#shes in the background so I guess she counts?

[endofaholiday]

Don’t think that’s normal….

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

Wang LingJiao used the chance to scramble out. She took out a cylinder of fire-light from her lapels and shook it a few times. A light shot out of the cylinder. Along with a sharp whistle, it rushed out of the wooden window and exploded in the sky outside. Then, she fumbled out a second one, a third one. Hair tangled, she mumbled, “Come… Come… Come here… Everyone, come here!” Through the pain, Wei WuXian pushed Jiang Cheng, “Stop her from sending any more signals!” Jiang Cheng let go of Wei WuXian and lunged in the direction of Wang LingJiao. Yet, at the same time, Wen ZhuLiu was closing in on Madam Yu. He looked as if he was about to knock her down. Jiang Cheng hurried, “Mom!” He immediately gave up on Wang LingJiao and threw himself over. Wen ZhuLiu didn’t even turn his head as he struck, “Not even close!” Jiang Cheng’s shoulder suffered the attack. Blood immediately burst from his mouth. Wang LingJiao had already let out all of the signal fire-lights. Sharp whistles and bright sparks filled the entire grey-blue sky. - Chapter 58, EXR

It's quite interesting how, in this moment, Jiang Cheng does exactly what he's always criticised Wei Wuxian of doing: endangering the Yunmeng Jiang sect by 'playing the hero'. That's not what either of them are doing, of course – it isn't a motivation for Jiang Cheng here, it's not a motivation for Wei Wuxian anytime else, and the motivations they have definitely make sense – but it's exactly the sort of behaviour Jiang Cheng would criticise Wei Wuxian for, with those exact words.

Yet, no character ever criticises him for this – Wei Wuxian doesn't, even when it was his (necessary) advice that was disregarded; Madam Yu doesn't, even when her sect suffered as a consequence. Even when it very likely played a role in Lotus Pier's downfall (at least in getting a lot of Wen sect cultivators to get there very fast), it's never brought up by any character ever again... whereas Wei Wuxian's action of saving Lan Wangji, Jin Zixuan and Mianmian in the Xuanwu cave constantly is, even when the Wen sect was pretty certainly going to attack Lotus Pier anyway*. That's not to say Jiang Cheng should be blamed for the fall of Lotus Pier, either – that's on the Wen sect, and regardless of both of their actions, the attack was probably going to be a success. And can we blame someone for making a panicked decision protect his mother? – but one's action is definitely more direct than the other, and it's not the one that's constantly blamed.

The aim, though, isn't to compare the actions so much as the attitudes of the people involved, and this is another little detail that shows the imbalance in Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng's dynamic. Again, Wei Wuxian doesn't say anything about this afterwards, and doesn't seem to blame him, even when it's his words that were disregarded, and when the Jiang sect and Lotus Pier were undoubtedly very important to him as well. Which is good! That's a good thing and definitely the healthier option for both of them! If the roles were flipped, and Wei Wuxian saved a(n admittedly non-Yu Ziyuan) person, disregarding Jiang Cheng's orders while leading to more danger falling on Lotus Pier? Jiang Cheng would never stop blaming him or bringing it up. Even after the many years that passed between then and Wei Wuxian's resurrection, he still blames Wei Wuxian for the fall of Lotus Pier due to his actions in the Xuanwu cave** – once again, a much less direct scenario.

--

*Very strategic location (trade hub etc), they attacked the Cloud Recesses already, Jiang Cheng's internal narration literally admits this:

In his heart, Jiang Cheng knew clearly that back in the cave of the Xuanwu of Slaughter at Dusk-Creek Mountain, even if Wei WuXian hadn’t saved Lan WangJi, the Wen Sect would have found some reason to come over sooner or later. But he had always felt that, if the whole thing with Wei WuXian didn’t happen, maybe it wouldn’t have been so soon, maybe there would’ve been some way to turn things around - Chapter 59, EXR

Yet there was some time between the end of the Wen indoctrination and the Fall of Lotus Pier, and we never even saw attempts at security adjustments!

**As we see in the Ancestral Hall:

Jiang Cheng mocked, “Look how forgetful you are. What does unwelcome people mean? Then let me remind you. It was because you played the hero and saved Second Young Master Lan, who’s standing beside you right now, that the entire Lotus Pier and my parents went down with you." - Chapter 87, EXR

[cherrymangos]

whaaat. im making art with a background

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

did they have 13 do anything like this? they shouldve had 13 do stuff like this

[sunset-peril]

Looks like someone wants to take a nap in her daddy's hair! What better place to be than asleep in Papa's hair with a belly full of milk? Will she make it before she falls asleep?

Oof, Link got all kinds of torn up in the Calamity. Poor old boy :(

His wifey and daughter still love him though. Zelda Ivee doesn't know him any other way :3

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | being caught together

୨ৎ : featuring : lando norris, oscar piastri, kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, and yuki tsunoda (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis : being caught together after telling everyone you guys weren't even dating...

୨ৎ : genre : comedic romance ୨ৎ : tws : cursing ୨ৎ : word count : 1853

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : part one will always include: verstappen, hamilton, russell, sainz, and leclerc. part two will always include: lando norris, oscar piastri, kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, and yuki tsunoda! <3 (every f1 grid story is released on saturdays @ 8pm and @ 10pm est)

ʚ・lando norris

you and lando had spent months insisting that you were just friends.

no one believed it, of course. but you had managed to dodge the questions, ignore the teasing, and brush off the lingering stares.

until you ruined it.

it happened during a casual lunch with some of the grid. the conversation had been normal enough—until oscar, of all people, asked a completely harmless question.

"if you had to order for someone without asking them, do you think you'd get it right?"

carlos shrugged. "depends on the person."

charles nodded. "i’d get arthur’s order right, but no one else’s."

lando scoffed. "none of you would get mine."

and before you could think, before you could stop yourself, the words just came out.

"that’s not true," you said. "oat milk flat white, extra hot, one sugar if it’s before noon, but no sugar if it’s after."

silence.

the entire table went dead quiet.

lando blinked at you, stunned.

carlos raised an eyebrow. "…what."

you felt every molecule in your body freeze as realization hit.

you had just exposed yourself in the worst way possible.

lando, still looking at you like you had just unlocked a deeply personal secret, tilted his head. "how do you… know that?"

you scrambled for an answer. "lucky guess?"

charles let out a low whistle. "ohhh, no. that was too specific."

oscar smirked, clearly enjoying the situation. "and she didn’t even hesitate."

lando, still way too amused, leaned in slightly. "what else do you know?"

you needed to get out of this. "nothing!"

lando narrowed his eyes. "favorite post-race meal?"

you swallowed. "chicken pesto pasta."

"pet peeve?"

"when people scrape their utensils against the plate."

"favorite childhood movie?"

"shrek."

the moment the word left your mouth, you knew it was over.

carlos choked on his drink. "no way—"

charles leaned back, laughing. "you are so in love with him."

your face burned. "i am not!"

lando, looking way too smug now, crossed his arms. "well, you definitely pay attention to me."

you grabbed your drink, taking the longest sip of your life to avoid looking at him.

lando leaned closer, his voice low, teasing, just for you. "kind of cute that you know me so well, though."

and that was when you realized—you were never living this down.

ʚ・oscar piastri

you had been so careful.

for months, you and oscar had kept things lowkey. no public outings that looked too couple-y, no obvious flirting around people who would catch on, and definitely no social media slip-ups.

until, of course, you accidentally exposed yourself.

it started with something so innocent—a simple café photo for your instagram story. a well-framed shot of your latte, a book, and the warm, aesthetically pleasing lighting of a cozy melbourne café.

it was perfect.

until someone noticed the hand in the background.

at first, you didn’t think anything of it.

until your phone blew up.

@/f1updates: so uh… who’s hand is that, bestie? 👀 @/mclarenfan99: guys that’s so oscar’s watch wtf @/piastristan: wait i zoomed in that’s his hand @/lando_norris: oh. oh this is good. @/oscartheferrari: you fumbled your own soft launch 😭😭 your stomach dropped.

you clicked on your own story, staring at the very obvious, very identifiable hand resting on the table—wearing oscar’s exact watch, with oscar’s exact freckles, positioned in a way that very clearly suggested you weren’t just hanging out as friends.

and then, just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, oscar texted you.

oscar: so i guess we’re soft launching now?

you: i didn’t mean to

oscar: try telling that to the entire internet.

panicking, you deleted the story—but it was far too late.

because minutes later, lando reposted it on his own story with one simple caption:

"nice watch, mate. 😉"

you wanted to die.

by the time you saw oscar again, he was way too amused, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. "so," he said, biting back a smirk, "want me to post a hard launch?"

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. "i am never living this down."

oscar just chuckled, reaching over to steal a sip of your drink. "well, at least now we don’t have to hide it anymore."

and that was how you learned—there is no such thing as an accidental soft launch.

ʚ・kimi antonelli

you hadn’t even noticed.

really, you hadn’t.

the group hangout had been easy, casual—everyone sprawled across couches, floor cushions, and bean bags while watching a random movie none of you were actually paying attention to.

and somehow, at some point during the night, you had ended up practically wrapped around kimi.

it wasn’t intentional. you had just been sitting next to him, and then someone shifted, and you moved a little closer, and then it was just comfortable.

your legs were tangled, his arm was resting behind you on the couch, and every so often, you felt the slightest pressure when he leaned into you.

it wasn’t a big deal. until someone pointed it out.

george, ever the observant one, was the first to notice.

"not to ruin the moment," he said, smirking, "but are you guys going to explain what’s happening over there?"

you frowned, pulling your attention away from the screen. "what?"

george raised an eyebrow. "you two are practically—" he motioned vaguely between you and kimi. "intertwined."

you glanced down—and oh.

yeah. your entire lower body was tangled with kimi’s.

one of his legs was slotted between yours, your calf was resting against his, and his hand was literally on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you froze.

kimi, meanwhile, just blinked. "what about it?"

lando, now noticing, wheeled around to face him. "what do you mean, ‘what about it’?!"

kimi shrugged. "she’s comfortable. i’m comfortable."

george exchanged a look with oscar, who looked one second away from laughing. "but you’re literally cuddling," george pointed out.

you felt your entire body heat up. "we are not—"

kimi, completely unfazed, adjusted his position slightly, hand still resting on your leg like it belonged there. "i don’t see the problem."

you turned to look at him, betrayed. "kimi!"

"what?" he asked, eyes flickering to yours, lips twitching just slightly. "you don’t seem to mind."

lando lost it. "oh my god, they’re actually worse than charles and his denial phase."

george smirked. "i give it two weeks before they admit it."

your entire body was on fire.

kimi, still completely unbothered, leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only you to hear. "you don’t actually want me to move, do you?"

you swallowed hard. no.

but there was no way you were admitting that out loud.

so, instead, you groaned, covering your face. "i hate all of you."

kimi just chuckled, leaning back like nothing had happened. but his hand?

yeah. he never moved it.

ʚ・ollie bearman

you had been so careful.

for months, you and ollie had managed to keep whatever this was completely under wraps. no suspicious glances, no unnecessary touches in public, and definitely no getting caught leaving each other’s places at odd hours.

until, of course, you did.

it was way too early—the kind of early where the streets were still quiet, the sky barely waking up, and the world felt like it belonged to you and ollie alone.

you had slipped out of his apartment, hoodie pulled over your head, moving casually like you weren’t trying to look suspicious. it was fine, really. no one was awake to see you, and you had made it almost all the way down the hallway.

then, the worst thing imaginable happened.

the elevator doors dinged open—and standing there, fully awake and looking way too amused, was none other than george russell.

your soul left your body.

george took one look at you, at the way you were still in last night’s clothes, at the very familiar hoodie you were wearing—ollie’s hoodie—and his entire face lit up with realization.

