#left to thaw au

[ranfordgallus]

Been a while drawing a gift for a fruend...

So heres Left To Thaw martin...AU belongs to @traumatogo which idk hows the progress of the AU is going story/plot/lore wise... just wanted to draw this goofball

Cut your damn hair boy! Damn!!!

Im ripping him ap art

[traumatogo]

Grumpy ass mii lookin’ character!!!

@ranfordgallus Karma for chris am i right 😼, Bro gonna get flashbacks!!

[druidgroves]

i have a playlist for georgia/nate that's literally just full of lamenting heartbreak songs & putting all i wanted by paramore at the end was like past me hitting current me over the head with a chair

[beloveds-embrace]

Omg the dukedom sick reader was amazing. I'm so addicted I just love the thought that they are now realizing how far the relationship with the reader has gone. Will the reader recover? If they do, will the wound (is it on the leg?) be a constant reminder (if its something noticeable, like limp when they walk?) to the guys of what they did.

I really like the fact you put Kyle's perspective in there, how do you think the rest of the guys will react to the reader. Idk I just image a pale, malnourished person. Their face having dark circles around the eyes and just a somewhat sunken in face because of the fact they weren't eating.

How do you think the guys will try and make it up to the reader? I feel as if after that experience of being left in their room to rot, basically, they would want to be outside more, not in the manor. I see John having like a HUGE conservatory or greenhouse of plants that he used to visit just not anymore and just has his workers take care of all that with a courtyard.

I'm sorry for putting a lot

- 🐸

@nes-kopi Thanks to all of you!! I combined the answer to these all together because they are pretty much in the same wavelength, i hope no one mind 😔 linking still doesn’t work otherwise i would be linking the masterlist ueueueueue dukedom masterlist au first part

The manor was eerily quiet, but not the kind of quiet that soothed. It was oppressive, heavy, pressing against you like a weight you can’t shake. The warmth of the fire in your chambers, the softness of the freshly laundered sheets, the smell of fresh flowers arranged by the maids who now came by regularly- it all felt like a mockery. A sharp contrast to the months of cold, desolate silence that had left you here: numb, broken, and hollow.

The room was silent, save for the faint creak of wood under your weight as you shifted on the bed. The prosthetic, heavy and foreign, rested against the edge, and you stared at it with a detached sort of hatred. It wasn’t the prosthetic itself; it was what it symbolized- what you had lost, what they had taken from you without even trying.

Your body ached constantly, even after so long spent under the doctors’ care.

Your heart ached more.

The warmth of the room now- the fire, the clean sheets, the gentle glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the newly opened curtains- did nothing to thaw the frost that has made itself a home in your chest.

They were trying now. Oh, they were trying. Even if they couldn’t bring themselves to look at you in the eye anymore, though you weren’t surprised; you look… horrific. You’ve been avoiding the mirror on purpose for a good while now.

You aren’t sure what is worse; the way they ignored you before or the way they hover now.

Every step you took was a struggle. The prosthetic leg strapped to your stump was heavy and awkward, the chafing unbearable at times. Its mere existence, its mere need, alone was enough to make you balk more often than not.

But you refused their help.

When Simon silently appeared at your side during your attempts to navigate the stairs, you waved him off. When Johnny offered his arm to steady you as you crossed the garden, you shook your head. When Kyle insisted on helping you carry things, you snapped at him to leave you be. You were trying to not rot away again, yet they were making it incredibly bothersome.

And John… John lingered the most, his piercing gaze trailing after you like a shadow. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it, his every word laced with regret. A tone never, in your entire life, aimed at you.

You wondered if he was sincere. You wondered if it even mattered if he was.

“Let me help you, Duchess.” he said one morning, watching as you struggled to tighten the straps of your prosthetic. You have not called for any help from the maids or anyone even if they lingered, and you weren’t about to ask help from him of all people.

König would’ve helped-

“I don’t need your help.” you bit out sharply, your fingers trembling as they worked against the stubborn leather. You refuse to depend on him, especially for this. Why would you trust him, or any of them, after everything?

His jaw tightened, and he knelt before you, his large hands carefully prying yours away. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. For once, he wasn’t a presence larger than life. “Let me. Just this once.”

Your instinct was to pull away, to snarl that it was too little, too late. But the exhaustion won. You sat back in the chair, your arms limp at your sides, and let him finish securing the straps. You wished you could feel anything except for the numbness and misery that has been clouding you for so long, but you couldn’t.

His hands were gentle, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your chest ache.

Why did it take this much for them to care?-

They tried, in their own ways, to make amends.

Johnny started bringing meals directly to you, ones that catered to your preferences. He’d sit quietly at the edge of the room, cracking jokes or humming soft tunes, never leaving until you’d taken at least a few bites. The plates are always so well-decorated, the food so well cooked, not a single spot burnt or undercooked.

Kyle began organizing the staff, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and your belongings were arranged just how you liked them. He even replaced the stiff linens with softer ones and left books on your bedside table that he thought you might enjoy. You touched none of them.

Simon never said much, but his presence was almost constant. He became your silent sentinel, appearing whenever you struggled, watching over you from a distance. He didn’t speak often, but his eyes held a kind of quiet guilt that spoke louder than words but you decided that just this once, you’ll defean your ears.

And John…

John was everywhere. He lingered outside your door at night, the faint creak of the floorboards betraying his pacing. He watched you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, not out of fear but because you couldn’t reconcile this man with the one who had left you to rot. You had nothing to say to him. You barely had the strength to refuse his help attempts already.

The days blurred together, each one a series of numb moments punctuated by pain. The servants were more attentive now even without Kyle, but you couldn’t bear their pitying looks. The maids still whispered, though the words had changed:

Poor thing. How awful.

You avoided them all.

The manor felt smaller somehow, its walls closing in no matter where you went. You found solace in the gardens- when the weather allowed and you had the strength to navigate the terrain. The cold didn’t bother you anymore; it was the one constant, a reminder that you were still alive, still breathing. Unfortunately.

They watched from the windows sometimes, their gazes following as you limped across the grounds. You didn’t acknowledge them.

Something in you broke when the doctor told you you had to stop those trips for now, for your own health. Like the miserable thing you are, he didn’t even say it to you- but to John. Told him not to let you dilly dally around.

That very same night, after you’d spent hours pushing yourself to the brink- trying to walk farther, faster, to prove you could, even as the prosthetic left your stump raw and aching anew- you collapsed into bed, trembling with exhaustion.

You thought you were alone.

The tears came before you could stop them, hot and bitter as they slid down your cheeks. Pain radiated through your leg, your shoulders, your back. But worse was the weight in your chest- the overwhelming suffocation of it all.

You buried your face in your pillow, trying to muffle the sobs that wracked your body. You didn’t hear the door creak open, didn’t see John standing there, frozen in the doorway.

He stayed there, his fists clenched at his sides, listening to your muffled weeping. His chest ached with the knowledge that this was his doing; that every single tear, every shuddering breath, was because of him and the others.

When your cries finally quieted, exhaustion lulling you to a peace-less sleep, he stepped back, closing the door as silently as he’d opened it.

Several days later, he personally led you outside.

You didn’t ask where you were going; you didn’t have the energy. When the massive glass conservatory came into view, you stopped, your breath catching in your throat. Were those… your favorite flower as well?

“I had this built for you,” John said, his voice low, hesitant. “I thought… after everything, you might want a place of your own. Somewhere to breathe.” Somewhere you can stay and walk around in.

The conservatory was beautiful, filled with lush greenery, colorful flowers, and a gentle bubbling fountain at its center. The glass walls let in streams of sunlight, and the air inside was warm and fragrant. This must’ve been in the process for a while now.

You stepped inside, your prosthetic clinking softly against the stone floor, yet you didn’t hear it. The beauty of the place was overwhelming, almost unbearably so.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said, your voice trembling. It didn’t, truthfully. It didn’t bring your leg back, it didn’t wash away the dark cloud clinging to you. It didn’t wash away the pain.

“I know,” John murmured, his gaze fixed on the ground. His shoulders were slumped. “But it’s a start. You deserve something… beautiful. Better. The gardens brought you peace, and I can hope that this does the same.”

You turned to find Johnny, Simon, and Kyle standing behind him, their expressions a mixture of hope and guilt.

“We’ll keep trying,” Kyle added softly.

You stared at them, your chest tight, the weight of your pain and exhaustion threatening to crush you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you.” you whispered.

“We don’t expect you to,” Simon’s voice was quiet. “But we’re not going anywhere. We’ll be here for you regardless.”

“…don’t expect this to change anything.”

John’s voice was so painfully soft, but you didn’t notice. You were limping towards the flowers, gait uneven but determined. “I don’t.”

That night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the memory of the conservatory lingered. It was a reminder of what could have been—of what you might have had if they had tried sooner.

You still didn’t trust them.

But part of you, the part that still remembered what hope felt like, wanted to.

[elizzsush]

Future Child | Twisted Wonderland

Malleus Draconia X Reader

----It wasn’t everyday you’d find a three year old running around campus causing a ruckus. Usually students wouldn’t have to deal with this, but with Crowley you had to deal with everything. Now… why is it when you catch this small trouble maker it calls you “momma”?

AUs: None Rating: SFW

Note: Hi, hi! So, basically, I wasn't going to finish this and posted it as a WIP and people really liked it. So, then I had no other choice but to finish it! And I hope you like it.

____________________________________

Crowley in-listed you to help with the child problem around school. No, wait that sounded bad. A young fae no older than five got into night raven campus and has been running amok. Some students say he appeared out of thin air. So, obviously, you: the defenseless, Magic-less human with no knowledge of fae or even how some of these basics of this world work, you were the schools best bet against this ‘threat.’ And so, your oh so kind instructor pushed this task onto you and left.

Not without you demanding an extra allowance, but still.

Thankfully, you were well equipped with a grumpy cat-weasel thing who is so glad to help and definitely did not try and run away. “Ehh? Why do I have to help ya??” Grim whined as he hung limply, your hand firmly grasping his scruff as you held him up. He was so generous and did not need to be bribed at all.

You sighed, “I’ll put some money aside from this to get you tuna.” Technically, that was a lie. No, you were going to fix the window Grim broke from practicing his magic in the house, again.

“I want two cans!” The motivated cat purred and jumped onto your shoulders. Now, you can finally begin your mission and take on this… threat...?

This threat was a real threat!

The sight of the frozen cafeteria did scare you. You had learnt that after you had stumbled upon the frozen dinning hall; all of this was from the baby fae! What on Earth were you suppose to even do once you caught the child?

How would you catch this kid without being frozen exactly? Why were you put on this task?

There was a mountain of ice and a many frozen students who were actively being saved by other students most of whom were made to help. They had gotten lucky in your option. They didn’t have to find the kid. “So much magic…" An awestruck student said, "it’s hard to believe a kid did this.” The nameless person mumbled as they helped thaw the room out. You couldn’t help but hum in agreement to yourself.

What kid could do this when Deuce struggled with making anything but cauldrons while he was somewhere new! It was… overwhelming magic for sure. Even for you to stand in the middle of it, magicless. And this was just the dining hall!

Apparently, you had three more places to check out.

“Not much to see here.” Grim grumbled from your shoulder, just then a ball of fire came hurtling towards the two of you! “Eek!!” Grim squealed jumping of your shoulder while you ducked.

“Sorry!” A no name student called out… He had been using the fire to dethaw some students.

“We should leave… and fast.” You said as you turned to leave in a hurry. You tripped on the ice almost tripped on the ice while you left.

.

.

.

The very next place you checked was the courtyard, where Mr. Vargas liked to make you run in the blistering heat. PE was horrible. Everyone else got to be on their dumb magic brooms while you were stuck doing laps.

Mr. Vargas did like to make the boys sweat afterwards though. You got to sit on the grass and laugh at them cheer them on! Especially Ace, who always lagged behind.

Anyway, in the place of the field of green grass that your peers used to practice flying on a broom, was a field of fire. Green fire no less. At least it was still green? You stayed a distance away while you watched a group of five students try and summon water magic to help fight these flames. “If you don’t do this right, it’ll be off with your heads!” Next to them, a familiar short, red-haired boy was shouting at them and telling them what they were doing wrong.

You liked to think it wouldn't actually be off with their heads, Riddle was above that... Now. You liked to think it was just motivation to make them work harder!

Because it was mostly Heartslabyul students, it worked. "Hey! Riddle?" You called out to the boy. The Housewarden looked at you and jogged up to meet you a way away from the green flames. Was Sebek here as well? You swore you heard his voice shouting...

"You shouldn't be here. This area is off-limits to anyone outside of the Equestrian club because of the danger." Riddle crossed his arms; his tone was pretty gentle though. You nodded along to what he was saying, because it made sense.

"Crowley wants us to find the Fae doing this, do you know anything about it?" You decided to get right to the point. Riddle was busy enough as it was. He seemed to appreciate it too.

The boy glanced back at the students trying to figure out how to calm the fire and shook his head. "I think I heard a few third years mention a blur of H/C going into the school." He mentioned, you mostly knew the kid was in the school. It was one of the places Crowley wanted you to check out, Mr. Trein's class, after that you didn't really know where the kid could be.

You smiled and thanked Riddle before turning to leave, the boy glanced back at the fire before stepping a bit closer to you, a slightly embarrassed look on his face. "Uh- Y/N, I was wondering if you wanted to have tea with me later I-"

"Dorm leader! it's spreading!" A student shouted out, a panicked look on their face as they rushed up to the two of you. Riddle muttered something under his breath, before jogging back to the fire. To step up to calm the flames even more than what the regular student could do so you left.

“This seemed handled enough…” You muttered, a bit disappointed that you didn't get to finish your conversation with Riddle, Grim simply rolled his eyes and you two turned to leave.

.

.

.

You went to Mr. Trein’s classroom next. Your most boring class of twisted wonderland, history, uh... you think. Truthfully you hadn’t stayed awake long enough to know what class he taught.

It was not for lack of trying either!

He just drew out his words and spoke in just a boring robotic tone, it could put anyone to sleep! I digress. The cat: Lucius liked you too, he tended to let you sleep more while waking up other students.

Anyway, in place of the classroom was… an overgrown forest? In the center of it, you noticed a tall, well groomed, teal haired male, squatting down to examine what appeared to be a mushroom….

Obviously. it was Jade. He was part of the Mountain Lovers Club. The sole member actually if you remember right. Crowley mentioned something about the clubs handling the situations. So...

This seemed… handled-ish….

You would be taking your leave now. You closed the door silently and Grim groaned. "This is so boring." He whined, "Why do we have to do this?!" You shrugged slightly.

"Crowley said he'll give an extra allowance this week if we do this." You mumbled, "We could really use it to fix that window you broke." You reminded the cat. He huffed and glared at you a bit childishly, crossing his furry arms silently on your shoulder.

"I thought you said I could have extra tuna?" He realized, jumping off your shoulder he pointed at you in an accusatory manner; you sighed a bit.

You didn’t have time to find him right now. "We can talk about this later." You walked past him but when he didn't follow you, you turned around.

Where did Grim go...? You looked around the halls for him, "Grim?!" Didn’t he know not to wonder off while there was a threat on campus!

Where did Grim go...? You looked around the halls for him, "Grim?!" Didn’t he know not to wonder off while there was a threat on campus!

This fae would eat him alive!

Feeling even more motivated and slightly panicked, you ran off to find the cat and disregard the threat that was getting killed by meeting this Fae kid unarmed. Uncated? Either way.

.

.

.

.

“Someone help me!” You finally heard Grims's voice after looking for him for... quite a while actually. Pushing the door to the classroom open, you found...

Nothing.

Every potion was on its self, the stirring sticks where the usually go, nothing burned, frozen, or overgrown nothing was… well anywhere. At least anywhere out of place. “Someone, help me!” A cried out a very familiar voice squeaked out. Hesitantly, you walked closer to where you heard Grim’s voice.

This felt like something out of a horror movie.

A cauldron, inside of it was the soft glow of blue flames. No doubt caused by Grins fire ears. “Grim…?” You spoke softly. Peeking inside the steel pot, you saw a young boy, a long tail curled up beside him and one horn on the side of his head. In his arms was Grim, held tightly like he was a stuffed animal. He sniffled and then looked up at you with the most striking green eyes you’ve ever seen…

“Y/n!” Grim cried out, relief flooding his voice and breaking you from the little boy's curse of cuteness.

You plucked Grim from the kid's arms and He crawled onto your shoulders.

“Momma!” The boy, still in the cauldron yelled out, stumbling to get up and jump into your arms, get hindered by the caldron he found himself stuck in. His face was red from tears, and he looked scared… his small hands shaking with fear. He sniffled more, his chubby hands rubbing away his tears as they fell. Your heart ached slightly seeing those tears.

This can't be the same boy running amok in the school's campus. He was just so... non-threatening?

So, without a second thought. You picked the small boy up and cooed at him. Grim stared at you bewildered, His experience far more intimidating them yours.

Didn't you know how tight that boy was holding him?! Poor Grim almost didn't make it. He whined and frowned at the attention you were giving the boy.

Now, you just had to take this sweetheart to Crowley.

Either way, the small boy was absolutely adorable! Sure, he may or may not have caused this week's class cancelations but really, Ace was thanking the boy for it, so all was fine! Back at ramshackle, you realized, he was just a kid.

He was using some crayons to draw. He screamed like a bit of a brat when you tried to make him eat some broccoli you got... You thought it would be good for you and grim and neither of you ate it.

His big electric green eyes that reminded you of… someone? But who was it again? Well, it didn’t matter. The boy had green eyes, H/ced hair and these two small slightly curled horns on top of his head.

His ears were pointed just like a fae’s but just slightly? They weren’t as long nor as sharp as a regular fae’s like Lilia. It was hard to explain. It was the oddest thing- he had a tail as well! A long blackish purple one at that. And he was excellent at magic, if the destroyed campus told you anything. “Are you mad at me?” He looked up at you with teary eyes after you informed Crowley you caught him.

“Why would I be mad at you?” You asked the small boy curiously, blinking at him a bit confused at the question. His large electric green puppy eyes weren’t exactly helping you stand strong and not coddle him either.

“Because I made the rooms a mess…” he rubbed his large cheeks free from stray tears. Not that he was any good at it either, you just shook your head and kneeled to the floor, wiping them away for him.

Something about this boy made you wanted to care for him and protect him- he was just do cute. “Nonsense, you were scared. A little mess is fine as long as you weren’t hurt.” When you looked at him you felt something akin to cuteness aggression. This little fae was adorable! If Crowley didn’t find his parents, you’d take him in!

Ignore how poorly you yourself lived in ramshackle! And how much of your food was canned tuna because Grim insisted on it over actual food.

And the window that you still needed to fix and were most likely going to spend this week's allowance on...

The boy nodded, cuddling into your side like a small cuddly cat.

__________________________

He was adorable but children were a handful.

Crowley, after assigning you to catch the kid, gave you the poor child to take care of. So, you had been living with the child for three whole days.

Not to say the kid- who’s name you learned was Casper- was a handful. In fact, he was a sweetheart. He tended to shy away from things a bit, and he was a bundle of nerves sometimes.

He definitely got overwhelmed when left by himself, often resorting to crying and when he cried his magic tended to...

Anyway, Despite the amount of magic he held at his fingertip, he’d rush to you at the slightest creak of the floorboards, held onto you tightly, and hide his face in your shirt.

When it was finally time to go to school you didn’t really know what to do with the kid…? We’re you suppose to just… bring a kid to class with you? I mean, you already bring a cat, and the kid would probably be more well behaved then Grim.

So you brought Casper with you. And it was fine He was very sweet, maybe a little to shy, the teachers did love him. He introduced himself to them from behind your leg.

That was two days ago, now you were in the cafeteria. You hadn't been here in two days because, well you weren't sure if Casper would be okay around the crowd of students. Some of whom were still bitter about the Ice things... and the green fire thing.

“Fufufu, what do we have here?” Lilia popped up out of absolutely nowhere. "I heard a rumor about a trouble make~" He smirked.

“Grandpa Lilia!” The kid for once didn’t shy away. You had expected him to start crying. (He had before after all, when Jade introduced himself to the boy.) Lilia simply smiled and accepted the boy's affections, nodding along as he babbled about his day. Meanwhile, you were staring bewildered at the boy.

And... That was your lunch.

With of course, Ace and Deuce coming to keep you company while Lilia entertained Casper.

Most of your lunch you'd glance at the two. 'Grandpa Lilia?' You wondered why he was unusually not shy? He was a talkative boy to you, but with a stranger, no way... “Where Papa?” He asked looking up at the older fae with his large sparkling eyes. Oh, maybe Lilia knew the boy's parents! He was an older fae himself, right?

“Yes, good question indeed where is your papa?” Lilia asked, before he looked at you, a small smirk on his face, he looked at you like you’d know! You didn’t. You had tried to correct the kid on you being his mom before two- he cried and sulked over it for a while after that. “Well, I best be Off now!” Lilia cheered and gave you the kid back before disappearing off somewhere.

That was weird right?

You day went on- Ace and Deuce were good around the kid. Casper was pretty decent around Ace and Deuce, not too shy but he wasn't rambling like he was around Lilia. "Is something on your mind?" Deuce asked curiously, a mild layer of unwarranted concern.

"It's fine..." You shrugged, "I just hope Crowley find Caspers parents soon." You sighed, and the boy in question looked at you confused. He called you Mom and you basically took care of him, so you figured he thought you were his mom.

Not that you really minded, it wasn't like he thought you were old, fae tended to not age and stay good looking forever basically. Case in point, Lilia.

You really didn't mind, you already took care of Grim, so what's another, milder tempered Grim who didn't run away? "Speaking of the kid- Where is he?" Ace asked, looking around.

Scratch that, the kid wondered off.

"Oh no." You sighed and looked at the Adeuce duo with an exhausted look they couldn't say no too. They'd help you find the kid.

__________________________

How on earth did Sebek of all people get Casper?

Sebek, a first year in your class. Some loud guy who you got partnered up with once.

Why didn't Casper run away! You most certainly would and have. Instead, you found Casper on Sebek Zigvolt of all people's shoulders. Now you and Ace were whispering about how to get the kid back. No way you were going to go up to Sebek of all people and have to listen to his "fae are superior" speech... again.

"We should... Lure Casper away with candy." You whispered, Ace gave you a look and shot down your idea.

"Do you want to give him the impression that you should follow random people with candy?" He said looking at you like you just had the worst idea ever. "I say we just grab him and run."

"No, Sebek is faster than us." You noted, "Especially you, he runs laps past you in PE." Ace bumped your shoulder with an eyeroll.

"Where's Deuce?" Ace frowned, you watched with wide eyes as you saw Deuce confidently walk up to Sebek... "oh no." Ace groaned and run up behind Deuce.

You cursed to yourself. "We don't have to follow right...?" you asked the cat who agreed with you, but you knew you kind of had to follow them.

"Hey- Sebek." You smiled awkwardly.

"Mama!" The kid called out to you and reached out towards you. he almost fell off Sebek's shoulders- thankfully you caught him. Sebek looked at you in confusion and maybe a bit judgmentally...?

"No- he isn't..." You sighed and gave up.

"A human couldn't mother a Fae of Caspers caliber!" And so... Sebek began his rant. He started with how Lilia informed him of the situation, and he was here to lift the burden of Casper from your human shoulders.

Really, it saved you the time of informing Sebek you were in fact, not a teen mom. Also, it was weirdly insulting? Like hey, come on, you’ve taken care of him for three days! Almost four, “Casper is pretty happy with me, right sweetie?” You asked the boy who nodded hesitatingly. Wait- hesitantly? “Huh?”

Sebek looked a bit disheartened the Fae kid rejected him, but he was also kind of confused as well. “It’s just… I miss Papa, Mama…” the boys lips quivered a bit.

“No, no! You're not in trouble.” You fell to your knees to comfort the boy.

Apparently Sebek was hanging out with the child because he thought he was Malleus but something went wrong. Perhaps someone used their unique magic in the future ruler of briar valley.

Um… who’s Malleus?

________________

Day four of having a child.

Today you were going to find this kid someone who looked close enough to his dad. I mean, you apparently looked like his mom enough, so… yeah!

Also, perhaps his brother went to this school and that was how he ended up here. Finding him a dad sounded fun though.

It was a solid plan… “Casper?” You woke the boy up. You put Casper in the guest bedroom ace usually occupied when he was collared. Which was often. Even with Riddle being looser on the rules Ace always pushed sadly. “Today we’re finding your father.” You informed the boy.

“Really!” His eyes lit up. Why didn’t you do this sooner?

“Mhm, just tell me what he looks like-“ and so began Caspers rant on how amazing his father was. How he always makes time for you two even though he’s so busy, how good he was at playing superhero’s- and so on.

You didn’t even realize superhero’s existed here. Crazy. “He has black horns like me!” He grinned up at you, “oh- and black hair and we have the same eyes!” He giggled before again going on about how awesome his dad was.

“Horns, black hair, green eyes…” you mumbled, “and you're a fae, so we should probably go to Diasomnia, they have the most fae of the dorms” you smiled brightly. “This Malleus guy seems promising- and if he doesn’t want to, I’ll just make him!” You cheered and with Casper on your shoulders you were out the door!

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.

.

Was it just you or was Diasomnia slightly terrifying?

 Either way, with Casper on your shoulders like you were going to the zoo, you walked on the winding path with thorns around it and into the dorm. The halls were… very long and castle-like. 

Eventually you found the dorm's common room. Witch had three students, only one of which was a fae. With as much confidence you could muster, you approached them. “Hello! Good evening gentlemen… Um, do you happen to know someone whom this child looks like?” You smiled and proceeded to the kid. 

They very politely actually said that they think he looks like Malleus. You asked them to point you to this Malleus, and they again very politely refused. Apparently he was a busy man which was fair. But he was a father now! If casper deems him fit enough (By that you mean mistake him for his father like the boy did you.)

Still, throughout this process, you couldn't help but wonder if you were forgetting someone. 

You kept glancing at Caspers horns… who else did you know with horns? “Tsunotarou! That's who you look like!” You finally realized after an embarrassingly long time. In your defense you had only met the guy once or twice while you were dealing with Leona’s stupid plan, and didn’t Leona mention Malleus during his overblot?

“That's what you call Papa!” Casper cheered, his eyes widening in awe. Okay so, either that was a common name… which you doubt or Casper had a weird background. 

“Khee Khee what do we have here?” Lilia appeared out of nowhere! …again, still you jumped! 

“Mama is going to find Papa today!” Casper cheered in all his three year old glory. Picking the boy up and lifting him to sit on your hit you nodded. 

“Mhm! I’m going to meet this… Malleus demands he becomes Caspers father or pay child support!” You claim confidently because in reality, you were beginning to doubt the plan you came up with at 3am and woke up early for. “Tsunotarou would be a better bet but I really don’t know where that guy is… or his real name.” you muttered to yourself. 

Either way, Lilia clapped and with a large smile said this: “You're in luck! Malleus just finished his breakfast and should be heading over for his morning coffee.” So, without verbally questioning why he knew that you smiled and plopped down on the common room’s chairs watching a bit nervously as Lilia wandered off again. 

So… You were really dumb. Realistically this was a horrible plan bound to fail, but you already came this far. 

Didn’t all your friends always comment about how scary Malleus was? Wasn’t he like one of the top mages of this world? 

Okay, maybe if you didn’t come up with this plan at 3am last night you wouldn’t be so royally screwed! Hah, get it because Malleus is supposed to be some royal of… a whole nation right? Yeah, this was a bad idea. 

Getting up to leave, you heard Casper cheer for his father.

“Child Of Man?” 

“Tsunotarou?” You turned around, “Actually- no this is better than getting smited by some scary mage! Okay so I have been looking for… you, for a while!” You smiled, “This is our son: casper.” You introduced them. 

“Papa!” 

__________________

“Mm, He does look like me.” Tsunotarou hummed; he knelt beside the child, titling his head curiously as he observed the child. “Your horns are coming in nicely aren't they?” He commented with a small smile, the boy nodded enthusiastically. 

