting Bottas. And after few more laps of this routine - Max is the first car on his tail. Charles expected nothing less. He digs into everything he has - not only in him, but in the car as well. The whole race was just a prep for this moment. Barely four seconds. Max is faster, a fact his dearest fucking engineer feels the need to point out, as if he couldn’t see it himself. But quick math tells Charles he should survive this. 3,8. 3,6. For Charles, there really is no other car on the track than Max's. The others are just annoying little gravel stones, hitting his visor and robbing Charles of clean air. A half of a second is lost only by having to cruise between them. He tries his best to stay cool. One final wish goes towards his tires.

He gives it all. Five final laps and the gap is dangerously close to one second. He spends what feels like two years stuck between Pierre, who's suppose to let him through and Max who is closing in on him. Two Red Bulls. Please, Pierre. This is the first time Charles regrets not telling his friend about the love affair. He knows Pierre is instructed to make it as hard as possible for Charles to get through while keeping it all legal.

"Verstappen behind, one second."

"Leave me alone."

And then - it's on.

It's like he can feel Max breathing down his neck. The DRS is inevitable. Max is inevitable. Charles defends for his life. He forces him to have to go around the outside, off the racing line. Turn 4 is the Achilles heel and Charles survives the first time they pass it through.

But he knows Max. Understands the way he moves, instinct in perfect symphony with logic, calculating every weakness...No stone left untouched. Why should Charles be the exception. He remembers the way he looked at Charles the first time they kissed - half a dare, half a warning. It's the way he uses his touch - firm, yet gentle - to bend Charles into whatever shape he wants.

On the next lap, Charles watches his mirrors, waits for the lunge. This time Max doesn’t go for the outside. No, this time, he comes from inside, slicing through the turn with an aggression Charles thought he was ready for. It’s all so quick, just like their fallout.

The wheels are millimeters apart. Charles tries to force him wide, but Max refuses to back off. Of course he does. Max has never learned when to let go. Never knows when to stop taking.

And then, it comes again.

Max is right there, alongside him, closer this time, pushing, forcing. Charles grips the wheel tighter, body locked in, blood roaring in his ears. He doesn’t lift. He doesn’t yield. Max doesn’t either.

A nudge. A shove. Space shrinking into nothing. Everything slows.

He’s back at the Monaco apartment, late at night, Max’s voice low against his neck. “If I have to take a win from you, will you ever kiss me again?” Charles had laughed, breathless. “You already take everything from me.”

Charles barely registers the moment his tires leave the track, but he feels it. The smudge of gravel beneath him, the split-second loss of control, the sheer force of what Max has done.

Max’s fingers curled around his wrist in a hotel hallway, yanking him back to the room before they could be seen, grinning like it was a game. "You can’t get enough of me," Charles had scoffed. "Give me all you have, Charlie," Max hummed in between kisses.

The back of Max’s neck in the early morning, hair still damp from post sex shower, heartbeat steady under Charles’ hand. "Would you ever crash into me?" Max had asked once, drowsy, barely awake. Charles had said no. Max had never answered.

The car snaps back into control just before he spins. Charles feels it all in his arms, his whole body resisting the centrifugal pull. No. It takes him half a second to realize what just happened. The next half is spent knowing, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t fucking legal. Max robbed him. They have to make him give the place back. Charles grips the wheel so hard it might break, breath coming short and sharp. His visor feels suffocating, the heat pressing in from all sides. He should have known. Should have known Max would take everything.

He genuinely can't remember the rest of the race.

Just like that, it's over, he's getting out of the car and his own disbelief is preventing from believing any of this is real. His mind stayed back somewhere around Turn 4 and he's having something he thinks others describe as out of body experience. He understands there are words coming out of his mouth, but no one is in control of them. They roll of automatically and he's only aware that most of them are about the stewards having to have a look at the move.

He is painfully aware of the cameras in the cooldown room. That is the only thing grounding him and not flying into a shout festival with Max. The words he has reserved for this man are intended for him and his ears only. Survival mode kicks in and he tries to ignore him as much as he can.

He'd prefer getting punched instead of having to stand on this podium. Any attempt from people trying to congratulate is met with a face one does not forget. Max's smile is impossible to ignore, bright and shamelessly arrogant, the kind of grin that demands to be seen. Mercilessly cuts through like a knife.

Charles sees the way Max points at the Honda logo on his race suit, exaggerating the motion, playing up the moment. A distant memory flickers in. Charles remembers when Max came home one day, irritated after yet another Red Bull PR lecture about mentioning Honda at every possible opportunity. Max had rolled his eyes, complaining about contractual obligations, flapped himself on the couch and refused to talk. So, Charles came up with a game, with hopes of turning the mood around. Say it so much they beg you to stop. He still remembers Max’s mischievous smirk, the way they looked at each other every time he did that. Now? It feels like Max deliberately twisting the knife he shoved into Charles' guts. As if Charles isn't standing right there, watching it all, bleeding out behind a forced expression. Max took it all. No one would be mad or surprised if he hadn't won today. It means he did all of this on purpose. Inflict as much as he possibly can. Something he appears to be very good at.

Someone puts the dreaded Dutch anthem on and every note drags on and on. Charles stares to the deep hills, avoiding the crowd below. His nails pressing so hard his racing suit he’s surprised there isn’t blood between his fingers. This is the sound he will die to. The tune that will crawl inside his skull, rot there, and play on an endless loop. If there’s a god waiting for him at the end of it all, this is what they'll hum as the gates get shut in his face.

Max is right there, right fucking there, barely an arm’s length away, standing taller, chest out, sweat still clinging to his skin like it’s something to be proud of. Charles doesn’t dare look at him. Doesn’t trust himself not to flinch, not to break. The heat between them is unbearable, suffocating, a reminder that not long ago, Max had pressed against him in a different way. The hand he now had to avoid from accidentally brushing against is the same one that used to grip Charles like he was something for Max to own.