"ah," he said, stepping out of the elevator, his smirk growing by the second. "good morning."

you froze. "uh—hi."

george raised an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder at ollie’s door. "interesting place to be leaving so early."

you wanted to die.

"don’t say anything," you blurted out, already panicking.

george crossed his arms, absolutely thriving in this situation. "and why wouldn’t i say anything?"

before you could think of a good excuse, ollie’s door swung open behind you.

and there he was—sleepy, shirtless, hair a mess, looking far too comfortable as he leaned against the doorframe.

and then he saw george.

ollie blinked. "oh."

george’s grin tripled in size.

ollie, still half asleep, looked at you, then at george, then back at you. "well."

you buried your face in your hands. "we are so screwed."

george clapped ollie on the shoulder, barely holding in his laughter. "i’ll let the others know you���re both alive," he said, walking away. "have fun explaining this one."

ollie sighed as the elevator doors closed behind him. "well, that could’ve gone worse."

you looked at him dead in the eye. "really? how?"

ollie just smirked, reaching out to tug on the sleeve of his hoodie—the one you were still wearing. "at least now you don’t have to sneak out next time."

and, honestly?

you hated how much you liked that idea.

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

you and yuki had been so sure that no one suspected a thing.

sure, you spent a lot of time together. sure, you had an obvious soft spot for each other. sure, yuki always found some excuse to touch you—whether it was an arm around your shoulder, a hand on your waist, or an absentminded head leaning against yours when he got tired.

but that didn’t mean you were dating.

or at least, that’s what you had convinced yourselves.

until you absolutely blew it.

it started when pierre—who had been grilling you both for months—finally asked, "so, when are you two just going to admit it?"

you immediately scoffed. "admit what?"

pierre leaned back, crossing his arms. "that you’re together."

yuki, sitting beside you, snorted. "we are definitely not dating, okay?"

pierre and charles exchanged knowing looks. "right."

"we just spend a lot of time together," yuki continued, waving a hand casually. "because we’re friends."

pierre nodded, clearly holding back a grin. "friends."

"yes!" yuki huffed. "and, okay, maybe we cuddle sometimes, but that’s just, like, a comfort thing. it’s not a big deal."

you blinked, glancing at yuki. "yuki—"

he kept going. "and, sure, maybe we kiss—"

silence.

your soul left your body.

pierre choked. charles’s eyes widened.

yuki froze, realizing way too late what he had just said.

pierre grinned like the devil himself. "you… kiss?"

yuki’s face turned bright red. "i—that’s not—what i meant was—"

pierre turned to you, smug as hell. "is there anything you’d like to add?"

you groaned, covering your face. "i hate it here."

pierre leaned forward, thriving in your misery. "so when’s the wedding?"

yuki, now fully spiraling, just muttered, "i am never speaking again."

but it didn’t matter.

because the damage was done, and neither of you could deny it anymore.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[xo100]

Little dreams - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: Y/N takes her son Leo to his first Grand Prix, where they meet his idol, Lando Norris. Lando’s kindness makes the weekend unforgettable, sparking joy for Leo and the possibility of something more for Y/N.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1624

*:･ﾟ A/N: a few days ago I saw on insta that they now released his merch for kids and I immediately had to write a cute fic about it bc the hoodies are absolutely adorable!!!

masterlist / community / request

౨ৎ

The Silverstone paddock buzzed with its usual chaos. Engines roared in the background, journalists hustled between interviews, and fans craned their necks for glimpses of their favorite drivers. Among the crowd, a young boy with a mop of dark hair and a light blue hoodie clung to his mother’s hand, his face alight with wonder.

“Mom, this is the best day ever!” he exclaimed, his small feet practically bouncing with excitement.

His mother, Y/N, smiled down at him, squeezing his hand gently. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Leo. But remember, we have to stick together, okay? This place can get pretty crowded.”

Leo nodded earnestly, his big brown eyes scanning the bustling paddock. At just six years old, he already knew more about Formula 1 than most adults, a passion inherited from his mom. Y/N had grown up watching races with her dad, and now, as a single mother, she shared that same love with her son.

Leo’s favorite driver, without question, was Lando Norris. His room was decorated with McLaren posters, his toy cars all painted papaya orange, and his wardrobe—thanks to Y/N—now included Lando’s newly launched children’s merch line. The hoodie he wore today was his favorite piece, and he hadn’t stopped talking about it since it arrived in the mail.

“Do you think we’ll see him, Mom?” Leo asked, craning his neck to peer around a group of photographers.

Y/N crouched down to his level, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Maybe, sweetheart. We have paddock passes, so there’s a chance. But remember, the drivers are super busy, so we have to be patient.”

Leo nodded, though the excitement in his eyes didn’t dim. He clutched the small notepad and marker he’d brought, just in case he got the chance to ask for an autograph.

As they wandered through the paddock, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia. It had been years since she’d attended a race in person, but seeing it through Leo’s eyes made it even more magical.

“Mom! Look!” Leo’s voice was a mix of awe and urgency as he tugged on her hand.

Y/N followed his gaze and froze. Just a few feet away, leaning casually against a barrier and chatting with a team member, was Lando Norris himself.

“Go on,” Y/N encouraged softly, her heart swelling at the sight of her son’s hero so close.

Leo hesitated for a moment, his small frame vibrating with nervous energy. Then, with a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and marched forward.

“Hi, Lando!” he said, his voice high-pitched but clear. “You’re my favorite driver!”

Lando turned, his trademark grin lighting up his face as he crouched to Leo’s level. “Hey, buddy! Thanks for saying that. What’s your name?”

“Leo!” he said proudly, puffing out his chest. “And look! I’m wearing your hoodie!”

Lando’s eyes lit up as he took in the light blue hoodie, the logo of his brand displayed prominently on the front. “No way! That looks awesome on you, Leo. You’ve got great taste.”

Leo beamed, clutching the fabric of his hoodie. “My mom got it for me. She says you’re really cool, too!”

Y/N, who had been hanging back to give Leo his moment, felt her cheeks flush as Lando’s gaze shifted to her. He stood, his grin softening into something more genuine.

“Your mom sounds pretty cool herself,” he said, his voice warm.

Y/N stepped forward, laughing nervously. “Well, I’ve been a fan of the sport for a long time, so I guess I’m passing it on.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Lando said, glancing down at Leo, who was now rifling through his notepad. “It’s always nice to meet fans like you two.”

Leo held up the notepad eagerly. “Can you sign this? Please?”

“Of course!” Lando took the marker and scribbled a quick note, adding a little doodle of a race car next to his signature.

As he handed the notepad back, he turned to Y/N again. “Are you two here for the whole weekend?”

“Yes,” Y/N said. “It’s Leo’s first race, so I wanted to make it special.”

“Well, I think you’ve done a pretty good job so far,” Lando said, his tone teasing.

Y/N laughed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Thanks. He’s been counting down the days for months.”

Lando crouched down again, ruffling Leo’s hair. “I hope you have the best time, Leo. And make sure you cheer extra loud for me, okay?”

“I will!” Leo promised, his face glowing with happiness.

As they walked away, Leo clutching his notepad like a treasure, Y/N glanced back over her shoulder. To her surprise, Lando was still watching them, a thoughtful smile on his face.

“Mom,” Leo said, looking up at her. “That was the best moment of my whole life.”

Y/N smiled, her heart full. “Mine too, sweetheart.”

Little did she know, it wasn’t the last time she’d see that thoughtful smile.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of excitement. Leo couldn’t stop talking about meeting Lando, recounting every detail of their conversation to anyone who would listen. Y/N smiled through it all, her heart full as she watched her son’s joy.

But as much as she tried to focus on the moment, she couldn’t quite shake the memory of Lando’s lingering gaze or the warmth in his voice when he spoke to her. It was probably nothing, she told herself. He was just being kind, like he always was with fans.

The next day, Y/N and Leo returned to the paddock, both dressed in their McLaren gear. Leo wore his hoodie again, proudly showing off the autograph Lando had added to the sleeve. The boy was on cloud nine, and Y/N couldn’t imagine how the weekend could get any better.

But then, it did.

As they wandered near the McLaren garage, a team member approached them with a friendly smile.

“Excuse me, are you Leo?”

Leo’s eyes widened as he nodded. “Yes! That’s me!”

The team member chuckled. “Lando mentioned meeting you yesterday. He thought you might like a closer look at the garage. Would you and your mom like to come in?”

Y/N blinked in surprise, her heart skipping a beat. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Follow me.”

Leo practically dragged Y/N by the hand as they followed the team member into the garage. The space was a hive of activity, with engineers working on the cars and team members preparing for the upcoming qualifying session.

Lando was there, of course, leaning casually against the side of his car as he chatted with his race engineer. When he spotted Leo and Y/N, his face lit up with a grin.

“Leo! You made it!”

Leo beamed, running up to him. “This is so cool! Thank you, Lando!”

“Anything for my number one fan,” Lando said, ruffling Leo’s hair. He glanced at Y/N, his smile softening. “Glad you could make it, too.”

“I can’t believe this,” Y/N said, shaking her head. “This is amazing. Thank you so much.”

Lando shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “It’s nothing, really. I just wanted to make sure Leo had a weekend to remember.”

Leo was already engrossed in a conversation with one of the engineers, who was showing him the car’s steering wheel. Y/N took the opportunity to step closer to Lando.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, her voice low. “But it means the world to him. To both of us.”

Lando tilted his head, his gaze steady. “I could tell how much this means to you two. And honestly, it’s nice to meet fans who care about more than just the results. You’ve raised a great kid.”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

They stood there for a moment, the noise of the garage fading into the background. Lando’s easy smile and the warmth in his eyes made her feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

“Mom! Look!” Leo’s excited voice broke the moment as he ran over, holding a small piece of carbon fiber. “They gave me a piece of the car! Isn’t that cool?”

“That’s amazing, sweetheart,” Y/N said, crouching to his level. “You’ll have to find a special place for it at home.”

Leo nodded enthusiastically before turning back to Lando. “You’re the best driver ever!”

Lando laughed, crouching down to Leo’s level. “And you’re the best fan ever. Deal?”

“Deal!”

As they left the garage, Y/N couldn’t help but glance back one last time. Lando caught her eye and gave her a small wave, his smile lingering.

The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of excitement. Leo cheered his heart out during qualifying and the race, and when Lando crossed the finish line in fourth place, he celebrated as if it were a win.

But the real surprise came after the race. As Y/N and Leo were preparing to leave, a McLaren team member approached them again, this time with an envelope.

“Lando asked me to give this to you,” he said, handing it to Y/N.

Curious, she opened it. Inside was a handwritten note:

Y/N and Leo, Thank you for making this weekend unforgettable. Leo, keep being the amazing fan you are. And Y/N, if you’re ever at another race, I’d love to see you again. Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime? -Lando

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she read the note. She glanced at Leo, who was already excitedly telling a passerby about his piece of the car, and then back at the note.

Maybe, just maybe, this weekend wasn’t just a dream come true for Leo.

౨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, love’s! Hope you all enjoyed it! If there is something wrong or need to be edited, let me know!

*:･ﾟtags; @gridprincess-04 , @justaf1girl

[pseudowho]

"So, you go against the hairs...that's right...and then with the hairs..."

"...is-- is this right?"

"Mmm. Now, clean your blade..."

You pretended to tidy the bedroom, sneaking glances up to Kento, and Yuuji, stood shirtless at the bathroom sink. Both had thickly lathered faces, and sharp razors, examining their faces in the mirror with absolute precision.

Sshhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Peach fuzz.

"...and so anyway, I said to Fushiguro, shadows are great but sometimes you gotta just hit a guy..."

Kento listened, quiet, his mind always calculating several threads while mentoring Yuuji; yet, he was distracted. The old school corridor bathed in orange evening light, setting Yuuji's hair aflame, to coral in rocks. With Yuuji's nattering profile illuminated, the edges of his cheeks blurred from their usual sharp relief.