“Mhm! They should be as big as yours soon!” Casper giggled. 

“Your speech is also advanced for a child of your age.” The older boy smiled, It was a very touching sight actually. 

“It is. Ace and Deuce have been helping me teach him some bigger stuff too.” you stated proudly as the younger boy nodded along. You sat beside where the boy stood in front of his new father. Your back against the armrest, you sat planted on the floor. “The headmage said he would be dealing with getting him back home but I have to take care of him till then.” You sighed. 

“I see, so you thought to find me as I am the child's father?” Malleus asked curiously, an eyebrow raised almost teasingly.

“If you’ll believe it, yup.” You nodded along, I mean if he believes that the kid is his, why not get him to take responsibility for that sweet child support money?

“I see, so Crowley is making the proper arrangement to get you back to us in the future.” 

“Wait, so he's actually my kid?” you couldn’t help but blurt out. Tsunotarou merely chuckles. “Am I dumb or are we actually like his parents?” You whispered a bit to Tsunotarou and stood up, he followed after you standing up as well. 

“Mm? Crowely didn’t inform you?” he said with an amused and sly smile. “I suppose it's time anyway we get properly introduced seeing as you are my future spouse” He smirked, his hand on his hips.

“I am Malleus draconia”

__________________________

Fun Fact:

The events of this takes place after Heartslabyul’s and Savanaclaw overblot. So y/n doesn’t know Tsunotarou is Malleus.

Also, Lilia knew all along.

Also, also, I'm sorry this sucked lol

NOTE: Sorry this slightly sucked I didn't really plan to actually finish the WIP I posted it as "Forever unfinished" and people liked it so I thought I'd do this anyway!

________________________ ________________________

Some of Ya'll wanted to be Tagged: @yu-night-raven @kelsyntam @reivelmin @thisisafish123 @cheshire-kitsune @dmiqueles @ranbutler-epicsans-moon @dontmindmelove @swivi @halseyhatter @barbatoss-bitch @itslucieen @bell7duck @whatever-fanfics @ziankenvirus @blcknebula @leilakaro @sarraisme

(I'm not quite sure if I did it right but thank you for liking the WIP enough to comment and want to see another! I hope it was good, I kind of think It wasn't that good but Thats why I made it somewhat long... To compensate!)

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

This is the end guys :')

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16

cw: modern au, chronic pain, one vague suggestive joke

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Remus woke before dark this morning. Your hair tickled his cheek, and he realized that you’d drawn closer to him in the night, your body half on top of his and his arm curled around your shoulders as though to keep you there. Remus’ other arm was asleep, trapped beneath Sirius’ ribs. Somehow, on a twin bed, the three of you had managed to get close enough that there was room to spare. 

He didn’t move, but something about Remus’ waking must have caught your attention. He saw your eyes open through the darkness. You’d likely already been rousing, as he had, your body gearing up for a practice that wouldn’t be taking place today. You turned your face up to see him, and the two of you shared a fond, sleepy smile. Then you kissed his chin and went back to sleep. 

It had been a late night. Not the bad kind, but it left you all tired nonetheless. After a long day of talking to press, shaking hands, and celebrating your silver medal (not gold, but Remus reasoned that it wasn’t such a bad thing to lose to the undisputed best skating duo in a generation, and after some pouting even Sirius had agreed. When you stood next to Virtue and Moir on the podium, you’d looked so starstruck Remus was worried you’d faint) you’d been eager to be alone with each other. You’d talked until nearly morning, tenderhearted conversations that perhaps might have taken less time if you’d all been less easily distracted by each other or if Sirius hadn’t made that joke about his parents that made you fall off the bed laughing. Remus can’t bring himself to regret the detours. 

Neither of you seem to either, though Sirius laughs when you yawn in line to drop off your baggage at the airport.

“What is that, five yawns since we’ve left?” he teases, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and smushing a kiss to your cheek. “Poor girl.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, leaning into his side. “I’m not used to being up all night like you are.” 

“Well, you’d better get used to it, baby.” 

Your brow wrinkles. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Remus laughs, giving Sirius a little shove. Sirius responds by bumping his hip into his own suitcase, forcing Remus to readjust his grip. You shoot Sirius a condemning look. 

In the spirit of good coaching, Remus had volunteered to carry your bags. He’d been more concerned with getting you and Sirius into bed over the last few days than ensuring you were properly stretched out, so when you’d both complained of soreness this morning he felt the need to make it up. You had completely refused and said you’d carry your own, but Sirius had relinquished his hulking suitcase readily; he did, however, insist upon massaging and kissing Remus’ hip for twenty minutes before they left for the airport to prepare it for the journey. 

“Don’t worry,” Remus tells you. “You’ll have plenty of time to sleep in after today.” 

You blink. “No practice?” 

“I think you deserve a couple of days off.” 

“A couple?” Sirius raises an eyebrow. “We just won silver at the Olympics. I’d say we’re due a week at least.” 

Remus eyes him, biting back a smile. “Maybe four days,” he says. 

“God, four days.” You blow out a breath. “What are we gonna do with all that time?” 

Sirius makes a pffting sound. “Like you won’t be at the rink anyway.” 

“Like you won’t be there, too.” 

“Take some actual rest,” Remus chides, ignoring the ridiculous warmth in his chest; it’s obscene how listening to your teasing has become such a comforting familiarity. “You’ve been working hard, you need it.” 

“Alright, Coach,” Sirius says with mock solemnity. “If that’s what you think is best.” 

Remus looks at you. 

You roll your eyes, relenting. “Okay.” 

“Good.” He smiles, winding an arm around your waist and tugging you from Sirius’ hold to press a kiss to your head. 

“Hey!” Sirius protests. 

You laugh. The warmth in Remus’ chest flares again. It’s odd to think about the person he was when he left home to coach you two, and how much has changed since then. Remus had been grieving, a years-long grief, focused only on what he lost and uninterested in trying for anything new. He’d been lonely without knowing it, isolated and purposeless, but you and Sirius had defied his expectations in every way imaginable. He thought he’d simply coach you, take you to the Olympics, and go home. Now, Remus’ sense of home is different than what it was before. 

He wants to stay with you. He’ll coach you and Sirius for as long as you’ll have him, and if someday he’s not what you need anymore he’ll find someone else to coach. He thinks he’ll need to get an apartment instead of an Airbnb, someplace to unpack his things and make his own, preferably with three chairs at the kitchen table and a bed big enough for all of you. He wants to continue feeding off the energy of you and Sirius in your element, readying you for competitions, making you the best you can be. Maybe eventually Remus will get back out on the ice, too. Not like he used to, never to compete, but maybe just for fun. It doesn’t sound so daunting when he imagines skating with you and Sirius alongside him, there to catch him if he falls. 

You’re looking up at him with a small, curious smile. Remus realizes he must be looking mortifyingly in love. “What?” you ask. 

“Nothing.” He kisses you, partly because he wants to and partly to watch your smile bloom in full. It does, and Remus relishes the feeling. Like standing in a pool of sunlight. 

“Oi.” Sirius glares, relaxing only when Remus kisses him, too. He grins and takes another for himself, delivering a playful nibble to Remus’ lip. “That’s more like it.” 

“We’re going to give the woman at the counter a heart attack,” Remus notes. “She looks terribly confused.” 

“Probably just starstruck,” Sirius says without looking. 

“Oh, shit!” You smack your forehead. Remus and Sirius both frown, Sirius taking your hand in his to prevent further damage. “I was going to steal one of the Olympic mugs from the dining hall, and I forgot. I need to find a souvenir.” 

“Ooh, should we get shirts?” Sirius’ expression turns eager. “Something like I went to the Olympics and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.” 

Remus thinks of the silver medal in Sirius’ backpack and actually guffaws. Both you and Sirius beam at him. “I think you got a bit more than that.” 

You laugh and loop your free arm through Sirius’, drawing both boys close. “That’s true.” 

[moon-ttokki-x]

hiii lovee

can you do a fic with chan with an overworked!trainee!reader, where he finds her asleep at a cafe near the JYP building, after his day of work and it’s just very fluffy and sweet

-🪻

i haven't got anything to say tbh so . . .

star in the making - (chan x overworked trainee!reader)

pairing: bang chan x overworked trainee!reader

summary: chan finds you asleep in the cafe near JYPE after a long day.

genre: idol & trainee!au, mentions of eating and drinking, chan needs to put a fucking screen filter on his laptop, reader is tired asf, mentions of injuries, self-doubt, chan is the softest mashed potato :[

a/n: i had to drag this out of my brain . . . div by @roseraris

skz masterlist

Chan left the JYP building with his head hung low.

In the dusty purple hue glowing from the late-evening sky, everything felt soft and pillowy, but he couldn't help but drag his feet in exhaustion. The scraping of his shoes against the pavement slowed to a stop as he lifted his head, inhaling a deep, cold breath of lilac air.

He groaned and stretched his back a little, feeling the satisfying vibration ring through his bones. He couldn't remember if he'd actually taken a break from working since the morning, and his eyes stung and watered as he blinked them shut.

"Ow," he huffed, scrubbing at his face. His knuckles came away wet and his vision momentarily blurred, strained from the constant focus on his screens in the studio.

Making a mental note to set his screen brightness lower next time, he looked up just as his eyes focused on the cafe across the street.

Small, golden, and cosy, it stayed open late enough for desperate trainees and exhausted artists to rest, a tiny slice of evening light in the otherwise-deserted streets of Seoul.

Chan checked his watch. He should really be heading back to the dorms; Jeongin would be expecting him. He wasn't sure he'd make it back without some sort of energy boost, though, so he looked across the streets both ways, and then crossed, pulling the wooden-framed door of the little cafe open.

The warm, golden glow of the overhead lights hit him with a soft ray of warmth, making his cheeks turn pink from the effects of the thawing cold in his blood. He sighed, pulling the door shut behind himself, and nodded once to the barista.

She smiled tiredly, wiping down the counter with a cloth, and moved away to attend to one of the coffee machines, too familiar with his face to cause much of a fuss.

Chan ordered a hot drink and paid, before stuffing his receipt in his pocket and looking around for somewhere to sit.

His gaze caught onto a small, hunched-over figure nestled in a tiny booth at the back, a cup of barely-touched tea next to them.

Chan smiled softly, the familiar flop of your hair and the usually-ruffled clothes drowning your frame pulling him like a magnet.

Sitting down next to you and shedding his coat, he draped it over your back before poking you lightly in the side.

"Mmhmff..."

"Wake up, Y/n."

Lifting your head, you groaned before rubbing your eyes with a fist. "Wha- Chan?"

He grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He didn't seem to mind the lack of honorifics, simply choosing to stroke a strand of hair out of your face in an affectionate, brotherly gesture. "Hi."

You sighed sleepily before resting your head on the cushioned backseat of the booth. "What time is it?"

"Late enough." He pushed the cooling cup of tea towards you.

Taking a small sip with a momentous amount of effort, you pushed the cup away before blinking away the remnants of sleepiness. "What are you doing here?"

Chan nodded at the barista in thanks as she set down his drink in front of him, and pulled the steaming mug towards himself. "Needed a boost before heading home. Didn't feel like getting a ride home; I've been sat on my ass all day in the studio."

You snicker, fighting another yawn. "As per usual."

"Shut it, trainee."

A tiny laugh escaped your mouth; you pulled Chan's coat around yourself a little tighter, feeling the post-sleep shiver set in, a disturbance to your previous state. "I've been sleeping since four, I think. It was packed when I came in."

"It's bad for your back to sleep like that, you know."

You fired back without hesitation. "And it's bad to be shut up in a studio all day, staring at a screen."

Chan's chuckle warmed the air between you, a musky, welcoming sound. His voice cleared a little as he took a sip of his drink, the warm liquid soothing his throat. "Fair enough. Still, you shouldn't sleep here. Go home. Rest."

You shook your head, resting it on your folded forearms as you leaned over the table. "Too tired. I had dance practice all day."

He stared thoughtfully into the distance, gaze unfocused. "It can't have been that bad."

"I can't feel my legs. I think I pulled a muscle..."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

Chan choked on his drink, hiccupping as he thumped himself in the chest. You chuckled as he exhaled, wiping the last dregs of his drink from his lips. "Average trainee experience, huh?"

You sighed and nestled further into your forearms, Chan's heavy coat like a hug on your back. "Yeah. I don't seem to be getting any better, though. Lots of my friends have dropped out already."

Chan was silent for a moment. He pressed his fingertips to the warm porcelain of the mug in his hands, relishing its warmth. His voice was soft in the golden light. "Lots of trainees do. It's not just about talent, Y/n; you have to be able to keep pushing and persevering. You need heart."

"I do?"

"Yes," Chan sat back against the cushioned seat. "And you've got plenty of it, little one."

You couldn't fight the warmth rising in your cheeks.

"Okay," you whispered.

Chan's gaze was steady, measured; he ran a finger around the rim of the mug in his hands. "Keep your chin up, hmm? It gets easier around evaluation time. Just push as hard as you can for now and it'll pay off. I promise."

You gazed at him thoughtfully; the smooth, cold-flushed planes of his face, his dark, windswept hair. His eyes, perhaps a little baggy and strained, but as full of loveliness and affection as they had been the day you'd first met.

Your voice was quiet and thoughtful, wary as if you were afraid you'd be overstepping a boundary. "Was it worth it? The struggle?"

His gaze met yours, and he pushed the mug away. "I felt like it wasn't really worth it while I was training. But now, I'm the leader of a successful group, I've learnt so much and met so many new people, I get to spend my days doing what I love-"

"And you have seven kids."

He tweaked your nose, smiling at your cheeky interruption. "Eight. Including you."

You grinned, sleep still faintly dulling your senses in a pleasant, dreamy haze. "Me?"

Chan chuckled quietly. "Yes, you. Our little star-in-the-making."

He picked up your teacup and placed it next to his in the middle of the table. He reached into the pocket of his coat, still draped over you, and retrieved his phone.

"Come on. I'll take you home."

a/n: yayy new fic (do people even read these notes? comment if you do pls)

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @sillyseob @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627 @jsngprk-vhs @stellasays45 @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

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Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

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[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ eyes on me ( lhs ! ) — part 2

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 ⤷ word count — 17.2k ⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — here’s part 2 as promised ! i fear this might not be the end though, a part 3 is definitely in the works as we speak. enjoy, loves ! please read gently, they’re both soft and stupid 🤍

⤷ warnings — idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, post-enemies to lovers tension, soft!heeseung, vulnerable!heeseung, emotionally repressed!reader, breakdown scene (emotional), loser!heeseung, comfort scenes, longing (so much longing), love confessions, mutual pining, reader is in denial, heeseung is not, soft touches, forehead kisses, subtle fluff, unresolved tension, healing arc (they’re both trying), fluff (finally), angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — three weeks. that's how long it takes for everything to change. one moment you're avoiding him in dance studios and dodging his eyes in crowded hallways—the next, you're alone together in dim lights and shared breaths, dancing like your bodies were made to move in sync. you swore he was just like the rest: all charm, all talk, all ruin. but lee heeseung breaks—and suddenly he isn’t just some idol with a reputation. he’s a boy with silver hair and glassy eyes who holds your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. or, where thawing hate turns into something warm, and you start to wonder if the heart you locked away was always waiting for him to find it.

It was the third week of practice.

And you didn’t know if you were actually losing your mind or if the chaos of the schedule was finally eating at your nerves—bit by bit, rehearsal after rehearsal.

You stood near the mirrored wall, towel slung across your shoulder, sweat glistening on your collarbones as you caught your breath. Sunoo stood beside you, breathless too, fanning himself with both hands.

“Please,” he panted dramatically, “show me that turn again. I swear Ni-ki doesn’t explain it like you do.”

From the corner of the room, Ni-ki’s offended shout cut through the air. “Hey!”

Laughter erupted around the room, even from the staff in the back.

You cracked a grin, unable to help it. “I’m not trying to steal your job, Ni-ki.”

“You’d make a better teacher anyway,” Sunoo whispered loudly, winking.

You laughed again, relenting. “Alright, alright. Just this part before the chorus, okay?”

You moved to the center of the room with Sunoo trailing behind you like a puppy. The room watched with amusement as you demonstrated the turn, sharp and smooth, your body flowing from one beat to the next with practiced grace.

Sunoo watched you intently, nodding as you broke the step down and explained, “You need to spot when you turn. Keep your weight on your left foot, then shift.”

He mimicked you.

Not perfectly, but not bad either.

He landed the turn on beat—and his eyes widened. “Noona… I did it?”

You blinked. Then smiled wide and clapped. “You did!”

Sunoo gasped, stepping forward and throwing his arms around you in a quick, excited hug. “I’m a genius! You’re a genius!”

You chuckled, patting his back as he squeezed you before bouncing away again. “Okay—watch me again! Let’s see if I can do it twice in a row!”

Across the room, Heeseung sat beside Jungwon, mid-conversation before he went utterly silent—words lost on his tongue as his eyes drifted past the younger.

Past the choreography.

Past the noise.

To you.

To the way you smiled when Sunoo got it right. To the way you hugged him back.

To the way it wasn’t him.

Heeseung didn’t blink.

Jungwon followed his line of sight and sighed so deeply you could almost hear it over the music.

The younger leader placed a hand on Heeseung’s shoulder, firm. “You’re making it worse by not talking to her.”

Heeseung finally blinked. Swallowed.

“I wish it was that easy,” he muttered, voice low, rough at the edges.

Jungwon tilted his head. “It kind of is. She’s not scary. Just… direct.”

Heeseung gave a bitter laugh under his breath, running a hand down his face. “She’s terrifying.”

“Because she called you out?”

“Because she sees right through me,” he said, quieter this time. “Because I’ve danced with her, touched her, stood inches away from her face—and I still feel like I don’t know her at all.”

Jungwon stared at him.

And Heeseung’s jaw clenched again.

“She makes me want to try harder. But it’s like… the harder I try, the worse I get.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “That’s not true.”

“I can’t even talk to her.” Heeseung sighed, the weight of his breath heavy in his chest as he turned to look at Jungwon.

His expression was tired—exhausted, even—not just from the dancing, but from the constant ache in his chest he couldn’t seem to shake.

His silver bangs stuck to his forehead, skin dewy with sweat, and his hands fiddled aimlessly with the drawstring of his sweatpants as if they needed something to do, anything to distract him from the truth sitting on his shoulders.

“She’s just…” Heeseung trailed off, brows furrowing. “It’s like she built a wall I can’t climb no matter what I do.”

Jungwon met his gaze, quiet for a moment. “Maybe it’s not about climbing over it,” he said softly. “Maybe you just have to wait until she lets you in.”

Heeseung stared at him.

Then looked away.

Because he didn’t know how much longer he could wait. Or if he even deserved to.

Like clockwork, his attention snapped again.

Your laugh rang across the practice room, warm and light, the kind that made shoulders relax and chests ease with air. It tugged at something in Heeseung’s chest.

He looked up just in time to see Sunoo stumbling over his own feet, arms flailing slightly as he lost balance mid-turn, nearly spinning himself right into a collapse.

“Yah!” you laughed, one hand flying to your mouth as Sunoo caught himself just in time, scowling in playful offense. “I thought you said you could do it?”

“I did!” Sunoo huffed, brushing his hair from his forehead with a dramatic sigh. “I did it earlier, I swear—something about your version’s throwing me off.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” you teased, stepping closer with a tilt of your head.

“Balance your weight on your other foot,” you instructed, your voice dipping into something more firm—controlled, focused. “You’re putting everything on your right again.”

Sunoo blinked, then nodded as he glanced at his stance. “Okay. Okay, I got it this time.”

He planted his foot again, took a breath—and turned.

You broke into a grin, clapping your hands together as you stepped back. “There it is!” you said, eyes crinkling. “See? You just needed to trust yourself.”

Sunoo’s face lit up like a bulb, puffing his chest slightly as he struck a dramatic pose. “I’m a prodigy.”

“You’re a brat,” you deadpanned fondly.

“I learned from the best,” he chirped.

And from across the room, Heeseung stood still.

Because there you were—smiling, laughing, soft in ways he hadn’t been able to reach. Not even once.

And he hated how much he wanted that version of you to be meant for him.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands at the back of his head. His throat was dry.

God, he was so screwed.

It was the middle of the third week. The music was still ringing in your ears when you moved away from Heeseung, his hands barely letting go of your waist as the choreo ended.

Heeseung immediately dropped into a crouch, elbows on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His silver hair clung to the sides of his face, sweat dripping onto the hardwood.

A quiet thud followed when Ni-ki plopped beside him, not bothering with grace as he leaned his entire weight onto Heeseung’s side.

“Hey, hyung,” Ni-ki muttered, nudging his shoulder gently. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung nodded, barely above a whisper, eyes still fixed ahead. Not on the floor. Not on the mirror. But on you.

Across the room, Jay and Sunghoon approached you with soft steps—careful, like you might run the moment they got too close.

“(Y/N),” Jay called first, rubbing the back of his neck, “uh—can we borrow you for a sec?”

You blinked at them, raising a brow. “You two already know your parts.”

“We do!” Sunghoon piped up, already defensive. “But…”

Jay gave him a look, then turned to you again. “You just—add more detail. Your angles, the way you hit the lines—it looks cleaner, sharper. We thought maybe if you ran it with us once, we’d pick it up faster.”

You eyed them carefully, crossing your arms. “You’re not just saying that so you can take a break and let me carry your section, are you?”

“No—no,” Sunghoon rushed to say, hands up in surrender. “Promise.”

You sighed, but your expression softened. “Alright. Come on.”

You waved the two over to the side of the room, where the wall-length mirror reflected the three of you. “What part do you want help with?”

Jay immediately got into position. “Right here—this turn before we drop into the diagonal step? Mine feels too… stiff.”

You watched carefully as he ran through it, analyzing the movement.

“Alright,” you said, stepping beside him. “You’re locking your arm too early. Watch—” you demonstrated the move slowly, your wrist flicking slightly before the turn. “It should feel like a release. Don’t force it.”

Jay nodded, brows furrowed in focus. “Got it.”

Heeseung sat frozen, watching the scene unfold—your voice calm, your attention focused, your hands gently fixing the angles of Sunghoon’s wrist when he joined in. He couldn’t hear all the words from where he sat, but the image was enough.

You were helping them. Teaching them. Smiling.

You didn’t even hesitate to say yes.

Ni-ki tilted his head and followed his hyung’s gaze. “You could ask her for help too, y’know,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Heeseung didn’t respond right away. Instead, he sighed—long, deep—and reached a hand up to ruffle Ni-ki’s hair absentmindedly.

“Hey!” Ni-ki groaned, jerking away as he immediately ran his hands through the mess. “Why do you always do that?”

Heeseung cracked the ghost of a smile. “Because you’re annoying,” he muttered, and then, softer, “It’s not that easy.”

Ni-ki blinked at him. “Why not?”

Heeseung paused, watching the way your hand lightly tapped Jay’s arm in exasperation while you tried to show him the right count again. “We’re… partners, yeah. But it doesn’t mean she trusts me.”

Ni-ki stared. “Wait—after three weeks?”

Heeseung’s frown only deepened as his eyes trailed back to you. You were laughing at something Sunghoon said—probably an insult to Jay based on the way Jay clutched his chest like he was wounded and dropped to the floor dramatically. Your laugh was bright, breathless.

It wasn’t aimed at him.

And maybe that’s what stung the most.

“She looks at me like I’m one wrong move away from ruining everything,” he muttered, voice low. “And maybe I am.”

Ni-ki leaned forward on his knees, turning to face him properly. “Hyung, that’s dumb.”

Heeseung raised a brow. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean—you’re not one wrong move away from ruining anything. You just think you are because you’ve been in your own head this whole time,” Ni-ki said, shrugging.

“You do realize you dance fine, right? Like, objectively. You’re not messing up anymore.”

Heeseung hummed but didn’t answer. His gaze was still fixed on the way your lips moved as you spoke. The way your hands danced with every word. The way your head tilted back with the smallest laugh—and how he hadn’t been the cause of it in weeks.

Ni-ki watched him for a moment before speaking again.

“You should stop waiting for her to come to you.”

Heeseung blinked, finally turning to look at the younger. “What?”

“You keep acting like she’s the one who has to say something first,” Ni-ki said, arms now crossed. “But maybe she’s just waiting to see if you even want to fix things.”

Heeseung stared at him for a beat too long, silence thick between them.

“…You’re annoying,” he muttered again.

Ni-ki smiled smugly. “Still right, though.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything. He just looked back at you again.

Your smile had faded now—back to that practiced neutrality you wore so often in rehearsals. Like a mask. Like armor. And yet somehow, he still thought you were the most beautiful thing in the room.

“Alright,” one of the choreographers clapped loudly from the mirrored wall, snapping him from his daze. “Let’s run from the top!”

“Positions, everyone!” the other added, tablet in hand, already counting off the beats.

Heeseung blinked, slowly coming back to earth just as you stepped away from where you were helping Jay and Sunghoon. Your steps were even, posture steady.

But when you walked right past him—shoulder grazing air, gaze fixed ahead—it knocked the wind out of him harder than any routine ever had.

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

Heeseung forced a breath into his lungs, swallowing back the sting clawing up his throat. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. Not in front of you. Not again.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he made his way toward the middle of the floor, right where he was supposed to be. Center.

Where everyone expected him to lead. Where you stood next to him, silent as ever.

“Start on my cue!” the choreographer called out.

Heeseung dropped his hands and rolled his shoulders back, trying to shake off the tension. The beat echoed in the speakers, low and steady.

You were already sliding into place beside him.

He didn't dare look at you.

Not when it felt like the smallest glance might unravel him all over again.

But he could still feel you there.

Like gravity.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

“Five,” the choreographer counted. “Six… seven… eight—”

The music crashed in.

And so did he, every movement deliberate, every breath lined with effort.

Because if he couldn’t have your forgiveness yet, he’d earn your respect first.

So Heeseung let the music swallow him whole.

He threw himself into the rhythm, counting beats not to remember the choreo—but to keep his thoughts from spiraling. To stop himself from wondering if you were watching. If you were even thinking about him at all.

Every movement was tight, fluid, sharp where it needed to be and soft where it demanded intimacy. He pressed into the performance like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.

Like the only way to make it all worth something was to lose himself in the sound, in the shape of his own body, in the push and pull of the steps you both had drilled into muscle memory.

For just a few seconds, Heeseung allowed the music to replace the ache.

To shove your silence to the farthest corner of his heart.

To let the performance be the one thing he could control.

Even if it meant pretending you weren’t standing two feet away, eyes trained forward, pulse matching his in every silent, heavy breath that followed.

Heeseung’s chest rose and fell with each breath, sweat dotting his hairline as he stared at the camera lens blinking red in the middle of the room.

The silence after the music ended felt louder than the beat ever had. He didn’t even realize how tight his jaw was clenched until—

“Take five!”

The call from one of the choreographers snapped him out of it. Heeseung blinked, exhaled harshly, and immediately peeled himself off from the middle of the room, walking to the far side where his water bottle was. He didn’t spare anyone a glance. Not even you.

“(Y/N), Heeseung? Outside for a sec.”

Heeseung's brows furrowed instantly, eyes flicking toward the door, then to you, who was already heading out wordlessly.

He swallowed, grabbing his bottle before trailing behind you, a few feet apart, always a few feet apart. Still close enough to match your silence.

Outside, in the hallway, one of the choreographers crossed their arms while the other tapped at their tablet, glancing at the footage. Neither of you spoke.

“Okay,” one finally said, “There’s definitely been improvements. You’re hitting the beats cleaner, the pacing’s more in sync.”

“But,” the other chimed in, tone softer, “you still look… guarded.”

You blinked. “Guarded?”

“Especially during the choruses,” the first choreographer nodded, “Heeseung looks like he’s afraid to touch you. Like he’s going to break something.”

And before you could even part your lips to speak, Heeseung blurted—

“It’s not (Y/N). It’s me. I’ll work on it.”

You turned to him, startled by the suddenness in his voice.