He knows Max doesn’t even think about that. Not now. Not while he stands here, grinning like he was made for this moment, swimming in the praise from crowd that loves him, while Charles stands frozen beside him, barely holding himself together.

The anthem swells, the final few notes longing out like they’re mocking him, and Charles forces himself to swallow, forces the bile back down his throat. He knows it's over. Deep down inside, he stopped hoping for stewards standing by him. Another mistake and he looks down the crowd. Roars of people suffocating him, stealing the air directly from his lungs and among all of those, one face stands out. Everyone is looking at Max, apart from this person, who's unmistakable smirk reminds him so scarily of the smirk he used to love. Jos Vestappen is unashamedly staring down at him, even though he's several meters below him. For the first time, he sees the resemblance between Max and his father.

He calls himself stupid about fifty times. The door for Max would not have opened if he hadn’t allowed it. He got burned once. It can’t happen again. Things have to change. He has to change. The champagne tastes like a spoilt milk, Charles does everything in his power to get out of the podium stand as quickly as possible. He will go on to the stewards with his team, even though he knows the battle is lost. If there is one thing he is grateful for, it's the crying Honda spokesman, that wiggles in between him and Max for the final photo. Charles is spared of the final blow - feeling Max's cruel hands on his back again.

The come down of emotions is quick. He did it. Snatched Charles' first victory right from his hands. Celebrated so loudly, encircled Charles so efficiently he was sure he must be getting claustrophobic. Killer instinct called upon him and he gave in completely. Charles can't rely on ignoring him. He won't go away without a fight, without destroying him. Max is hardly a sappy dreamer, but all of today feels like it was written long time ago and he was just following the script. Charles is sitting by his right side during the press conference - exactly where he belongs. There is an evil joy Max feels from having him so close during his first win of this season. Charles has no choice but to endure every second of it. Weeks of silence, of trying to erase Max from his life, and yet, here they are. No matter how hard he tries, he can't escape him.

The questions roll in. "How does this win compare to the ones he's had before?" Oh, he has many words he can't say out loud. The reported receives some basic technical summary, but what he really wants to say - scream, shout to the world - is that this win feels sweeter than any candy, he's reclaiming his strenght back and Charles can try as much as he can, but Max proved today that he won't back down.

"When did you start to think the win was possible today?" Easy. Once the door shut behind Charles when he ran away. When his smug smile started to haunt Max in every waking moment. When he heard the words, his former lover, calling him a mere distraction.

Next question is aimed at Charles. General, basic, nothing out of the order. He steals one glance. A thunder of a feeling he can't name properly shoots through him. His bloodshot eyes, purple lips and hands with practically no nails left on them scream the truth louder than anything else. It's the moment Charles finally speaks, his words rolling out of his tongue when Max's heart stops. It is probably unrecognizable for the crowd of journalist in front of them, but he knows this tone. It's the utterly broken one. His words make sense, it's composed and measured, but the accent creeps in and gives away all. Just like it did whenever Charles felt unsure about their love affair. His voice is soft, too soft for a post-race fatigue. Max has to put his head down, to hide behind his cap for a moment. He hears Charles gulp and surprisingly it's that what breaks Max. Numbness descends over him. Next question is aimed at Valtteri and for once, he's glad.

Max sinks in. He tries to stop the guilt from drowning him. For once, this is a battle he can't win. The darkest worry Max always had about himself is that he it too ruthless. Can't see the line until he's way past by. Cruel, calculating monster, that will destroy anything or anyone standing in his way. Suddenly, he find himself regretting it all. His move was over the top, but he can't admit that now. This wasn't racing anymore, this personal vendetta, childish anger spree, because Max can't have what he truly wants. Maybe it's sadly better this way. By forcing Charles to hating him, he will make sure he stays far away from him. Max knows he'd crumble apart, had Charles given him any inclination that he wants him back. That man could probably ask for anything and he'd give it to him. Max is not strong enough to resist Charles. He's also just proven how much of a selfish dick he can be when things don't go this way. The reality of him coming to the conclusion, that Charles hating him instead of loving him might be safer and better option for the Ferrari driver is a hard pill to swallow. Max had spent years perfecting the art of fighting for every inch, of clawing his way to the top no matter the cost. And now, sitting here, drowning in his own victory, he wonders if the cost this time was too high. Max knows his actions today bought him all the time in the world to wallow around this idea. Because, it's obvious Charles can't stand him anymore. He finally sees Max for what he is. His father's son.

Another question, particularly snarky one comes at him and Charles together and something inside Max takes over. He's saying words, explaining the nature of his specific overtake and it takes him everything he has to prevent his voice from shaking. He ends up defending himself again, but the doubts flood his consciousness. Charles finally throws in a sarcastic comment, calling the move illegal, and something ugly inside Max likes it. If Charles has to hate him, let it be like this - spiteful, angry, not distant and indifferent. At least anger means he still cares, even if it’s in the worst way possible.

He will forever admire Charles for being able to sit through this, so strong and still.

We never gave up, he hears himself saying. His only hope is that Charles won't give up too.

"Charles, do you feel like this one has been stolen from you?" Yes. Obviously. Once again, Max questions the sanity of everyone in the room. Another punchy note about the legality of the overtake and Max revels in it.

"Will you stop being the polite driver you are?" Is this the first time people watched Charles racing? A polite driver? The menace that would rather have them crash into the barrier than get overtaken? The driver Max had to pull out his dirtiest trick only to get a chance on getting in front of him?

"On track I'm a bit of a different person than in the car." Max has never disagreed with something more in his life.