Fuzzy.

"...like, Kugisaki gets it, but she's like, just a bit feral and..."

Kento wondered if Yuuji had noticed. Kento recalled he only noticed, when his grandfather brushed his jaw with one clawed-over old hand, softly mocking Kento's furry scowl in lilting Danish. Kento's eyes lowered to the floor, counting his own steps and thinking in one, two, three and thoughtful on four, five, six.

"...Gojo's great but it's hard to learn from a guy who's that far out of my league, y'know? So--"

"Itadori-kun."

Kento had stopped, straightening his glasses, looking out onto suburban skyline. Yuuji stopped with him, inquisitive. A train rattled through, distant, splitting through the sunset. Kento looked back to Yuuji.

"It's important to look tidy, at work. Professional."

Yuuji raised his eyebrows, elbows rounded as he held his arms out, looking down at himself. He shot Kento a bashful smile, rubbing the back of his head.

Fuzzy peach.

"...ah-- yeah...guess I've always been a bit scruffy, huh? My grandad used to tell me I'd never get a job with hair like this."

Kento hummed. He stepped forwards, and raised one long-fingered, broad hand to gently grasp Yuuji's jaw, tilting it back and forth in the amber glow. Yuuji's bottom lip drew up, his eyes wide in surprise.

"...Nanamin?"

"Has anyone taught you how to shave, Yuuji?"

Yuuji blushed, his eyes flicking away from Kento in a mortified little scowl, his jaw still clasped. Kento released him, clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"I think we're finished up, here. Do you have any evening plans, Itadori-kun?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"If you need to go over an area again, get more shaving foam-- not that much-- and repeat the steps..."

"...this is...tricky..."

"With regular practice, you can improve any skill, Itadori-kun. Unless you'd like a beard, which still needs management, you'll be shaving every few days, or more."

"...you always...look so tidy..." swshswshswsh.

"It takes effort." Shhhick. Swsh.

"Yeah right. I bet you wake up like that. Tie and all."

A deep, rumbling laugh. Yuuji's foamy, surprised face, looking so boyish.

You slid past the bathroom. You pulled your phone out, surreptitiously clicking a photo. Kento and Yuuji, leaning over the sink while Kento steadfastly instructed him, became your new phone background, and stayed as such for a full year.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Took a lot of portions to send him to bed with a full tummy."

Kento chuckled at you, his hair mussed and soft. Legs crossed in bed, with a book on his lap, he read to the sound of soft snores in the guest bedroom next door. The lamplight, low and warm, illuminated Kento's face in the gloom.

Stubbly.

You reached a hand out, brushing across his jaw, feeling its sandpaper rasp across your fingers.

"I think you were so busy teaching Yuuji," you whispered, scratching Kento's chin as he crumpled his lower lip up, "that you missed some patches yourself. C'mere."

You stood, walking to the bathroom and sitting on the counter, grabbing a razor and shaving foam. Kento's eyes twinkled at you, feigning annoyance. He walked to you at the sink, looking straight into the bones of you. He grasped your thighs, pushing them apart before settling between them, chuckling again as you lathered his face.

Shhhhick. Swshswshswsh. Shhhick-ck-ck. Swshswshswsh.

You felt a growing pressure between your legs as you focused on shaving Kento's jaw. Kento fidgeted, pyjamas tight and tenting. You bit your lip, smirking.

"...Mr.Nanami. I am trying to concentrate."

"Mmm, so am I, but it's...hard."

"Yes. I can feel that."

Another deep rumble of a laugh. Kento grasped your thighs tighter, pressing forwards into you. You gasped, taking the razor from his face as Kento nuzzled shaving foam into your giggling neck.

"Don't stop." He whispered, a crooked smile on his lathered face. "Concentrate, please, Mrs.Nanami."

[my-castles-crumbling]

letter - Jegulus Microfic - background wolfstar - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 363

“So, boys,” Euphemia Potter said one night at the dinner table during the start of the holidays, “how was the first part of term? Anything eventful happen?”

Sirius and James exchanged glances. “Erm, no…” James answered, trying to keep his expression neutral. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his parents–not at all! He just knew they might not approve of all of his adventures. 

Sirius piped up. “You know us, just…really focused on classes.”

“Sure, sure,” Fleamont nodded from next to his wife. “Of course. It’s only…” He tilted his head to the side, like he was confused.

“Yes, it’s the strangest thing. I got a letter from Minerva McGonagall. You know how she’s a dear friend,” Euphemia said lightly.

James froze, keeping his eyes on his food. There were a million things McGonagall could have written to his mother about. How much trouble was he in?

“Yes, well. She wrote about how she keeps finding the two of you in broom closets together all around the school,” she continued, tone still light. “Do you know anything about that?”

But now James was actually confused. He looked at Sirius again, and back to his mother. “Erm..honestly, I don’t,” he answered awkwardly.

“Oh, boys, you know we accept you for who you are, don’t you?” Euphemia asked, eyes wide. “It’s really alright.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Sirius said, face red. “I’m dating Remus. We got together in September! So yeah, I’m bent, but not for James! That’s gross! Er, sorry, Prongs…”

“Nah, same here,” James mumbled, also turning red.

Fleamont, however, wrinkled his face in confusion. “Then why did McGonagall say that James was all over the castle with ‘Mister Bl-’ ow!”

Even though Euphemia elbowed him in the side to shut him up, it was too late. Slowly, dawning comprehension spread across Sirius’s face as James melted lower and lower into his chair, trying to avoid the mess in front of him. 

It was only then that Regulus, who had been sitting silently by Sirius’s side and enjoying the meal, finally spoke up. “Fuck,” he murmured, biting his lip and smirking a bit at James. “Guess that’s one way to tell them.

[ssa-dado]

what if fleabag reader has to get a new vibrator 'cause her old one died on her or she's just getting one for her friend as a gag gift, and she runs into hotch in the process ? also i didn't know you could get them at pharmacies, but i guess that's a more realistic place for hotch to be (old back and everything).

For a Friend

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man and pre-relationship mutual pining Summary: You just wanted a new vibrator. Instead, you bump into Aaron Hotchner at 2 a.m., holding six modes of clitoral suction technology and a G-spot stimulator in a paper bag. Now he’s offering you a ride, a jacket, and possibly his number. You’re doing great. Warnings: Sexual themes & imagery (non-explicit but VERY suggestive), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch* with *pearl clutch pt.2* sex toys, objectification of the Hotchner body, reader calls Hotch out for not having an ass, grief (your last vibrator died) Word Count: 4.7k Dado's Corner: Thanks for the request, dearest!! Sorry it took me forever, I hope you enjoy itttt!!! Special thanks to @hotchology for the free psychological counseling

masterlist(s)

Experts say it’s healthy to walk at least seven minutes a day, so here you are - taking your medically-recommended stroll at 2:06 a.m., in the direction of a 24-hour pharmacy, because you care about your health.

Deeply.

You really care about your health especially now that your vibrator has officially died in your hand right in the middle of what was shaping up to be a perfectly respectable late-night fantasy involving you, a locked door, and the tall, emotionally unavailable federal agent with zero small talk skills you’ve been mentally undressing since the first time you saw him do a butterfly stroke at the Y.

…It’s not like you always picture Aaron Hotchner.

You’re not that far gone.

You do have range.

You’ve gotten off to strangers.

To that chief of trauma doctor from Chicago Hope.

To the hot background guy from the Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas who had two lines and really great hair.

You are complex. You contain multitudes.

It’s just that Aaron Hotchner is… convenient. Reliable.

He’s easy.

Not easy-easy.

Cognitively easy. Low effort. High reward.

You don’t have to invent a man from scratch. Don’t have to mentally composite three mediocre exes and C-list celebrity actors into a half-decent fuck-doll when he already exists fully formed and fully clothed (barely.)

You don’t even have to think.

He’s basically a mental shortcut to climax, muscle memory with forearms, a comfort fantasy - like soup for the soul, if soup were six feet tall and weekly served wet at your local pool.

…And also dripping, practically naked.

All yours, at least visually.

You’ve memorized the way his thighs flex when he pushes off the wall, that split second of coiled power, the twitch of his calves, the ripple up to his glutes as he launches forward.

Perfect form. Perfect technique. Perfect… well.

Not a lot of meat back there.

Not exactly the kind of ass you’d grab with both hands and sink your teeth into.

No jiggle. No fluff.

Just… deeply respectable glutes.

Taut. Efficient. Compact.

An ass with more function than fat.

An ass that clocks in at the crack of dawn, files a huge pile of case reports, tackles a serial killer or two, then goes home and makes dinner for his kid.

An ass that probably says “thank you” when it finishes and then folds the towel neatly afterward.

Toned, athletic. Not juicy.

You wouldn’t bite it. (Lie.) You wouldn’t slap it.  (Another lie.)

(Because you’d absolutely slap it. If he walked past you up a flight of stairs in those tight trousers he insists on wearing - pleated, no less - you’d black out and wake up with a stinging palm, your handprint on him and a federal restraining order in the mail.)

You wouldn’t grope it. You’d shake its hand. A gentleman’s ass. Very in-character kind of ass.

…You’d still let it rail you against a doorframe, obviously.

You’re not an idiot. You have eyes.

And that’s how you know the way his back arches (yes, arches) when he does a lazy freestyle turn. That smooth, arrogant curve of his spine as he rotates, like the water exists solely to show him off.

You’d say he looks graceful, but that feels too innocent.

He’s obscene.

You know everything about his body. Everything except for one crucial part.

The only piece he hasn’t offered up for public consumption.

The mystery.

And yet… is it really?

Because thanks to the tight speedos he wears you’ve done more visual math in that pool cafeteria than you ever did in school.

Circumference. Vein definition. Drop. Girth. Angle. Hinge theory. Left or right lean.

You’ve factored in mass, blood flow, gravitational pull, and fabric stretch.

At this point, it’s not even fantasy, it’s field research. All you have to do is mentally rotate, enlarge by 37%, adjust for arousal, and boom - there it is.

You’ve seen that dick. You know that dick.

If it ever revealed itself in real life, you’d probably just nod.

Like, yes. Correct. That’s the dick I’ve been using. Thank you for confirming.

Your brain barely breaks a sweat.

Which is more than can be said for you, as you’re currently trying to act normal in front of a just-graduated baby pharmacist who definitely still gets ID’d at bars, while heading for the forbidden shelf.

The one that doesn’t technically exist, but everyone knows does.

You make the turn casually.

Like you’re browsing.

Like you’re not here to buy a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday only because for some reason, buying it here - in a pharmacy - makes it feel... medical.

Like a wellness thing. Like vitamins, floss, or calcium chews.

Like a very modern, battery-operated form of hormone regulation.

Not pleasure. No, no, no, God forbid.

This is for health, for stress relief. This is for preventing female rage and preserving the social fabric of your household.

Also, it’s very, very late - which is strategic.

No lines. No witnesses.

No grandmas behind you buying Werther’s Originals and silently judging your rotating G-spot stimulator with ergonomic grip.

You tell yourself that’s why you’re here at this hour.

Not because, despite all the feminist essays and body-positive podcasts, you still get flustered at the thought of being seen in public holding a brightly colored orgasm machine.

No. Absolutely not.

You’re here because you swore - never again.

Never again would you endure the trauma of your vibrator dying mid-session and having to switch to manual mode like it was the Middle Ages just to finish.

(And worst of all, it didn’t even work. You dried up. Mood ruined. You just laid there, staring at the ceiling for fifteen full minutes before sighing, getting dressed, and deciding - once again, ironically - to take matters into your own hands.)

You’re a modern woman.

Sexually free modern woman living in a free country that still accounts for death penalty for some of their states. Nothing is more free than this freedom.

You can vote.

You can buy a dual-stimulation, six-mode, energy-efficient G-spot massager - (at least according to the box, which proudly claims it uses fewer batteries than your last one. And you believe it. You trust boxes. You’re loyal like that.)