He didn’t look at you. He just stared straight ahead, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, voice calmer now as he added, “She’s doing her part. It’s me who’s—” he paused, “—hesitating.”

The choreographers blinked, a bit surprised themselves, before one of them smiled faintly. “Okay, as long as you’re aware. You’re both doing well, but we need to feel that connection. Especially for camera cuts.”

“Understood,” you said simply, still eyeing Heeseung from the side.

He just nodded again, jaw tight, eyes still anywhere but you. The other choreographer clapped their hands, motioning toward the door. “Alright, back inside. We’ll run through the lift segment again after break.”

You walked in first.

Heeseung followed—silent, steady. Like a shadow. But not cold.

Just careful.

Because no matter how wordless it all was, it was clear.

Heeseung had spoken before you. Not to save himself. But to take the blame. To shield you.

And you felt it, heavy in your chest. The first crack in your walls.

And you hated that it felt warm.

It was past ten in the evening.

The halls outside were mostly empty, lights dimmed down to their softer nighttime hue, but inside the small practice room, the quiet was louder than anything else. J

ust you and Heeseung—again. The soft hum of the building’s AC mixed with the occasional squeak of your shoes against the floor as you shifted in place.

Both of you sat with legs stretched out, the camera still propped in the middle of the room, the footage paused at a moment where your hand was just about to meet his shoulder.

You were watching the video with a critical eye, brow furrowed slightly in focus. Heeseung wasn’t watching the video.

He was watching you.

You didn’t even notice how long his gaze lingered until he spoke, voice low, hesitant, like it wasn’t meant to break the quiet.

“I could… step a bit closer. So you can hold on to me faster.”

Your eyes flicked to him briefly before nodding. “Yeah. That’d make the transition smoother.”

You hummed in agreement as you pulled out your phone and quickly typed a note in your shared checklist. The tapping of your fingers filled the silence, but you could feel Heeseung’s eyes on you still—never wavering.

Your thumbs slowed slightly, then stopped.

You stared at your phone screen, empty for a second.

Then, your voice came out soft, “Are you okay with that video?”

There was a beat of silence before Heeseung nodded slowly, leaning forward and reaching for the company-issued phone on the floor. “Yeah. Looks cleaner. Better than last time.”

His voice was quiet, careful—like every word was measured.

You stood up slowly, dusting off your sweatpants and glancing back down at him as he got to his feet too, not saying much. Just moving like he always did—steady, quiet, uncertain.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, watching as he walked toward the door.

And—of course—he got there first.

Wordlessly, Heeseung opened it, holding it open with one hand while the other clutched the strap of his own bag.

His fingers tapped against the canvas rhythmically, a nervous tic. You stepped toward the doorway and, without looking at him, murmured under your breath:

“Thanks.”

It was so quiet you didn’t even know if he heard it. But then—

Heeseung gave a short, stiff nod. “Of course.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Didn’t meet your gaze. But he stood there until you were through the door. And he followed a few steps behind again, just like always.

Because it was always like this with Heeseung. He never walked ahead. Never got in your way. He was just there.

Trailing you in the dark, in the quiet, like someone trying to keep up without ever daring to ask if he could walk beside you.

The silence between the two of you lingered as you walked the familiar path through the corridor. Only the faint hum of city life bled in from the front doors.

Lights overhead buzzed softly, casting dim gold across the floor tiles as your footsteps echoed lightly—yours steady, purposeful; his just a step behind.

You stopped by the scanner first.

Finger pressed to the cool glass, the small beep of recognition echoed through the space as the main door lock clicked open.

Heeseung stepped up beside you and did the same, eyes flicking toward your side profile. He didn’t say anything—not yet.

You didn’t leave right away. You just… stood there. Still in your sweats, bag slung over one shoulder, arms loose by your side like you hadn’t made your decision yet.

Heeseung blinked.

His gaze flicked to your hands, your shoes, the way your weight shifted on your heels. You should’ve left by now. You always left first.

“…You okay?” he asked gently, brows furrowed as he tilted his head just a bit.

But you didn’t answer that.

Instead, still facing forward—eyes fixed on the tinted doors leading to the outside world, you said, low but clear enough to cut through the street noise beyond:

“Thanks. For covering up for me earlier.”

Heeseung froze.

His hand, still loosely holding his bag strap, tensed. His back went a little straighter, chest rising slightly with the breath he didn’t mean to hold.

The words—they weren’t sharp. They weren’t fierce. They didn’t cut, didn’t bite, didn’t come with fire.

They were soft. Almost careful. Like something you hadn’t meant to say out loud—but did anyway.

You didn’t say it with control, with sincerity.

And somehow, that was worse.

Heeseung swallowed hard, blinking fast like the moment had thrown him off balance. “I-I mean… it wasn’t really your fault,” he muttered, voice low, awkward. “It was mine. So… yeah.”

He scratched the back of his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his still-damp hair as he tried to mask the way his ears were heating up again.

You nodded stiffly. Not a single emotion passing over your face—at least none he could name.

And then you walked past him. No glance. No goodbye.

Just the weight of your words lingering between you like smoke.

He watched your figure retreat toward the street, shoulders square and firm, even as the neon lights from across the road painted your back in shifting colors.

He let out a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding, fingers twitching by his side before reaching up to grab at the front of his shirt—right where his heart was thudding like a punch against bone.

“Way to go, Heeseung,” he mumbled to himself, voice dry.

Then he turned, slowly walking back inside.

The doors hissed shut behind him. He scanned his fingerprint at the rear corridor’s access panel, the green light flickering as the back wing opened up.

It was quieter here, dimmer, lonelier.

Heeseung slipped through the hallway like a ghost, making his way to the underground parking lot, shoes barely making a sound.

And even as he tossed his bag into the backseat of the van, even as he leaned his forehead against his hands for a second too long—he could still hear your voice.

Your soft but distant voice.

The way it didn’t hurt, but didn’t quite comfort either.

Heeseung sighed, the sound shaky as it left his chest. His fingers curled tighter against his hair, eyes fluttering shut for a moment too long.

“…Well,” he mumbled, voice barely audible in the stillness of the van, “at least there’s progress, right?”

He didn’t know who he was talking to—himself, maybe. The rearview mirror. The ghost of your tone still echoing in his ears.

And when no one answered, he just laughed under his breath, hollow and unsure, before sinking deeper into his seat.

The main practice room was cold.

The kind of cold that clung to your skin no matter how many times you danced through it. The sun hadn’t even come up yet—just the soft buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, humming in the still air.

You rolled your shoulders back, bare arms prickling with goosebumps as you watched your reflection in the mirror.

You went through the chorus again. Again. And again.

The steps were clean. The angles were sharp. But it still felt like something was missing—like the beat wasn’t connecting, like the movement wasn’t breathing right.

You stopped midway, exhaling hard as your hands fell to your sides. Your back hit the mirror gently as you slumped against the cold glass. The echo of your own breath felt too loud in the empty room.

The door creaked open.

You immediately turned, your body stiffening, mouth already halfway open to scold whoever thought barging in at seven in the morning was a great idea—but then you saw him.

Messy silver hair. A hoodie that looked two sizes too big. Eyes wide like you’d just caught him breaking into your thoughts.

Lee Heeseung.

He froze in place, his hand still on the door handle. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, stepping in fully as the door clicked shut behind him. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

You stared. “You didn’t knock.”

He looked like he got hit.

“I—uh—right.” He nodded quickly, ears going scarlet. “I’ll knock next time. Or yell. Or text. Or, like, tap the glass? Or throw something at the mirror—I mean, no, not that—”

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair as you waved him off. “It’s fine. Just… maybe don’t sneak up on people at dawn.”

Heeseung cracked a smile, small and sheepish, as he set his bag down gently by the wall. He walked toward you slowly—cautiously, like approaching a scared animal.

You raised a brow when he stopped a few feet away.

He hesitated, “Are you… okay?”

Your arms crossed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Heeseung shifted on his feet. “I mean. You looked frustrated. Earlier. I—saw you run through the chorus, like, five times. You don’t usually stop unless something’s bothering you.”

You blinked. How would he even know that?

“…Noticed that, did you?”

He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to sound creepy, I just—I’ve been watching. You. I mean, not like—ugh.”

He groaned softly, hand dragging down his face. “You know what I mean.”

You let your brow arch higher, amused now. “You want to try again?”

“I just meant,” he mumbled, “you looked like you could use a hand.”

You tilted your head, skeptical. “You offering?”

He nodded instantly. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

There was that twitch again—his hand fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, the way his shoulders were just slightly pulled in like he wasn’t sure if he’d said too much. Or if you were about to push him away.

You sighed.

Then nodded.

“Alright,” you said, pushing off the mirror. “Fine. Come here.”

And Heeseung—he actually sighed like it was the first full breath he’d taken all morning.

He moved beside you, trying to keep a respectful distance even though the routine wouldn’t allow it for long. You didn’t comment on the flush still creeping up his neck.

Heeseung glanced at you once, eyes unreadable. “Where do you feel it’s off?”

You hummed, stepping back to the mirror. “Chorus, last transition beat. It’s supposed to fall between the pull and release—feels like I’m floating too far left before the downbeat.”

He blinked. “I noticed that, too.”

You turned, mildly surprised.

He shrugged. “I rewatched our recordings last night. Figured I’d try to… I don’t know, be useful?”

Something tugged at your chest.

You looked down at the floor, then back up. “Alright, partner. Let’s get to work.”

And for the first time in weeks—Heeseung smiled, just a little.

Not his usual smug, cocky smile. Not the fake polite one for choreographers.

A real one.

Soft. Crooked. Almost shy—like he didn’t know how to wear it anymore but still remembered how it felt.

Heeseung’s smile lingered for a second too long before he blinked, remembering where he was.

He straightened up quickly and turned toward the phone on the floor, still connected to the Bluetooth speakers, sitting right next to his bag.

He picked it up carefully like it was made of glass, eyes flicking up to you.

“Uh… may I?” he asked, holding it in both hands like it wasn’t yours, like it wasn’t the same phone you used in front of him every day.

You nodded.

He nodded back, a bit too eagerly, and walked over to you, tapping the screen a few times until the music app popped open.

“Can I, um, see the part you’re having trouble with?” he asked gently, his thumb already hovering over the cue bar.

You stepped away, brushing a bit of hair out of your eyes. “Yeah,” you muttered, pointing at the screen. “Start from here.”

He nodded again, mumbling to himself, “Okay… I’ll play it now.”

The track started softly, and you instinctively moved into place in the middle of the room.

The moment the pre-chorus passed, your posture changed—sharper, more focused, feet gliding into position as you performed the chorus on your own.

Heeseung stood still just a few feet away, watching.

Watching far too closely.

His eyes were wide but unreadable, mouth slightly parted as you cupped the air where his chin would’ve been—just a second too stiff. You completed the sequence with a firm exhale, pausing back in first position.

You turned to him, arms still half-raised. “Well?”

Heeseung blinked like he’d forgotten how to do that. “Uh—sorry.” His ears turned red as he fumbled to lower the volume on your phone. “That was—uh. Yeah.”

You crossed your arms. “You were staring.”

His lips twitched, mortified. “No, no, I wasn’t—I mean I was, but—not like in a weird way, just—I was trying to see what you meant.”

You raised a brow, but didn’t say anything.

Heeseung cleared his throat, gaze darting briefly to the ceiling before finally landing back on you. “I think… I think you’re struggling a little with the extension.”

You tilted your head. “How so?”

His hand raised in mid-air, mimicking your movement. “During the—uh, the part where you’re supposed to… uhm…” His face was flushed now. “C-cup my chin. Yeah. That part.”

You blinked.

He looked like he wanted the ground to eat him whole.

“I just think… you should raise your hand just a bit higher before you glide it down,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re cutting the movement short. If you hold it up for a second longer, it’ll land better.”

There was a beat of silence. And then, you nodded. Serious. Thoughtful. Not mocking. Not amused. Like you were really listening to him.

And God, that did something to Heeseung’s chest.

“Wanna try it with me?” he offered, softer this time.

You nodded again.

“Okay,” he breathed out, almost inaudibly, as if the tension in his body had just released for a moment.

He gently placed your phone down between the two of you and turned toward you, trying his best to ignore the way his pulse suddenly spiked.

“You can… start when you’re ready,” he said, standing a little stiffer than usual.

You nodded, stepping just a little bit closer, close enough that your arm would graze his during the routine if either of you messed up the spacing.

The intro played softly from your phone, echoing against the dim, mirrored walls of the practice room.

Each movement flowed smoother than the last, your bodies slipping into rhythm—not perfect, not effortless, but aligned.

It wasn’t just the choreography anymore—it was muscle memory, tension, timing, the air between your hands, the way the mirror caught your silhouettes from every angle.

And when the chorus came, you raised your hand higher this time. Slower. Fuller.

Your palm cupped under Heeseung’s chin—not rushed, not forced—and his breath hitched for just a second as you slid past him, continuing your movement with clean lines and a steadier breath.

He followed, step for step, matching the beat as if the floor itself moved with the two of you.

It ended in silence. The music faded into the background.

You stood there, breath caught in your chest.

Heeseung let out a quiet gasp—barely audible—but he smiled. He actually smiled. That same soft one you didn’t know how to describe.

“Well…” he murmured, voice light and a little breathless. “You did it.”

You blinked, eyes finally meeting his.

It was the first time in weeks that he saw your face clearly. Really looked at it. Not through the mirror. Not from the corner of his eye.

Just you. Face to face.

And something flickered across your lips. Barely there. A subtle curve. A break in the walls you’d built so carefully.

“Yeah,” you said softly, nodding once. “I did.”

You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

A few seconds passed in quiet—comfortable, unfamiliar quiet—and then you cleared your throat lightly, eyes drifting for a second before returning to his.

“Uh… thank you.”

Heeseung’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it got a little brighter—boyish. Earnest. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, brushing against the hem of his shirt.

“I guess I’m… not that useless after all,” he said with a small chuckle, eyes slightly crinkled.

You rolled your eyes. But this time, it wasn’t annoyed. It wasn’t cold. You actually smiled—this time visible. Not wide, not big, but enough to show your cheek twitch. Enough that Heeseung noticed.

That was the second crack.

The second moment where something inside of you softened.

You shook your head slowly, and for once, didn’t walk away immediately.

Heeseung’s gaze lingered on your face for a second too long before he cleared his throat softly and shifted his weight.

His silver hair moved with the motion, strands falling messily over his forehead as he stood up a little straighter—shoulders back, eyes steady. A bit more confident now, just a little less hesitant.

“I was, uh…” he started, his voice gentle, low. “I was wondering if you maybe… wanted to try doing the whole routine?”

You raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak yet.

He scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes darting to the side. “Like—from the top. Just us. I-It might be a little awkward since it’s, um… y’know… just the two of us… if that’s… if that’s alright with you.”

You exhaled, amused at the nervous stammer he still hadn’t shaken off despite standing so confidently now. The contradiction would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so… endearing.

You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s alright.”

Heeseung blinked once, then nodded. “Okay. Okay—cool,” he said a bit too fast, lips twitching into a grin he tried to bite back.

He moved toward the speaker, glancing at you before pressing play. “From the top, then.”

You stepped into position beside him, watching from the corner of your eye as he settled into place. His posture wasn’t as stiff anymore, his expression not as blank.

There was a subtle bounce in his stance, a lightness in his eyes as he glanced at the mirror once before straightening out his arms. He was… comfortable.

He was also smiling. Not at you—but because of you.

And you didn’t want to admit it, not even to yourself, but the way the deer-eyed boy beamed at the floor like this was the most exciting thing that had happened to him all week—it made something in your chest crack again.

A small one. Barely there. But it was a crack all the same.

You took a quiet breath, shook the thoughts from your head, and focused on the beat that was about to hit.

“Ready?” he asked, just loud enough to reach you over the soft intro.

You didn’t look at him.

But your nod came quicker than it had before.

And just like that, the two of you began to move.

You stepped into the first beat like a wave slipping into shore—natural, inevitable. And Heeseung was there too, not behind you, not beside you—but with you. Not a second too late or a step too soon.

The air between your bodies shifted with each sway and pivot, and the camera—silent in the middle of the room—caught the ebb and flow of two dancers whose hearts had somehow found the same rhythm.

You popped in and out of frame with trained ease, the lines of your bodies clean, carved with control and trust. You’d done this routine dozens of times. You knew the choreography like the back of your hand. But this… this felt new.

The way Heeseung’s fingertips hovered near your waist without trembling.

The way your eyes followed his movement without looking for something to criticize.

The way the space between your bodies felt charged, not cold.

Like the gods had crafted you both to dance under the same sky. Like the stars had aligned not in fire—but in quiet understanding. Like the moon was watching, patient and proud, as her two children found each other at last in the rising light.

And when the song ended, your chest rising and falling with a soft exhale, you turned to him.

Heeseung turned to you at the same time.

And maybe it was just a flicker. Just a ghost of a smile. Barely there and completely unspoken—but you smiled at each other.

Just a little.

There were no mistakes.

No second-guessing. No stiff limbs. No silence sharp enough to cut through.

Heeseung shuffled to his feet, dragging in a few deep breaths, hands on his knees before he straightened again. His gaze—warm and unreadable—drifted to you as you stood a few feet away, head tilted back, taking a long sip from your water bottle.

Then, to his complete surprise, you grabbed another one—unopened—and without a word, walked over to him.

He panicked. Internally, at least.

You held the bottle out casually, not even looking at him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t spent weeks thinking you hated his very existence. Like you didn’t see how his hands trembled for days after the last time your eyes met.

But you did it anyway.

His fingers brushed yours when he took the bottle—lightly, barely there—but he felt it everywhere.

He stuttered over his thank you. “Th-Thanks. Uh. Really. For the, um. The water. Yeah.”

You glanced at him—just the smallest tilt of your head—and replied, “You need to hydrate more, Lee.”

He choked on his own breath.

You didn’t even call him ‘Heeseung.’

You said ‘Lee.’

He would take it.

You turned away before he could see how the corner of your lip almost curved again. And behind you, Heeseung watched like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.

Because for the first time in a long time—it didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like a hand pulling him back to shore.

It was the end of the third week of practice—and Sunoo genuinely couldn’t believe his eyes.

Like, really couldn’t. He blinked once. Rubbed at them twice. Even tilted his head slightly to the side like it would give him a better angle. But the sight didn’t change.

There, in the corner of the practice room—where the camera was still standing and the lights were dimmed ever so slightly—sat you and Lee Heeseung.

Talking.

And not the cold, clipped kind of exchange that had become the norm for the past few weeks.

No. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, one elbow propped on your knee as you faced him, and Heeseung—sweet, silver-haired Heeseung—was talking.

Not in his usual awkward mumble either, but animatedly, hands flying with every idea that slipped out of his mouth like he couldn’t hold it in.

“I’m just saying—okay, wait—hear me out,” Heeseung said, brows raised with excitement, “what if during the second chorus instead of the usual turn you pause, like a half beat later, and I turn at the same time? It’s just a delay, but visually, it looks like you're pulling me in. Like—" He spun his fingers together with wide eyes, “—sync but with tension.”

You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as you processed. “That could actually work. It makes the break feel intentional, not stiff.”

Heeseung grinned like he just won the lottery.

“Oh my god,” Sunoo whispered from the crack of the door, his jaw slack. “The gods do exist.”

Jay, who was half-asleep and leaning against the doorframe beside him, squinted. “What?” he mumbled, rubbing one eye. “Aren’t we going in?”

“Shh!” Sunoo hissed, grabbing the front of Jay’s shirt and yanking him back just enough to stay out of sight. “You’re gonna ruin it—they’re talking.”

Jay blinked blearily. “Who?”

Sunoo nodded his head toward the door. “Them.”

Jay peeked in, slow and careful. Heeseung was now sketching something on the back of a crumpled page—using a highlighter of all things—as he explained spacing to you.

You were leaning a bit closer, eyebrows furrowed in thought, completely immersed.

Sunoo slapped a hand over his own mouth.

“They’re not killing each other,” he whispered, eyes glassy. “They’re actually being… normal.”

Jay gave him a look. “You’re so dramatic.”

“No, no, this is historic.” Sunoo grabbed his phone and started typing. “I need to tell Jungwon—wait, no, I’m documenting this. For science.”

Back inside, Heeseung was still talking, now barely able to sit still. “And then the third repeat—we flip the direction. So, you pull me in first, then I pull you in, but it’s so subtle no one will notice unless they watch twice. Right? That way it builds without saying anything. It's like…”

He paused, smiling almost shyly, “…a conversation without words.”

You looked at him for a moment.

Then, softly, you said, “You think about this a lot, don’t you?”

Heeseung flushed, fingers stilling against the paper. “I, uh… yeah. When I can’t sleep.”

You nodded again, and something about the way your expression softened—barely there but there—made Heeseung’s ears go red.

Outside the room, Sunoo clasped his hands together like he was praying. “Please let this last. Please let this not be a fever dream.”

Jay rolled his eyes. “You’re insane.”

“I’m hopeful,” Sunoo corrected.

Because for the first time in weeks, the cold wasn’t sitting between your shoulders and Heeseung’s gaze wasn’t full of regret. For the first time in weeks, something shifted.

Sunoo couldn’t take it anymore.

He had watched in silence—well, mostly silence—for a full five minutes, practically vibrating in place behind the door.

So when you and Heeseung leaned just a little closer, heads nearly touching as you both stared down at the same scrap of highlighter-streaked paper, he gasped so loudly that even Jay gave up pretending not to care.

“Oh my god. That’s it. I’m going in.”

“Sunoo—what—” Jay tried to grab him, but the younger had already flung the door open with the confidence of a man on a mission, dragging the groggy older member with him.

You jumped slightly at the loud clang of the door. “Holy—Sunoo?” you yelped, hand flying to your chest as your eyes snapped to the door.

Heeseung, startled, nearly dropped the pen in his hand as both of you turned toward the intrusion.

Sunoo beamed. “Good morning!” he chirped like nothing was out of the ordinary, completely ignoring the way Jay groaned beside him.

Heeseung blinked, then chuckled softly, still flushed from earlier. “Hi, guys,” he said, smile honest and lopsided. “Good morning.”

You muttered a quiet, still recovering, “Morning.”

Sunoo gave Jay a look that screamed see, it’s working, before turning back to you two like the best third wheel in existence.

“Don’t mind us! Just here to bask in the morning sunlight that is—” he dramatically gestured, “—you two not being cold and terrifying anymore.”

Heeseung only laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to you, fingers brushing against the edges of the paper again.

“So, um,” he said, voice softer now, “you think that could work, right? With the delay in the second chorus and then syncing the snap right after?”

You looked at him for a beat, then nodded once. “Yeah,” you said, adjusting your posture slightly so you could hear him better. “It flows better that way. Doesn’t feel too sharp.”

Heeseung’s smile grew again—boyish, bright, like he couldn’t help it. “You wanna try it now?”

You nodded again, already getting to your feet. “Yeah. Let’s try.”

Heeseung stood too, brushing off the back of his sweatpants as he followed you toward the center of the room. He stole one glance back at the scrap of paper before placing it down gently on top of his bag.

You took your usual spot, glancing over your shoulder at Sunoo, who looked like he was watching a real-life drama unfold.

“Sunoo,” you called out.

He blinked, suddenly very upright. “Yes, noona?”

“Would you mind playing the music?”

He gasped, clutching his chest. “Noona. I would be honored.”

Jay leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching with a half-smile. “You’re so dramatic,” he muttered.

But Sunoo was already prancing to the speaker controls. “Let’s go! Live show! Main dancers in love—I mean, in sync!”

“Kim Sunoo,” you warned.

Heeseung flushed instantly, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to take his place in the center of the room.

You were already walking to your side of the mirrored studio, a hand brushing your hair away from your face, jaw tightening just a little—but not from anger.

Embarrassment? Maybe. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, and you pretended to stretch your shoulder to hide the small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Sunoo didn’t even flinch. “I said what I said!” he chimed, finger hovering dramatically over the pause button like a conductor preparing to cue a symphony. “And—three, two, one—go!”

The soft chime of the iCloud upload completion echoed in the quiet of the small practice room, the faint buzz of the city just barely bleeding through the glass windows.

The clock on the wall ticked past eight in the evening, and your limbs ached from repetition, from dancing the same chorus over and over—but somehow, the fatigue didn’t settle in the way it usually did.

You leaned over your phone one last time, watching the blue bar finish its run as you whispered, “Uploaded.”

Behind you, Heeseung crouched by the center of the room, carefully dismantling the tripod.

The soft clack of the phone being removed echoed against the walls, and for a moment, he stayed kneeling—opening the camera app, screen casting a faint glow on his flushed face.

He turned the lens toward himself quickly, adjusting the angle without thinking. One snap. That was all he needed.

The photo popped up on the screen. He blinked, caught off-guard.

You were in the background. Your figure was slightly blurred, turned to the side as you fixed your hair, pulling it into a low ponytail, your expression neutral—focused. Unbothered.

And still, somehow, something about it made Heeseung’s lips pull into a soft, boyish smile. He stared for a second longer than necessary.

“You looking at yourself again?”

Your voice startled him.

“Wha—?!” Heeseung yelped, practically throwing the phone back down onto the drawer like it burned him. “No—I—uh, just… turning it off! Making sure it saves—company phone! You know—protocol!”

You blinked at him.

“…You always stutter when you lie,” you muttered under your breath, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t lying,” Heeseung tried again, but his voice pitched high enough that even he winced.

“Mhm.” You raised a brow, pausing near the door as he scrambled to grab his own bag. His ears were red again. He adjusted his hoodie sleeve like it could hide the way his hands fumbled with the zipper

He finally caught up, just behind you, awkwardly opening the door like a schoolboy trying to remember if he should say something or not.

“Uh—after you,” he offered quickly, holding it open without looking directly at you.

You walked past him, letting out a quiet, “Thanks.”

And as the two of you stepped into the dimly lit hallway, silence stretched between you—comfortable for once, like something had settled. But Heeseung, still flustered, scratched at the back of his neck as he looked away.

The hallway smelled faintly of floor wax and fabric softener—old and familiar, like every late-night practice that came before this one.

Fluorescent lights buzzed above, soft and lazy in their glow, casting long shadows over the two of you as your footsteps echoed in quiet rhythm against the tiles.

Neither of you spoke at first. Just the steady shuffle of sneakers, the gentle thud of your bag against your side. Then, softly—almost timidly—Heeseung spoke.

"Hey… (Y/n)."

You didn’t stop walking, but you did glance slightly his way, a hum escaping your throat. A quiet, curious sound, inviting him to keep talking.

He hesitated, swallowing back the nerves that rose to his throat. “Can I… call you that?” he asked, voice barely above the hum of the lights.

You nodded—wordless, but not cold. More like urging. Like telling him to go on.

He cleared his throat, his hand slipping into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers curling around the hem nervously.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You blinked, then turned your head a little more. “For what?”

“For…” He shrugged, his shoulders rising like he wasn’t sure how to carry the weight of the words. “Letting me help you. Earlier. You didn’t have to… but you did.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you let out a soft chuckle—not sarcastic, not cold. Just tired and genuine.

“Yeah,” you said simply, shaking your head faintly. “It’s fine.”

And somehow, those two words carried more warmth than he expected.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t the strained, suffocating kind you both had known weeks before. It was soft. Like a shared breath. Like the calm after a storm.

You reached the front of the building first, scanning your fingerprint with a quiet beep. The door clicked open with its usual whirr.

Heeseung followed right behind, his own scan lighting the panel a faint blue. His steps were still careful—always a little behind yours, as if he was still learning to walk beside you instead of behind.

As the doors unlocked, he whispered again, just before you could step through.

“Thank you,” he repeated, softer this time. Sincere. Just for you.

You glanced over your shoulder—not quite a full turn, just enough to meet his eyes. Your face remained unreadable, the same neutral expression you wore like armor. But…

There it was.

The tiniest curve at the corner of your lips. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You didn’t say anything else. You just turned and stepped into the night, the wind tugging at your sleeves and your voice leaving only an echo behind.

Heeseung stood there, frozen for a second.