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

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moosesarecute · 2 days ago

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Chapter 10: The Shadow to my Flame

Series masterlist

Masterlist

“So my mother asked to curl your hair?” Eris asked Ashe. He looked confused and also worried in a way. She couldn’t detect all the emotions in his look.

“Yes,” she answered him. “I was curtain I was getting fired and that she was only nice to me because of it.”

Eris let out a small laugh. He seemed tense, but Ashe knew he wouldn’t tell her why if she asked.

“I think she misses Lucian,” Ashe continued. “Have you heard anything from or about him?”

Eris shook his head.

“I only know he’s in spring. He never answers my letters. I’m not sure he gets them.”

Ashe was the only one that knew how much his youngest brother meant to Eris. Their family dynamic was hard, and all the brothers had been set up against each other from the start. However, Eris loved being an older brother. He loved seeing his brothers grow and learn. He just didn’t have any way to show it without being weak.

Eris looked very thoughtful, and Ashe realized it was time for a subject change.

“How was the ball?” she asked him instead.

Ashe hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with Eris since ball on Saturday. It was now Tuesday evening. So much had happened in the last week. Ashe felt like she had lived a new life. She had so much she wanted to tell him, but she knew she couldn’t.

She would wait until Sunday and then she could talk to Samli about everything. Especially the kiss.

“Boring as usual. Only politics and dancing.”

“But dancing seems so nice,” Ashe told him with a small pout.

Eris was a very good dancer, but he never liked it. He didn’t like dance as a way of communicating. Ashe, however, would spent every ball she worked at as a way to look at all the different dances. It felt magical.

“How’s your back?”

“It’s fine. Almost doesn’t hurt anymore.”

With that, Eris pulled her up by her arms and laid one of them on his shoulder and held the other in his hand. His last hand laid at her waist.

“Do, ti, ti,” he sang the rhythm in the lightest voice he could, and then he started the dance.

Ashe couldn’t help but laugh. Both at the dance and at his ridiculous voice.

“You’re stepping on my toes!” Eris said. “I taught you better.”

That only made Ashe laugh even more, but she tried her best to not step on him again.

Eris had taught her to dance many years ago. He usually would dance with her before or after a big ball. And they always laughed their way through it.

Ashe didn’t mind being a servant. She of course wished they would get treated better, but she absolutely didn’t mind the work. But one ball. That was her wish. She just wanted to go to one ball. She had told Eris that, and her friend had since danced with her. He always said it was to prepare her for the day when her dream would come true.

They laughed and spoke for many hours. Even though Ashe’s live had taken a big turn the last week, at least the nights with her friend stayed the same. Or so she thought.

Azriel had read through the documents and the book three times. The book was rules for servants that he stole from Ashe.

Ashe.

Even thinking her name made him weak in the knees. Her soft eyes, calming voice and pretty smile.

“Mate,” his shadows sung.

“Shut up.”

Azriel was pacing back and forth in his office. He felt so stupid. And at the same time confused. And at the same time like he had the biggest crush in existence.

He couldn’t be right. He refused to be right. He felt everything at once.

Had she lied to him? Had he been blinded by the mating bond? Did Ashe at all know about the mating bond?

Please, be wrong.

He usually would just press down his feelings and pretend to forget them, but this. This was too much. He packed down the book, the hair colour, the small piece of hair and the two documents he stole from Autumn.

He felt almost his entire body shake as he made his way to the townhouse, where his brothers would be.

He walked silently into the living room and spotted Cass, Rhys, Mor and Amren. Seeing Mor made him even more nauseous. What had he done?

He looked quickly between Rhys and Cass.

“I need to speak to you two,” he said. He hated how shaky his voice was. And he saw how his brothers were going to make fun of him. They were smirking, however, they made their way to Rhys’ office in silence.

“Okay, brother. What’s going on.”

Azriel felt like he was going to throw up. He was crazy. He must have become insane. It was an insane theory, but at the same time, he found so many things that backend it.

“You okay, Az?”

He looked over and saw how both his brothers looked rather worried. He would just have to jump in and do it.

“You know Ashe?”

His brothers nodded.

“The servant you couldn’t stop daydreaming about in Autumn,” Cass said with an even bigger smirk. “You were basically drooling at her.”

“Shut it,” Azriel told him, even though he spoke the truth.

“What about her?” Rhys asked.

Azriel regretted that he didn’t write down what he needed to say. All the words got mixed up in his head. He should have found a better way to pack in the information. But he hadn’t planned this, so he just spoke.

“She’s a spy for us.”

Rhys and Cass shared a worried glance.

“We already know that.”

Right. Of course they did. He had told them before. This is so stupid, he just needs them to know.

“I think we should get her out of Autumn,” he said.

“Okay,” Rhys answered. “Why?”

“I’m not sure we can trust her any longer.”

Azriel felt like he was going to explode. Why couldn’t they just know what he wanted to tell them?

“What happene-”

“She’s my mate.”

Azriel froze when he realized what he had just said. He didn’t dare to look at his brothers. He had always planned to keep her a secret until they accepted the bond, but after what he had just learned, he needed them to know.

Ashe was his mate. He had known since the first letter. Or, his shadows had known. They would tell him all about her and tell him exactly what she was going through. They called her his mate, and Azriel didn’t know her by any other name until she introduced herself as Flame.

So yes, he had spied on his mate. But it was only to make sure she was safe.

And then when he first saw her in the dungeon, he knew for sure what she was.

He wanted to hold her then. To kiss her and touch her hair. Her beautiful…brown…hair. But he refused to do so. He was going to be strong.

That lasted about three hours, before he snuck into her cabin. He tried to figure out more about her. That’s how he found the brown hair colour and red hairs. His mate had red hair. Mother, he wished to see her with her natural hair colour. Even the thought of it made his heart dance. She would look so cute and sexy. Definitely sexy.