Right next to the hemorrhoid cream. In the middle of the night.

And you can replace a fallen comrade - RIP to the last one. Gone, but not forgotten - and now, here you are, holding its shiny successor the way you’ve seen people hold babies in movie posters. (Tender. Hopeful. A little overwhelmed.)

Nothing says freedom like that.

Stars. Stripes. Clitoral suction technology.

God bless America.

…Maybe not.

Because just as you take a step back, you collide – directly -with someone you didn’t even hear approach.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, right as a much deeper, much more male voice says the exact same thing.

A voice your brain knows very well.

Because not even an hour ago it was busy fabricating that same voice whispering “You’re taking me so well,” and - though you'd never admit this part - also: “Sweetheart.”

(Ew.)

Aaron Hotchner is now standing right there in front of you - real, breathing, and terrifyingly three-dimensional in a full three-piece suit – and is trying so hard not to look at the aggressively pink vibrator box clenched in your hand.

But he saw it. Oh, he saw it.

He’s a profiler. He’s trained to notice things.

(Or at least that’s what your late-night Google search said back when you first typed: “aaron hotchner fbi real???”)

(Which quickly devolved into a behavioral analysis rabbit hole run by people with usernames like @wifeofunitchief69 and @peter-rhea. All of them openly thirsting after him.)

(Especially this Peter guy - who you’re 85% sure is real, 15% convinced was a hallucination - kept posting photos a few years ago that looked… suspiciously intimate. Like “taken through the blinds” intimate. You don’t know how he got them. You don’t want to know. He hasn’t posted since.)

(Guess it was just a phase.)

Aaron’s locking eyes with you. Terrifying. Unfairly hazel, thanks to the pharmacy’s aggressive overhead lighting.

He’s focused on your face. Just your face.

(You are maybe a little flustered by this.)

(You bet all the serial killers he interrogates fall in love with him, too. You bet they get weird about it. Understandable, this man definitely knows how to hold eye contact.)

But you don’t buy it.

There is no way he didn’t read the full headline: “CLITORAL SUCTION + G-SPOT STIMULATION - NOW QUIETER!” (Ironically printed in all caps. For maximum discretion. Obviously.)

You are so incredibly fucked.

Unfortunately, only metaphorically.

Also, the silence is not helping. Not even a little.

…This feels like a crime.

(It’s not. Not technically. You can’t terminate a pregnancy in half the country, but you can buy a dual-motor vibrator next to the Tylenol. It’s somewhere in the Declaration of Independence - just after “life, liberty,” and right before “All men are created equal,” [*except slaves and women].”)

Still.

You are now committing an obscene act of self-service capitalism directly in front of a federal agent.

And some small, awful corner of your brain - the one with leftover shame and badly wired internalized misogyny, inherited from a cocktail of bad parenting and several seasons of Law & Order – fully believes this is the part where he arrests you.

Pushes you against the KY shelf.

Pins you with his full body weight.

Snaps cold real handcuffs around your wrists and whispers, “You have the right to remain silent…”

Which you clearly don’t.

Because your mouth opens before your brain can file an objection.

“…It’s for a gift.” WHY. WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “…For my friend,” you add… as if that helps. (It doesn’t.)

He nods. Polite. Awkward.

…Too bad his ears are starting to match the exact pink of the vibrator.

Goddammit, he’s a prude.

One of those soft-spoken, morally burdened types who probably says “intercourse” and excuses himself when a condom commercial comes on.

Oh no.

What if this is his first time seeing one up close?

What if you just popped his sex toy cherry?

What if he goes home, locks the door, and has a slow, shameful jerk thinking about you in CVS with a 6-mode clitoral suction wand?

(…You wish.)

No. Worse. Because now he’s staring at you like he wants to ask, “What kind of friend buys a vibrator at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday?”

But won’t.

And since you are a mature, well-educated, emotionally intelligent woman - and not, say, a liar desperately trying to salvage a crumbling cover story – you say:

“Her birthday’s tomorrow.”

(It’s not. It’s in three days. But the product needs testing. Obviously. You’re not going to spend that much money again unless you know it delivers. That’s not selfishness. That’s friendship. That’s quality control.)

“Well… technically today. Midnight and all,” you add, even smiling. So bright. So natural. So deeply suspicious.

“It’s alr-” he starts, finally working up the courage to glance down-

…Only to be slapped – hard - right between the shoulder blades by very enthusiastic, very just-graduated-and-finally-making-big-boy-money night-shift pharmacist who materializes out of nowhere behind him.

Ouch.

Now - to be fair - the pharmacist doesn’t see it. (You do. Unfortunately. In high-definition, too.)

Because Aaron Hotchner is currently holding a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps and naproxen sodium - both of which are for his back.

He jolts forward on impact, barely, and then freezes.

Just enough to make you worry that’s it, that’s the final blow. That he’s going to stay like that forever, just slightly curved, permanently bent.

Italic Hotchner.

“My man,” the pharmacist beams. “Everything alright?”

By the look on Aaron’s face, you can tell he has never seen this person before in his life. Never. Not once.

But Aaron nods - tight, polite, already calculating the minimum number of words required to exit the conversation without triggering a background check or losing his license to carry a firearm.

“Just wanted to say, I really admire you.” The pharmacist grins, still holding Aaron’s shoulder, “Not every guy’s open-minded enough to use toys in the bedroom with their girl.”

…Oh. Oh, fuck.

You should say something. Anything. Correct him. Laugh, even.

But you’re too distracted by the fact that Aaron isn’t saying a word either.

He’s just… frowning. Not full frown, just pulling his eyebrows closer together.

Which, in Hotchner language, could mean anything from “I’m flattered” or “You could’ve handled it differently” to “I’m about to shoot you.”

It’s impossible to tell. You’re not fluent yet. (You need more fieldwork. Preferably hands-on.)

“Damn, look at that,” the pharmacist chuckles, nodding at Aaron’s little arthritis starter pack.

Then turns. To you.

“Is this your fault?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

How adorable.

You wish. God, you wish.

You’d rail him into a herniated disc so bad he’d have to wear a brace for three months and think of you every time he reached for the cereal shelf.

But no.

“Um…” you manage, shaking your head. “We’re not-”

Fucking. Sexually intimate.

Connected in any capacity beyond weekly pool glances and intrusive masturbation thoughts.

(And it’s not like he seems like the type to just have a casual “friend.” No, he seems like the kind of man who'd call a hookup a regrettable lapse in judgment and then spend six months punishing himself for it.)

And so, in doubt? You flee.

A timeless tactic.

You did the same thing when your therapist asked, “Why do you think you’re so attracted to older men?” and you suddenly remembered - oh no! You didn’t lock the café.

“I think I’m just gonna…” you gesture - vague, noncommittal, something in the direction of the register - and after a short, awkwardly graceful round of people-pleasing Olympics with the vibrator-pink-faced pharmacist-

(something between “Sorry if I misunderstood, I’ve been here since 6 p.m. and I’m on my third energy drink,” and “It’s okay, no really, it’s my fault” [for what? unclear])-

You’re outside.

Alive.

Vibrator in a paper bag and…

…It’s pouring.

Not only do you not have a significant other to kiss in the rain like a scene from one of those movies you only watch when you’re actively trying to remember how alone you truly are, but your car is enjoying an extended, all-inclusive, paid-for-by-you vacation at the mechanic.

Great.

“Miss.”

You physically jolt. Because:

1. That voice.

And

2. Miss?! Hello???

Aaron is standing just behind you, yet again.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” You are soaked. And flustered. And holding a fucking vibrator in a paper bag while the hottest man in federal law enforcement addresses you like a schoolgirl who dropped her books in a rainstorm. “Yes. Alright.”

He looks at you with that stupidly concerned face - the one where his brows pull just slightly together.

It lasts a second.

Feels like a week.

“You’ve been standing here for a few minutes…”

…Apparently, the old man’s been watching you contemplate your entire existence under the sad little pharmacy awning while he casually stocked up on meds for his fucked-up joints.

How romantic.

“Oh… I was-” Nope. Nope, you were not anything. You have no explanation.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

Oh. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” you blurt. “I live close by.”

Feminism is a beautiful thing.

Except right now.

Right now, feminism is cockblocking you.

Aaron hums - hums?! - already pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and it’s… it’s the smallest iPhone you’ve ever seen.

Probably an iPhone 4, but in his hand - his massive hand - it looks like he’s stolen it from a dollhouse.

He swipes the screen (with his very thick thumb), squints just enough to tell you he’s absolutely in denial about needing reading glasses, then turns the phone toward you:

“99% chance of hard rain until 7 a.m.”

…Unfortunately, you’re far too distracted by his hands to verify the evidence. Especially that thumb, still hovering near the screen like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve seen all week.

(And speaking of data - there is a study. Something about men with very large hands also having very large-)

Without hesitation, Aaron just shrugs off his suit jacket. “Put it over your head,” then he hands it to you. “Don’t want you to get wet...”

Too late.

Not only because you're touching his very warm, very expensive, very tailored, very smells-so-much-like-him jacket, but because he didn’t even flinch.

Not at the acid rain.

Not at the dry-cleaning bill.

Not at the fact that he doesn’t have an umbrella for himself.

Not even at the fact that he’s now just standing there in a white shirt.

A white shirt. In the rain.

(You pray that he’s not wearing an undershirt.)

(You pray this turns into an unofficial Aaron Hotchner Wet T-Shirt Contest…Wet shirt. Wet dress shirt.)

“…You’re the one holding the electronics,” he adds, tilting his head toward the bag.

Ah. There it is. Thank you, Aaron, for making it weird. Again.

He sort of redeems himself by opening the door of his very shiny, very hot-dad black car like it’s the 1950s. (You hate how much you love it.)

…He even closes the door for you.

There are a few immediate observations that need to be made about Aaron Hotchner’s car:

•           It smells divine. Like clean leather, big paycheck, small emotional availability and a touch of lavender, too.

•           It’s spotless. Not a crumb. Not a fingerprint. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.

•           There are superhero comics tucked into the seat pocket. Jack’s, obviously. Unless… they’re his. Which would be - God. A brooding man with a soft spot for two-dimensional justice and emotionally stunted men in capes. Fatherhood and projection, hand in hand. Amazing.

But what really grabs your attention is the seating.

Full black leather.

Sleek. Cold enough to sting if your thighs were bare. Soft enough to leave marks if you were sitting on his lap instead.

Easy to wipe down. Easy to grip.

A car designed to be fucked in.

The hottest thing inside it, though? Probably the fact that it takes a few soft Are you alrights and Do you need anythings before Aaron finally starts the engine.

And it’s… quiet. Disturbingly quiet. No coughing. No sputtering. No “please God start” noises.

Just… starts.

“It’s such a cool car,” you blurt.

Fifty percent because you mean it.

Fifty percent because the silence is killing you and that’s literally the first thing your brain offered up as a conversation starter. You’re not even sure what you’re complimenting. Just that it has… technology.

You’re genuinely impressed. There’s literally a screen. A touchscreen. With sensors. A built-in navigator.

Meanwhile, your car still has a cassette slot, three loose aux cables, a suspicious stain that doesn’t want to come off, and a radio that only plays static unless you hit it twice.

“It’s a good car,” he replies, completely unbothered. Literally just a man stating a fact. About his vehicle. And yet, your brain shuts off.

You’re hot under the collar because Aaron Hotchner said something true… in a nice voice.

That’s it. That’s the bar.

And to make it worse, he doesn’t follow it up. No “Do you drive much?” No “What year is yours?”

Nothing. Just those three words and then silence.

He's the worst small talker you've ever met and now you have no idea how to keep this going.

You consider asking him about… tires. Or gas mileage. Or how long it took him to sell his soul to become this repressed.

Pathetic.

You’re even more pathetic when he does that thing. The hot thing. The driving thing.