And then, slowly, that boyish smile crept onto his face.

He looked up—just briefly. The moonlight caught on his silver hair, bathing him in a glow that made him look more like a story than a person. His heart felt stupidly full.

Still grinning to himself, he turned and walked back into the building, fingertips brushing against the warm scanpad as the doors closed behind him.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough for now.

Heeseung sighed contentedly as the glass doors slid shut behind him, a hint of warmth still lingering on his lips from your not-quite-smile.

His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way down the dim stairwell leading to the underground parking lot, the buzz of late-night silence wrapping around him like a blanket.

He didn’t expect anything else tonight. Just the usual: his manager half-asleep in the front seat of the black van, maybe a bottle of water waiting inside, maybe a moment alone to think about the fact that you hadn’t walked away so fast this time.

But when he pushed open the heavy gray door to the parking garage, he blinked.

And then blinked again.

“…What the hell are you two doing.”

Jay and Ni-ki stood by the van—well, Ni-ki stood, his body twisted to the side as he held a crumpled piece of convenience store bread just out of reach.

Jay, disheveled and visibly sleep-deprived, was practically clinging to the younger one’s back, both of them wrestling like children in the middle of the dimly lit garage.

“Give it back, gremlin!” Jay hissed, reaching over Ni-ki’s shoulder.

“I bought it with my own money!” Ni-ki shot back, dancing around the parked car, bread flailing like a prized trophy. “You literally said you weren’t hungry!”

“That was twenty minutes ago! I am now!”

“Not my problem, old man—”

“Guys.” Heeseung pinched the bridge of his nose, a tired but amused smile tugging at his lips. “It’s bread. There’s another convenience store across the street.”

Jay glared at him while still holding onto Ni-ki. “It’s the last sweet milk one. The last one.”

“It’s always the last one,” Ni-ki grumbled.

Jay turned to Heeseung. “Tell him to share.”

Ni-ki scoffed, hugging the bread dramatically. “Tell him to bring his own next time instead of stealing from minors.”

Heeseung shook his head with a light chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “This is what I come back to after a good practice session.”

Jay finally gave up and dropped his arms with a heavy sigh. “Fine. But you owe me next time.”

Ni-ki shrugged. “Sure. I’ll save you the plastic wrapper.”

Heeseung walked past them to open the van door, the grin on his face impossible to hide now.

Honestly, it was kind of nice. The laughter. The way things felt a little lighter than they had in weeks.

“Can we just go home before you two start biting each other?” he muttered, hopping into the backseat.

Jay followed with a dramatic groan. “As long as Ni-ki stops acting like a raccoon in a bakery.”

Ni-ki climbed in last, still smug, bread safe and sound in his lap. “I am the youngest. I get priority survival rights.”

Heeseung leaned back against the headrest, the sounds of bickering and laughter still echoing inside the van as the engine rumbled to life.

The final night of practice was nothing like the rest.

There was no laughter.

No playful bickering.

Just the sound of sneakers brushing against the hardwood floor. Of soft, controlled breaths. Of water bottles being set down too gently, like everyone was scared to disturb the focus in the room.

You stood beside Jake’s partner—someone you’d grown surprisingly fond of in the last few weeks—and she tugged lightly on your sleeve.

“Let’s do well,” she mumbled, her voice nearly drowned out by the silence around you.

You turned to her, nodding. “We will.”

The overhead lights buzzed softly, dimmed just enough to mimic the way it’d look during filming. Everyone was already in place, some crouched on the floor, others upright, heads bowed in concentration as the opening notes rolled in.

You spotted Heeseung a few feet away, standing exactly where he should be—center, eyes down, lips parted slightly like he was mouthing a quiet prayer.

Your chest tightened. Not because of him.

Just one more run-through before everything was set in stone.

You fell into your formation like instinct, like muscle memory, like ritual. Jake’s partner mirrored you perfectly, her steps sharp but fluid, grounded and light all at once.

And then there was Heeseung.

Sliding into frame like he was born to be there, every beat he hit sharpened with conviction. For the first time in a long time, his gaze didn’t avoid yours.

When your paths crossed near the second verse—your fingertips brushing in a fleeting moment of choreography—you didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

When the song ended, the room stayed still for a second too long.

Jake dropped to the floor with a heavy exhale. “Holy shit.”

Ni-ki sat down beside him, gulping water like he’d never tasted it before. Sunoo didn’t even speak—he just laid flat on the ground, breathless and smiling up at the ceiling.

You were still catching your breath, a little dazed from how smooth that run-through felt, when you turned—and met Heeseung’s gaze across the floor.

He wasn’t panting like the rest, but his chest moved a little quicker than normal. His bangs clung to his forehead, silver hair a mess from the dancing, and the tips of his ears were bright red when you nodded at him.

He nodded back.

He opened his mouth, like he was about to say something—

“Hyung!” Sunghoon’s arm slung over his shoulder with the grace of a collapsing tree. He leaned all his weight onto the older boy. “Save me. My legs are falling off.”

Heeseung huffed a startled laugh, stumbling slightly with the added weight. “That’s what you get for showing off during the chorus.”

“I wasn’t showing off, I was dying artistically.”

Claps suddenly echoed across the room—two sharp ones, then more, until the entire room was filled with tired applause. The choreographers stood in front, grinning.

“Great work, everyone,” the head choreographer called out, proud. “That was your cleanest run yet. If you keep that energy, the M/V’s going to come out incredible.”

A round of low cheers, pants, and relieved bows followed.

“Go home, get some sleep,” another added, “because we’re flying out first thing tomorrow. Plane call’s at five sharp.”

The entire room groaned.

Everyone bowed to the choreographers again, muttering quiet thank-yous and “good night!” before dispersing—some collapsing back on the floor for one last moment of peace, others shuffling to grab their bags.

You slung yours over your shoulder as you walked out of the practice room, only to realize—Heeseung was quietly pacing beside you, his steps matching yours.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you. But the silence wasn’t awkward—it wasn’t cold. Just… gentle. Like something understood, but not said out loud.

You both stepped out of the hallway and toward the building entrance when a familiar voice called out—

“(Y/N)!”

You looked up, surprised to see Yunjin and Chaewon waiting near the doors. Both of them waved, smiling, clearly having waited for you.

“We brought food,” Yunjin beamed, holding up a takeout bag. “Thought you might’ve skipped dinner again.”

But then her gaze shifted behind you—and her brows shot up in surprise.

“Oh…” she blinked, staring at the boy beside you. “And Heeseung-sunbaenim’s here too.”

Chaewon tilted her head slightly. “Hey.”

You turned to Heeseung, unsure what he was about to do—but to your surprise, he didn’t retreat or bolt. Instead, he offered them a small bow and a smile, the kind that was a little shy, but genuine.

Then he turned to you.

A boyish grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Get home safe, okay?”

You blinked, surprised at how easily the words fell from him.

“…Yeah,” you mumbled, a little caught off guard. “You too.”

He gave a final nod, eyes crinkling just the slightest before turning and walking back to where his members were gathering near the elevators.

You watched him go for a second—his silver hair glowing under the hallway lights, the way Sunghoon elbowed him the moment he approached, like no one missed the little interaction.

Yunjin leaned close. “Was that…?”

Chaewon raised a brow, watching Heeseung’s figure disappear into the hall. “Lee Heeseung-sunbaenim?”

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

The air felt colder outside the practice room—more real somehow. The adrenaline of dancing had faded, and in its place was the rush of a different kind of weight.

Chaewon waited until you were a few steps down the hall before she spoke again. Her voice was softer this time, but not any less sharp.

“So… what happened to heeding all of our warnings?”

You paused mid-step.

The hallway light flickered above you.

Warnings. Voices. Reminders.

That Lee Heeseung was a walking headline. That he didn’t care about anyone but himself. That he was a heartbreaker, a perfectionist, a charming mess behind the scenes who never gave anyone the same version of himself twice.

You had hated him for it. Avoided him like the plague.

You swallowed, tightly, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag as your mind scrambled for a response that didn’t feel like a betrayal of your better judgment.

“He’s just my dance partner,” you said after a beat, turning toward them with a smile that felt tight around the edges. “That’s all.”

Yunjin blinked, reading you easily—maybe too easily—but she nodded slowly. “Right. Dance partner.”

Chaewon’s eyes stayed on you a second longer. There was something unreadable in her gaze, something protective. She wasn’t convinced. But she also didn’t push.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

The silence that followed threatened to grow awkward, but Yunjin, bless her soul, looped her arm around yours and pulled the conversation forward like it was a lifeline.

“Anyway,” she chirped, “we’re this close to locking in the comeback concept. Chaewon-unnie wants to go full femme fatale, I’m still pushing for glitter and leather.”

Chaewon scoffed. “You just want another excuse to wear rhinestones on your eyelashes.”

You let out a small laugh—grateful. Grateful they were here. Grateful they knew when to stop asking.

Even if the questions still echoed in your own chest.

And as the three of you walked out into the night, your heart was still quiet—but your thoughts weren’t.

The stars above were barely visible, the city lights too bright to let them breathe. Kind of like your chest right now—tight, conflicted, too full of everything and still pretending it was nothing.

Yunjin and Chaewon kept talking, their voices warm and familiar, fading into background noise as you walked between them.

He’s just my dance partner.

You repeated the words like a mantra, like if you said it enough times it’d become truth. But the truth was slippery—and it had silver hair and eyes that kept looking at you like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

You hated him. Didn’t you? You had every reason to.

You remembered the stories. The rumors. The way everyone warned you—how they called him careless, reckless, too smooth with his words and too sharp with his tongue.

He was everything you told yourself to avoid. So you did.

You ignored him. Brushed past him. Pretended he didn’t exist even when he stood two feet away. Even when he opened doors and kept his head bowed and spoke your name like it was something he wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

Because that’s how you protected yourself.

Because the boy you saw in that practice room? He wasn’t some arrogant heartbreaker with too much charm and not enough sincerity. He was awkward. Shy. Gentle. Too gentle, even.

Heeseung stuttered when he asked you things. He flinched when you looked at him too long. He smiled like he wasn’t used to smiling in your direction and was scared you’d take it back.

He acted like a deer in headlights, not some villain with a pretty face.

And maybe that was the problem.

“…You’re quiet,” Chaewon noted suddenly, pulling you out of your spiral. She eyed you with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah,” you said, voice just above a whisper. “Just… tired.”

Yunjin slowed her steps, her tone gentler now. “Long day?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a long day.”

Neither of them pushed. You were thankful for that. Because you didn’t know how to explain it—not even to yourself.

That the lines were starting to blur. That your certainty had started to shift the moment he looked at you like you mattered. That maybe the worst part of hating him—was realizing he never hated you back.

The set was somewhere deep in the countryside of Poland—or so they told you. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care.

The jet lag was a vice around your skull, your temples pulsing with the weight of back-to-back schedules and unfinished sleep.

The only thing keeping you upright was the cold air seeping in through the cracks in the massive venue they’d rented out for the shoot.

The studio lights were blinding, and the beat of the backing track playing faintly overhead echoed like a second heartbeat in your ears.

You sat wordlessly in a fold-out chair as a makeup artist dabbed at the outer corner of your eye with a small brush, sweeping a final shimmer of dark plum across your lid.

Another artist fussed with the fall of your hair behind the black silk mask strapped tightly to your face.

You were grateful for the mask. Not because it looked good—but because it hid you. Even just a little.

You didn’t have to smile. Didn’t have to speak. Didn’t have to see the way Heeseung was still staring from across the room like you were the only thing that mattered more than the camera.

His gaze burned hot and obvious, like it hadn’t stopped tracking you since you stepped onto the set an hour ago.

Like even here—in the middle of nowhere, half the world away, wrapped in pearls and velvet—he couldn’t forget the way your hands felt against his just three days ago in the dance room.

You could see him in your peripheral. Silver hair tousled, his expression slipping slightly as he fiddled with the pearl strings sewn into his sweater.

His fingers—elegant, nervous—twisted and untwisted the threads like they were the only way he could keep himself grounded.

“You’re good to go,” the stylist murmured beside you, stepping away after one last spritz of setting spray.

You blinked and nodded. “Thank you.”

Across the room, Jake burst into laughter as Jungwon elbowed him, both of them dressed in matching jackets that shimmered under the lights. They looked exhausted but lighthearted—like they’d slept at least a little more than you had.

You stood up, adjusting the fall of your black mask as you made your way toward the center of the set. The platform had been polished until you could almost see your reflection in it.

Choreographers bustled nearby, adjusting marks and camera angles as final checks were called out across walkie-talkies.

“Everyone in position in five!” a staff member called.

You kept walking, and so did Heeseung.

But as you both paused at your assigned marks—just a breath apart, the cold air curling between your shoulders—you heard it.

Heeseung’s voice. Low. Careful.

“…You okay?”

Your eyes flickered to him for the briefest second, the mask hiding the frown that pulled at your lips.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly.

Heeseung didn’t move, but you could hear the way he breathed in just a bit sharper than usual.

“You’re not sleeping well,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

He shifted slightly in his stance, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater where they clung tight around his wrists.

“I’m not either,” he added. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” you replied, voice clipped. But it wasn’t as cold as it could’ve been. It was more tired.

He chuckled once under his breath. Dry. Almost self-deprecating.

The seconds ticked by.

And even in a space filled with people and light and noise—you felt like it was only the two of you.

But maybe that was the problem.

Because the more you let yourself believe it—the more you let yourself notice the soft smiles, the hesitant stares, the way his fingers lingered too long after each lift or catch—the harder it became to shut your thoughts down.

It was exhausting. Tiring in a way no practice could match.

You really didn’t know what to believe anymore.

You hated the way your chest fluttered when he smiled at you during warmups. You hated the way your heart twisted when his eyes dropped to the floor every time you brushed past him like strangers.

You hated that you remembered every warning you were given about him—and yet here you were, slowly forgetting why you built those walls in the first place.

It was too much. Too loud in your head, too warm in your chest, and too dangerous in your hands.

The chorus cue came. You pushed the thoughts aside. Let the music take you.

Let muscle memory and muscle tension guide your body. The choreography was second nature now—each movement stitched into your bones. Heeseung’s hand slid behind your waist. Your palms grazed his collar. The camera passed.

But it was over too soon—too much.

And when the final beat of the chorus hit, you pressed yourself away—too fast.

Heeseung’s hand slipped from your side with no resistance.

He frowned. Just slightly. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. The shift. The falter.

Your steps were light, almost too fast as you moved to the other side of the set—your breath tight in your lungs as you stood next to Jungwon’s partner, who greeted you with a bright, hopeful beam.

“You looked so good out there,” she said, nudging your arm lightly.

You forced a smile. Let it rise behind your eyes where the mask couldn’t hide it.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “So did you.”

The moment felt safe—comfortable. Predictable.

And from across the room, Heeseung saw it all. The way you laughed—small, but real. The way you leaned a little closer. The way you didn’t flinch or shift away.

He swallowed the tight lump in his throat, watching you with unreadable eyes.

What happened? What changed?

The chill of your absence seeped through the space he used to hold beside you. He turned away before he could think too long about it. Before the ache in his chest got too obvious.

He didn’t want to think that maybe—for all the progress he thought you were making—this meant you were still running.

The second day of filming began with breath clouds and red noses.

You huddled close with the other dancers beneath a shared gray blanket that barely kept the cold out.

The fitted red dress you wore clung to your frame, no sleeves in sight, no mercy from the biting wind. Your fingers twitched where they fiddled with the invisible hem of your sleeves that didn’t exist.

“This dress is evil,” Sunghoon’s partner muttered, her teeth chattering as she pressed her arms together. “It’s like—glamour meets hypothermia.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding. “Suffering for the aesthetic,” you joked, eyes crinkling behind the red mask you still hadn’t taken off. “We should get hazard pay.”

The girls around you giggled in agreement, pulling the blanket tighter around their shoulders. It was one of the rare moments you could pretend this was just another project. Just another set.

But then the call came.

“Dancers, to the platform!”

You hesitated before letting the warmth slip from your hands.

The blanket fell to the bench behind you like a defeated flag as you stepped onto the gravel path leading to the raised platform. Your heels clicked against the cold stone as the wind tugged at your hair. You walked with practiced grace—but your arms were stiff, skin prickling from the chill.

He was already there.

In the middle of the platform, Jake beside him, their postures relaxed but ready. Half of Heeseung’s silver hair had been slicked back, the rest tousled slightly by the breeze.

He was wrapped in the same dark regal jacket you saw during the earlier takes, layered over the white stage shirt that matched the shadows in his eyes.

His gaze caught yours.

Just a second.

One heartbeat too long.

And then—a small smile.

Tame. Careful. Almost apologetic. Like he knew he didn’t have the right to smile too brightly.

You didn’t return it. You simply nodded, small and impersonal.

Heeseung felt the air knock out of him anyway.

He looked away, jaw tightening just slightly as he shifted in place, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. His hand adjusted the earring tucked near his ear as the director’s voice rang out loud and clipped from below the platform.

“Alright, places! We’re rolling in three!”

You took your mark silently, body coiling with tension as you took your place behind Heeseung—just off to his left like the choreography called for.

“Two!”

“One!”

Heeseung didn’t dare glance back at you again. Not when the cold wasn’t the only thing that had him shivering.

And as the music started—so did the silence between your bodies. Two dancers moving like fire and frost. Each step practiced. Each contact perfect.

But Heeseung still wondered if your heart was somewhere far away from him. Or if he’d ever be allowed to reach it again.

The director’s voice echoed once more, signaling the end of the take. The music faded, replaced by the familiar shuffles of movement and quiet congratulations.

You stepped away. Again. Same as you always did.

But this time—he moved faster.

Before you could even plant your next step, his fingers closed around your wrist—not tight, not rough, but firm. Sure. The kind of hold that said, Don’t walk away. Not this time.

“Wait,” he said, voice low. Not commanding. Not pleading. Just there.

Your breath caught. “Lee—?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t give you the chance to protest again.

With a sudden tug, he turned, leading you away from the open platform, past a row of weathered pillars and toward the broken shadow of the ruined courtyard wall—one of the few places the cameras couldn’t see. Where no staff or backup dancers wandered. Just the wind. And your heartbeat.

“Hey—” you yelped softly, heels catching slightly in the gravel. You tugged at his hand, but it was useless. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t say anything.

Just glanced over his shoulder, silver hair windblown and eyes burning, and even in his silence, he was careful—his hand never left yours, but he slowed just enough to help you step over the uneven stones, guiding you gently until the two of you were out of view.

Out of reach. Out of excuses.

He finally stopped when the only sound between you was the faraway call of a raven and the hush of your breaths.

You pulled your wrist again. “Lee Heeseung—”

His grip loosened, not enough to hurt. Just enough that you could leave if you really wanted to.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

Still, he didn’t step back. He didn’t let go, either. And instead—his fingers trailed down. Slid slowly into yours like a silent plea.

The other hand came next—gentle, hesitant—trembling as it found yours and held on, palms warm despite the cold that clung to the ruins around you.

His breath hitched. Chest rising like he had to remind himself to inhale.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was small. Fractured.

A boy breaking.

“(Y/N)…”

His gaze flicked to yours and then away—like it hurt to be seen, but it hurt worse not to be.

“…Why do you hate me so much?”

It wasn’t a complaint. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t said like he was looking for a fight.

It was said the way someone asks a god why the world ended. Like maybe they’d accept being ruined—if someone could just explain why.

“I don’t get it,” he whispered, shaking his head, silver strands falling into his eyes. “I don’t know what I did. I’ve been trying—fuck, I’ve been trying so hard to make this okay. To make this easy for you.”

He looked down at your hands in his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to remember something he never got to hold properly.

“I never—” he blinked, hard, and his gaze dropped to your hands in his, thumbs brushing the backs of your knuckles like he needed to make sure you were real. “I never touched you wrong. Never spoke to you bad. Never treated you any different than the rest of them.”

His voice wavered, just slightly.

“So why is it that when I look at you… you look at me like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

You swallowed the burn at the back of your throat. The words felt sharp in your chest. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to.

But you’d looked at him like that, hadn’t you?

“I’ve spent weeks trying to make this work. To be good. To earn whatever piece of trust you’d let me have. And still—” he laughed, bitter, watery “—you keep flinching like I’m gonna hurt you.”

He laughed. Just once. It sounded bitter, like it tasted like rust in his mouth.

“I know I’m not your favorite person. I know I’m a lot of things. But I’m not… I’m not cruel. I’m not trying to make you hate this.”

He stepped closer—just enough to close the space. Just enough for you to feel the weight of every word between his trembling fingers.

And his eyes, they weren’t angry, they weren’t cold.

They were pleading. Wet at the edges, rimmed red like he’d been holding it in too long. Tired. Soft. So full of something he didn’t have a name for yet.

“So tell me,” he said, voice nearly cracking. “What is it? What did I do? Because I’m losing it here, trying to figure out why you hate me so much when I—”

His grip on your hands tightened. Not forceful. Just—rooted, desperate.

“I just… I want to understand. I want to fix it. I want to know why you hate me so much when I—”

He stopped. Bit his lip.

And it crumbled out of him.

“…When I think about you all the time.”

The silence that followed that confession felt louder than the wind against the ancient stones.

Heeseung’s breath hitched. His grip tightened—not painfully, but with the kind of desperation you only showed when you were losing something you never truly had.

You sighed.

A long, shaking exhale that fogged up the inside of your mask. Your fingers twitched in his, and without a word, you slowly reached up—peeling the red cloth down from your face.

Your lips were parted. Your chest rose and fell a little quicker than normal. You didn’t speak at first—you just stared at him.

At the silver-haired boy in front of you, head slightly bowed but eyes still locked onto yours.

Eyes that were red and glassy. Eyes that didn’t blink as they searched your face for answers he was terrified to hear.

You swallowed.

“I heard things,” you finally whispered.

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. It was quiet—like a confession you’d kept folded in your pocket for too long. About to crumble.

Heeseung blinked. His brows pinched in the middle.

“I didn’t… hate you at first,” you admitted, eyes flickering downward. “I didn’t know you. I didn’t care.”

You laughed—bitter, soft.

“But then people started talking. Telling me to stay away. That you were selfish. That you didn’t care about your members, or your partners. That you half-assed things when it didn’t interest you. That you flirted with girls like it was a game, just to watch them fall.”

You looked up again—and Heeseung’s face was starting to crack.

“They told me you’d never make this easy. That you’d just throw me under the bus if it got hard. That I should keep my distance or I’d end up the next girl crying over Lee Heeseung.”

Your lips trembled.

“So I did.”

And still—he said nothing.

But his eyes. His face. His shoulders. He was shaking.

You went on, quieter. “I convinced myself it was true. Every time you looked at me, every time you smiled or tried to talk—I told myself you were lying. That you were just playing the part.”

Your voice caught. You looked down at your heels.

“I was scared.”

Heeseung’s breath hitched, finally unable to hold it in anymore. He sniffled sharply, blinking fast—but one tear escaped anyway. Then another. Then more.

Still holding your hands, he stepped forward—just enough that his forehead hovered over your shoulder.

You didn’t pull away.

You let him stay there—his body still trembling, your hands still warm in his.

A tear slid down the side of your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Voice muffled against you. “I never wanted that. I swear. I never—”

He broke off. Shaking again. “I didn’t know they said that about me.”

And this time, it was you who clutched his fingers tighter.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” you said quietly. “But they were so sure. And you were so…” You paused. “You were so hard to read.”

Heeseung pulled back, just enough to look at you again. His face was soaked now. Lips parted, cheeks flushed from crying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

And before you could say anything—before you could even breathe—he made a sound.

Not a word. Not quite a sob.

It was somewhere in between—like his voice cracked around the weight of what he was trying to hold in. And then suddenly, it was like the dam broke.

“I didn’t even…” he choked, voice trembling. “I didn’t even date anybody. Ever. Not since debut. I swear—God, I swear.”

He pulled away just barely, not enough to let you go, just enough to meet your eyes.

His were rimmed red. Wet. Wide. Panicked.

“I don’t know who said that. I don’t know where that came from,” he said, words stumbling over each other, “I never flirted with anyone—I never… I didn’t do any of that. Because I didn’t want to.”

Another shaky inhale. His hands trembled in yours.

“I didn’t want anyone else. I didn’t care about anyone else. I only ever wanted you to like me. To even just—tolerate me.”

Heeseung bit down on his lip again, trying and failing to swallow the next sob. His whole body shook from the effort, from the exhaustion, from the weeks of holding it all in.

And then finally—he slumped. Not just physically—but emotionally. Completely.

His head dropped, forehead resting gently against your shoulder, arms still loosely holding your hands like he was afraid you’d vanish the second he let go.

You inhaled—shakily. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

You could feel his breathing now. Labored, broken. The small shudder of him trying to stop the tears even as they soaked the fabric of your dress. You let go of one of his hands—not to step away, not to push him off. You raised it instead.

Tentative. Careful.

And cradled the back of his head.

Fingers slipping gently into the mess of silver hair as you pressed his face just a little closer to you, letting him cry into your shoulder. Letting him break, here—where no cameras could see. Where no staff would interrupt.

Where it was just the two of you.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered. “Heeseung… I didn’t know.”

You said his name like it hurt.

And it did. Because maybe if you had asked. Maybe if you had just looked him in the eye earlier. Maybe—

“I’m sorry,” you said this time.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His voice was gone. His body curled just slightly toward you like something inside him finally caved.

Like the mask he wore for the world had slipped—and all that was left was a boy who was tired of being misunderstood.

Your hand in his hair moved gently—slow strokes over soft silver strands, your fingers trembling as they threaded through the mess at his nape.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned closer, like he needed the grounding. Like if you stopped, he’d fall apart entirely.

So you pulled him just a little closer. Just enough for his nose to nudge the side of your neck. Just enough to feel his shoulders shake against you as the sobs continued to slip out, quieter now, but no less painful.

And you finally spoke.

“People told me things,” you whispered, the words shaky, just above the sound of his broken breaths. “Things about you. And I believed them.”

Your throat burned. You blinked hard—but it was useless. The tears had already welled.

“I shouldn’t have trusted them just because I knew them,” you said. “I shouldn’t have let their version of you decide everything for me. Because you’re—”

You paused, fingers curling tighter in his hair.

“You’re nothing like what they said.”

Heeseung didn’t move, but you felt his grip loosen on your hands—only for his arms to suddenly wrap around you. Fully. Desperately.

His entire body curled forward into you, pressing against your chest, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck as if trying to disappear into you entirely.

The force of it knocked you back just slightly—your shoulders hitting the cold stone of the castle wall behind. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop him. Your free hand slid instinctively to his back, pressing there—steady, warm.

“I’m so—” your voice cracked. “So, so sorry, Heeseung.”

A choked sob escaped him again, and you felt it—raw, stuttering, like it had torn straight from his chest. His fingers gripped at your waist now, not to hold you back, but like he was terrified you’d disappear if he let go.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” you whispered, tears finally slipping past your lashes. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t I ask?”

His only answer was to press further into you, body trembling, forehead still buried against your shoulder like the weight of your words might break him all over again.

And maybe it did.

Because Heeseung had never cried like this in front of anyone.

And you—you had never held someone like this either. Not like this. Not someone who once stood so far from you and now clung to you like you were the only solid ground he had left.

Heeseung’s arms tightened again. Not desperately this time—just closer. Like he didn’t want space anymore. Like he couldn’t handle distance for even a second longer.

His sobs had quieted, turned into soft, uneven breaths, but the tears didn’t stop. They fell naturally now—unguarded, unashamed—as if they’d been waiting for this moment, for you, to fall into.

You let your own tears drop, some falling to the sharp slope of his shoulder, others soaking quietly into the soft knit of his costume.

Neither of you said anything right away. The silence didn’t demand to be filled—it just existed, heavy and real and needed.

Then Heeseung whispered, barely audible.

“…Why didn’t you tell me you believed all that?”

His voice cracked again—not from crying, but from hurt. Not angry. Just… confused. Small.