That’s also where he found the book for servants that told him that Ashe was forced to colour her hair.

He hadn’t meant for her to find him there, so he pretended it was a part of being one of his spies. He couldn’t stay away. He needed to know more.

That’s when he learned about all the abuse his mate had gone through. He learned about the pain she was dealing with as they spoke. Azriel wanted to do anything for her. He wanted to make the pain go away. If she had asked him for something, anything at all, he would to it.

Most of the harm had come from the High Lord himself. Why would he hurt her if she was…

After the conversation, he found it even harder to stay away. He needed to protect her. To make sure no one would ever hurt her again. He needed to see her eyes light up in a smile. He needed to feel her warmth and touch her. He didn’t necessarily mean touching sexually, even though he wanted that too. He just felt the need to hold her. Play with her hair. Hold her hand. Kiss her. He wanted to look deep into her amber eyes.

But now, he wasn’t sure he could look into her eyes without seeing…

When he saw her curled hair in the dining room, he lost all self-control. He almost drooled. His mate was so pretty.

He needed help to sneak into the office, but most of all he just needed to see her again. He hadn’t planned on kissing her. But she looked so terrified and when her hand gripped his tighter than usual, he couldn’t help himself.

Ashe had the softest lips he had ever kissed. He had to force himself to stop kissing her, before he went too far to hold back all he wanted to do to her. Her flushed face made him struggle to stand.

He let himself have one last kiss, and then he left.

But know, after he had learned what he had, he felt so stupid. How could he have trusted her so easily? But at the same time, what if he was wrong? Or what if he was right, but Ashe didn’t know? He just wanted her to be the kind, soft and wonderful female he thought she was!

After what she had told him and what his shadows had told him, Ashe had no clue.

However, if Ashe did know…then he had almost doomed the entire Night Court.

“That’s great Az! But why does that mean we can’t trust her?” Rhys’ voice pulled him out of his daydreaming.

Azriel looked at his brothers shocked faces. He saw that they were happy, but at the same time, neither one of them knew how to react. They soon begun to smile instead.

He took a deep breath and hid partially in his shadows before he spoke next.

“I have reasons to believe she is Beron’s daughter.”

Ashe was getting ready for bed. Eris had left a little of an hour ago, but Ashe had been too busy daydreaming over a certain winged male to do go to bed.

However, she was exhausted.

So, when a knock was heard from her door, she didn’t think twice. It was probably Eris coming back to say something or getting something he forgot.

If she had been a little less tired, she would know that Eris never came back to her room in so close intervals. Their friendship was a big secret.

Ashe walked over to the door and opened it. Fully expecting to see her friend or maybe Maria.

However, looking at her from the other side of the door was no other than the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

And he did not look happy.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky @mis-lil-red

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

#acotar #azriel #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc #azriel x original character #vanserra family #eris vanserra #lucien vanserra #beron vanserra

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izuchant · 1 day ago

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Fire Siblings🔥🌑

This is a Fanart of a Fanfic named Towards the Sun. I recommend it do much! It's so good. This is based on this specific chapter ( my favorite one) ⬇️

I re read this chapter every time I can, hahaha

Bonding time, Daddy Issues, and Mommy Issues so well written! ✨️

Fanfic Info:

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19252807/chapters/45784264

Name: Towards the Sun

Autor:%Muffinlance

Please support the author on Ao3 🙇

Disclaimer: I didn't ask permission to draw this. I don't want to disturb the author, If there's any problem with this, please let me know, and I don't have any issue deleting Fanart posts of their Fics! 🙇

#avatar: the last airbender #avatar #zuko #prince zuko #azula #atla #ao3 #towards the sun

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separatist-apologist · 19 hours ago

Text

Lying In Between The Memories

You could call it paradise but it looks just like hell to me

Summary: Following the blood rite, Gwyneth Berdara can't shake the memories of a life long-gone.

The shadowsinger can't seem to move on after five centuries of loving the same woman.

Together, they'll have to carve a new path forward.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter

[ongoing TW for Sexual Assault]

If Gwyn didn’t force herself out of bed, she’d never leave.

In Gwyn’s defense, she’d tried to leave multiple times only for Azriel to open his eyes and drag her back. She must have wasted half the week that way, happy to forget the horrors that were waiting just outside the bedroom door. She didn’t want to deal with the Day Court scholar, with Gunnar, or anything else that had been plaguing them. Azriel was good at keeping her mind preoccupied—one slide of his hand up her thigh evaporated whatever anxieties she had.

Save for the ones that centered around him. Three times now, she’d offered to get up and offer him something to eat, and each time he looked like he wanted it before he pulled her back, claiming he didn’t want to see her go, even for a moment.

But surely he wanted to cement what shimmered between them?

Gwyn was starting to think Azriel didn’t want that at all. The thought pulled her from her dream, lost to the darkness of his bedroom and new insecurities worming their way through her chest. Azriel was asleep, for once—softly snoring as he laid on his back, his wings splayed out beneath him. One hand lay on his bare stomach, and for a moment, Gwyn was tempted to wake him up with her tongue and teeth.

He’d like it, she thought. Every time she touched him, he watched with open-mouthed wonder, which broke her heart a little. Before, she’d assumed that he didn’t feel like he deserved it, and she’d wanted to prove that he did, but now…

Gwyn swung a leg over the edge of the bed slowly, watching to see if the spymaster would feel her leave him. Azriel didn’t move, his naked chest rising and falling slowly. He needed the sleep—she did, too, though she wasn’t going to get it until she talked to Nesta.

It was its own form of torture, leaving him in that bed so she could try and get inside his head. Why not just ask him, some more rational part of her mind screamed. She’d been trying, for whatever that was worth.