Where he turns around to check behind him - one hand on the back of your seat, other on the wheel - torso twisting, shirt clinging, full neck exposure.

Basically porn.

You try so hard not to spontaneously combust.

Not just because you’re pressed into his personal space, or because his white dress shirt is completely see-through now after all that rain and you can see where his spine ends, or because he’s absolutely not wearing an undershirt and is one unexpected pothole away from full nipple contact.

No. It’s the tongue.

The tiny flick. Just a flash. Quick. Absent. Almost innocent.

His tongue darts out - just a little - as he focuses, like it helps him steer straighter. Nothing but a reflex. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You, however, are acutely aware-

Just as aware as you are of the fact that the two of you are sitting in near silence. Almost comfortable.

If not for the small detail that you’re horny and holding a vibrator in a paper bag. The only sound is the rain-

And the soft, awkward half-comment he lets slip when you tell him your address:

“Oh. You were right. It is really… close.”

No shit, Sherlock.

If you had even an ounce of courage, this would be the most satisfying “told you so” of your life - because not even four minutes in, he’s already pulling into the cracked little square that overlooks your apartment complex.

“Where’s the entrance?” he asks, squinting at the very charming, definitely-not-a-fire-hazard 1970s architecture. “It’s barely lit here.”

He’s right, though.

There’s a little pedestrian alley that leads to your stairwell, and it’s lit by what is essentially half a lightbulb and probably one moth if you’re lucky.

“I can’t leave you here,” he says, already switching off the engine.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ve done it alone a thousand times.”

You get The Look™.

The full Dad Look™.

Eyebrows lowered. Mouth set. Silent moral judgment loading. Which, naturally, makes you blurt out something helpful:

“I swear. Even at 3 a.m. When I was blackout drunk.”

He looks horrified.

Which is… great. Exactly the vibe you were going for on this totally unromantic, emotionally neutral, post-pharmacy ride home.

“Well, you’re not walking alone all the way there today,” then he proceeds to open the driver’s door before you can even object.

“Wait- really, you don’t have to-”

“Stay here,” he cuts in, already halfway out before you can finish.

Then suddenly, he’s at your door. Umbrella overhead.

Like some man from a black-and-white movie who has no idea you’re holding a vibrator in your bag and have a sink full of crusted risotto waiting at home.

Chivalry.

That’s what it should be called. But that word feels too… medieval. Too knight-in-shining-armor. Too “written by robed men who thought ankles were sinful and menstruation was the devil’s piss.”

No.

From him, this isn’t chivalry. It’s something else.

Not performance. Not politeness.

Just… kindness.

Offensively tender, nonverbal, soak-himself-in-the-rain kind of kindness.

And so the two of you walk under the same umbrella together, arms brushing every other step.

You try to create distance. He scoots closer.

Adjusts the umbrella to keep you dry.

Prioritizes your dry head over his own sopping suit.

Kind of romantic.

You could kiss him here.

Right now.

Under this umbrella. In the rain. In front of your depressing 70s concrete box of an apartment.

You could just… do it.

Lean in. Shut him up. See what that mouth actually feels like.

If it weren’t for the very inconvenient fact that you are juuuuuust a bit terrified of rejection.

Terrified in the “ha-ha I’ll never date again if someone even slightly hesitates when I flirt” way.

In the “I’ll replay the rejection in the shower for the next ten years, write five alternate endings, and mentally workshop comebacks well into menopause” kind of way.

In the “what if he says no and then I have to move to Vermont” way.

Also, you are currently holding a vibrator in a paper bag. So. There’s that.

Still, Temptation is real.

Even because Aaron is still mid-monologue about street lighting standards. Turning his head every few steps. Gesturing with one hand like a man who has read far too many municipal codes for someone this hot.

The idea of shutting him up for good with a kiss is honestly starting to sound like a public service.

“It’s barely visible here,” he mutters, scanning the alley. “No signage. No reflective paint. Anyone could-”

“Trip?” you offer.

“Worse.” He deadpans, then turns toward you, “Are you humoring me?”

“A little,” you shrug (he’s pathetic.)

He stops. Looks at you. “I’m being serious.”

…Ah, the dad voice. Firm. Slightly patronizing. Delicious.

“I know,” you smile. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

By the time he’s done glaring, you’re already at your building entrance, heart stupidly tight.

Saved. Almost.

“Well… this is me.” You pull out your keys to prove to him you’ve got your shit together. “Um… thanks for the ride. And the walk, of course.” (What is this, Pride & Prejudice?) “I think I’m good from here.”

You say it lightly, casual, because if you don’t end it now, you’re 100% sure he’ll keep going.

He’ll follow you to your door.

To your kitchen. To your hallway. Maybe even your bedroom.

Not for sex. God, no.

Just to make sure you’re safely tucked in.

That your bedroom window locks properly.

That the shadow outside was just a tree and not a threat (more likely, the stray cat you and two old ladies keep over-feeding.)

He’d stand there - in the doorway, quiet, stiff, arms crossed - and wait until you hit REM sleep before silently excusing himself.

The worst part? He’d make it feel horribly sweet.

And the much, much worse part? To do that, he’d have to walk through the disaster zone you call home.

The crusty risotto bowls still soaking in the sink. Three wine glasses, none of which match. A fork in a mug.

He’d pass your roommate mid-makeout with a “friend” who’s definitely not wearing pants and is probably sitting on your throw blanket.

He’d see the takeout containers on the counter.

The mystery stain on the wall you keep forgetting to Google.

The chair you keep meaning to fix but now just refer to as “decorative.”

He’d see you. As you are.

And you can’t be the reason this man actively re-dyes his greys by Wednesday. You’d love to be. You really would.

But not like this.

Also, you’re just really tired and you’ve got… things to test.

And, if you’re honest, some things are better when they stay in your head. Untouched. Untried. Safely fantasized.

So you smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

But doesn’t leave, either.

Instead, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

His business card.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, dead serious.

You blink at it.

The paper is thick. Embossed.

Feels like you’re holding a warrant.

“Oh wow,” you murmur, trying not to smile. “This is the smoothest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

He straightens slightly. “It’s my work phone.” Still serious, but fumbling.

(He’s so bad at this. It’s almost adorable.)

You nod, suppressing the second smile in a row. “Of course.”

He looks at you for a moment - too long, maybe, or maybe it’s just your perception that’s a bit fucked up - and says, “Goodnight, miss.”

You pause.

“It’s-” You tell him your name.

He nods. Revises. And repeats it. A little too careful. A little too gentle.

You might actually pass out.

Not just from the emotional whiplash, but also because your apartment has too many goddamn stairs and your legs were not built for this level of cardio or romantic tension.

You stumble inside, safe. Unmurdered. Emotionally unstable. Immediately grab your phone and text the number printed in the most intimidating Arial you’ve ever seen.

made it still alive didn’t get murdered not even a little bit

He replies almost instantly.

(Almost, because he’s an old man with disproportionately large thumbs and the texting accuracy of someone whose phone autocorrects “fine” to “filing.”)

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): This is a work number. Please be mindful. – A.H.

…He signs his own texts. Oh fucking hell.

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): But I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, miss. – A.H.

You type back:

goodnight... agent??

Three dots appear. Pause. Then-

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): 👍 – A.H.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates pt. 2

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : the BAU team works the case, you get to help word count : 2.3k warning : canon-typical violence, mention of violence and sexual violence A/N : thank you all so much for all the love on part 1 of this !!! I love getting feedback, it's incredibly motivating ! I will probably do a part 3 :)) Also, my cat is sitting next to me as I write this, which I find quite funny

part 1, part 3, part 4

Back at the police station, Spencer had trouble focusing on the case. His mind kept wandering over to you, wondering what you were doing, how you were doing. He was on edge and the entire team could feel it. Hotch pulled him to the side to ask him if he wanted to give you a phone call. Reid refused, but settled on sending you a text, something he never usually did while working. Something he never usually did because he wasn't the biggest fan of technology and also because he couldn't decipher how you were actually feeling without hearing your voice and all the quirks in the way you spoke which gave away your real feelings.

Sent by Dr. Ironed Socks : < Hey. How are you doing? > Sent by You : < Ok, I'm having a tea on the couch. Geoff is in REM sleep on my lap. Thx for checking <3 >

Your text was followed by a pixelly picture of your slightly overweight (Spencer couldn't use that term to describe Geoffrey around you or you'd get upset) orange cat sprawled out on your lap, legs and arms askew, fast asleep. Spencer felt a small wave of relief spread through him. You were okay for now. Geoffrey was looking after you. Later, he'd help you process and give you all the tools necessary to get over such a traumatic event and move on. It was almost as if that was in his job description.

Returning to the room where the BAU team had settled in, Spencer sent Hotch a grateful nod. Hotch moved his lips in what resembled a small smile, Reid couldn't be sure. "Okay," Garcia's voice resounded from the speaker sitting in the middle of the round table, "I've contacted all of Mary Goldman's professors and it turns out she didn't go to class today. Her first class was at 11:30 but she never showed up." "None of the students we interrogated on campus had seen her after 10:15," Emily spoke up. "Spencer's roommate saw her between 10:30 and 11:00," Rossi intervened. "Okay, we'll get her to come in," Hotch affirmed. Spencer's whole body tensed. You had been the last person to see the victim. His mind was so busy reeling, thinking about everything you'd have to go through as the most promising witness, that he missed Morgan's question.

"Reid?" Derek raised an eyebrow. "Uh, sorry, what did you say?" "What was the time of death according to the coroner?" "14:30," Rossi answered. "It was 14:26, actually," corrected Reid. Rossi rolled his eyes. "Okay, so the unsub has his victim between around, let's say 11:15, and 14:26," Rossi shot a pointed look at Spencer, "that's about three hours and 11 minutes. In those three hours, he had time to take the victim someplace where neither of them would be seen or heard, beat and sexually assault her, and finally dump her in smack-dab in front of the university." "He's definitely organised and wants to send a message," Emily thought aloud. "But what is he trying to say? Look at what I can do? You can't stop me?" "Friends," interrupted Garcia, "I'm going to need at least some information before I even try to get anything out of a search. He's taking and leaving them on campus, so I'm guessing he doesn't necessarily need a vehicle. Does he live in the area?" "Yes, he's local or knows the area, he knows these women and he most likely knows the campus. Search for white males, early twenties with a record of violence and sexual misconduct. Cross-reference that with victims of reported abuse and sexual abuse in the last twenty five years. Run background checks for all university staff. Also have a look at similar victims and MOs in this area in the last five years. This may not be his first time," spoke Hotch. "On it, I'll get back to you when I've found something." "Thanks, Garcia."

You'd taken a shower as soon as you'd arrived home. The water was too hot and you'd scrubbed your skin too hard but getting out, you felt a slight bit better. Heavily disliking the way you still felt, you opted for a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk and sugar. Settling on the couch with a steaming cup in your hands, you tucked your legs beneath you and sighed.

Images of Mary's dead body were printed onto the inside of your eyelids. You still couldn't believe it. Your mind reeled as you tried to think of an explanation for it all. Whichever path you followed, you came up empty. You could not comprehend or imagine any reason of taking the life of an innocent person, especially in such a violent way. Luckily for you, you still didn't know the extent of the violence.

A familiar noise pulled you from your dark thoughts. Geoffrey had just jumped down from his cat tree. You watched him stretch and languidly walk over to you. He meowed once before jumping onto the couch, right next to you. You moved your legs so that you were sitting cross-legged and scratched his head. He purred in delight and pressed himself against you. He sniffed at your tea with an unimpressed look before climbing into your lap before letting himself flop down on his side, stretching out his appendages. You cooed as his pink toe-beans stretched too and laid a hand on his belly, scratching gently. The vibrations of his purrs had a calming effect on you. "Are you trying to make me forgive you for biting my ankle the other day when I wouldn't give you any more treats? You know Spencer says you're a bit overweight, I was just trying to get him to stop body-shaming you, my love..."