You didn’t pull away. If anything, you pressed your forehead lightly to the side of his, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you exhaled. “Because I didn’t want to believe I was wrong.”

He sniffled. His fingers curled just slightly at your back, bunching your dress. “Was I really that easy to hate?”

You closed your eyes, throat tightening as you whispered, “No. That’s the worst part.”

He stilled in your arms. Completely.

Your hand smoothed over his hair again.

“You were… awkward. Quiet. You smiled at me like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You stuttered. You kept your distance. But that wasn’t the boy they warned me about. That wasn’t the version I tried to avoid.”

You finally leaned back—just enough to meet his eyes. His cheeks were wet, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, lashes clumped together from crying. But he looked at you like you were all he could see.

Your hands, without thinking, slid to cup his face. Thumbs brushing under his eyes, catching the tears before they could fall again.

Heeseung leaned into your touch, nose brushing against your palm as he let out a quiet, trembling sigh.

His eyes fluttered shut for just a second—like he needed to gather himself, like he needed to be sure this wasn’t some kind of dream he’d wake up from cold and alone.

And then, barely above a whisper, fragile and hesitant: “…What now?”

Your breath caught. Your thumbs stilled where they gently traced the damp lines beneath his eyes. He looked so small like that.

Not because of size—but the way he folded into your warmth, the way the world seemed to weigh heavier on him than it should. And he let you hold that weight now, even just for a moment.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your hands cradled him just a bit more securely, thumbs running softly along the apple of his cheeks. You leaned in slowly—so slowly he had time to move, time to flinch or pull away. But he didn’t.

And when your lips met the center of his forehead—soft, warm, sure—Heeseung froze.

His eyes fluttered open in surprise, just a little.

He just let his lids fall again, let his shoulders drop, let his body sink into yours like that simple, wordless kiss had done what a thousand apologies never could. As if all the jagged pieces inside him had stopped cutting for just a second.

He exhaled shakily.

“…That felt nice,” he mumbled, voice raspier now, lips barely moving.

You pulled back just a bit—not enough to break the closeness, just enough to see him again. “You needed it,” you said softly.

Heeseung opened his eyes again, gaze searching yours like he was looking for something he didn’t dare name.

“Do you…” His voice faltered, his ears already flushing. “Do you hate me less now?”

You couldn’t help the smile that ghosted across your lips, small and tired, but real. You brushed your thumb across the slope of his cheek again.

“I never hated you, Heeseung,” you whispered. “I was just scared.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, his smile returned—not wide, not bright. But soft. Real.

Heeseung blinked up at you again, dazed, the ghost of his soft smile still lingering like a shadow on his lips.

He looked—content. A little fragile. A lot lighter. As if your quiet, careful love had soothed something no one else had ever thought to see.

You let your hand drift up, fingertips gently brushing through the silver strands that had clung to his forehead, curling slightly from sweat and mist and the heat of his tears. You tucked them aside with practiced ease, brushing them into place.

“Do you want to go back?” you asked, your voice low—barely audible, like asking louder might shatter the quiet between you.

Heeseung’s response wasn’t with words at first. He simply grumbled under his breath, barely coherent, and ducked away from your hand again—this time not from embarrassment, but sheer stubbornness.

And before you could fully register it, he’d pressed his head back onto your shoulder, cheek flattened there with the dramatics of someone who clearly had no plans of moving.

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “You’re such a child.”

He mumbled something into the fabric of your dress. Something like, ‘Only for you.’

You sighed, amused. “If we have to,” he finally grumbled, dragging the words out like each syllable was a personal offense. “Let’s just… stay like this for two more seconds. Five. Five seconds.”

You counted in your head. One. Two.

But by three, you were already leaning back, pulling away.

“We’ll get caught,” you murmured, brushing your thumb under his eye one more time, like a promise.

You reached for his hand—still damp with tears and cold from the air. Your fingers slipped between his gently, tugging him forward with a softness that barely required any force at all.

“Come on, Bambi,” you said, half a laugh under your breath. “Your makeup’s all messed up now.”

Heeseung let you pull him, the tips of his ears turning pink again at the nickname.

“Well,” he said, sniffling once as he ran a hand through his hair, straightening. “That’s your fault.”

“Oh, is it?” you quirked a brow, still holding his hand as you walked out into the quiet halls.

He glanced down at your interlocked fingers—then at your face—and smiled, shy and fond. “Yeah. But I’m not mad about it.”

Neither were you.

Because even with everything still unresolved, for the first time—you weren’t walking away.

The sun had dipped hours ago, leaving only the pale gold trail it dragged across the horizon—and now, the chill was all that remained. Breath fogged in the air like smoke.

Someone had thrown a blanket over Sunghoon’s head like a cape, and Jake was being chased by his dance partner, yelling something about “You look like a freezing golden retriever, get back here!”

You smiled at the chaos, chin buried into the thick collar of your borrowed jacket.

You sat quietly on one of the foldable black benches under the tent, knees tucked slightly inward, thumb lazily scrolling through your phone as you sank further into yourself for warmth.

The laughter echoed from a distance—but your corner was hushed. Your own little pocket of calm.

Until a shadow appeared next to you.

You glanced up to see Heeseung standing beside you, his face half-hidden by the blanket draped around his shoulders.

He said nothing—just held his own foldable chair in one hand and gently placed it beside yours with a soft thud. Then, he sat. Quietly. No preamble. Just… sat.

You blinked at him.

Before you could say anything, he shifted slightly—his body turning toward yours—and with a movement so subtle it almost didn’t register, he opened the gray fleece blanket around his shoulders and extended it to yours.

You stared.

His face was a little flushed from the cold, silver hair windswept and messy. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you expectantly until you hesitated and let him pull the other half over your shoulders. The warmth was immediate.

“You looked cold,” he murmured simply, voice low, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance—not on you.

You huffed a soft laugh, the sound curling visibly in the winter air. “Thanks, Bambi,” you said, patting his head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers threaded gently through his silver hair, disheveling the parts that still clung to some neatness.

He didn’t say anything—just sank further into the shared blanket, his shoulder now pressed fully against yours as his chin tucked slightly like a content cat. You could feel the heat from his cheek seeping through the fabric of your coat.

You tapped on your screen, closing the Instagram app and turning the brightness down just a little. Then, without looking at him, you mumbled, “Do you wanna watch anything?”

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, catching your eyes for the first time in minutes. The light from your screen reflected off his pupils, big and blinking—and then, a smile bloomed slowly across his lips, lighting up his whole face.

Your eyes widened, then you burst into a laugh. “Seriously? Out of all the things?”

He shrugged, that same sheepish smile spreading. “It’s comforting.”

You chuckled again, already typing it in the search bar. “Forrest Gump it is, then.”

Heeseung leaned in even closer, the blanket pulled taut over your shoulders now. His hair tickled your temple. “You ever watch it with someone before?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “Nope.”

He nodded, that smile still tugging at his lips. “First time for everything.”

Jay paused mid-throw, the balled-up scarf in his hands dropping to his lap.

“Wait,” he mumbled, elbow nudging Jungwon subtly. “Look.”

Jungwon blinked, confused, until Jay jerked his chin toward the tent tucked against the stone wall where you and Heeseung sat.

The younger squinted through the dim light filtering from the overhead bulbs—only to freeze.

Heeseung was fully curled into your side now, head snug in the crook of your neck, arm lazily looped through yours like it belonged there. His eyes were still fixed on the tiny screen, but his body said otherwise—completely relaxed, safe, folded into you.

What made Jungwon’s smile tug wider, though, was your hand. It rested gently over Heeseung’s, fingers slightly intertwined like it had been that way for years.

“Woah,” Jungwon whispered, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face. “I’m glad they’re finally getting along.”

Jay snorted softly, leaning back on his palms. “Getting along?” he echoed with a scoff. “Hyung’s been in love since day one.”

Jungwon turned to him. “No way.”

“I’m serious,” Jay said, holding up a hand as if swearing on it. “Remember the day of the partner announcements? Dude looked like someone drop-kicked his soul when he got her. Couldn’t talk right for a whole week.”

Jungwon stifled a laugh, watching as Heeseung nudged closer to you in his sleep-like daze. You hadn’t moved either—still scrolling quietly with your free hand, letting him lean as much as he needed.

“You think she knows?” Jungwon asked curiously.

Jay tilted his head. “Maybe now,” he murmured. “Or at least, she’s not running away anymore.”

“Good for them,” Jungwon mumbled with a smile, tucking the scarf around his neck.

Jay smirked. “Took long enough.”

And under the canopy of stars, the shared blanket still held two hearts—finally moving in rhythm.

The hotel lobby was quieter than usual, the grand chandelier dimmed to a warm amber glow that softened the edges of the world around you.

Laughter and the clink of cutlery filtered in faintly from the dinner buffet upstairs, but down here, everything was hushed—tired. Like the building itself was finally winding down after holding so much energy for days on end.

You padded through the polished floors in white sneakers, hoodie sleeves falling over your fingers, shorts brushing against your thighs as the chill in the air-conditioning prickled your skin.

Your hair was down now, loosely falling past your shoulders, but the remnants of your filming makeup still clung to your face—lashes thick with mascara, eyes faintly lined in brown shadow, lips a soft red tint that hadn’t quite faded.

You rubbed your arms lightly as you entered the small café near the entrance of the lobby. The smell of roasted espresso beans and freshly baked pastries curled around you like a slow, comforting blanket.

It was late—past ten—but the place still buzzed with life. Staff, coordinators, some dancers still in half-costume, trailing glitter down the tiled floors.

The interior was cozy—gold linings framing the wide windows, soft yellow bulbs suspended from wooden beams, chairs cushioned in soft velvet greens and deep browns.

You admired the décor for a moment, the way it felt nothing like the sterile, cold cafes of set days. This felt real. Homey.

You let your eyes sweep the room once, then quietly stepped into the end of the line.

It was long—nearly reaching the back of the room—and you sighed inwardly, pulling out your phone to keep yourself busy. Anything to avoid the half-drowsy small talk.

You scrolled aimlessly through your camera roll, watching low-res rehearsal clips play without sound. One showed you and Heeseung mid-chorus, arms extended, perfectly synced.

You didn’t realize your eyes lingered on his smile longer than they should’ve.

You tucked your lower lip between your teeth, peeking at the glowing menu board up ahead, trying to decide between iced mocha or hot matcha—until you heard soft footsteps settle behind you.

Followed by a breath. One you recognized.

“…Long line,” Heeseung’s voice came low, hesitant, behind you.

You turned your head just a little, eyes lifting from your screen.

He wore a dark, nearly black denim jacket thrown over a plain white shirt, black pants hugging his legs just right. His hair—fluffier now, no longer slicked back from filming—curled slightly at the ends, soft and boyish. His makeup was still there, faint shadows clinging to his eyes, but it only added to the quiet charm he carried.

He smiled down at you.

“Hey,” he said, stepping a little closer like it was second nature.

You blinked, trying to keep your face neutral, but your lips pulled into a smile before you could stop them.

“Did you… follow me?”

He laughed—low and breathy—as his hand automatically went to the back of his neck, rubbing it sheepishly. “I was gonna head to the elevators, swear. But then I saw you walking in here and… well.”

You squinted up at him, raising a brow. “So, yes.”

Heeseung chuckled. “So, maybe.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “Stalker.”

He tilted his head, smile slowly spreading, eyes crinkling just a little. “A handsome one.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “That’s debatable.”

He gasped, mock offended, before draping an arm around your shoulders with the ease of someone who had always meant to be there.

“You’re lucky I’m cute,” he mumbled under his breath, looking up at the chalkboard menu.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to fight you on that.”

He huffed a laugh, warm breath brushing against your hair. You didn’t lean in. But you didn’t lean out either.

His gaze shifted downward, eyes trailing past your hoodie and landing on your bare legs, peeking out from the hem of your shorts. A crease formed between his brows as he frowned, arm still lazily slung over your shoulder.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, voice a little quieter now. A little more serious.

You blinked, glancing down at your legs as if seeing them for the first time. “Not really,” you replied, shrugging.

He scoffed—so soft it was almost under his breath. “Liar.”

You grinned, caught. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re insane,” he muttered, tugging you just a bit closer like that would magically generate warmth. “It’s literally freezing and you’re dressed like we’re in California.”

“It was either this or pants that make me itch.”

“Next time, I’m bringing you sweatpants.”

You laughed. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He smirked, looking forward again as the line moved. “Depends if you behave.”

You snorted. “You sound like a dad.”

Heeseung made a face. “Take that back.”

“Nope,” you said proudly as the two of you stepped forward again, just one pair away from the cashier now. Heeseung’s arm stayed right where it was—draped easily over your shoulder, like it belonged there.

And without thinking much of it, you leaned into him. Just a little. Just enough to close the space between your side and his chest as your free hand scrolled lazily through your phone feed.

The warm lights of the café reflected off the screen, casting soft hues onto both your faces.

Heeseung peeked over your shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing yours as he watched you scroll. A laugh puffed out of him when you double-tapped three posts in a row without even really looking.

“You just like everything, huh?” he murmured, amused.

You gave him a side-eye, raising a brow. “Don’t stalk my habits, Bambi.”

“Hard not to,” he said under his breath with a small smirk, turning his head just enough to keep his laugh to himself.

You were about to retaliate when the line moved—and just like that, you were up next.

“Hi! What can I get for you?” the barista greeted, cheerful despite the hour.

You stepped forward, half under Heeseung’s arm as you spoke. “Can I get a hot matcha latte and… the blueberry cheesecake, please?”

The barista smiled, tapping it in. “Sure. And for you, sir?”

“Java chip frappé and a croissant,” Heeseung replied smoothly, his voice slightly deeper now with the cold and the hour.

As she repeated the order and the screen flashed the total, you instinctively reached for your wallet.

But before you could even tug the zipper open, Heeseung was already handing over his black card.

You blinked, glancing up at him in mild alarm. “Wait—Heeseung—”

“It’s fine,” he said softly, his voice a little smug, a little sweet. “I got it.”

“But I—”

He looked down at you, eyes soft with the barest smile on his lips. “Let me, okay?”

You sighed, whispering under your breath, “Show-off.”

Heeseung grinned, accepting the receipt and stepping off to the side with you as the barista called out, “We’ll bring it to your table!”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue further, walking with him toward a small round table tucked near the corner. His arm was still loosely around your shoulders as you both moved, like he didn’t even realize he hadn’t let go.

And maybe you didn’t realize you hadn’t wanted him to.

Heeseung pulled out the chair for you first—dramatic, with a teasing bow. “Your throne, m’lady.”

“Oh god, please stop,” you muttered, covering your face as you tried not to laugh.

He winked. “Can’t. I’m charming.”

You settled into the seat, shaking your head as he plopped into the one beside you—close, a little too close, but you weren’t complaining.

Especially not when he was smiling like that.

Especially not when he kept looking at you like that.

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⤷ permanent tagllist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie ⤷ piece taglist — @yohanabanana @sagegreenhairclip @dearestdreamies

© 2025 liuhsng �� reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[bangtanbeom]

⋆˚࿔ perfect match 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 4

୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / part four / part five ୨♡୧

pairing: rentalbf!soobin x fem!reader genre: fluff, comedy? (debatable), fake dating au summary: desperate to escape your friends matchmaking, a small lie spirals out of control. soobin—your charming, professional, rental boyfriend—the perfect answer. but what if the hardest part won't be fooling your friends? what if it’s reminding your own heart it's all fake? w/c: ~3.3k warning: not entirely proofread, fluff (might be cringe), an attempt at humor. a/n: LMAO I JUST NOW REALIZED I PUBLISHED THE WRONG DRAFT. i accidentally published a story draft about yeonjun i was working on but i wanted to post this one HAHAH OOPS. i blame the allnighter. taglist: always open! @saccharinezennie | @soobinz-wife | @mental-hollows | @bunniwords | @lonendly | @soobinieswife | @slipawaylrh | @taysfairies

the moment you shuffled into the office, coffee clutched like a lifeline, yeonjun's chair screeched across the floor as he launched himself toward you.

"well?" he planted both hands on your desk, eyes gleaming. "details. now."

you took an obnoxiously long sip of coffee, stalling. "good morning to you too."

yeonjun's grin turned wider—dangerous even. "you didn't text me back last night. which means one of two things." he held up a finger. "one. you were so overwhelmed by fake boyfriend's charm that you collapsed into a puddle of regret and unprofessional yearning." a second finger. "two. you actually had fun and didn't want to admit it.

you choked on your coffee. "or three. i was tired and forgot."

"liar." he swiped your muffin from the desk, taking a big bite. "spill. how was the double date."

you slumped into your chair, rubbing your temples. "it was... fine. beomgyu is a menace. his girlfriend is terrifying. soobin—"

yeonjun's eyebrows shot up, his lips stretching into a teasing grin. "what'd he do? hold your hand? feed you food?"

"oh my god." you buried your face in your hands. "it was practice. we acted like a couple. that's literally the whole point."

yeonjun's smirk softened, just a fraction. "and?"

you hesitated. the truth was, last night hadn't been awful. once you stopped flinching every time soobin touched you, it had almost felt... natural. the way his hand settled on your waist, the stupid little pet names—it was all part of the act.

and then there was tomorrow.

the get-together. your ex. the thought of sitting across from him again, watching his sharp eyes dissect every interaction between you and soobin, made your stomach twist.

you hadn't told anyone the worst of it—how your ex would smile sweetly in public, then snap behind closed doors. how his voice would turn to ice if you dared to disagree with him, or how he'd punch and throw anything he could find whenever something didn't go as he'd wanted to.

and when he cheated—he'd made it sound like your fault.

"you're so distant, what did you expect?"

"hey." yeonjun flicked your forehead. "you're overthinking."

you batted his hand away. "i'm preparing. the dinner is tomorrow, and if i mess up, my ex gets the satisfaction of watching me fail. again."

yeonjun's teasing demeanor faded. "you're not failing. you're rebounding—just you know, with a paid professional."

"ugh," you groaned. "that's not better."

"it's strategic."

he stole another bite of your muffin. "look. you hired soobin because he's good at this. trust him. and for the love of god, stop imagining worst-case scenarios."

you picked at the edge of your desk. "what if my ex sees right through it?"

"then soobin will lie harder. that's his job."

"what if i freeze up?"

"then soobin will thaw you out. probably with something more—a kiss, maybe."

you shot him a glare.

yeonjun sighed, uncharacteristically serious. "listen. you're not the same person you were when your ex left. and tomorrow? you're going to walk in there with a guy who looks at you like you hung the damn moon—fake or not—and your ex is gonna choke on his jealousy." he leaned in, lowering his voice. "and when he tries that manipulative bullshit, soobin won't let it slide. that's the difference."

soobin's car idled at the curb, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the amber glow of the streetlights. the low hum of the engine blended with the murmur of pedestrians. he leaned against the hood one foot propped on the bumper, scrolling through his phone with his free hand tucked into the pocket of his—

oh.

light-wash jeans, just like yours. he'd paired them with a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. casual, but put-together.

you tugged at your own jeans, suddenly hyper-aware of the matching denim, the bracelet on your wrist, the necklace you'd fiddled with all day.

his head snapped up the second your shoes hit the pavement, his gaze tracking you as you approached. you watched his eyes flicker—over the bracelet, the matching jeans, the way your fingers kept straying to the necklace around your neck—and something unreadable passed over his face.

"wow," he said, pushing himself off the car with a grin. "we do look disgustingly coordinated."

you crossed your arms. "i didn't realize you'd be dressed like this."

"like what?" he gestured down at himself, feigning innocence. "devastatingly handsome?"

"like we planned it." you narrowed your eyes. "did you hack my closet?"

he laughed, shaking his head. "nah. just good instincts." his gaze flicked to your nervous fingers fiddling with your necklace. "you okay?"

"great." you exhaled sharply. "just mentally preparing to face my ex with his new girlfriend while pretending the love of my life—" you gestured at him. "—isn't a paid professional."

soobin's expression softened. he stepped closer, his voice dropping. "hey. look at me."

you did. his eyes were steady, warm.

"i've got you," he said, simple and sure. "no matter what happens in there, i'm not letting him get to you."

something in your chest tightened.

it's just a part of the act, you reminded yourself. but the way he said it—like it was more than that—made you second-guess everything.

you swallowed hard, breaking the eye-contact. "you better be worth the money."

he smirked. "oh i am." he said as he opened the car door for you.

the car smelled different.

the faint scent of coffee that used to linger in the air—from the last time—was now replaced by a faint scent of mint and something sweet, vanilla, his cologne, maybe. the half-empty pack of gum replaced by a new full pack, neatly placed in his car.

somehow, it felt different, not as personal as the last time, like he'd scrubbed away every trace of himself—facade.

everything was a facade.

the realization slithered down your spine. of course he'd erased the traces of practice soobin. tonight wasn't practice. tonight was performance soobin—polished, professional, paid.

the dashboard lights cast a soft blue glow over the console, illuminating the sleek lines of the gearshift and the subtle curve of soobin's knuckles as he tapped the steering wheel. outside, the city blurred past—neon signs, flickering traffic lights, the occasional flash of headlights cutting through the setting evening.

the silence in the car stretched, thick with unspoken tension. you fiddled with the edge of your sleeve, the fabric rough under your fingertips, grounding you in the moment.

soobin's voice cut through the quiet, softer than you expected. "nervous?"

you exhaled sharply, fingers stilling. "is it that obvious?"

soobin's gaze lingered on your fingers, still fidgeting with your bracelet. without a word, he reached over and gently pried your hand away, turning it palm-up in his. his thumb tracing slow circles over the palm of your hand. "you've adjusted your bracelet seven times since we got in the car."

your breath hitched. the warmth of his touch was too real, too steady—but you didn't pull away.

was this also part of the act?

heat creeping up your neck. "obsessive much?"

"professional habit." he smirked, but there was something gentler beneath it. "look, we've practiced. you're good at this."

"at lying?"

"at surviving." his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. "and for the record? you're not the one who should be nervous tonight?"

you frowned. "what's that supposed to mean?"

soobin's grin widened. "it means your ex is about to watch you move on. and i don't care how 'over it' he claims to be—that always stings."

the certainty in his voice made your breath catch. you studied his profile—the way his lashes cast faint shadows under his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth. he sounded like he spoke from experience.

the restaurant approached, its glowing sign casting long shadows across the pavement. your stomach lurched.

soobin parked, then turned to you, "last chance to bail. we could fake a car crash. food poisoning. sudden amnesia."

you chuckled softly. "tempting."

"but?"

you shot him a glare. "letting you keep the deposit? never." you said and straightened your posture. "let's go."

soobin's grin was sharp. approving. he stepped out of the car, rounding to your side to open the door for you. as you stood, his hand settled at your lower back—a silent promise.

i'm here.

the warm, garlic air of the restaurant wrapped around you like a familiar blanket as you stepped through the entryway, the laminated menu boards clattering slightly against the wall from the kitchen's bustle. the scent of caramelizing bulgogi and spiced stews mingled with the sharp tang of soju being poured at nearby tables.

your fingers twitched at your side until soobin's palm settled against your lower back—his touch firm through the thin fabric of your blouse, the heat of it seeping into your skin.

then you saw him.

seated at the far table like he belonged there, his arm slung casually over the back of his new girlfriend's chair. the same way he used to sit with you, before his words turned sharp with frustration, his smiles became weapons. he hadn't noticed you yet, too busy tipping his head back to laugh at something jia said, the curve of his throat exposed in the golden light.

an ache bloomed behind your ribs. not longing—just the old, familiar sting of betrayal, the ghost of his voice slithered through your memory.

"it was a mistake, but you pushed me away first."

your nails bit into your palms. why was he still here? why did no one else see how he carved you open and called it love?

soobin leaned down, his breath grazing your ear. "breathe," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. his fingers softly touching your chin, lifting your face toward his. "eyes on me, not him."

he lowered his hand and rested his hand on your lower back, but the tingling sensation still lingered on your chin where his fingers touched.

you sucked in a breath—just as mina spotted you.

her iced americano sloshed dangerously as she slammed both hands on the wooden tabletop, the metal legs screeching against the floor. "oh my god!" the entire restaurant seemed to pause at her outburst before resuming their meals with amused smiles. "you're finally here."

jia merely smiled, but the way her fingers tightened around her water glass gave away her excitement.

and your ex—his gaze snapped to you, that infuriating smirk already plastered on his face, but when his eyes flicked to soobin, something flickered in his expression. a twitch in his jaw.

soobin's hand slid from your back to your waist, pulling you closer. his voice was warm velvet. "hi, i'm soobin. her boyfriend."

"well," your ex drawled, leaning back in his chair. "aren't you full of surprises?"

the table fell silent. mina's eyes darted between you and soobin like she was watching a tennis match. jia sipped her water, but you didn't miss the way her foot tapped impatiently under the table.

the word boyfriend landed like a grenade.

jia's eyebrows shot up. your ex's girlfriend offered a sweet smile.

mina squealed. "you—he—you!" she pointed wildly between you and soobin. "you didn't tell us he was this hot!"

you groaned, cheeks burning. "mina, please—"

"no, no, she's right," jia said, lips twitching. "you undersold him."

soobin smirked, leaning in just slightly—close enough that his breath brushed your ear. "should i be offended?" he murmured.

"don't let it get to your head." the elbow you aimed at his ribs only made him laugh, the sound rich and warm like honey.

your ex's smirked, but his knuckles whitened around his chopsticks. "interesting. how long has this been going on?"

"two months," you said smoothly, reaching for soobin's free hand. his fingers laced through yours, warm and safe. liar, his grip seemed to say. but i've got you.

your ex's gaze dropped to your joined hands. "funny. you never mentioned him before."

soobin pulled out your chair for you—smooth, practiced—before sliding into the seat beside you. his knee brushed yours under the table, warm and grounding.

"funny," you countered, "how you never mentioned her until after i caught you."

the tension at the table stretched. mina's eyes widened while jia choked on her water.

then your ex laughed, sharp and shallow. "still holding onto that? move on, babe."

the old pet name slithered under your skin. babe. the same word he'd hissed through his teeth the night he threw a glass against the wall because you'd dared to question him.

but before you could flinch. soobin's hand covered yours, his thumb pressing into your pulse point—a silent counter to the rhythm of your racing heart. "she has," he said, smiling like he knew a secret. "she has me now."

"so..." mina leaned forward, trying to break the tension. "details. now. how did you two meet?" she asked, her eyes gleaming.

you opened your mouth, but soobin beat you to it.

"we fought over a book," he said grinning.

"a book?" mina shrieked. "that's so cute."

"she elbowed me out of the way," soobin added, nudging your shoulder.

"i did not!" you protested, but he just smirked.

"you absolutely did."

mina clutched her cheeks. "this is the best love story i've ever heard."

jia tilted her head. "what's your job, are you a model?"

soobin laughed, the sound warm and gentle. "i'm a graphic designer," soobin answered easily, his fingers lacing with yours on the table. a show of affection, a calculated move. but his thumb brushed your knuckles—soft, reassuring.

"and you've been keeping him a secret?" mina gasped. "unforgivable."

you laughed, nerves easing steadily. "we wanted to take it slow."

"slow?" mina scoffed. "look at him. i would've married him on sight."

soobin laughed—warm, rich, the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads. "i like your friends," he murmured to you, his shoulders bumping yours, it felt alarmingly easy—maybe a little too easy.

you rolled your eyes yet the chuckle that escaped from your lips betrayed you.

"soobin," your ex said, putting down his beer after taking a sip. "how'd you win her over? she's... particular."

soobin didn't miss a beat. he turned to you, his expression softening in a way that made your stomach flip. "she elbowed me for a book. how could i resist?"

mina sighed dreamily. your ex's smile tightened.

and you—you almost forgot it was all an act.

until your ex's girlfriend leaned forward. "you're so cute together! can i see a couple photo?"

shit.

you stiffened. you and soobin had rehearsed touches, backstories, pet names—but not this.

but soobin just chuckled, pulling out his phone. "of course." he tilted the screen toward you and there it was—a selfie from your 'date' at the bookstore, his cheek pressed to yours while your eyes were closed, your noses scrunched in laughter.

when had he taken that?