Slipping a night dress over her head once she was in the hall, afraid the material would be so loud it would wake him, Gwyn made her way to Nesta and Cassian’s bedchamber. Cracking the door, she found the curtains pulled half open so a beam of silvery moonlight fell over Cassian.

Who was awake.

Knife in hand.

Staring straight at her.

Gwyn raised her palms slowly, but Cassian was already sliding the dagger back on the bedside table. “Can I talk to Nesta?” she whispered.

“In the morning,” Cassian grumbled, wrapping his arms around Nestas sleeping form. They’d woken her, though. Nesta’s head popped up from Cassian’s chest, blinking against the dark.

“Gwyn?”

“Tell her to go back to sleep,” Cassian grumbled as Nesta wiped drool from her cheek.

“Is everything okay?” Nesta asked, pulling out of Cassian’s embrace while he complained into a pillow. “Oh go sleep with Azriel if you’re that lonely.”

“I might,” Cassian retorted, rolling onto his stomach. He wasn’t wearing clothes, Gwyn realized, though Nesta mercifully had a night dress on. “I’ll bet he’d hold me if I asked.”

“He’d let you be the little spoon,” Nesta agreed, shaking her head back and forth before they made their way back out into the hall.

Cassian flung a pillow at Nesta just as she shut the door, causing it to thump softly against the door.

“Did they…?”

“Probably,” Nesta said with a shrug, answering her unspoken question. Had Cassian and Azriel ever done anything together. Gwyn would ask…in a decade, or so when Azriel wasn’t so guarded. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Azriel,” she whispered, following Nesta up the steps to the living area. They both flopped down on the little loveseat, Nesta yanking a knitted blanket from the back to cover them both. “I think…I think he wishes the bond hadn’t happened.”

Nesta, who’d been slow and sleepy right up until that moment, snapped to attention. All the lights in the room flickered on, the house responding to Nesta's mood and magic.

“How could you think that?” Nesta asked, brow furrowed. “He is always with you.”

“The bond pulls us together, but I’ve tried…” gods, but the whole thing was so embarrassing. “I’ve tried to accept the bond, and every time I offer, he distracts me until I forget.”

Nesta’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought he’d want to, but…he doesn’t.” Gwyn swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Mates were rare—so rare she’d never expected one, never given having one any thought until she’d felt the bond between them. To tell Nesta, who was mated herself and happy about it, felt like another miserable blow.

“Fuck him,” Nesta said, resting her head on the back of the couch. “Like he’d ever do better.”

“Is there anyone else?” Gwyn questioned, heart hammering. Nesta’s eyes were unfocused for a moment, brow furrowed over some memory she’d clearly forgotten. Gwyn knew Nesta was never going to be honest if there was—but there was. Or, there had been before he’d left, anyway. She’d never thought to ask—and she should. Ask him, anyway. Right then, though, Gwyn would have preferred to be swallowed whole by the earth itself.

“He loves you, though?”

Gwyn shrugged. “He says he does.”

“But you don’t believe him?” Nesta probed, some of her anger shifting into an emotion Gwyn thought she preferred not to see. It was pity.

“Why won’t he accept the bond if he loves me? There’s someone else—”

“It would be easier if there was, wouldn’t it?” Nesta commented, angling her body to face Gwyn.

Gwyn paused. “Why do you say that?”

Nesta considered her words, nose scrunched. “If he doesn’t want the bond…you can walk away.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Why would you want that?” Nesta asked with genuine curiosity.

“I don’t.”

“But you’re out here talking to me, when you could just ask Az himself.”

“I can’t just ask, hey Az, are you in love with another female—”

“No. Just you.”

Azriel’s voice drew their attention, his presence in the doorway catching them both by surprise. He stood there, arms crossed over his bare chest, his expression unreadable. How long had he been there? How had he known where she’d gone?

His shadows swarmed toward her, slinking through her unbound hair all the while whispering what she thought were apologies. Gwyn couldn’t speak their language, though she thought some part of her understood most of what they tried to convey.

“Traitors,” she whispered, watching as his shadows recoiled ever so slightly.

“Talk to him,” Nesta whispered loudly, throwing Azriel a wink. “Did Cass climb in bed with you?”

Azriel didn’t smile. “Not tonight.”

“He’s getting jealous,” Nesta replied, fingers skimming Azriel’s arm before she slipped out. She whispered something to Azriel Gwyn didn’t hear, and only knew was spoken because he turned his head to the side so he could listen.

“I won’t,” he murmured in response, hazel eyes falling on her again.

“Goodnight, Gwyn,” Nesta called over her shoulder. Neither Gwyn nor Azriel spoke until Nesta was gone, though only Azriel heard the sound of Nesta’s door click shut. He took a careful half-step into the living room, his expression betraying nothing that might help her.

“You weren’t in bed,” he said flatly. Why?

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied, her stomach twisting nervously. She’d wanted to talk to Nesta, to have her friend reassure her that everything was fine and she didn’t need to worry. Not Azriel, whom she’d never really had an honest conversation with. They were too new, didn’t know each other well enough to delve into the complicated and messy history of their pasts.

“I’m not in love with anyone else,” he said when it was clear she wasn’t going to say anything beyond not being able to sleep. He’d have to make the first move. Azriel took another half step toward her. “Only you.”

“Then why…” she tugged a strand of her hair. “Forget it. Forget I said—”

“Tell me.”

“Az,” she half pleaded, but he wasn’t letting it go. She could see the shape of his will, the determined set of his jaw—he was going to make her tell him everything she’d thought, every confession to Nesta, and then…she didn’t know.

“I’ve done something, and now you think I don’t care for you,” he said, his voice cracking at the edges. He was coming closer now, walking as though he were being pulled. His wings were tight against his back, which she understood meant he was nervous—protecting himself from some threat.

From her.