A few minutes later, you get a text from Spencer. About thirty minutes after that, you get a phone call from him. "Hey, would you mind coming to the station? It turns out you're the last person to have seen the victim."

"I'll do the cognitive interview." "Reid, I don't think that's a good idea." "Look, yes I'm invested, I know that. But I also know her and-" "Reid, no. This is the reason we such have procedures." "But I-" "Reid." Hotchner's tone translated finality. Spencer's shoulders sank in defeat. He had figured that if he had been the one conducting the interview, maybe it would have been less traumatic for you. He hated the idea of not being there for you, with you, during such a trying moment. He bit his bottom lip.

"I'll do it," volunteered Morgan. Reid felt slight comfort at that, Morgan was one of the few people he would entrust his life to. He could entrust you to him for the interview, even if he didn't like it. Hotchner nodded. "Reid, you work with Garcia, focus on finding other victims with the same MO to help build the profile." Reid nodded and went to find his colleagues.

When you entered the police station, it was almost like he could feel your presence. He came to find you straight away, not wanting to leave alone even for a second. "Hey." "Hey." Reid immediately pulled you in for a meaningful embrace, burying his face in your hair. The smell of your shampoo, conditionner and body wash were bliss to his nostrils. They were a promise that you were here, you were safe, you were okay. Morgan watched from afar, a small smile playing at his lips. He knew Reid, and the hug you exchanged was both too hasty and too tight to be anything casual. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry to have to make you come in, but they're going to do- well I wanted to do it but they wouldn't let me, so it's-"

A slightly older, very muscular and gentle man stepped forward, holding out his hand to you. You shook it. "I'm Agent Derek Morgan. I'm one of Spencer's colleagues. I'll be the one conducting the interview, seeing as there's a conflict of interest with you and Spencer. I hope you can understand that." You introduced yourself and looked at Spencer before answering Derek. "Yes, I understand, it's- it's not a problem." "Great, if you could just follow me, please?" You licked your lips and sent Spencer a look, which he answers with a nod of reassurance and a small smile, before following Derek.

"You can close your eyes if it makes you more comfortable." You were sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair. The light above you was ticking at uneven intervals and the room smelt of worry. You didn't know how you could get any more comfortable, but listening to Morgan's even, alto voice helped a bit. "Okay." You closed your eyes. "You told Agent Rossi that you crossed the victim somewhere around quarter to eleven. Is that correct?" "Uh, yes." "Where did you cross her?" "In the main hall." "Where were you going?" "Um, I had just been to the bathroom and I was heading to my Anglo-American Literary Survey class." "Okay, can you describe to me everything about the moment when you crossed the victim? What you saw, what you felt, smelled, heard? Was anything out of the ordinary?" You opened your eyes.

"Um, I'm sorry, but could you stop referring to Mary as the victim, please? She has a name, which is Mary Goldman, and a victim wasn't the only thing she was." Derek was slightly surprised at your comment but understood where you came from. Separating from the name was a way for profilers to gain some distance from the horrendous violence. Personally knowing the victim, you didn't have such luxury. "Of course, I apologise. What did you feel when you crossed Mary? Was anything out of place?"

You nodded in thanks and tried to bring yourself back to that moment. It seemed unreal, how such a small interaction suddenly held such importance. "O-Okay, uh, my hands are still a bit wet. There weren't any towels in the bathroom. I saw her after she saw me and we exchanged a smile. I thought she looked really pretty today, but I didn't tell her. We really don't know each other that well." "Okay, that's good. Was she wearing anything out of habit for her?" "Uhh, no, she was wearing a pleated skirt and a sweater vest. She often dresses like that, I don't know exactly why I thought she looked pretty. I guess she just looked happy. Nothing was out of the ordinary." "Good. Could you hear or smell anything?" "Yeah, well, there were the voices of other people in the hall. I can hear girls laughing. I smell Mary's perfume when she walks past me. She always wears the same one, it's Chanel, Mademoiselle Coco specifically, she told me once at a party."

"Okay, do you know where she's going?" "I- yeah, she's heading for her Behavioural Neuroscience class." "Is she walking in the right direction?" "Uh... Yes, yes, she is. She's not in too much of a hurry, though, she doesn't like the teacher." "So why is she heading there already, then? The class only starts at 11:30." "She likes to reread the material from the previous week before the class starts." "Why doesn't she like the teacher?" "No one does, all he does is read off his slides and he's a jerk when it comes to grading."

Morgan suppressed a smile at your comment. "Okay, thank you so much, Y/N, this was very helpful." "Was it? I didn't feel like-" "Yes, I promise you've just shared some crucial pieces of information." "O-Okay, if you say so."

All eyes were on Morgan as he entered the briefing room. He put his paper coffee cup down on the table and looked at Hotch. "Nothing was out of the ordinary. Mary was wearing habitual clothes and the same perfume she always wore. She was heading to the same class, as she did weekly, at the same time. My guess is this guy knew her routine and did a blitz attack. Y/N gave me the number of Mary's best friend, and according to her, Mary didn't have any guys in her life except for her dad and brother."

Hotchner nodded. Spencer couldn't help but feeling proud of you for being able to go through with the interview and to provide such useful information, too. He'd have to congratulate you when he got home. "Pretty boy and I found three similar victims in the last three years. They weren't connected to this case because they were in another university, just on the other side of the state line. Last year, three girls, university students, were killed, same MO, all disappeared for about three hours before being found dead in front of the university, they attended," Garcia spoke from the speaker. Spencer nodded in agreement to her words. "What did the police find back then?" asked Emily. "Nothing, they- uh, did all they could during the month that the three murders happened but after the third victim, the unsub stopped," Spencer answered. "Stopped?" Emily repeated, brows drawn together in confusion. "Yeah, he just- stopped killing and disappeared. Our best guess is that something triggered him then and that the same thing triggered him now."

"Oh, another thing," Garcia sounded reluctant to share the information she had, "I looked at all the victims' pictures and... well, I'll just send them to you, that'll be easier."

Spencer's blood ran ice cold as he stared at the four girls on the screen. They all looked exactly like you.

Taglist : (all those of you who wanted a part two <3) @princess-ofthe-pages @usuck @theylovemelody @empressgraytea @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @lillianacristina

[misctf]

Trouble at the Bachelor Party

“Dude! This is sick!”

“Bro, you’re telling me.” Liam replied, as him and his two friends explored the penthouse.

It was fully decked out. A massive flatscreen in the living room, a fully stocked bar, a beautiful view of the beach. It was everything Liam could’ve wanted. Initially, when his soon to be father-in-law offered his penthouse for the bachelor party, Liam was shocked. Mr. Reynolds often used phrases like “irresponsible”, “waste of time”, and “not good enough for my daughter” when talking about Liam. And he wasn’t afraid to let Liam know too.

“Dude! There’s a flatscreen in each bedroom too!” Chris shouted from down the hall, “Fuck, you were right. This guy’s loaded!”

It was true. Liam was marrying the heiress of a massive tech company. And Mr. Reynonds was certainly loaded. But despite his reassurances that he loved Susie, not their money, the older man viewed him suspiciously. Liam came from a pretty humble background and the world of upper class living wasn’t something he was used to. But perhaps letting them use his penthouse was Mr. Reynolds’s way of showing acceptance.

“Okay boys.” Liam said, “We have a few days here. Let’s make ‘em count.” He tossed Jeremy and Chris each a beer. After a quick toast to what was going to be the most incredible bachelor party on Earth, they downed their beers.

________________

“Lookin’ good.” Liam chuckled as he inspected himself in the mirror, “Can’t believe you’re actually getting hitched.” He flexed his bicep, “Sorry ladies, I’m off the market. Oof, I’ll have to practice that line a bit.” He grinned.

Leaving the bathroom, he found Jeremy sipping a beer on the couch. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of blue swim trunks. His dark brown hair was well styled, and his face clean shaven. He had that boy-next- door look that caused the ladies to swoon.

“Yo Jeremy, what’s up?”

“Not much, just texting Sarah.” He replied, “I forgot to let her know I got here safe and she’s pissed.”

“Oh shit dude.” Liam patted his friend on the back, “I feel for you.” Sarah could be scary when she was angry, but otherwise she was a solid 10. Liam looked forward to the day Jeremy proposed.

“All good.” Jeremy sighed, “Where the fuck is Chris?” Liam shrugged, “He kept me up all fucking night. Fucker must’ve been horny. I’ve never heard anyone moan so loud in my life.”

“Not even Sarah?” Jeremy didn’t seem amused.

“Seriously, we need to get him a girlfriend or something.”

Liam chuckled, “I guess I slept through it.”

“Lucky you.” The door to Chris's room suddenly opened and both men turned.

“Hey boys, sorry to keep you waiting!” The sing songy voice threw them both off, and Liam’s jaw dropped when he saw Chris. His muscles were proudly on display as always. But it was the tight speedo showing off his impressive bulge that shocked him, “Oh, is something wrong?” His voice carried a breathy sultriness, which was unusual for their bro.  

“Dude, I’m not one to judge, but don’t you think that’s a bit risqué?” Jeremy asked, raising an eyebrow, “What would Jesus say?” It was well known Chris was religious. In fact, Liam and Chris had met at their college’s church.

Chris shrugged and ran a hand through his curly light brown hair, “Oh this? You like?” He grinned and did a quick pose, “Come on boys, we’re burning daylight!” He said, sauntering towards the door.

________________

The walk to the beach was uncomfortable. Chris walked ahead of his two buddies at an unusually fast pace, his firm ass jiggling with each step. Liam didn’t even know where to begin. What the fuck had gotten into Chris? Usually they’d have to drag him to parties and give him pep talks to boost his confidence. But now? He was certainly turning heads.

“Wait, guys! Did you see that?” Chris asked, turning to his friends and waving excitedly, “That guy over there was totally checking me out!”

“Um, so what?” Jeremy asked, “Why do you care?”

“Do you think I should go after him? He was totally cute. And that ass- just wow.” Liam and Jeremy’s eyes widened, “What?”

“Are you gay?” Liam asked bluntly.

Chris placed a hand to his chin and shrugged, “Like totally! Since like forever probably.”

“Makes sense.” Jeremy said, “Repressed religious guys. It’s a thing.” But Liam was still having a somewhat hard time believing it. Was all their prior bro talk really a lie?

“Oh! He’s getting away!” Chris whined, “I’ll catch up with you later!” He blew them each a kiss and briskly walked over to the man from earlier, leaving Liam shook.

________________

Hours went by without hearing from Chris, and Liam’s mood tanked. Jeremy tried to cheer him up back at the penthouse. Beers and the big game on a flatscreen. Should’ve been perfect. But it wasn’t. Liam knew that Chris being gay shouldn’t matter. Good for him, right?

“Oh my god, that was incredible.” Chris said, gasping as he entered the penthouse, “How are my two besties doing?”

“Would’ve liked you around.” Liam replied, “It’s my bachelor party after all.”

Chris dramatically placed a hand to his sweaty chest, “Sue me for having fun!” His voice cracked and he headed towards his room, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my room.”

Liam didn’t reply. Sure, Chris is gay. Fine. But acting like a stereotypically fruity drama queen? That didn’t make sense to him. He turned to Jeremy.

“Look, its late and I’m tired. The game sucks anyway.” He said, “I’m off to bed.”

“Same bro. Gotta be up early for our tee time anyway.”

They went to their respective bedrooms. Once there, Jeremy sighed. He hated seeing his friend like this, but what could he do? Talk to Chris maybe? He'd try to salvage this party. But when he finally got comfortable in bed, the TV suddenly turned on. He was greeted by static.

“Weird.” He mumbled. He tried to turn it off with the remote, but failed. Sighing, he got out of bed to turn it off. But as he got closer, he could hear a voice. It was soft, but forceful.