"adorable," the girls cooed.

soobin grinned, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "i got lucky."

the table buzzed with laughter, the clatter of chopsticks against the plates, the warm hum of conversation. you were halfway through your bulgogi when your ex leaned forward, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

"so, soobin," he said, swirling his soju glass lazily. "you must have the patience of a saint. she's not exactly the easiest to date."

the words slithered under your skin, familiar and venomous. your fingers tightened around your chopsticks, knuckles whitening—

then, warmth.

soobin's hand settled on your knee under the table, his palm broad and steady, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the inside of your thigh. not possessive, not performative—just there. a silent i see you, lean on me.

you exhaled, your shoulders loosening by degrees.

when you dared to glance at him, soobin wasn't even looking at you. he was smiling at your ex, easy and unbothered, as if his hand wasn't burning a brand into your skin.

"i disagree," soobin said, his voice light. "i've only ever found her... effortless."

his fingers squeezed once—gentle, grounding—before retreating, but the heat of his touch lingered long after, a phantom weight that left your pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

you were halfway through your meal when soobin leaned over, his chopsticks hovering near your plate.

"can i try that?" he asked, nodding toward your food.

you nodded, but before you could push the plate toward him, he plucked a strand of noodles directly from your bowl.

"hey—" you started, but he was already lifting it toward your lips instead of his own.

"open up," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

rolling your eyes, you obliged—but the moment your lips closed around the bite, his fingers lingered. the pad of his thumb brushed your lower lip, just a second too long, too long it seemed almost intentional.

your breath hitched.

soobin's gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back up—slow, deliberate. a silent question hung between you, one you weren't sure how to answer.

neither of you pulled away.

mina gasped. "oh my god,"

the spell broke.

soobin leaned back, smirking, but his fingers flexed slightly—like he was resisting the urge to reach for you again.

the restaurant hummed with laughter and clinking glasses. the interrogation from mina and jia, catching up with some other friends, the occasional back-handed comments from your ex while his girlfriend was staring at soobin.

you needed air.

excusing yourself, you slipped away to the bathroom, the chatter fading behind you. the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you splashed cold water onto your face, staring at your reflection.

a sigh escaping from your lips, your eyes tracing every detail in your reflection.

just a little longer.

then you stepped into the hallway—

the hallway air turned to syrup as your ex cornered you, his familiar cologne suddenly suffocating.

"two months?" his laugh was like a knife dragged along your ribs. "you expect me to believe you just happened to move on that fast?" he jerked his chin toward the dining room where the others sat.

your fingers found the cold tile wall behind you. "some of us don't need years to recognize something real."

his smile died. that's when the door swung open.

soobin filled the doorway like a storm rolling in, his dress shirt sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing the tense cord of his forearms. he didn't speak. didn't need to. the way he looked at your ex—like he was measuring the distance to break his nose—made your breath catch.

"problem?" soobin's voice was dangerously quiet.

your ex stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. "just catching up with an old friend." the word dripped venom.

one moment soobin was in the doorway. the next, his palm cradled your cheek, his other arm bracing against the wall behind you, caging you in—not trapping, but sheltering. his body radiated heat, his breath brushed your lips.

his eyes searched yours—was it concern? possession? pity?

your heart slammed against your ribs. your world narrowed to the space between you, to the smooth pads of his fingers at your jaw, the warmth of his breath on your skin, the fragile tremble in his hand.

his gaze flicked to your lips. you didn't think. you couldn't.

you reached up and answered by fisting your hands in his shirt.

the kiss ruined you.

it wasn't careful. it wasn't clean—not like his usual professional behavior. his lips met yours in a crush—urgent, clumsy, real.

his hand slid into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it, and then his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you closer like he couldn't stand even an inch between you. his chest pressed against yours, and you felt it—felt him—his heart hammering just as wildly.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. this wasn't in the script. this wasn't a scene you'd rehearsed.

was the kiss even necessary?—why did you give in?

and god, the way his teeth caught your bottom lip like he'd been thinking about it, dreaming about it—

you were drowning in it.

a part of you kept screaming stop, this is too much, this isn't pretend anymore, but your body refused to listen. his hands on your back trembled. his mouth gentled for a fraction of a second, like he was pulling back—

then the hallway door creaked open.

"oh my god."

mina's shriek stabbed through the haze. you tore away like you'd both been caught stealing something sacred.

soobin didn't step back—he just rested his forehead against yours his chest heaving. you stared at each other, too close, too exposed, his thumb brushed your cheek, a whisper of a touch.

behind him, your ex stood frozen, the blood drained from his face, dragging his feet across the floor, walking behind mina, both of them exiting the hallway.

your fingers trembled where they still clutched soobin's waistband. the daze in his eyes—like he'd just realized something—sent your heart into a freefall.

the silence was deafening.

"sorry," soobin murmured. "that, wasn't part of the plan."

you swallowed hard. "no. it wasn't"

his thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slow questioning. "did i—" he hesitated. "was that okay?"

your pulse stuttered.

was it okay?

୨♡୧ part one / part two / part three / part four / part five ୨♡୧

© bangtanbeom 2025

[ranfordgallus]

Digitally coloured (and rendered for some reason, just felt like it) another sketch or doodle(?) I made in biology class, of....Left To Thaw AU martin (LTT AU belongs to @traumatogo)

His clothing design doesnt exactly looked like this, just wanted to add more details..smiles

Wanted to try practice drawing with line confidence again..bbaaahhh..

[passmethatcokezero]

hot and bothered... (18+ // woozi!friends with benefits au) pt.1

- jihoon x fem!reader - 2.7k words - warnings: smut. minors dni! bff!woozi is hot and bothered at work so bff!you came to the rescue, dry humping, blowjob, needy jihoon cos why not, made so quick cos I was missing him and he has been living in my mind rent free since the day i saw him on the carts ( i wasnt same since then and thoughts have been thunk so here's a fraction of those thoughts ), just a short one, but thinking of making a part two continuation. enjoy! - (prequel link at the end of second part cos i think we all need it)

“You alright?” The silence breaks, as the words from your mouth betrayed yourself. You didn’t really want to speak first, although you did feel the air has now gotten a little lighter compared earlier.

It was Seungkwan’s stupid plan; the guys had been sick of staying up all night after hours of practice for a few days now just to please their dear producer. No one can seem to thaw him, moreso pinpoint where the tension is rooted from. Obviously, it was self-inflicted pressure. Jihoon can’t understand why nobody seems to meet his expectations lately and it got bad to the point of Seokmin blaming himself for what seemed like delays but aren’t as they still got plenty of time before the next comeback. Seungkwan, hurt, seeing his talented friend’s self-esteem chase tears down his cheeks, stepped up by calling you over because “maybe you can do something about your best friend,” as he said.

Jihoon sighed as he slumps his body deep in his chair. You’ve made your presence known since earlier when Soonyoung was trying to ease the tension but you kept your mouth shut or else Jihoon might explode knowing you’re just going to take the poor boy’s side who was even more in tears brought therein by your comforting strokes on his arm. “You came here for what exactly?”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed at his words. “Seungkwan called me. For some reason I thought I was coming for a celebration and yet…”

Silence takes over once again. The boys had long been gone since Bumzu initiated that everyone should take a breather first, and secretly asking you to stay and maybe help clear up your friend’s mind. “I don’t even know why the boys kept on doing this, okay? Suddenly all the pressure’s on me whenever you’re acting up.”

You did not want to say it, but it had been a long day at work and hearing his snarky voice ticked you in a bad way.

“I am just tired.” Jihoon says almost immediately, as if not wanting you to say anything more. He massaged his temples and continued, “...tired as fuck.”

“But that does not excuse that kind of attitude!” you stood from the couch, rising with the tension inside the room. “You’re being too hard on the boys and yourself. Again.” You cursed under your breath, realizing the cringy tone that just left your mouth. The last time the same exact nagging tone came out, Jihoon’s anxiety was having a field day in his brain just like earlier, and you did not expect what happened after.

And then it came to you. Soon you were flooded with flashbacks from what happened that night: Jihoon aggressively pinning you by the door, meaning to actually open it and let you out, when all of a sudden you pulled him into an embrace in an attempt to calm him down, crashing your lips to his after a long eye-fucking, breath kissing when you caught him off guard, blushing from the sudden warmth. Not long after he responded, kissing you hard as if you were not just shedding tears arguing with him over his sharp words when you were just asking him to simply breathe during a heated exchange with Soonyoung over the phone. The kiss went wild yet slowly turned comfortable as he kept on apologizing, feeling your hot tears meet his burning red cheeks. You figured he needed it that time, like a de-stressor of some sorts, and so you let his mouth conquer yours as a way to help.

That kiss went longer than what friends could actually share. But if it's the only way to keep your friend sane that moment, you suppose you can let him use you as long as he is not going to be weird about it right after. Which he did, or so you thought.

Because that day never left his mind. He was not sure why you let him kiss you like that that night, nor why you did not even bother to ask about it days, weeks after. A bit hurt that it seemed like a casual thing for you, but for him it meant healing, washing away the anxiety clouding his thinking. That moment stayed on his mind unhealthily long, almost turned into songs he would never write and let you hear, even causing him to get wet dreams for quite a while. But of course, no one could know. Not about the kiss. Not even his budding feelings towards his best friend.

“Jihoon-ah…” you exhaled, turning his swivel to face you. “I can help, Just… tell me how..”

Both of you had the same thing in mind, he needed you just like that night. But why does he find it hard to admit it? 

The guy blushed in pink, avoiding your eyes at all cost, acting as if in deep-thought. “I…”

“Look at me,” he obeys in a second, but his eyes can't help but fall into your lips inches away from him. “Do you want…. my help?”

He nods subtly as an answer, but you can’t just accept that. You needed him firm, an answer to also clear your doubts about the way his eyes are glued to your lips, his ears blushed to the reddest of red, and the way his adam’s apple bobbed up and down when you leaned in closer: is he nervous because he’s uncomfortable? or was he nervous because you suddenly make him be?

“Yeah…” his breath hitches, the side of your lips upturns.

“Then say it—”

“I need you,” he reveals his innermost desire as he scrambles to his feet and catches your lips like he has been waiting for it for centuries.

Just like the first time, the kiss deepens instantly as you two found a comfortable position on the couch, you settling on his lap, arms around his shoulders. You two couldn't even care less if the door had been left unlocked when the people had left. It’s just your mouth sharing warmth with his; tongues dancing together in harmony. Just like the first time, he was craving for more, and he was able to relay that message when his teeth grazed at your lower lip, causing a moan to escape your lungs. He too groaned and by then you realized he is now rock hard underneath your heat, his thin shorts revealing himself to your clothed mound. 

“Fuck…” you did not expect yourself to be so turned on knowing you made your best friend erect just like that. All you did was wet kissing and well, maybe sitting right above his cock was what it all took.

You arched your back when you felt him squirm underneath you. He was definitely trying to move and find his rhythm, you thought, so you matched with his and rolled your hips against his erection.

“Damn….” he moaned so deeply with his hoarse voice. The friction between your clothed pussy and his bulge was enough to send you dripping to your core. Not even him, the most rational person you knew, can think straight at a moment like this: does he want to kiss your neck or pull you for another tongue wrestling? Does he want to tear all the annoying garments away from you? Does he want to set his cock free and let you sit on it, ride it if it’s too tempting for you? There’s one thing he knows though, he does not want to stop humping for now. The kind of pleasure the friction is giving him, plus the fact that he was doing such an erotic activity with not just any person but his best friend he had been fantasizing about lately was enough to send him nuts. He cannot even fathom what would happen if this escalates to something more, just having your warmth and your equally heightened libido had his focus on the now.

“You’re so hard, Jihoon.”

It felt so good and ego-boosting at the same time. Is he having a good time as well? He seems to like it as much as you do. His erection and hip movements to meet yours say it all: he wants you so bad and you feel proud someone actually desires you that much. When even was the last time you got laid? Was it a very long time ago? You aren’t sexually active yourself, and surprisingly, you’ve never been in a serious relationship as well. Maybe it wasn’t your priority, but having this heated session with your friend, you realized, you also craved to be touched, and be wanted. You wanted to be kissed deeply and ravenously, to be held possessively, and to be wanted as hungrily as how Jihoon was making you feel. Exactly as how Jihoon is obsessing for all that you are right now.

“Touch me. Please, Jihoon…” 

The dry humping must have had a drug, you thought. How come having all these annoying barriers on your skin makes all these way hotter than you thought it could be? Especially when Jihoon’s feisty hands made their way from your waist to the insides of your shirt while his sloppy kisses made their way to your neck. His cold hands cupping your breasts send electricity to your spine, causing you to moan out his name as dirty and needy as possible. Who could blame you, he was making you feel so good. His hands that created masterpieces are now invading your privacy, so sweetly yet so heavy with emotions. It was as if he was milking out lyrics to an explicit love song out of you, to match the melodies coming out of your lungs that harmonize with his.

“You’re so fucking hot, you know that?” he managed to say between breaths, as he enjoys playing with your now slightly free breasts that had slipped out of your bra. He is still a boy, you found that out long time ago, when you’ve caught him subtly staring at your chest during that one listening party night you were his plus one at a bar hosted by a producer friend and you just had to wear something skimpy and rather revealing, something to match the R&B vibe of the album. He did catch himself as well staring that time, and proceeded to lend you his suit because “the bartender was having the time of his life flirting with you," - went his alibi.

“Yeah? That’s why you wanted me so bad huh?—oh shit!” you moaned out loud when his hold on you became heavier, pushing you down to his hardened cock as if there were anymore spaces left in between.

Mouths agape, together you humped against each other's heat, only moans were resonating inside his studio alongside a minute sound of the friction cause by the fabrics.

“Fuck I think gonna cum, fuck,” Jihoon cursed, while his eyes were shut and his teeth gritted to concentration. “Fuck,” he humps against you harder as curses kept on rolling from his tongue, while your hips rolled faster to meet his tempo, moans pitched higher and higher. You were also close, and suddenly you were reminded this isn’t about you. You were helping your friend. And you gotta do what you gotta do.

“Wai-wha—what are you doing?” his voice sounded annoyed but you know better than to answer him. Legs folding on the floor as you positioned yourself in between his, not wasting time in pulling twice the constraints that were his shorts and underwear. His cock sprung healthily, all pink and angry, veins bulging out as if wanted to be traced by your tongue.

He hissed out of breath, confused if he wanted to surrender on the couch or look at you in a position he had only dreamt of once. 

No words need exchanging as you started sucking him off right there, mixing his precum with saliva, coating him down until your mouth can take. He had praises for you behind his teeth but all he could let out were needy guttural moans that translated how good you were making him feel anyway. You let his moans and the sight of him all sweaty and consumed fuck your system as the pool in your south continued to dampen your undies, the insides of your thighs getting ticklish, missing the attention it has gotten from him. Oh how badly you wanted him to fuck you right then and there, how badly you want him bucking his hips and drilling you so deep, how badly you wanted this thick cock of his inside you, stretching you oh so painfully yet so pleasurable.

“fuck… cant… anymore…” his shaky words were almost inaudible from all the dirty noises he was making, sounding even more gibberish while his body moved erratically to fuck your mouth, hands glued to your head to try to get his momentum, which did not take long as strings of cum exploded inside your mouth. You were quick to swallow, but most of his loads were still overflowing, racing down to your chin straight to your neck. It was one heck of a view, he thinks, as his chest heaves chasing his breath while appreciating a bit of the scene: his softening cock popping out of your mouth, before almost passing out.

“that was… really good.” it was probably an understatement to the euphoric climax he just had; his mind was still hazy from the release so he cannot find the correct words to tell you. But you were fine, the moans already sounded like praises to you. “That feels much better than I do with my own.”

“Of course it would,” you gave him a peck on the corner of his lips, and then dusting off the wrinkles on your clothes and adjusting your bra. “Takes two to tango.”

Confusion was then plastered on his face when you began fixing your hair and proceeding to face your back to grab your bag you left by the table. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving?”

“Who said you are?”

Somewhere in the room, his phone rings which he attentively checks. The name wasn’t supposed to annoy the hell out of him, but right now it almost spelled like a curse to him.

“You’re not leaving, please.” he grabs your hand as he takes the call from Bumzu. He knows you did not have your release, and he doesn’t want you carrying all that unreleased tension inside you when he himself had the best one tonight. 

You heard the other line asking how he was feeling now and that he had left something inside the studio and if it’s okay to go and get it. Jihoon agrees, not without a defeated sigh and a click of his tongue only you can hear.

“You know the passcode right? I think I’ll take my leave tonight, I don’t think I can wring anything out of my mind at this rate.”

You looked at him while shaking your head as a smirk forms on your mouth, furrowing your eyebrows at him as if asking him what he was saying.

“Sure, actually we’ve been meaning to tell you that.” Bumzu seconds him, and asks about you right after. You heard him say Seokmin and Seungkwan had been asking if you weren’t busy and maybe hangout for a while as a way to thank you from earlier. Both guys had always been the sweetest among the bunch and although it was only out of courtesy, Jihoon can’t help but fume in jealousy, making himself lie to keep you in his (and ONLY HIS) sight for a while.

“She just left, I think she said she’s going for an early appointment tomorrow,” and ends the call soon when Bumzu bids his farewell and hopes of him getting well.

“I didn’t know you can lie to your brothers,”

“For an emergency yeah,” he hasn’t let go of your hand yet, and now he was already leading you out of his studio to the elevator.

“You could just say you’re sending me home, that would sound a lot better,”

And then what, you finding out about how the guys had been teasing him about you since day one? Of course, he won’t let that happen. Not until he finds the time to finally be honest with himself and to you.

“So… my place or yours?”

-

stay tuned for part two for the hoo-haa ;)

a/n: updated! part two is up! again, there's a prequel you can read after. link will be at the end of the second part ^^

[sillyandquiteawkward]

whats the worse fate, whatd be better for the tulpar crew

i like how open mouthwashing leaves the ending. ultimately i dont think its important to know what happened (altho i definitely lean towards and no one found them) but it is interesting to speculate. i dont know about how spaceships and decay really work, but i got it stuck in my head that after the cryopod thawed after it lost power, it left a bunch of humidity and the whole thing molded over. the rest of the bodies decayed vaguely? shrugs. and i dont see enough curly lives aus utilize acc devices. we dont really need extra surgeries just give the man a tablet for now. i wonder how curly would feel finally being able to communicate after accepting hed never again.

[velarisdusk]

Ice Cold Jealousy

Hockey AU | Cassian x Reader

Series Masterlist -> Part 2 - Thawing Boundaries

word count: 8.3k content: [ explicit sexual content, PWP, unprotected PIV, rough sex, oral (m & f receiving), voyeuristic elements, possessiveness/jealousy, power dynamics, little bit of overstim?, hair pulling, dirty talk, humiliation?, biting, locker room sex (it's come to my attention that hockey locker rooms don't typically have lockers but just suspend your disbelief for a sec please), inappropriate touching, insinuation that Cass stares at Az's ass teehee | violence (physical altercation, reader not involved), blood mention, strong language | no beta we die like men ] summary: Despite the tension on the ice, your relationship with Cassian, the commanding captain of the Velaris Vipers, is anything but cold. His jealousy ignites when the rest of the team's flirtations become too much to ignore. In the aftermath of a disastrous game, the boundaries between playful teasing and intense passion blur, leading to a locker room encounter that challenges both your resolve and your control. author's note: WOW, okay, this is the first fic I've written for ACOTAR, and the first fic I've written in close to a decade, so excuse me if I'm a bit rusty :) I've been going through a hockey thing lately, watching random games on youtube in their entirety, so obviously that means I had to write Cass, duh. Sorry it's on the longer side; I just had lots of ideas... like only 3k of this is plot lmfao. Enjoy!

Cassian knows they’re fucked.

You can see it on his face. With two points down and precious little time left on the clock, they need a miracle. The referee skates to center ice, puck in hand. You lean forward, breath caught in your throat, as the Velaris Vipers take their positions. The air is thick with tension, the crowd’s roar fading into a dull buzz in your ears. You knew the Hewn City Hellhounds were good, but never imagined they’d pose this much of a problem. 

Cassian’s and Azriel’s eyes meet for a moment, a silent agreement passing between them. The puck drops, and its whereabouts for the seconds after are a mystery to you. After an unruly clash of hockey sticks and a mess of bodies, Cassian passes to Azriel on his left, who takes off down the ice with it. Cassian moves to mirror him on the opposite side of the ice. The Hellhounds’ defense closes in, but Cassian and Azriel move in perfect sync, the puck zipping between their sticks in a blur. They dance around the opposition, narrowly avoiding checks, their movements so fluid they don’t need to look to know where the other will be.

Just as Azriel is about to be boxed in by two defenders, a swift flick of his wrist sends the puck to Tarquin who’s come up to support them. You let out a sigh of relief, not even having seen him since he was back by the net. 

Why is he up here instead of back by the net? Eris should’ve been there; it’s his one job as a winger to support Cassian as center in making goals. You scan the rink, but don’t need to for long. He skates right up to you with an air of nonchalance, like he doesn’t need to be with the rest of his team fighting for their lives. You give him an incredulous look, about to open your mouth and shout at him when he gets to the wall, but the words catch in your throat when he blows a kiss, tracing a heart on the glass with a smirk. You gather yourself quickly, but before you can scold him his back is already turned and he skates back toward the action.

You’ve grown accustomed to the team’s teasing, knowing it’s all in good spirit. But with Eris, there’s always been an undercurrent of something more intense, more deliberate. As he skates away now, you can’t help but wonder, not for the first time, just how far he’d take things if given the chance. You’ll never admit it out loud, but the way he cuts directly in front of the opposing team’s defenseman to get him away from Tarquin is impressive with how absentminded it seems. 

Watching them, you reflect on the years you’ve spent at their games and practices. Not only have you witnessed their drastic improvement, but you’ve also grown close to the team. Perhaps too close, if the playful flirtations are any indication. 

Yeah, maybe ‘close’ was a bit…

But it wasn’t your fault. Really! A little over three years ago, Cassian invited you to their season opener, your relationship still fresh. You hadn’t known the first thing about the sport so obviously you spent hours watching videos and frantically looking up your countless questions to ensure you wouldn’t be entirely lost. Cassian had told you on the drive home that night that word had spread rather quickly through the Vipers about the hot girl in the stands. You knew. Hot, definitely, but dumb? Oblivious? No. Of course you noticed their showing off — the goalie’s glances after skilled saves, the wingers’ risky shots, the defensemen’s aggressive checks and subsequent winks, smiles, and waves from the penalty box.

You’ve often recalled their expressions when Cassian called into the locker room for them to come meet you, when they’d seen the object of their displays throwing her arms around their captain’s neck, planting a kiss on his sweaty cheek. You weren’t necessarily shy about looking at them in their various states of undress through the doorway; some shirtless, others holding a towel in front of themselves for modesty. But Cassian introducing you as his girlfriend didn’t stop their light-hearted remarks, though they were much less blatant now. For the most part. There was still the stray push of boundaries. Neither of you have ever told them to stop. Though you both enjoyed their feeble attempts, found them entertaining, there were times you noticed him get jealous, if his clenched jaw and reddening face were anything to go by.

Tarquin deftly maneuvers around an opponent with a small spin, sending ice shavings spraying, and you aren’t sure if the move is meant to distract or simply add some flourish. He looks up and winks at you with a nod. You roll your eyes with a small smile and the puck is once again in Cassian’s possession. He either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care. He drives forward, eyes locked on the goal. The goalie is ready, crouched and tense, but your boys have one last trick up their sleeves. 

Cassian pulls his hockey stick back and thrusts it forward with such determination that you’re sure he’s going to take the shot. But he stops just short of the puck and in an instant pushes it left and back, where Azriel is perfectly positioned. He doesn’t hesitate, slamming the puck into the net with a force that sends it rattling.

The red light flashes. Goal.

You shoot up and cheer, your shouts blending with those of the fans all around you. Previous to this, so overtaken with nerves, all you’ve been able to do is sit tight with your arms crossed, eyes darting wildly across the rink. The jovial energy doesn’t last long though. They’re still down a point, and with only a little over a minute left now, their only chance is somehow scoring and going into overtime. 

You scan the rink. The three forwards take their positions: Eris, red hair peeking from his helmet, grips his stick tightly at right wing; Azriel, ever the shadow to Cassian’s light, settles into place with calm readiness; and Cassian, commanding center ice with unmatched presence. Rhysand and Tarquin hover near the blue line, mirroring each other’s poised intensity on defense. If you were closer that way, you might be able to see their eyes darting across the ice, calculating every possible move. Helion stands sentinel before the net, gaze piercing and unwavering. Each a powerhouse, but none more commanding than Cassian at center ice.

His presence is commanding and magnetic. The weight of the game seems to rest on his broad shoulders, yet he bears it with a fierce determination you find both exhilarating and reassuring. His dark hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his eyes are locked on the opposition with a predator’s focus. You love this about him — the way he can command the rink with just a glance, the way his intensity electrifies the very air around him. 

Off the rink, he’s just as intense in a different way: reliable, attentive, deeply devoted. The moments you share away from the chaos — quiet dinners, late-night talks, and his arms holding you close as you get drunk off of each other’s wandering hands and lips for hours — are a stark contrast to the warrior before you now. It’s this duality, this balance of strength and tenderness, that never ceases to intrigue you. 

As the clock ticked down these last few plays, you could see the resolve settling in his eyes. He isn’t just playing for the team; he’s playing for you, for the life you’re building together. 

Another loud cheer from the crowd pulls you back in, and you notice the Hellhounds have taken back possession of the puck and are rapidly approaching Helion at the goal. Rhysand intercepts a pass and carries it around the back of the goal to shoot the puck forward along the side of the rink. Where Eris is supposed to receive it, the Hellhounds’ center intercepts and, guarded by a winger on either side, plows back down the ice towards the Vipers’ goal. Their wingers do a decent job of clearing a path for him. He takes the shot, and Helion miraculously changes the trajectory of the puck with a paddle save that has the audience roaring and up on their feet again. Tarquin tries to take back possession but isn’t there quickly enough. The Hellhounds still have it and go for the shot again, this time bouncing the puck off the crossbar and away from the goal. 

40 seconds left. 

Cassian and Rhysand guard against their opponents while Azriel and Tarquin skillfully maneuver the puck down the ice, right between people’s skates at times. Tarquin is incredibly nimble and light on his feet for a defenseman, conducting several moves that force gasps from your lips, worried something would go wrong. He makes a pass to Eris right as he gets shoved into the wall by the Hellhounds’ defense. 

26 seconds.

The redhead moves with a sort of confidence that seemingly makes the other team recoil momentarily. He commands the attention of every spectator, not only because he has possession but also because of his back-to-back evasions and fakeouts. 

18 seconds. 

Eris approaches the goal, all six opponents converging. Cassian skates up to the left, perfectly positioned for a play they’ve practiced countless times. A simple, effective strategy — Eris just needs to pass to Cassian for the shot. Cassian catches Eris’ eye, giving him a nod. He’s open. 

But Eris shakes his head. 

He backtracks, attempting to outmaneuver the defense. You glance at Cassian, seeing fury building in his eyes. Tarquin and Azriel are open too, but Eris isn’t looking that way. Rhysand and Helion wear expressions of anger tinged with resigned frustration.

6 seconds left. Eris circles behind the goal, clearly aiming to nudge the puck in around the post. You can already tell it won’t work — too many opponents, and Eris’ eyes are locked on you instead of the play. He slides the puck around the post and… straight into the goalie’s leg pads. 

2 seconds. Cassian and Azriel make a desperate rush, but it’s futile. You sit with a sigh, putting your head in your hands. The buzzer blares. Game over. Hewn City Hellhounds win, 5 - 4. 

You distantly hear the cries and shouts from the other side of the arena celebrating their team’s win, mingled in are the groans of frustration and defeat from around you. What the fuck was he thinking? They’d had the perfect opportunity. You look up just in time to see your boyfriend shove Eris into the wall a few feet down from where you sit, the glass letting you see just how his face smashes against it with the impact. The spectators around you cheer Cassian on, as they, too, are frustrated at the person who cost them the possibility of overtime.