Gwyn turned on the sofa to face him as he came around the side, sinking softly to one knee, and then the other so they were almost eye level. He’d placed himself at her feet, looking up at her with the same expression she’d seen priestesses gaze at the statue of the Mother.

“Why don’t you want to accept our bond?” she asked, forcing the words out of her mouth. “You keep putting of off.”

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut, head turning to the side as though he couldn’t stand for her to see him. Instinctively, Gwyn’s fingers found his chin, turning his face so he had to look at her.

“I do want that,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “I want it…I want it more than anything.”

“Then why—”

“You’re so young,” he said, the words falling out like a rush of water. “You have your whole life and I…I had that time. It’s wrong to leash you to me, and I…I would wait. I will wait—”

“Don’t you know me at all?” she interrupted, her frustration warring with a giddy sort of joy. She’d fully expected the opposite—for him to say she was broken beyond repair, that she was too damaged to love, too imperfect for the likes of him. He’d indulge in the bond, but he didn’t want a life.

Azriel’s eyes shone like moonlight.

“I don’t want another male. I’ve never wanted any male—”

“The bond—”

“Merely strengthens what was already there,” she said, thumb sweeping over his stubbled cheek. “It was always going to be you, or no one.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I know,” she shot back. The corners of Azriel’s eyes crinkled though he didn’t smile. He wanted to, though, but was too comfortable denying himself anything that might bring him pleasure or joy. “I know that’s true, and with a century of space, it would still be your bed I crawled into every night.”

There was a beat as Gwyn imagined what Azriel was offering, a frown pulling at her mouth. “You’d let me sleep with other males?”

“Yes,” he agreed immediately, though there was a darkness in her expression. “But afterward, I might kill them for it.”

“How is that letting me find myself?”

“I’m not hurting you,” he replied, absurd and earnest as ever.

“What if I fell in love with him?”

A growl slipped from his throat, his amusement gone, replaced by cold, unfeeling anger

“See?” she whispered. “Why torture yourself when I’m here, and I want you?”

“And when you wake up in a century riddled with regret?” he asked her, cocking his head to the side. “What will I do, then?”

“Wake up from the terrible nightmare you had,” Gwyn shot back with a smile. “It’s not going to happen. I don’t like other males, Az. You are the only exception.”

Azriel rose to his feet, offering her his hand. “Come on,” he murmured. Gwyn followed after him, half tripping down the stairs though never once letting go of him. He took her to the kitchen, pulling open drawers and cabinets until he found was he was looking for.

A loaf of crusty, day old bread. Using a dagger he inexplicably had in his sleep shorts, Azriel sliced two pieces and set them on a plate while Gwyn protested that she was supposed to do it.

“I want to,” he said, ending the argument swiftly. She let him slide that unbuttered piece of bread into her mouth, wishing something would happen. It seemed so unfair it had to be females, at least in this one instance.

“Your turn,” he whispered, looking like a caged animal about to bolt. He didn’t think she’d do it—he expected her to back down. As if Gwyn had ever backed down from a challenge. She was slow, holding his gaze as she brought that piece of bread to his lips.

Azriel’s fingers curled around her wrist, holding her hand against his mouth, teeth gently nipping at the tips.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, pulling on the cord between them. Of course she did, though before it had been a string tied around her rib with a knot she could have undone with some effort. Something that could be cut—snapped. Now, though, it was gold plated, firmly attached like another muscle she was only aware of when there was an ache.

Azriel kissed the palm of her hand. “Do you want a mating ceremony?” “No,” she said, the word bursting out of her with a laugh. “Do you?”

He shook his head back and forth. “It’s no one's business,” he murmured, though in truth, they simply didn’t like the fuss, being the center of everyone's attention. His friends would turn it into a spectacle because they loved him, and her friends would want the same. Gwyn was content with the bread, the dark, quiet kitchen, and whatever came next.

It was an eternity.

And she was glad for it.

—

Azriel knew Rhys knew the second he stepped into the room. Nostrils flared, eyes wide—there was only joy on Rhys’s face, followed by a flurry of unspoken questions. His friend knocked on Azriel’s warded mind, but Azriel wasn’t ready to share, yet. He was only at the River House because he wanted to ensure Eris Vanserra stayed far, far away from his mate.

Who was upstairs.

Sleeping.

In his bed.

He smothered a smile in favor of leaning against the fireplace mantle.

“Where’s Feyre?” Cassian asked, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. It wasn’t even dawn, yet, and none of them wanted to be up, least of all Azriel who had foregone sleeping at all in favor. He’d put Gwyn to sleep—with his cock, no less—not an hour before.

Was it strange to watch her sleep? Perching himself in the windowsill, Azriel had caught himself mesmerized by the way her hair fell around her face, how her chest rose and fall so steadily he could have set a clock to it. He wanted to touch her.

Gods, he wanted to touch her.

Once again, Eris Vanserra was in his way.

“Asleep,” Rhys replied, eyes still pinned to Azriel. “She had a long night—”

“Can you please, just…” Cassian raised a finger to Rhys, looking as if he were at the end of his rope. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“With the baby,” Rhys finished, grinning sharply. “One day, when you have children of your own, you’ll experience a different sort of late night satisfaction.” Cassian mumbled something under his breath Azriel didn’t quite catch. He didn’t dare let himself imagine it—children, with Gwyn’s shock of cinnamon hair and teal eyes…and his wings.

The yearning he felt was so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees. There was time—infinite time, truly. It didn’t stop him from wanting, though.

He smothered the thought as Eris strolled in, crisp as always, though this time crowned with the laurel leaves that marked him High Lord of Autumn. Even the air around him felt charged, causing the hair on the back of Azriel’s neck to stand on end. Eris deserved to be ripped limb from limb, and now he’d never get the chance.

Eris’s eyes swept over the room, his displeasure plain. “You know why I’m here.”