“You are a gay slut. You like to fuck men.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow, “What the fuck?” He whispered. But the voice only got louder.

“You are a gay slut. Your dick only gets hard for men.” Jeremy felt woozy as the voice reverberated in his head.

“No, I’m straight... I like...” He moaned loudly as the voice drowned out his thoughts. At this point, the screen was flashing various scenes of gay porn and Jeremy’s dick started to swell, “No... fuck...” He breathed out, “I-I... ughhh.” He tried to imagine tits and his nights with Sarah. But these thoughts were instead swapped out with images of juicy, jiggling bubble butts and twerking men.   

“You are a dominant top. You only fuck men.”

“I-I’m a gay slut?” Jeremy questioned, “I only like to fuck men?” That didn't sound right. Right? He never...

"You are a dominant top. Twinks are lucky to ride your dick."

His eyes became half lidded and vacant as the words carved his new reality.

“I’m a dominant top. Twinks are lucky to ride this cock." He said confidently, "I am a gay slut.”

Soon, the room filled with his pleasure-filled moans, his new reality taking hold over him.

________________

When Liam entered the living room the next morning, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Jeremy was aggressively caressing Chris’s face, as the two made out on the couch with their erect dicks on full display.

“What the fuck?” Liam gasped as the two men turned towards him.

“Oh Liam! Good morning!” Chris sang, ending his kiss with Jeremy.

“Fuck, just who we were waiting for.” Jeremy commented in a lower, more gravelly voice, “We have something for you.”

“No, this is fucked. What the fuck?” Liam fumed, “What about Sarah? What were you thinking?”

Jeremy shrugged, “I only like fucking men.”

Liam shook his head, “No way, fuck that.” He replied, taking a step back.

“Oh goodness, you’re upset!” Chris whined, “No Liam baby, its okay. Here, watch this.”

Before Liam could say anything, Chris turned on the TV. Static filled his field of vision. But then he heard it. Faint at first, but present nonetheless.

“You are a gay slut.” It said, and Liam grabbed his head.

“What the fuck?” He cursed, stumbling slightly.

The voice was echoing from within his head. Desperately, he moved towards the TV, wanting to shut it off. But Jeremy grabbed his arm firmly and forced him to sit between them. Liam tried to fight back, to get away from his two friends, but he felt so disoriented. The voice continued.

“You are a gay slut. You like taking cock.” It said.

Liam yelped as a needle entered his skin. He looked down to see Chris dump the contents of a syringe into his arm.

“Wh-what was that?” Liam slurred.

“Don’t worry, cutie. Just listen to the voice.” He giggled.

Liam groaned as the voice got louder and louder, “You are a gay slut. A slutty bottom. You love taking cock.”

Liam looked down and watched as his body hair started to disappear. Gone was his light dusting of chest and belly hairs, leaving him smooth. At the same time, the scruff framing his face vanished. He looked over to Jeremy, who smirked at this new development.

“Oh look at that! It’s totally working!” Chris giggled.

“No shit. Reynolds must’ve given us the good stuff.” Jeremy remarked, slowly massaging his cock.

“The good stuff?” Liam slurred, his voice cracking, “Like, what are you talking about?”

“Good because I was getting bored.” Chris sighed, “I mean, Jeremy baby, you’re an expert kisser, but like, I need a hole.” Jeremy nodded in agreement.

“A hole?” Liam whispered.

He let out a pained moan as his body temperature suddenly spiked. Sweat poured from him as his musculature dwindled away. His hard earned muscles atrophied before his terrified eyes. His bulging biceps and triceps became thin and lean, while his juicy pecs rapidly deflated. In a matter of minutes, years of workouts and optimal dieting were undone, leaving Liam slim and fragile.

“Wow, he’s so light now.” Jeremy chuckled as he man-handled his friend onto his lap. Liam yelped at the sensation of Jeremy’s erect cock grinding against his hole.

“Oh and he’s gotten shorter too! What a cutie.” Chris cooed.

“Ah, ass is still bony though.” Jeremy commented, giving it a firm squeeze.

But Liam barely registered any of this. Instead, his thoughts were filled with the words echoing from the TV. His eyes became half-lidded at this point and his resistance was fading.

“You’re just a bottom, a hole to be used by other men. You are a gay slut.” The words continued, “You like being used by other men. Your only pleasure is from getting fucked.”

“I-I’m straight... I like... I like tits.” He knew his voice sounds more feminine somehow and he cringed, “I’m a straight man.” Jeremy and Chris smirked, “I-I...” images of men getting fucked in all kinds of positions flashed on the TV, ���Ohhhh I... I... I’m a...” Liam’s handsome face lost its masculine edge and his hair became lighter in color. At the same time, his cock started to shrink. Inch after inch lost as it retracted back, “Noooooo.... not my cock...” He moaned, tears now stinging at his eyes. His manhood, his masculinity. It was being stolen from him. And he was unable to stop it.

“Your only pleasure comes from your ass.”

Liam moaned again and this time his ass started to fill with jiggly fat. He could feel the extra padding build upon itself, his slim cheeks turning into mounds of soft flesh. And as Jeremy squeezed his ass again, pleasure filled his slim frame.

“Much better.” Jeremy remarked, his fingers massaging Liam’s hole, “Fuck, this is gonna feel so good.”

“Mhmm.” Chris replied, grabbing his own fistful of Liam’s juicy ass.

“Ohhhhhhhh yesssssss.” Liam slurred.

“So, what are you?” Jeremy asked.

“I-I’m...” Part of him didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to acknowledge it. But as his lips plumped up into gorgeous cock suckers, and Jeremy’s teasing fingers penetrated him deeper, Liam was drowning in too much pleasure to care, “I...I...” The voice was so loud. It egged him on, beckoned him to admit his new truth. He wanted- no needed- to be like the men on the screen. To be fucked and used by other men. Who was he kidding? He knew what he was, “I’m like a total gay slut! I love cock.” He turned his head to look at Jeremy, then Chris, “Please daddies, use me! I need your cocks!” He begged.

And his new lovers were happy to oblige.

________________

In the afterglow of sex, the three men sat panting heavily on the couch. Liam was curled up between his two lovers, still rubbing their dicks. Despite draining them each multiple times over, he needed more. But his horny thoughts were interrupted by a video call. He grabbed his phone and smiled.

“Hey Mr. Reynolds!” Liam slurred, “Like, we love your penthouse.”

Mr. Reynolds grinned, “I can tell.” His eyes sparkled with satisfaction, “Look at you Liam. My god. You turned out better than expected. The boys at the lab earned their salaries with this one.” Liam nodded along, not really understanding the implication, “How do you feel?”

“Like a total gay slut.” He grinned, “And I love it, like so much, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Well I’m glad to hear.” he chuckled, “And are your friends treating you well?” Liam adjusted the phone so the older man could see his two lovers, who were both fast asleep, “Well looks like you have two very satisfied customers.”

Liam grinned, “Like totally.” A sense of satisfaction filling him, “Oh! Like, can you let Susie know the wedding is off? I’m like, so sorry.”

“Of course, it would be my pleasure. She’ll understand.” Mr. Reynolds replied- mission accomplished, “Now, get back to your party. Enjoy the penthouse for as long as you want.”

Liam’s eyes lit up, “OMG thank you!” The call ended, “Did you hear that?” Liam asked, his two lovers stirring awake.

And so their party continued- and it would for days. Their lives forever changed, and them none the wiser to it. But if their pleasure filled moans were anything to judge by, they certainly weren’t complaining.

[yunholic-jongholic]

could i request a woosan x soulmate au? it could be something like them being idols and used to each other and now they have a new addition to the bond so they’re kinda standoffish with the reader because they’re used to it being just them? orr it could be like a high school or college au where the reader hides from them because she’s scared of the bond? orrrrrr where each soulmate has a chibi that looks like them? (it doesn’t really matter which type of soul bond (like soul string, soulmate marks, soul touch etccc)

Tethered by Fate | C.S x Reader x J.WY

PAIRINGS | Choi San x Reader x Jung Wooyoung

RATING | Not really need a rating? But in case; 16+?

CONTENT WARNINGS | Soulmate AU, College AU, Soul string, Fluff, FLUFF, Nervous Encounters, Anxiety (Reader), Competition (WooSan), Jealousy, Flirting, PDA, F L U F F.

WORD COUNT | 10.8k

AUTHORS NOTE | YAY my first San story (and second Wooyoung!) I gotchu, I had to do some research on soulmates AU since I am still fairly new to it. I hope you enjoy! <3

•

You never asked for soulmates.

In a world where thin red threads faintly mark your wrist until they flare to life near the person fate ties you to, most people spent their lives waiting for that spark. But not you. The thought of destiny dictating who you should love — who you’re meant to belong to — felt more like a cage than a gift. So, when your thread began to thrum with heat one quiet afternoon in your second semester of college, your first instinct was fear.

And you ran.

It didn’t matter that the sensation wasn’t painful — just a soft, glowing warmth, buzzing with promise. It didn’t matter that it happened in the middle of the busy student union, surrounded by strangers and noise. What mattered was that it meant something — and you weren’t ready to face it.

Not if it meant them.

Wooyoung and San were hard to miss. Magnetic in completely different ways. Wooyoung, with his playful grin and boundless energy, could light up a room just by walking into it. San, all sharp focus and quiet depth, always seemed to notice what others didn’t. They were inseparable — best friends, roommates — already connected by a thread that glowed bright and sure.

And now, you were supposed to be the missing piece.

The second all three threads sparked to life, Wooyoung had let out a breathless laugh, San’s eyes had gone wide — and you’d turned on your heel and fled the building like it was burning.

---

You let out a long sigh as you closed the door behind you, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders like a stormcloud. The lock clicked into place — not just to keep them out, but to hold yourself in. Safe. Unreachable.

Hyojin, your best friend and roommate, barely glanced up from the couch, where a cheesy romcom played softly in the background. She raised an eyebrow, an all-too-knowing look on her face.

"Let me guess," she said, voice light but edged with concern. "Running from them again?"

You didn’t answer. You just dropped down beside her with a quiet thud, the couch dipping under your weight. The screen lit your face in soft colors — two strangers falling in love like it was simple, like it didn’t terrify them.

You wished you were that brave.

Hyojin didn’t press. She never did. She just nudged a blanket toward you with her foot, eyes still on the screen as if your whole world wasn’t quietly unraveling right beside her.

"You know, in these movies, the running only works for so long," she murmured, half-teasing, half-serious. "Eventually, the love interest shows up in the rain with a boombox or something dramatic."

You scoffed, curling up under the blanket. "Good thing it hasn’t rained."

"Yet," she added, casting a quick side glance your way. "And let’s be honest, if anyone’s showing up with a grand gesture, it’s Wooyoung."

You groaned, burying your face into a pillow. Just hearing his name made your thread pulse. Not painfully — it never was — but a low, steady ache that reminded you they were still there. Waiting.

"San wouldn’t," you muttered into the cushion. "He’d just stare at me until I broke into pieces."

Hyojin laughed, a soft and knowing sound. "Yeah. He has that vibe. All intense eye contact and poetic heartbreak."

You didn’t reply, but your silence was loud.

You wanted to say it wasn’t fair. That you didn’t ask for this — the connection, the glowing thread, the weight of expectation. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t about fair. It was about fear.

Because Wooyoung and San were real. They saw you. And worse — they wanted to.

And you weren’t sure you could handle what came next if you stopped running.

So instead, you sat there, pretending the movie was enough to keep your heart quiet, while your soul tugged in the direction of two people who refused to stop hoping.

---

Wooyoung paced.

Back and forth across the small dorm room, hands ruffling through his hair, his wrist glowing with that telltale red thread that never seemed to fade anymore. It hummed lightly — not in sound, but in feeling. Always there. Always warm. Always pointing toward you.

San sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, watching silently.