Immediately after impact, Cassian skates back a few feet, throws his helmet and gloves off, and raises his fists. Eris mirrors the action after throwing down his stick. Cassian’s is discarded way back near the goal. There’s no going in circles to see who moves first; Cassian is on him, landing blow after blow to his face and head. His own face goes red with anger as he shouts what you assume to be chastising, scolding words at the other. You can’t hear anything above the crowd around you spurring him on. Across the ice, the rest of the team just watches, arms crossed and chests heaving. 

Eris finally gathers himself, landing a left hook to Cassian’s jaw. He takes the opportunity to pull him down a bit by the hair and uses his other hand to keep punching. The refs are finally on their way to break it up, but both of their blood has already spilled onto the glass and ice. You strain to catch their words, curiosity flaring as Eris’ eyes flick to you, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. Whatever he said next had Cassian lunging forward with another barrage of punches. 

As the refs finally near them, you decide you've seen enough and navigate your way out of the stands to the locker room entrance just as you always have at the end of their matches. 

You’ve never seen him get like this. Sure, you’ve seen him get into a fight every now and then, after which he’d pout at you from the penalty box (if he wasn’t still too overcome with anger). But this? In-fighting? Never. He’s usually the one splitting the guys up. And though he gets into disagreement after disagreement with Eris, it’s never turned into this. You’re not even sure why it escalated so quickly — they’ve been doing really well this season and the playoffs are still months away. This was by no means a high-stakes game for them. 

Just as you cross your arms over your chest and lean against the wall across from the locker room door, you hear the familiar cacophony that comes with lost games. You prefer it to the times they come back silent — the times the car ride home goes by without a word exchanged. Those are few and far in between, though. 

The din of angry voices and clattering equipment grows louder as the team approaches. You straighten up, eyes fixed on the corridor’s entrance. When Cassian emerges, leading the group, your heart sinks. His jaw is clenched, gaze locked straight ahead with an intensity that makes you hesitate. 

Still, you take a few steps towards him. “Cass,” you start, your voice barely audible above the commotion.

He doesn’t even blink. Cassian strides past you, the heat of his anger almost palpable as he disappears into the locker room. The door slams shut behind him, leaving you staring at its blank surface. 

You're still processing when you feel a light touch at your waist. Azriel slides past you with a sympathetic nod. Helion follows, his hand ghosting across your lower back as he squeezes through. If you weren’t caught so off guard you may have leaned into their touch. Rhysand, ever the gentleman even in defeat, murmurs a quiet “Rough night, darling” as he moves around you.

“Think Cassian would mind if you played nurse?” Eris drawls, gesturing to his bruised face. He gives what would be a stunning smile if not for the blood staining his teeth. His eyes flicker to the locker room door, then back to you. “I promise I’d be a much more… grateful patient.” He lingers only a moment longer, and you’re sure he’d jump at the chance in a heartbeat if you gave the word, before sauntering into the locker room with a self-assured smirk.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed. The muffled sounds of frustration and anger seep through the locker room door, punctuated by the occasional crash of equipment being thrown. You check your phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media to distract yourself. Already, clips of the fight are circulating, fans dissecting every move, every punch. You decide to just put your phone back in your pocket. 

The shouting inside gradually dies down, replaced by the sound of running water. Showers. You find yourself straining to hear any indication of Cassian’s mood, wondering if the shower is doing anything to cool his temper. 

The corridor gradually empties as staff and other team personnel file out. You shift your weight from one foot to another, replying to texts to pass the time. The showers shut off one by one. You hear locker doors opening and closing, the murmur of subdued conversations. The guys eventually trickle out, hair still damp. They offer you tight smiles or brief nods as they pass, their usual post-game chatter noticeably absent. The weight of the loss and the fight hangs heavy in the air; even Eris walks past you without so much as a smirk.

“(Y/N).”

You feel your heart drop to your stomach at his tone — it’s commanding, and the raspiness from all the shouting in his already deep voice sends a conflicting shiver through you. It does nothing to calm your nerves, but ignites a different kind of tension altogether. You take a step off the wall as you respond.

“Yeah…?”

“Get in here.”

This better be fucking good, you think, but find yourself swallowing hard anyway. You push the door and step in, and if your breath wasn’t already stuck in your throat, you might have choked on it at the sight.

Cassian sits on one of the benches, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. His elbows rest on his knees, hands hanging loose between them, and his damp hair partially obscures his face as he stares down at his calloused fingers.

You take a few tentative steps, stopping a few paces before the bench. The door finally shuts behind you, the loud click echoing in the otherwise silent room. Neither of you speak for long enough that you feel like you should say something, but when you open your mouth-

“Sit. And listen to me very carefully.”

His voice is low and measured, but the underlying tension is palpable. You lower yourself onto the bench across from him, heart pounding. His eyes lock onto you, dark and intense. He stands, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His towel now hangs dangerously low on his hips as he looms over you, still sitting on the bench.

“That game,” he growls, “was a disaster.”

You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, still flushed from the shower, as he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you on the bench. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His face is inches from yours, breath warm on your cheek.

“Eris blew it,” he continues, voice low and rough. “But y’know what? It wasn’t just him. The whole team was off today.” He leans in closer, his breath ghosting your ear. "And I think I know why."

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze roams over your face, over your surprise laden eyes, lingering on your lips before snapping back up.

"I saw the way they kept looking at you," he murmurs so quietly you can hardly hear him. "Tarquin missing easy passes, Azriel fumbling checks he'd usually nail." His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch feather-light and sending shivers down your spine. "Even Helion let in shots he'd normally block without breaking a sweat.” You can feel the tension coiling in Cassian's body, see the muscle in his jaw working as he clenches it. 

"It's getting to be too much," he says, the hand that brushed your hair back now on your chin, tilting your face up to his. "The guys can't focus when you're here." His thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you can’t help but part your mouth open a bit at the touch. "Maybe I need to stop bringing you to these things. If you're going to keep distracting the team like this..."

His gaze intensifies, dark eyes boring into yours. He’s so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips as he speaks.

"We can't have that, can we, baby?"

The notion is absurd. Stop going to his games? Your brows furrow as you look at him incredulously. “That’s hardly my fault-”

“Didn’t I tell you to sit and listen!?” He shouts suddenly, his grip on your chin tightening. Your eyes shoot wide open, but not in surprise.

In understanding. 

He’d never really talk to you like this, you both knew that. This was one of his games. And, oh, how you so loved playing them. 

You keep the smirk from tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Funny, I thought you liked it when all eyes were on me.”

“I like it when they look. I don’t like it when they forget their place.”

Your breath catches, a mix of anticipation and desire. You can see the fire in his eyes, the barely contained jealousy and possessiveness. You lean in slightly, testing the boundaries. “And what exactly is their place, Cassian?” you ask, your voice low and teasing. “More importantly, what’s mine?”

His eyes narrow at your challenge, a dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He releases your chin, only to trail his fingers down your neck, coming to rest at your collarbone. The light touch leaves goosebumps in its wake. “Their place?” His eyes harden slightly. “To play hockey. Nothing more. I bring them some eye candy out of the kindness of my heart, and how do they repay me? By letting themselves get distracted and costing us games.” A sharp exhale.

“Your place?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. Without warning, his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The sudden grip is firm but not painful. Cassian steps over the bench in one fluid motion, his hold on you guiding you to turn with him. You instinctively follow his lead, twisting on the bench to face him and rising as he pulls you close. His movements are firm as he turns you both and directs you backward, until you feel the cool press of metal against your shoulders. With a gentle but insistent pressure, he keeps you pinned there, pushing his hips against your own. His eyes lock onto yours as he leans in, closing the distance between your lips.

The kiss is nothing romantic. It’s pure lust, disguised as frustration, as consequation. Where his words were clearly deliberate, his actions feign abandon. You match his intensity, your lips moving against his with equal fervor, your body arching into his touch. The grip on your hair remained, his other hand sliding slowly from your hip to your waist, then up again to your chest. He was like a starved man, grabbing onto whatever flesh he could get his hands on. The hand you didn’t have snaked around the back of his neck desperately explored every valley of his bare torso, products of his years playing the sport. 

The sounds of heavy breaths and locking lips fill the room, grunts following not long after. Cassian lets out an especially depraved groan, rolling his head back, when you slide your hand down to squeeze him through the precariously wrapped towel. But when you move to pull it off, his own hand swats yours away.

“With what you did tonight, you think that’s allowed? You think you decide how this goes?” His words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You pause, processing his question, the sudden shift.

“What I did tonight?” you manage, your voice slightly breathless. “I didn’t do anything.”

Cassian’s laugh is low and humorless. “Didn’t do anything? Sweetheart… don’t play innocent.” His fingers tighten in your hair, making you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth. “Every cheer, every jump, every little gasp… You put on quite the show, didn’t you?” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the way your eyes stuck to Eris. Tell me, did you like it when he blew you that kiss?” 

Yes.

His gaze continues to burn into yours, a mix of jealousy and desire, as if he could somehow read the response in your eyes. “You’ve got the whole team wrapped around your finger and you know it.”

You steel yourself, meeting his gaze with an intense one of your own. “And so what if I do?” you challenge, voice steadier now. “I’m not responsible for how your team reacts to me. If they can’t keep their eyes on the game, maybe that’s on them.”

You lean in slightly, mimicking his earlier movement. “Or maybe it’s on you, Captain. Shouldn’t you be able to keep your team focused?” Something dangerous flashes through his eyes.

“You’re pushing boundaries you don’t fully understand.”

“Or maybe I understand them better than you think.” Your voice is steady despite the thrumming of your pulse.

“Understand this, then.” Your stomach flips. His eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Stirring up my team? That’s a direct shot at me, at my authority.”

You scoff, feigning incredulity. “Authority? If you had any authority, do you think they’d look at me the way they do, touch me the way they do?” A pause. “Did you think it ended with the showboating? No, baby, they put their hands on me so often I’m starting to forget what yours feel like.”

Of course he knew, noticed it early on and said nothing after discovering that neither of you truly minded. 

“Helion seems to enjoy putting his hand on my lower back when he moves around me for a chance to ‘slip’ and cop a feel,” you continue. “Ever notice how Rhys almost always greets me with a hug? Squeezes me? Oh! And the way-”

“Enough.” Cassian’s voice cuts through your words like a blade, low and sharp. The hand that doesn’t still have a fistful of your hair in it shoots out to grasp the junction of your neck and shoulder, his calloused fingers feel like they’re searing into you. “You think I don’t see it all? See how they undress you with their eyes? How their fingers itch to trace every curve they imagine beneath your clothes?”

You feel a slight downward pressure, pushing on your shoulder, pulling on your hair. “But here’s what you’re missing, sweetheart. They might play at ownership, but at the end of the day, who do they answer to?”

He pulls back slightly, to really take in the sight of you. “Who do you answer to when the game’s over and the lights go down?”

The question hangs in the air between you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. Cassian’s gaze intensifies, his grip on your hair and shoulder tightening. “Because make no mistake,” he continues, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, and the downward force he’s inflicting on you growing steadily. “This little game you’re playing? It ends when I say it does.”

The pressure on your shoulder increases, his intent clear. You resist for a moment longer, but the fire in his eyes, the set of his jaw… His command is clear. Though you have half a mind to resist, a thrill runs through you, making your heart beat faster and your breath hitch slightly. The sheer possessiveness in his gaze is enough to make your knees weak. 

Slowly, inexorably, he guides you downward, your body responding almost involuntarily to the authoritative tone and the heat of his voice. You look up at him from your new position, the sight of him towering over you sending a shiver down your spine. His eyes hold yours captive as he looms above you. You’re aware of how your breathing quickens with anticipation, how Cassian’s throat bobs as he watches you. He’s still holding your hair, and you can tell he’s enjoying the submission he’s coaxed from you, his gaze a mix of satisfaction and barely restrained desire.

That grip tightens a fraction as he leans into you, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing a path along your lower lip, but different from before. Where his last touch there had been gentle and barely there, this one is firm and deliberate.

Cassian’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low and rough. “Open,” he commands, the single word laden with authority and promise.

You shudder as his command rolls over you, your body responding without conscious thought. Your lips part slightly in response to his order. His gaze is fixed intently on your face. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. His thumb traces along the curve of your lower lip with deliberate slowness, a firmness matching that of his eyes. For a heartbeat, he applies the gentlest pressure, slipping it into your mouth for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. “Now be a good girl and stay just like that for me.”

You hold yourself still, holding his gaze as you keep your mouth open, your tongue instinctively darting out to moisten your lower lip when he pulls his hand away. He finally releases your hair and it’s an effort to contain your sigh of relief. You hear more than see the towel fall from his hips to the floor. The same fingers that gripped your face moments ago now wrap around his girth, absently stroking the already-hard length of it. His pupils are dilated at the sight of you obediently holding yourself still, your mouth open, and he can barely restrain the hunger that’s been building in him.

Cassian’s large hand cradles your jaw, drawing you even closer. His presence is overwhelming, and as he aligns himself with your mouth, there’s no warning before he thrusts in. Initially, his movements are slow, almost deceivingly gentle, but you realize too late it’s quite the opposite. Halfway in, you manage, but as he pushes to the hilt, he does so painfully slowly. You try to relax, your throat attempting to accommodate him. The slow withdrawal is worse, your breath ragged as you inhale through your nose.

He pulls out slowly, leaving you gasping for air. He looks down at you with a mix of confusion and pity. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Struggling already. I thought you could handle more.”

You meet his gaze, eyes watering but defiant. You want to tell him that you can, that he knows you can, but when you make to speak, the corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk, and he pushes back in, a little faster this time. “Is this what you wanted, baby? To be on your knees, taking me like this?”

He thrusts deeper, making you choke slightly. Cassian groans, a low rumble of a sound that reverberates through you. “That’s why you acted out, distracted my guys, huh? You just wanted me to give you a little attention.” He picks up the pace, each thrust more forceful yet. “Bet you think about this all the time,” he growls. “When you’re watching us play, you’re not watching the game, are you? No… You’re staring at Azriel’s tight, perfect ass, aren’t you? I see the way you watch him.” You can only moan in response. Cassian’s fingers slip into your hair on either side, holding your head back against the lockers, his movements becoming relentless. 

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way your eyes go to Helion between plays, when he takes his helmet off. You love how big he is, how powerful. You get off on watching him, don’t you?” The tension between you both is palpable, but his eyes are fixated on you, a storm of emotions swirling within them. “I see you staring whenever any of them are in the penalty box. You’re not thinking about the game then, are you? Bet you wish you were in there with them. You’re probably thinking about Tarquin’s pretty blue eyes, you want him to pin you with that look, don’t you? Or Rhys’s hands, wanting them all over you. And Eris,” he spits out the name, pairs it with a particularly rough thrust of his hips. “You eat up the way he flexes his arms when he flirts with you, I know you do.” The locker room fills with the sounds of your shared breaths, the slap of skin against skin, and the harsh whisper of his voice.

Each name, each accusation, sends a wave of shame through you. You want to deny it all, but Cassian’s relentless pace and your restrained position make it impossible. The truth is, you do think about those things — more often than you’d ever admit. The thoughts swirl in your mind, but they never take away from the attention you give Cassian. You’re most often fixated on him during games, your eyes unabashedly stuck on the way his body moves. The powerful stride of his legs, the way his strong hands grip the stick, the intense focus in his eyes. Your mind almost always lands on thoughts of his sweat-slicked skin, the hard lines of his body beneath the uniform. Your desire for him gets overwhelming, which is why the current activity is typically the one of choice after these games. 

This was the first time you hadn’t waited until home though.

He continues, his movements relentless. “You know what Eris told me out there, baby? Who am I kidding, of course you don’t, you were too busy entertaining the rest of the guys, isn’t that right?” You try to respond, but choke on his length, his brutal pace bruising the back of your throat. “Isn’t that right? Answer me (Y/N),” he growls, keeping your head firmly pressed against the lockers.

You try to answer, but all you can manage is an unintelligible garble, gagging as you attempt to speak. If there weren’t already tears in your eyes from the physical strain, there certainly would be after hearing his cold, short laugh.

“Can’t even own up to it,” Cassian tsks. “He told me that you,” he punctuates the ‘you’ with a particularly deep thrust, “have been running around telling them all how badly you want them. That you give them fuck-me eyes when I’m not around. Is that true, baby? Have you been going behind my back? Want them to pass you around and take turns with you?” At each question he pulls almost all the way out, slamming back in soon after. You manage a quick shake of your head before his grip tightens on it again. You can only look up at him with your tear-brimmed, pleading eyes. “No, I didn’t think so,” he murmurs, a thumb grazing soothingly across your cheek. You may have taken comfort in it if you didn’t know any better.

“I knew you wouldn’t say those things,” he says calmly, but suddenly pulls himself out and leans over you, forcing your head up to look at him. “But you think them, don’t you?” 

You’re still trying to gasp in air as you fight to respond. “No,” but you don’t sound convincing. Not when your voice is so hoarse. “No, I promise, I never said those things — never thought them either.” You’re coughing, trying to regain your composure, and you’re grateful he gives you a moment.

“Take off your pants,” he orders suddenly, the command sending a jolt of anticipation through you. You stand slowly, and your hands tremble slightly as you obey, slipping out of your pants and kicking them aside. His eyes rake over your body, lingering on the sight of his jersey hanging loosely on you, the contrast between the oversized shirt and your bare legs making his pupils dilate with desire. “Keep it on,” he adds when you reach for it. Cassian leans forward, now eye-level with you.

 “Come on,” he breathes out, a hand snakes under the jersey and onto your bare hip, those calloused fingers squeezing. “You can’t honestly tell me you don’t think about them. How their hands would feel if they were running up your thighs, grabbing your hips, pulling you close.” His actions mirror his words deliciously, and his words pour over you in a dangerous whisper, the heat of his breath against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.  “About how it would feel to have their hands squeezing and groping you wherever they wanted. How about if instead of stealing little touches here and there, they grew some fucking balls, grabbed you by the hips,” his fingers dig in firmly, and you catch him tilt his chin to his shoulder, a glimpse of his true nature shining through the silent signal to grab on, “and lifted you up like this?”

You barely have a moment to grab on when, with a swift, powerful motion, Cassian lifts you up, pressing you against the lockers. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and your arms around his neck as he holds you there, his body pinning yours and his hands holding you up by your ass. The cold metal of the lockers contrasts with the heat from both of your bodies. You try to arch away from it, but only manage to push yourself flush against him, feeling the undeniable hardness of him pressing against your core, a reminder of how desperately you both want this. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, making you gasp and tighten your grip around his neck.

You want to deny it, to insist that your thoughts are innocent, but the intensity of his gaze tells you he wouldn’t believe you. You swallow hard, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, as you shake your head once more, more for your own reassurance than his. 

“It’s not like that…” you plead, trying to catch your breath, eyes wide with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. “I—” Your voice falters, the words stuck in your throat. “You don’t understand.”

Cassian’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening ever so slightly. You knew there would be bruises later. “Enlighten me,” he growls.

You take a breath. “When I watch you out there, all I can think about is how much I want you,” you confess. “The way you move, the way you lead and command everything… It drives me crazy. They’re just petty distractions. You’re the one I can’t resist. The one I crave,” you assure him, moving the stray hair from his eyes. “You’re the one I want, Cassian. Only you, you know that.”

His expression softens, as do his fingers on your skin, his intense gaze seeming to melt as he absorbs your words. He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmurs, his voice tender, almost vulnerable. “Maybe I’ve been too harsh.” A hand rubs your side soothingly under the jersey, making its way up to massage your breast.

You smile softly, but just as you begin to feel a sense of relief, his grip on you tightens again, a bit painful on your breast. There’s a familiar, dangerous glint in his eyes. “But then again,” he whispers, “I can’t just ignore the way you look at them, baby. I can’t let that go with a few sweet words from those pretty lips of yours,” he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling softly before releasing it. “You like their attention, being desired by them. Just admit it.”

You hesitate, your mind torn between denial and the undeniable truth. Unable to look him in the eyes, you nod slowly. Your voice is barely a whisper when you speak. “I do…”

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, voice low and pensive. He presses you harder against the lockers, his hands roaming over you slowly, almost absently. “Enjoy it all you want, but don’t you dare let them think they have a chance. You know who I mean.”

Your heart races as you nod, whispering, “Eris.” It was obvious. 

Cassian frowns. “It wasn’t a question,” he snaps. “I let you play these pathetic little games of yours, but don’t think for a second that it’s an invitation to have another man’s name on your lips while I’m inside you.”

With a sharp, forceful movement, he thrusts into you, the suddenness making you cry out, the sound bouncing through the tiled room. “Do you understand?” he demands, and you nod again, vigorously this time, a soft whimper escaping your lips at the fullness. 

Without another word, he finally captures your mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss, his tongue gliding over yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless. His hands slide down to your thighs, and he begins to move against you. There was nothing soft or caring about it, the motions unyielding and powerful. His hands grip you tightly as he fucks you into the cold metal of the lockers, his thrusts hard and deep. 

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is harsh and taunting. “To be fucked like this, right here where anyone could walk in? You think about this every time you see them, don’t you?” That’s when you remember that you are, in fact, in a place where anyone could find you like this. A blush rises to your cheeks at the realization, and you can tell he gets off on your embarrassment when he fails to suppress a smirk. You try grounding yourself by grabbing him wherever you can, hands out of his hair and grasping at his shoulders, nails digging in. “I know you like teasing them,” he continues, voice little more than a rumble. “Making them think they have a chance. They’ll never have you like this, (Y/N).”

His pace quickens, and he speaks into your neck. “Tarquin mentioned how you blush every time he catches you staring. What do you think about when you look at him, hm?” But you’re a mess, so lost in pleasure you can hardly process he’s asked you a question until he bites down on the crook of your neck. He doesn’t wait for your response, however, before he continues. “And Helion said you can’t keep your eyes off his arms. Is that what you want? You want his arms wrapped around you?” He changes his rhythm suddenly, now pulling out all the way to the tip before ramming back in. 

“Do you understand how fucking embarrassing it is,” he starts, voice cold, barely heard over your screams and moans, “to have my team—my friends—telling me how they catch you practically drooling at them, that you’d take them over me if you got the chance?” You shake your head adamantly at that. 

“No, Cass, you know that isn’t true!” You try to keep your voice even, to be taken seriously, but the lewd sounds in the air of him pounding your soaked, dripping cunt don’t do anything to help. It’s hard to continue when he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue dancing across the sensitive skin. “No one could fuck me as good as you do,” you breathe out, and you hope the moans cutting through your words are indication enough of it. “You’re the only one I want, the only one who makes me feel like this,” you manage to say between gasps. “They mean nothing compared to you.”

He appears to consider your words and you think he might be convinced, but nothing changes. Other than, perhaps, the smirk on his lips. “You know what Azriel told me while he was leaving? He asked if I needed any help with you in here. Can you believe that, baby?” His thrusts grow even more intense. “He had the nerve to ask me if he could join in…” A scoff. “As if I’d let him touch you. As if I’d share you with anyone else.”

“Don’t want anyone else,” you murmur, eyes going unfocused from the overwhelming sensation of it all, but he speaks over you, seemingly not having heard you. Nevermind the thought that they all likely knew what would transpire in this room after they left. You hoped it was only Azriel, with how observant he was.

“I can’t blame him though, can’t really blame any of them. It’s not their fault you’re such a sneaky fucking tease. It’s a wonder they don’t feel entitled to you yet…”

His words sting, but they also go straight to your cunt, and you feel yourself clench around him. His possessiveness, his dominance — it’s intoxicating. You try to respond, but your breath is practically forced out of your lungs with a loud moan as his pace quickens again. 

“Look at you,” he continues, his voice dripping with anger and desire. “Barely able to form a sentence. Does it turn you on, knowing they all want you? Knowing that I’m the only one who gets to have you like this?”

You manage a shaky nod, and quip back. “I know it turns you on, how much you keep mentioning them.” It catches him off guard, your short moment of lucidity. For a brief second, he stills, eyes widening in surprise before narrowing again, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Oh, you think you’re fucking clever,” he murmurs. “I know what you’re doing,” his nails dig into your skin as he thrusts into you, making you cry out, “and it won’t work.”

He shifts slightly, angling his hips to hit a spot inside you that makes you gasp in pleasure, hands scrambling for purchase on him, on the lockers, on yourself. The sound echoes through the locker room, mingling with the existing ones. 

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, I’m all yours, Cassian. Only yours, please!”

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his tone softening for just a moment before he resumes his relentless pace. “Again. Louder.”

“I’m yours!” you cry out desperately. “Only yours!” You find yourself wondering if there’s anyone left in the building, if they can hear you. You subsequently decide you don’t care. His eyes flicker down to the jersey number stretched across your chest, and a satisfied smirk forms across his lips. “Look at you, wearing my number,” his eyes are full of pride. 

You nod, lips parting with a moan. “Wanted to show everyone who I’m here for. I belong to you, Cassian.”

“Damn right, you do,” he mutters, his movements becoming more desperate than forceful. You know your boyfriend well enough to know he’s getting close. Each thrust, combined with that knowledge, sends waves of pleasure through your body. “I want to hear you, baby,” he demands, his voice strained with need. 

“Cassian!” you scream, your voice hoarse, broken by moans and cries. “Cassian, please!” 

His breath puffs against your neck as he groans your name in return. The sound of your combined moans and skin against skin echoes off the walls. And with a particularly powerful thrust, he empties himself into you, your cries mingling when he doesn’t stop. 

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper to him, running your hands through his hair soothingly, coaxing him through his orgasm. He shudders against you, his grip on you gradually loosening. For a moment, he rests his forehead against yours, panting heavily, his breath ragged. As the adrenaline rush fades, Cassian’s breathing slows, the intensity in his eyes softening. Slowly, he pulls out, leaving you feeling achingly empty.

But before you can protest, he lowers you to the ground, drops to his knees, and pulls one of your legs over his shoulder to rest your foot on the bench behind him. His hands slide down your thighs, feeling the mix of your arousal and his seed. “You didn’t think I’d leave you like this, did you?” he murmurs, voice filled with a renewed hunger. His mouth descends on you without warning, his tongue gliding over your sensitive flesh, tasting both of you. The sudden jolt of pleasure makes you gasp, your hands flying to his hair as he works you. 

Cassian looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire as he devours you. “You taste so fucking good,” he says against you, the vibrations against your clit drawing a moan from you. His tongue works with relentless precision, each flick and swirl drawing out gasps and moans from you. His hands grip your thighs firmly, keeping you steady as he devours you. You can feel the roughness of his calloused fingers digging into your skin.

You clutch at his hair, your fingers tangling in the damp strands as you pull him closer. You rut your hips against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction. Every movement of his tongue sends shivers up your spine, your body responding to him with a need that borders on desperation. He knows exactly how to push you, bringing you close before pulling back, leaving you teetering on the brink of insanity. 

His eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce determination. “I want to hear you,” he murmurs against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and tantalizing. “Say my name.”

“Cassian,” you moan, your voice trembling with the intensity of your need. “Please, don’t stop.”

He smirks, lips curving against you as he doubles his efforts. His tongue plunges deeper, his hands squeezing your thighs tighter as he pulls you even closer. You can feel the building pressure, the coil of pleasure tightening inside you, ready to snap. 

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Good fucking girl… Come for me.”

With those words and a final flick of his tongue, you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, your cries echoing off the tiled walls as you ride out the waves of pleasure. Cassian doesn’t stop, his tongue continuing to lap at you, drawing out every last bit of your release until you’re a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

Finally, he pulls back, his lips glistening with a mix of your juices and his satisfaction. You feel his warmth spilling out of you, trickling down your thighs as he rises to his feet. His eyes blaze with a dark, possessive fire as he takes in your thoroughly spent form. There’s no need for words; the look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know.

Remember this, his look seems to say. Remember what happened here. 