“I don’t,” Rhys lied, sitting in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “I’m surprised you have the time, given the rumors of civil war…”

Eris’s amber eyes flashed. “Where is she?”

“Who?” Cassian questioned, but they all knew. They were here to play a role—the terrifying, brutish males of the Night Court that reveled in violence for fun. Eris ought to know better by then, but mates did something to a male. Made them less cautious, less careful, and Eris certainly wasn’t an exception. Azriel might have pitied him had he not kidnapped Gwyn.

“Arina. I want her,” Eris declared, his hand inching toward the ceremonial sword hanging from his hip.

Rhys considered this. “I’m not familiar with her.”

Azriel shook his head back and forth as if to say, doesn’t ring a bell.

“I might have had her in my bed last—”

“Oh cut the shit,” Eris snarled, his temper already at the surface. “We can all walk away with something we want, or I can call all the other High Lords and force you to hand her over.”

“What do you think we want?”

“Knowledge,” Eris replied, holding Rhys’s gaze. “My father made several bargains that you might like knowing about. I might be willing to share them, even—if you produce Arina.”

“Last I heard—and I’m not saying she’s here—she was asking to return to Helion.”

“Fuck Helion,” Eris snarled, his patience shredding. He looked ready to start a fight, which caused both Cassian and Azriel to straighten themselves out. Rhys was their friend and their High Lord—another High Lord threatening him, especially on their soil, was unforgivable. “She’s a pawn to you, so use her.”

“I want to know the deal he made with Montessere,” Rhys replied.

“Swear you’ll give me my mate if I tell you. Immediately,” Eris replied. He wasn’t stupid—bargains were specific or they weren’t worth much. Rhys could agree and then keep her for the next six centuries and Eris would simply have to wait.

Azriel would have liked to see it.

Rhys stood. “Fine. I’ll return her to you this morning if you outline the deal.”

“There was no deal,” Eris said once they’d shaken hands, his expression triumphant. “Not with Montessere, anyway—Gunnar is merely an undead puppet.”

The room was utterly silent. “Undead?” Cassian finally asked. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“He’s dead.” Eris declared, as if Azriel hadn’t seen him with his own eyes. He’d been unwell, certainly, and perhaps paler than Azriel would have liked…but dead? Wouldn’t he have noticed that? “His soul has left his body, and he’s being moved around by the god of death.”

“He can do that?” Cassian asked when no one else spoke.

“Apparently so,” Rhys murmured, running a hand down his chin. “How do you know this?”

“Beron was paranoid—he kept notes on everyone. Every conversation, every interaction, every realization. I left his body there, and it's very likely Koschei has it, too. Beron seemed to think he could reach us on the wind, whispering promises and power in exchange for his bidding.”

Some small realization slithered over Rhys’s face, smothered before anyone but Azriel caught it.

“What was the deal?”

“Power, of course,” Eris replied, holding Rhysand’s gaze. “High King of Prythian, his enemies destroyed and dead.”

“What did Beron give him for it?”

Eris only sighed. “I don’t know. He didn’t say, didn’t write it down…or it was destroyed before I found it. Some of the noble families ransacked his office while I was quelling a rebellion up north, and when I returned, things were missing.”

Rhys stood. “How are you dealing with them?”

Eris’ smile held no joy. “Death.”

“So the King of Montessere is dead, puppetted by a god, and at least one High Lord here is doing his bidding. How many others?”

“You read minds, not me,” Eris replied flippantly. “Now give me my mate.”

“The cipher remains here,” Azriel said, speaking for the first time. Arina had stolen it from Gwyn, and Azriel firmly believed only Gwyn could finish deciphering that book that might help explain what Koschei’s plan was. Maybe the Day Court scholar was smart—though, she was tethered to Eris Vanserra, which certainly didn’t lend any credibility to her cause.

“Fine,” Eris snapped, unaware of its importance.

“I’ll get her,” Cassian murmured, stretching out his wings. Cassian was likely the only one of the four of them on good enough standing with the scholar to convince her to let him touch her—

Azriel was pretty sure she’d claw out his eyes if he came within a hundred feet of her.

There was no love lost between them—she’d stolen from Gwyn and refused to hand it back, even after everything.

Arina was brought down ten excruciating minutes later, disheveled and still in her night clothes. Eris looked ready to murder someone.

“Did you touch her—”

“Of course I touched her,” Cassian snapped, shaking out his hands before plopping back to the sofa. “We had to fly down here. Unless you’d prefer I drop her—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Eris managed, looking her over. Arina looked irate, turning from Eris to Rhys.

“You’re sending me with him?”

Rhys only shrugged. “He’s the only one asking for you.”

It was unnecessarily cruel, in Azriel’s opinion, though not a lie. Helion hadn’t been begging for her back, likely because he trusted Rhys not to hurt her. Eris didn’t, though. Eris looked like he wanted to touch her and though it was cruel, Azriel hoped she never let him.

“The alliance between us stands,” Rhys called as Eris turned to leave, having shrugged out of his jacket to drape it over her shoulders.

Eris glanced backward. “I don’t want to see our land ravaged by an unchained god.”

It was good enough, at least for the moment. Eris swept out a moment later, hand hovering against Arina’s back though he didn’t dare touch her. It was well deserved, seeing Eris suffer. For once, Azriel got what Eris couldn’t buy his way into.

Rhys waited until the front door slammed closed.

“Where is Elain and Lucien?” Rhys asked, his voice just a shade too casual. Had Rhys told Cassian what he’d confided in Azriel a week earlier?

“He was taking her to Spring with him,” Cassian told Rhys. Rhys filled Cassian in, leaving out the parts regarding the potential originations of Azriel’s magic. That wasn’t confirmed—they couldn’t prove it. All Azriel had was his suspicions and fears. He wasn’t sure he wanted Cassian to know until he himself knew for sure.