You meet his gaze, your own eyes still hazy with the aftermath of your climax. There’s no need for further declarations or reassurances; the intensity of what just transpired speaks for itself.

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16

cw: modern au, some mature themes (in that it vaguely references past smut), allusion to past abusive dynamics/child abuse

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2.7k words

Somehow, Sirius’ hand is cold even underneath the covers. 

Remus wakes with it like a cool weight in the center of his chest, fingers curled slightly with sleep. The other boy’s arm is cast over you, stretched out like Sirius had been determined even in sleep to keep you both close. 

You’re considerably warmer, sandwiched between the two boys in the large shirt you’d thrown on to slink into Sirius’ room in the early hours of the morning. You’re all crammed in tight on Sirius’ bed, chosen because it’s still intact whereas yours is now only a mattress on the floor (Remus hopes you don’t need to explain that to anyone in charge of your lodgings). Remus’ leg is only just balanced on the edge of Sirius’ mattress, and Sirius himself is lying with his backside pressed against the wall, cheek resting on the mattress as he’d evidently given up on trying to share the pillow at some point in the night. The sunlight coming in through the window plays prettily over both of your features, and Remus’ chest warms with something like—wait. There’s sunlight. Coming in through the window. 

He nearly falls out of bed reaching for his phone. 

You make a soft sighing sound, rolling forward into the space he’s left. 

“Remusss,” Sirius mumbles. “Stop moving.” 

“We need to get up,” says Remus, breathless. His voice croaks with sleep. 

“Hm?” 

“Up, up.” He pats both of you on the shoulders before devoting his efforts to Sirius, tugging the sleeping boy upright. Remus has chosen correctly, because you rouse on your own, sitting up on your elbows with a squinty, confused look Remus really wishes he had more time to admire. “We’re on in forty minutes. Did nobody set alarms?” 

You sit all the way up now, eyes going wide. “We are?” 

“Did you not set an alarm?” Sirius asks him. “I was counting on you two for that.” 

You shoot out of bed without an answer to your question. “My phone’s in my room.” Now that you mention it, Remus thinks he can hear a faint chiming coming from the room next to Sirius’. These walls must really not be very thick. You look at Remus, very much awake now. “Forty minutes?” 

“Forty minutes,” he confirms, trying to tamp down on his own panic in an effort to avoid exacerbating yours. 

You nod. “I’m going to stretch. Meet outside in ten?” 

“Alright.” Remus gives you a small smile. He doesn’t blame you for not thinking to return it as you rush out the door. He turns his attention back to Sirius, still looking half caught in a dream and like he might return to it at any moment. “Oi.” Remus gives him a hard look. “I have to go get dressed. Can I trust you not to fall back asleep?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sirius rubs his eyes. “I won’t miss the bloody Olympics.” 

“Good,” says Remus. He starts backing towards the door, trying to look stern while silently praying there’s no one in the hall to see him in his underwear. It had been one thing in the dead of night, but now… “Ten minutes. Get some stretching in, especially that ankle.” 

Sirius seems to come a bit more awake, lips stretching in a grin. “Yes, Coach.” 

Remus ignores his flirty eyes, though his face feels distinctly pink as he steps out the door, making his way quickly to his own room. He’d gotten a tad bossy the night before, not harsh but certainly directive, because it had seemed at times that you and Sirius were too timid to take steps by yourselves and damn it—Remus had waited long enough for what was about to happen. So out of impatience and necessity, he took charge. Sirius’ particular enjoyment of that came as a not-unpleasant surprise. 

Remus dresses quickly, grateful he doesn’t need to stretch as you and Sirius do. He fills the time instead by fetching tea and coffee from the dining hall. They don’t have any fancy coffee syrups for Sirius, but the spoiled twat will just have to make do. He finds you where you said you’d be exactly ten minutes later, already knocking anxiously on Sirius’ door. 

“Here you are.” Remus passes you your drink of choice. “He’ll be nearly ready, just give him a moment.” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Sirius gripes from inside, sounding characteristically cheerful after a rushed wake-up. 

“Oh. Thank you.” You take the drink from Remus, looking down at your other hand. He follows your gaze, and you’ve a drink carrier of your own. Three drinks identical to the ones Remus has brought. 

A little laugh tumbles out of him. “Where did you find the time to get those?” 

“Drinks are always my job.” You shrug, smiling a little. You look nervous, tension sewn into the muscles of your shoulders and preventing your happiness from reaching your eyes. Remus has the urge to drag you back into bed and soothe it out of you. “I went first thing. Had to rush my makeup, though.” 

Since dragging you to bed doesn’t seem particularly timely, Remus settles for an ardent kiss to the top of your head. He takes the other drink carrier from you. 

“You look lovely,” he says, meaning it. Your hair is smoothed away from your face, your makeup simple but dramatic, bold sweeps of eyeliner and color across your lids. Underneath your sweats he knows you’ll be wearing your costume, and the overall effect is bound to be mesmerizing enough that Remus hopes he can pay attention to your routine. “Extra drinks never hurt anyone.” 

“Alright!” Sirius’ door whooshes open. He’s made up similarly, formidable slashes across his eyes and face set in determination. “Let’s go.” 

He takes his coffee with a brief thanks. If the flavor isn’t to his liking, he doesn’t complain. This ritual, the stretched-taut tension of going to compete, should feel like coming home to Remus, but he can’t help but feel a bit odd. 

If he’d taken the time to imagine what waking up next to you and Sirius would be like, it would probably have gone a bit slower. Soft rousings, lazy kisses, maybe a fond argument about who had to get up to get tea before you all decided to stay in bed just a little while longer. Not, perhaps, quite so much of this rushing, with none of you talking to each other and Remus fighting to keep up as you and Sirius speed-walk towards the competition. 

He’s just caught sight of the boards when Sirius stops short. You falter beside him. Both you and Remus trace his gaze back to where two people, a man and a woman, are advancing on him with a steely resoluteness Remus knows but can’t place. 

“Sirius Black.” The woman seems to be leading the charge, a stormcloud of dark hair and hateful eyes. “Horrid, ungrateful child!” 

Remus blinks. The movement feels slow and dumb. You snap out of your stillness, taking several steps forward—not just in front of Sirius, but towards the woman. 

“Get out of here.” Your expression is as fierce as Remus has ever seen it. The woman’s stare catches on you for a moment, a frigid flicker of annoyance, then dismisses you. “What makes you think you can just—”

“Thousands of pounds on skating lessons,” she seethes, the cold hiss of her voice somehow louder than anyone else’s. “The best tutors, private training facilities, and after all that you neglect to invite your own family—” 

“He doesn’t have to invite you to anything,” you snarl. 

Family, thinks Remus. Yes—the dark hair, the cool, scornful eyes—this woman is Sirius is his cruelest form. His mother. 

“Sirius doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” you go on, fervent. “You lost that privilege, both of you, you—”

Sirius never talks about his family. Ever. What does it mean, that they’re here? The way you’re speaking to them—you know them, you’ve met before, but there’s certainly no kinship there. 

“—need to leave. Leave him alone—” 

“Quiet,” Sirius’ mother spits. Her voice is like the twigs of a barren tree rattling against each other in the wind, harsh and grinding. 

Remus looks at Sirius. He doesn’t at first know why, realizing only after he does it that he’s waiting for the other boy to stand up for you. To move his body in front of yours, fiery and protective, the way he always does. But Sirius looks rooted to the spot, his expression frozen and eyes just slightly widened. A weight sinks into Remus’ gut as he remembers what you’d told him the night after he got in Sirius’ face for the first and only time. 

It’s not my place to tell you about what his life has been, you’d said, hedging. You can shout at him all you want, but just stay away from physical stuff like that.

Remus looks at Sirius’ mother, all cold fury as she tries to get closer to her son. You, continually stepping into her path, eyes blazing like some goddess of guardianship and inner strength. And Sirius, as passive as Remus has ever seen him. Afraid. 

“That’s enough.” Remus hardly recognizes his own voice when it comes out. It’s harder than any he’s used as your coach, harder even than the one he’s used on himself. Sirius turns to him in surprise, but you keep your eyes on the woman in front of you, unyielding. “No one,” he says, “no one, regardless of their relations, comes in here and harasses my athletes. You will leave, or you will be escorted out.” 

If possible, the woman’s expression grows colder. “How dare you. My husband and I are—” 

“You two,” Remus ignores her for a moment, softening his voice some to address you and Sirius. You turn now, eyes flickering to Sirius first as if to check he’s okay, “go get ready by the boards. I’ll meet you there in just a moment.” 

There’s not much left for you to do to get ready, but Remus knows better than anyone the importance of having a clear head before competition. Neither of you need to be here for this. 

Remus waits as you nod, going back to Sirius and looping your arm through his before continuing towards the boards, keeping yourself purposefully between Sirius and his mother all the while. Remus watches you go, and then he turns to face Mrs. Black. 

Remus has never gotten to kick anyone out of a rink before. It’s a significant mood-booster. The way Walburga—he’d learned her name when she’d shrieked it at the staff no less than a dozen times, endeavoring madly to gain some favor from her surname, which Remus had never heard before Sirius but in Walburga’s mind apparently ought to have the lower classes bending over backwards—had screeched and threatened as she and her husband had been dragged out was almost enough to make Remus regret sending Sirius away so he couldn't witness it himself. But, of course, Sirius is always better off with you. 

Evidence of this arises as soon as Remus finds you. You’ve both shed your sweats, your matching costumes and makeup making you look nearly a mirror image. Sirius’ head is cupped between your hands, your foreheads bent together as you whisper to him ardently. 

“Fuck. Them.” You push your forehead into his. 

“Yeah.” Sirius’ brow is furrowed, his eyes closed. “Fuck them.” 

There can only be a minute or so before you’re supposed to go out and perform, but Remus hangs back. Letting you have this, he thinks, might prove more effective than anything he could say. 

“They don’t deserve you,” you tell Sirius firmly, “they never did. You’re here because of your hard work, not because of anything they gave you.” 

Sirius takes a breath. Pushes it back out. “I know.” 

Remus’ heart gives a painful squeeze for the both of you. As though by some sixth sense, Sirius looks up, blue eyes landing on his. 

“They’re gone,” Remus says. You let out a breath, expression easing, but Sirius only nods. Remus draws closer. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius replies. He turns, catching sight of the staff member coming to tell you it’s your turn. “Let’s do this.” 

Remus watches you two go out onto the ice, hoping he looks more confident than he feels. He doesn’t doubt your ability to perform well—he never could, after all he’s seen from you these past several weeks—but you’re angry and Sirius is something else, neither of you collected enough to summon the focus you need to pull this off. Remus forces himself to take a deep breath as you finish your loop around the rink and come to a stop in your starting position, telling himself he’ll be happy for you no matter what. 

He should have had more faith in the both of you. 

As soon as the music starts it’s like the confusion of the past few days is wiped away entirely. You’re the same as you were, as you’ve always been, gliding alongside each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. The only difference is that the energy between you that’s always been there has shifted ever so slightly. Still love, but fuller now. Actualized. 

Your costumes, gauzy layers of deep indigo, billow behind you to create the impression that you’re actually painting on the white canvas of the ice, each step a brushstroke done with intention and artistry. You and Sirius sweep around each other, undulating and circling and drifting apart before coming back. Your blades hit the ice after each jump like a crash of cymbals, perfectly on beat. 

Towards the end of the routine, Sirius takes your hand in his. You start to circle him, backwards, one skate off the ground. Remus tenses as Sirius lowers himself into a squat, looking at you down the length of your arm. There’s not so much as a flicker in either of your expressions as he lowers you all the way. 

Remus draws in a sharp breath of cold air. 

You adjust beautifully, your training taking over to guide you through a move you’ve never practiced, back arched and skirt fluttering in front of you. You go through a few rotations that way before Sirius lifts you up and propels you seamlessly into a spin. The death spiral finishes out flawlessly. 

For just a second after your spin, you catch Remus’ gaze, eyes smiling as if to say, See?

He beams. 

Remus is still beaming when he meets you in the kiss and cry, feeling soppy and ridiculous and overwhelmingly proud. 

“That was brilliant,” he says, taking you by the shoulders when you make it to him first. You’re smiling too, radiant, eyes sparkling as sweetly as the day he met you. He squeezes you warmly. “Brilliant.” 

He catches hold of Sirius next, cupping his neck with both hands. The other boy’s eyebrow twitches, a sheepish smile coming to his face. 

Remus laughs, “Prick,” and kisses him in the center of his forehead. 

You make an ill-contained squealing sound, throwing your arms around them both. “I knew you’d do it,” you say, putting your lips to Sirius’ cheek, overflowing with happiness. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Sirius gives a short laugh. He’s no doubt enjoying the onslaught of affection, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “Yeah, sure. Just ask next time.” 

[wildestdreamsblog]

Latibule Season 2: Epilogue

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which it all ends

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: You know....I never find it hard to say goodbye to the characters I've written so far, until this. Latibule has such a hold on me. I'm both sad and at peace now that their story has come to an end. Thank you soooo much for staying with me til the end. I hope you know you loving this story change my life as an author <3

Masterlist, Latibule 2.VIII

Epilogue

Min Yoongi’s POV

Min Yoongi was someone who believed that no one could change his destiny but himself. He was someone who strongly believed that his will alone could change his fate.

No. Scratch that, he was someone who was hardly a believer of destiny.

He believed in himself.

He could change anything to his own gain, manipulate any situation that would best benefit him and remove anyone that he deemed to be a hindrance to his goals.

He firmly believed in all those things. So why then couldn’t he shake you off? Why then couldn’t he pull himself away from you when you were a glaring outlier in his world?

You were just one good Samaritan who saved the devil himself, unknowing that by doing so would change the trajectory of your life. Not knowing that by doing so would inevitably entangle your life so tightly with him.

Had you not saved him that night, he was certain he would have never known what it felt like to touch heaven.

Had you not shown him softness, he would have gone in his merry way as he destroyed everything that crossed his path.

You didn’t belong in his world. You were everything good, everything pure, that he never should have even dared to want. And yet, here he was—staying in a house filled with warmth he didn’t know he’d been missing, warmth he didn’t deserve. Yet, here he was, ingraining his own self to your life as though he had a place in it. Yet…here he was, pretending to be a good man for you.

If you didn’t belong with him, why then did he think of you as an angel to his evilness? Why then couldn’t he tear himself away from you?

Why then when Seokjin showed up in that place did he feel that crippling anxiety that you would leave him if you knew who he really was?

Why then did he feel panic like never before with the thought of you leaving him?

Why then did he choose to stay with you instead of returning to his world?

You were a conundrum to his plans. A riddle he couldn’t solve.

And yet, he couldn’t help but love you. He couldn’t help but consume you.  He couldn’t help but give you every good left in him. He couldn’t help but tie you so tightly with him that leaving him would hurt the two of you. He couldn’t help but feel his heart thaw at every softness you showed him.

If you could love someone like him, then maybe…maybe he wasn’t a lost cause, right? Maybe he was still redeemable. Maybe, he too deserved to be happy.

But then, destiny that he didn’t believe in deemed it necessary to snatch you away from his grasp. Fate made him suffer, reminding him that he was powerless despite how strong he thought himself to be. Providence ripped you away from his grasp.

He ridiculously thought of himself as invincible, as someone who was too powerful to even think that all the things he did in the past would eventually come for him.

All evidence pointed out that you were gone in this world, that you went somewhere he couldn’t follow. Those things meant nothing to him. He thoroughly believed that he would feel it in his fucking heart if you were truly gone. But that bastardly thing kept on beating. If your heart stopped beating, shouldn’t his have, too? However, despite his unwavering belief that he would find you again, the silence of your absence was more deafening than he ever could have imagined.

When he found you again, he couldn’t understand how he could feel such a mixture of relief and sorrow. The sight of you—broken, lost in a way he hadn’t prepared for—shattered something deep inside him. He hadn’t seen the signs. He failed to see the signs that he, himself, should have been the first to see. The signs of your failing eyesight, the small, subtle shifts in your behavior, the way you had been fading without him even noticing. It was in the way you looked at the stars each night without fail as though you were committing them to memory. It was in the way you looked at him each night and gently touch his face when you thought he was asleep.

The truth that you’d suffered alone, that you must have felt powerless as your vision dimmed over the years, was a weight he wasn’t ready to carry.

The truth that you had gone all through that, all while giving birth to his son and raising him alone was unimaginable. You went through all that while under Hoseok’s manipulation.

He could fix this, he told himself. Regardless of the situation, he would give you back your sight because you gave him peace.

But then he realized you had given him more than just love, more than just peace—you had given him something he never thought possible: a family of his own. And in that moment, he swore to himself that he would give you everything, as long as you stayed by his side.

He could feel it now—he was finally grasping everything he’d ever wanted, so close he could almost touch it.

But then, the darkness of his past caught up with him. Was this what they called karma? Was this fate’s cruel way of showing him that the water was always within reach, but he could never quite quench his thirst?

He had just gotten you back, and now, he was losing you again.

But, as he always believed, Min Yoongi was someone who never lost to fate, more so now that he knew he had a family of his on to protect.

-

You didn’t know what woke you up from your deep slumber.

Was it your body telling you that you needed to get up because someone desperately needed you?

Was it the voices floating around urging you to open your eyes?

Was it the heavy pain in your heart that was begging you to stay alive, that it wasn’t your time yet?

Or was it the sound of someone reprimanding another on the noise?

“Sir! I told you repeatedly – repeatedly, that this is a hospital room and not your house! You cannot play video games so loudly at this hour! And you! A patient is resting! Stop watching a movie beside him! I swear to God, I am going to kick your asses out of this hospital!”

You could almost picture the nurse’s hands on her hips, her voice firm and commanding, taking no nonsense from anyone, even in a place like this.

“Ajumma, I got you your favorite coffee. Are you really going to kick me out?”

The playful, teasing voice cut through the tension, and you could hear the pout in Jimin’s voice. You had to smile, even if you didn’t quite understand what he was doing here. Jimin’s voice, so light and innocent, was in sharp contrast to the life he led outside these sterile walls. The weight of the world was never as evident as it was when his lips curved into that angelic smile, the one that somehow always seemed to mask the storm raging underneath.

Slowly, you opened your heavy eyes, the light blinding you for a moment. It took your eyes a few seconds to adjust to the brightness around you. The air was thick, heavy with what smelled like antiseptic, and there was a pounding ache in your head. You tried to shift but the pain in your arm reminded you that something had happened. Your body felt foreign, as if you were waking up from a long, deep sleep, the kind that made you forget who you were, forget where you were, and most importantly—forget how you had ended up here.

But then, the memories came rushing back like a flood.

The attack.

The gunfire.

The blood.

The screeching tires as Hoseok fought with everything he had to protect the two of you. The chaos. The fear. The moment when you thought your life was about to slip through your fingers like sand, and worse, that your son would be left alone in this world.

“Of course, not you! You’re an angel!” The nurse’s voice softened, and you could almost hear her smile, though you couldn’t quite see her yet. “I’m talking about these two!”

“But nurse, aren’t you the one being loud now? You woke noona up,” Taehyung offhandedly commented as he watched you nonchalantly with his dark eyes. He was seated beside a second hospital bed identical to yours. Your limited vision hindered you from seeing a man lying there that had several apparatuses attached to his pale skin, his breathing deep and even as he slumbered.

You frowned, the realization was slow but sure.

You were alive.

“J-Ji-Jiwon,” you called out weakly, your throat dried. It did feel like you had been out for weeks, if not months. You didn’t know. And not knowing was making you panic. You tried sitting up, but your muscles were aching and were weak from non-usage. The sound emitted from the heart monitor was rapid, prompting the nurse to call for a doctor all while the Jungkook and Jimin attempted to calm you down.

“Noona, you have to calm down. You’ve been in a coma for more than a month–”

You met Jimin’s eyes, reaching for his hand. The tears in your eyes further impaired vision. “Jiwon?” you asked in a shaking voice and it was barely a whisper. You needed to know that he was safe. You needed to know that he was not suffering. You could not live with yourself if you survived, and he did not. The mere thought was simply too much to bear.

He squeezed your hand once, “He’s okay, noona. Namjoon and his family are taking care of him right now.”

“Really?” you asked despite the tears falling down your face. “He’s okay? He’s not hurt, right?”

He smiled at you. “Jiwon is okay. You and Hoseok protected him. In fact, he’s taken a liking at Namjoon’s son. You should see the headache Namjoon’s gotten from the shenanigans of those two. They are inseparable, noona,” Jimin replied in a soft voice. What he said to you was enough to calm you down for now. He was okay.

Your son was okay.

“Ah, my patient is awake,” Kim Seokjin remarked dryly, but even as he did so there was as brief signs of relief and fondness in his eyes before they were washed away by his easygoing demeanor. “I will give you a customer loyalty card as soon as I discharge you. You, Yoongi’s angel, are always here,”

“You probably know the drill by now, let’s see your chart,” he stood beside your bed as he read your chart from his tablet, making a humming noise before tapping his finger on the screen twice. His finger tapped the screen twice, his gaze flickering between you and the notes. “Right, everything looks good. But you still have to undergo several tests before I can clear you. You’ve been asleep for awhile. Now, let’s see,” he stated before he gestured to the nurses behind him for something. “Okay, Y/N, I’m going to remove your bandage now.”

What bandage?

Slowly and with precise movements, Kim Seokjin carefully began to unwrap the gauze from around your left eye, the soft rustling of the material making you feel more aware of the vulnerability of the moment. It felt like a strange shift in time—like everything before this, everything that had happened to you, was suspended. You couldn’t recall when the bandage had been put on, or why it was there in the first place. You flinched slightly as the air touched the sensitive skin.

“You’re healing well,” he remarked as he instructed you to follow the light emitting from his pen. “The eye is reacting better than I could have hoped for. For now, your body is not rejecting the transplant, let’s just hope that it fully accepts the transplant. Your eyesight will be blurry for a few months until it eventually gets better.”

You blinked and shifted away from him. You were so panicked since you woke up that you barely noted anything about your well-being.

“What… what transplant?” Your voice came out breathless, too weak to hold the tremor. The world around you felt unsteady, and nothing made sense. Your mind was still grasping at fragments, trying to piece them together.

“That crazy bastard gave you one of his eyes,” Seokjin replied with a tilt of his chin to the second bed in the room. Jimin and Jungkook stepped away to reveal Min Yoongi. He was asleep, just like you had been moments ago. He had a bandage on his right eye, the side that didn’t have the scar.

Seokjin imparted that the car crash had accelerated the deterioration of your sight. You ran out of time. He finally revealed that before the chaos even began, Yoongi spoke to him. Should everything else fails, your well-being should be prioritized instead of him. He said that he would give you everything, even his sight, because you gave him his dreams. You gave him a family.

 Jungkook assisted you when you moved to him. He held your arm gently as you walked step by step to your husband and sat down on the chair that Taehyung vacated. The sterile smell of the hospital room was suffocating, but the only thing you could focus on was the man lying motionless before you.

“My love? My Suga…” you called for him, lifting his uninjured hand to your cheeks. The coolness of his skin sent a shiver down your spine, but it was the wetness of your tears that dampened his pale flesh. “My husband, please wake up. I’m waiting for you. J-Jiwon is waiting for his father. We’re all waiting for you.”

Everyday since you were discharged, you visited him. Oftentimes with Jiwon, but on some days when you felt the weight of the situation, you went alone. After the attack, News outlets flooded the scene, broadcasting every grim detail of what had happened to South Korea’s beloved chief of police. Everyone in the country knew of what happened. All the underhanded, illegal dealings of the politician fully came to light with the help of Jungkook and Namjoon’s skills.

But even more carefully orchestrated was the way the Bangtan dealt with the situation. They had planted false evidence, skillfully shifting the blame onto the senator and wiping out any trace of the Bangtan organization. With the downfall and death of the senator, the existence of the Bangtan appeared to cease. The underworld, however, wasn’t fooled. They knew better than to challenge the family that had long since ruled the shadows. The Bangtan were ruthless, and they would always come out on top.

It was a month later when Yoongi finally woke up.

You were tightly clasping his hand. You had just finished gently wiping him down. Your head was bowed down on his side, quietly crying and begging him to wake up. At this point, you felt like you were asking for a miracle. Seokjin said that Yoongi’s chart indicated that he was healing well and to surmise, there were no reasons for him to not wake up. You were feeling the most helpless when you felt a movement. It was subtle at first, a slight twitch in his hand. You held your breath, unsure if you had imagined it. Then, another. A movement. His fingers shifted, just enough to catch your attention.

Your heart stopped. You pulled your head up from his side, eyes wide in disbelief. You stared at his face—his pale features, still so familiar—and waited, holding your breath.

“Suga?”

You calling him seemed to be enough. He opened his eyes. For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, his expression distant, like he was still fighting the heaviness of sleep. But then his eyes locked with yours, and in that instant, the whole world shifted. It was then and there when you noted how his eye, the scarred one, was the only one that reacted.

“Oh my God,” you stammered, your hands shaking as you reached his face. “You came back to me.”

He blinked slowly, his lips parting as if he was trying to find the strength to speak. For a moment, there was just silence between you, his eyes searching yours, as if he couldn’t quite grasp the reality of the moment. Then, his lips quirked slightly, just enough to show he was trying to smile.

“I’m sorry… for making you wait,” he rasped, his voice rough and weak but undeniably Yoongi’s.

You chuckled despite the tears flowing down your face as you gazed at him, as you gazed at the man who had your heart from the very beginning. You looked at the man who selflessly gave a part of himself to you, his other eye unseeing, his scarred one looking at you with brimming love. “It's okay,” you breathed out, your tears falling again, but this time, they were tears of joy. “It’s fine…you know I can wait forever for you.”

Your wedding was intimate. The date had come full circle—the same day, the same month, the same season, as when you first met him. It felt like fate had orchestrated this moment with a tenderness you never thought you deserved. You never once thought that you could be as happy and as peace as you were now. His brothers were there to witness your love: Namjoon, his secretary and her child, Taehyung, Jungkook, Jimin, and Seokjin. Looking around, you knew that weren’t going to be alone anymore.

You had a family.

Your son would never be alone.

When it came to it, Yoongi’s vow was simple: He vowed to always choose you. More so, he vowed to find you in each and every life after this, to love you just as much, if not more, to always be there to protect and take care of you.

You vowed to love him just as he was, and for him, that was more than enough.

The end

Extended epilogue:

No one would tell you anything whenever you asked about Hoseok.

You never saw him in the hospital. In fact, you never saw him since that night. You couldn’t help but wonder what happened to him. You didn’t even want to think about the possibility that he didn’t make it. After all, he used his body to protect you and your son.

That night, you thought that Hoseok looked lost, that he regarded his life as nothing.

You still wondered why he did it. You still wondered why he saved you.

Despite the heroic act that he did, no one would utter his name. It was as if he simply vanished from this earth. But perhaps, Yoongi finally had enough of you asking for another man that he finally answered.

“Angel, don’t worry about him. He’s in a better place now.”

His answer only left you more questions.

Hundred kilometers away from Seoul –

A persistent knock on the door woke you from your sleep. You struggled to open your eyes as you had just fallen asleep not two hours ago. For heaven’s sake, you thought, you had barely completed one REM of sleep cycle!

But the insistent knocking from someone clearly impatient was enough to chase the drowsiness away.

You wanted to ignore it, truly, you did. But what if it was an emergency? What if it was one of the less fortunate that badly needed something? What if it was the other nuns?

You stood up and wore your conservative robe. You turned on your lamp, the small lamp brought light to your equally small room. You unlatched the lock, danger far from your mind. After all, this was the province – the farthest from the city. Secondly, the area the church was in was quite secluded, and the only people here were the nuns and the orphaned children. This was not like your life before. Here, you could go out and be assured that no one meant you harm.

At least, that was what you thought.

How wrong you were and you soon found out the intensity of your mistake.

Carelessly, you opened the door only to find your nightmare brought to life.

Min Yoongi aka Lucifer himself aka Agustd.

Also known as one of your adopted brothers.

“Miss me, little sister?”

Jung Hoseok: Full prologue on KoFi