Cassian handed Azriel the cypher while Rhys asked them to leave, intending to call the pair back to Night. He’d ordered Cassian not to say a word to Nesta about it, admitting he hadn’t told Feyre the whole truth, either. The Archeron’s would circle around Elain, with Nesta and Feyre creating a wall of power they’d make the rest of them punch through in order to get to Elain, regardless if she was working with Koschei or not.

Azriel had never been more grateful to not be mated to one of the sisters as he was right then. They’d meet again once Rhys had his answers regarding Elain, and then…Azriel knew they’d be preparing for war. How did you kill an immortal god? Amren likely knew, but Azriel didn’t think he wanted to.

Not then, anyway.

He and Cassian made their way back to their respective mates, though Cassian’s mood was much darker. He loathed being told to keep secrets from Nesta, his loyalty between his friend and High Lord, and his mate constantly at odds.

Gwyn’s cypher was on the desk in her room, put there by his shadows after Cassian had ordered Arina to hand it over. Gwyn would be delighted, which was all he cared about right then. Picking it up, he sat on the edge of the bed, intending to watch her sleep.

Gwyn peeked open an eye. “Come back to bed.

“I have something for you,” he murmured. She leaned upward, hair spilling over her shoulders like molten fire. She was so beautiful it made his teeth ache. Azriel handed her the slips of paper, unable to hold back a smile when her own expression lit up with joy.

“How?” she breathed.

“Eris made an exchange—this was part of the bargain.”

Gwyn bit her bottom lip, apprehension sliding over her features. “You let him take her?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Azriel reminded her. “Why?”

“It’s just…I was going to teach her how to use a knife.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Azriel assured her, ignoring that he’d once given Gwyn dagger lessons. He simply couldn’t bring himself to care, and wished Gwyn cared less, too. He knew what she saw, though—a defenseless female being delivered into the hands of a cruel male.

How many people would think the same had happened to her? Many, if he had to guess. Most everyone outside of Velaris, even. He didn’t have a polite reputation, after all.

Gwyn set the cipher to the side table by the bed before reaching for his bicep to drag him back to the pillows. Azriel kicked his boots off quickly, wishing his clothes had fewer buckles. It would be a nightmare to get them all off—and he wasn’t going to use brute strength to tear them apart. High quality leathers were hard to come by.

She let him strip down to his underthings before stopping him, fingers squeezing his wrist. “Lay with me?” she whispered into the dark as if she’d asked him for something costly—something he wouldn’t freely give her.

Azriel clenched his jaw, not out of anger, but nerves. Just lay? Propping himself against a wall of pillows, he stretched out his arm while she curled into his side, cheek pressed to his chest. Cautiously, Azriel ran his fingers through her hair, letting the silken strands drape against his skin like rivulets of water.

“Are you afraid?” she asked him after a heartbeat of silence.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Azriel lied. It seemed, lately, that he was afraid of so much. His fears had centralized, coalescing around the female cradled against his body. For the first time in

Azriel’s life, he had something that was his—something he could truly lose.

“Well, I am,” Gwyn admitted, fingers splayed against his bare chest. Azriel took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips.

“You don’t need to be afraid of anything,” Azriel told her, thinking he could carry enough fear for them both. “I’m here.”

There was something to be said for resisting the urge to give in to the lust he felt for her, the instinct to sink into a frenzy. If he was intentional, he thought he could keep her in bed until she was with a child and—

Azriel’s throat constricted.

A child.

A family.

Not like the one he’d had as a boy, violent and angry and fearful, but one of laughter. For a moment it all stretched out before him—Gwyn, bright and happy, that smile illuminating the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. He could hear the sounds of children laughing, their feet pounding on the floors as they jumped from furniture. He could see it—his wings, her eyes.

He wouldn’t yell, like his father had. Not at Gwyn, not at his children. Azriel exhaled a breath, lost in the fantasy.

He’d need things—like a home, for one. If he told Feyre, she’d go about purchasing something ostentatious and close, but Azriel thought he’d like something smaller and outside the city. Something close to Nesta and Emerie. Cassian had talked about moving to Illryia, a thought that had repulsed Azriel at the time, but maybe…maybe that would be so bad.

He could move his mother in, too. He thought Gwyn would like her.

He knew she’d love Gwyn.

By the time Azriel returned to the present, Gwyn was asleep. That wasn’t how he’d wanted the night to go—he’d hoped she’d keep his ears warm with her thighs, if nothing else. Still, it seemed sacrilegious to wake her, even if Azriel was convinced he’d never fall asleep.

He did—of course he did. He’d been sleeping more often since he’d met Gwyn than ever before in his life. Once he was asleep, Azriel was asleep—totally dead to the world in a way he’d never experienced, which caused him to wake a little after dawn with a sharp inhale of air.

Gwyn wasn’t there, as she so often wasn’t. Azriel hated the panic that rumbled through him, even as he heard her laughter floating through the air, sure as any of his shadows. They swarmed, save the one that trailed after her everywhere, murmuring that she was having breakfast with Nesta while Cassian went to retrieve Emerie

She hadn’t left him. Azriel took another breath, trying to settle his stammering heart as he dressed casually, padding into the dining room where Gwyn and Nesta were gleefully heaping spoonfuls of sugar into oatmeal already laden with fruit. When she saw him leaning in the doorframe, she grinned up at him.

“Hungry?” she asked. A bolt of lust swam through him, causing Nesta to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

Azriel ducked his head, embarrassed and pleased all at the same time. He knew they needed to figure out what to do with Koschei, with Eris, with the world itself. But right then as Azriel sat down at the table, he felt content.

Optimistically happy.

He didn’t think it would last.

#gwynriel

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