"She’s avoiding us again," Wooyoung muttered, more to himself than anything. "She saw me outside the art building and ran. Not walked, not slipped away. Ran. Like I was chasing her with a chainsaw."

San tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm but thoughtful. “You were holding a bouquet of red carnations.”

"...Okay, maybe that was a little intense."

San finally smiled, a flicker of amusement in his usually unreadable expression. But it faded quickly, replaced with the same quiet worry he’d been carrying since the threads lit up.

"She’s scared," he said simply. "It’s not us. It’s what we mean."

Wooyoung dropped down onto the bed beside him with a frustrated sigh. “But why be afraid of something that’s supposed to be… good? We’re not trying to force her. We haven’t even— We’re giving her space.”

"I know," San said. "But space doesn’t always feel like safety. Sometimes it just feels like distance. Like abandonment."

They both went quiet for a long moment.

Outside, campus life went on — students laughing in the hall, music drifting in through a slightly cracked window, the world moving forward while they stayed suspended in this waiting game.

"I just…" Wooyoung trailed off, looking down at the soft glow on his wrist. "I just want her to know we’re not here to trap her in some fate-shaped box. I want her to choose us. Not because of this—" he lifted his arm, the thread catching the light, "—but because she wants to."

San nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his own wrist. The thread stretched out into the unknown, toward you.

“She’ll come back,” he said quietly. “She just needs time.”

“And what if time doesn’t help?” Wooyoung whispered.

San’s answer was immediate, steady. “Then we wait longer.”

---

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

The romcom had ended. Hyojin had gone quiet beside you, her phone screen dimming as she dozed off mid-scroll. The apartment was wrapped in a soft kind of stillness — the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You stirred when a faint knock tapped against the door.

Once. Then twice. Soft, hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there at all.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. Hyojin blinked awake, squinting toward the door.

"Expecting someone?" she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You shook your head, already knowing — somehow — who it was. You couldn’t explain how you knew. The way your thread felt suddenly alive, humming low and warm, like it was holding its breath.

You padded to the door quietly, heart thudding too loud for how little had happened. You didn’t unlock it right away. Just pressed your forehead against the cool wood, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Wooyoung’s voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “I’m not here to push. I just… I wanted to leave something.”

There was a pause.

Then the rustle of a paper bag.

“I made too many honey muffins. Thought you might want one. Or not. Either way—” he hesitated, then gave a short, nervous laugh, “—I figured it’s harder to be scared of someone who shows up with baked goods.”

You opened the door a crack just in time to see him walking away down the hall, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t holding his breath too.

On the floor, in front of your door, was a small brown bag. The smell of warm sugar and cinnamon leaked through.

No note. No pressure.

Just muffins.

Just Wooyoung.

You didn’t call after him. But you picked up the bag and held it close, something in your chest trembling with the gentleness of it all.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like running.

Later that night, the muffins sat on your desk — one half-eaten, the others untouched, like maybe if you didn’t finish them, the moment wouldn’t end.

You stared at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The soft light of your desk lamp cast a pale circle around you, everything else fading into a blur of shadows. The world outside your dorm was silent. Even Hyojin was asleep now, curled under a mountain of blankets.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About them.

You opened your messages, fingers hesitating before typing:

Y/N

You didn’t have to do that. But… thank you. They were really good. My favorite, actually. I don’t hate you. Or San. I’m just… scared. Of what this means. Of what I might become if I let myself want it.

You paused.

Deleted the last line.

Rewrote it.

Y/N

I think I’m afraid that if I fall for you — both of you — I won’t know how to be myself anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the message, reread it once, twice. Your thumb hovered over the send button, a storm of emotion brimming just under your skin.

Then you locked your phone and set it face down.

It wasn’t time. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

You curled up under your blanket, heart still buzzing from the echo of Wooyoung’s quiet kindness and San’s patient silence.

And even though the message remained unsent, for the first time… you thought about what it would feel like to stop being afraid.

---

San couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting on his chest — right over the thread that hummed beneath his skin. It never stopped. Not since that day.

The moment it lit up — glowing bright red between him, Wooyoung, and you — something in him had shifted. Not like flipping a switch. More like discovering a second heartbeat he didn’t know he had.

And then you ran.

He didn’t blame you. Not really.

But the silence since then had been a strange kind of ache. Not sharp. Just there — constant, quiet, heavy. Like waiting for a storm that might never come, only clouds.

Wooyoung had tried to fill the space between you with light. San tried to respect the space at all.

But every day that passed, he caught himself watching doorways, scanning lecture halls, hoping for a glimpse. Hoping you'd look at them again the way you did, just before you fled — like your soul recognized something your fear wouldn’t let you reach for.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it instinctively — the thread always made him hope.

Nothing. Just a group chat notification. Someone sending memes. Wooyoung, probably.

He glanced at your name in his messages. Still unopened. Still unread.

Still… nothing.

San sat up, feet touching the cold floor. His wrist glowed softly in the dark, casting a faint red light across his palm.

He whispered, to no one, to maybe you, “I’d wait forever, if that’s what you need.”

Because it wasn’t about the thread.

It was about you. Choosing him. Choosing them.

And until then, he’d keep the space open. Quiet. Gentle.

Ready.

---

The café was already buzzing with early morning energy — espresso machines hissing, students half-awake and wrapped in hoodies and oversized scarves, soft indie music playing through the speakers. You stood in line, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, scrolling through your notes to mentally prep for your first class.

Then it hit you.

That now-familiar jolt. Not harsh, but unmistakable — a spark beneath your skin, dancing along the glowing thread.

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Still, you did — and there he was. San, standing just a few people behind you, hair messy from sleep and hoodie half-zipped like he’d just rolled out of bed and sprinted here.

Your breath caught.

You turned quickly, tugging your own hoodie up over your head and shrinking a little into yourself, silently pleading with the universe to let him not see you.

But the universe had other plans.

“Hey! Y/N.” His voice was bright, but not too loud. Casual. Like this was just any morning, any moment. “Let me get that for you.”

You turned halfway, offering him a sheepish smile, one hand wrapped around your phone like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already stepping forward and tapping his card before you could protest again. “Consider it as my apology for scaring you yesterday after class.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t me being scared.” You lied.

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Still. I figured coffee would be a safer follow-up.”

You glanced at him, searching for any signs of pressure, of expectation — but there was none. Just San. Open. Easy. Real.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, shifting your weight as the barista called out your name.

“For both?” he asked.

You nodded. “Mine and Hyojin’s. She’ll appreciate it.”

He smiled wider, but not in a flirty way — more like someone genuinely happy just to do something kind for someone they cared about.

As you reached for the drinks, your fingers brushed his — just for a second — and the thread pulsed gently between you.

You didn’t run this time.

And San didn’t comment on it. Didn’t ask for anything more.

He just said, “Hope your morning’s a little better now,” then stepped aside with a soft wave, giving you space to leave first.

And somehow, that simple act made your heart ache more than any grand gesture ever could.

You rushed back to the dorm in a hurried shuffle.

Hyojin was still wrapped in her blanket like a sleepy burrito when you returned, the TV already playing reruns of some old sitcom she liked to put on in the mornings — just enough background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You handed her the coffee.

She sat up immediately, eyes narrowing as she took the cup from your hands. “Wait… you didn’t buy this.”

You blinked, trying to play innocent. “What makes you say that?”

She gave you a look over the rim of her cup. “Because you always get the oat milk latte when you’re paying. This is almond milk. That’s a San move.”

You sighed, sinking into the beanbag chair across from her.

“…He was at the café.”

“And he paid?” she asked, eyebrows rising. “And you didn’t sprint out the door like someone lit your thread on fire?”

You threw a pillow at her. “It wasn’t like that.”

She laughed, catching the pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Okay, so tell me — what was it like, then?”

You hesitated. Chewed the inside of your cheek. The words felt fragile, like they might shatter if you spoke them too fast.

“It was… calm,” you said finally. “He saw me. Didn’t make a big deal. Just… offered to pay. No weird comments. No guilt-tripping. No soulmate speech.”

Hyojin nodded slowly, sipping her coffee like she was giving you space to unravel it all.

“And you know what’s weird?” you added, softer now. “It felt normal. Like we were just two people… being nice to each other. Not fate. Not pressure. Just—”

“San being San,” she finished for you.

You nodded, thumb running along the rim of your coffee cup.

“And… I didn’t run. I wanted to. At first. But then he smiled, and it wasn’t… intense or hopeful or anything dramatic. Just real. And I guess… I wanted to stay in that moment a little longer.”

Hyojin smiled gently, eyes warm. “That’s not nothing, Y/N.”

You nodded, a small flicker of something brave flickering in your chest.

“It’s not everything yet,” you whispered. “But maybe it’s a start.”

---

The smell of sizzling eggs and butter filled the dorm, warm and familiar. Wooyoung stood at the stove in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, humming quietly as he flipped pancakes with practiced ease.

The door opened behind him with a soft click.

San stepped in, cheeks slightly pink from the cold outside — or maybe from something else.

"Smells good," he said, dropping his bag by the couch.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder. “Got up early. Figured we could use a proper breakfast for once instead of vending machine muffins.”

San chuckled, toeing off his shoes. “You’re turning domestic on me.”

“I’m adorable like that,” Wooyoung said with a wink, flipping another pancake onto a plate. “So? Where were you this early?”

San leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling.

“I don’t want to make it sound like a competition,” he started, a teasing lilt to his voice, “but I had a nice meeting with Y/N.”

Wooyoung froze mid-motion, spatula hovering in the air. His head turned slowly, eyes wide.

“You what?”

San grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Ran into her by the cafe. She was alone. Didn’t bolt. We talked for a few minutes.”

Wooyoung put the spatula down a little too carefully.

“Was she… okay? Was she scared? Did she look like she wanted to leave? Did you freak her out?”

San laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “No. She was actually calm. Quiet, but not closed off. And…” He looked down, ears reddening slightly. “She was… cute.”

That made Wooyoung pause. Really pause.

He leaned back against the counter, hands resting on the edge as he stared down at the stove, lips pressed together. “I wish I’d been there.”

San glanced over at him, his smile softening. “You kind of were.”

Wooyoung looked up.

“She mentioned the muffins,” San said gently.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“I don’t want her to feel chased,” he said quietly. “I just… I miss her. And we barely even had her yet.”

San reached out, nudging Wooyoung’s arm.

“She’s not gone. She’s just… figuring it out. You were patient with me. You can be patient with her too.”

Wooyoung smiled at that — tired, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “For her? I can wait.”

And as he plated the last pancake and set the table for two, something in his chest settled. Because maybe slow was okay. Maybe slow was exactly what you needed.

---

Class had just ended, and students spilled out of the lecture hall like a slow-moving tide of tired bodies and caffeine breath. You adjusted your backpack, hoping to make a quiet escape down the side hallway—until you felt that buzz again.

The thread. Alive. Warm. And pulling in two directions at once.

You looked up and froze.

Wooyoung was leaning against one wall, arms crossed, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.

San was on the opposite wall, perfectly still, casually scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t clearly waiting for you, too.

You blinked.

They blinked.

Then both pushed off the wall at the same time.

“Y/N! I was just about to head to the café. Wanna walk with me?” Wooyoung beamed, already taking a half-step toward you.

San cleared his throat softly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to check out that new study space in the greenhouse. Thought you might like it.”

You stared at them.

They stared at each other.

Then back at you.

It was obvious what was happening. And it was also very obvious they hadn’t coordinated this.

Wooyoung smiled a little too wide. “You can’t even study with plants, San. What is she gonna do, photosynthesize her notes?”

San, calm as ever, didn’t even blink. “Some people find greenery relaxing. Unlike… a loud café full of undercooked croissants and overconfident baristas.”

“That barista was flirting with me,” Wooyoung shot back.

“Exactly,” San said.

You raised both hands, barely hiding your laugh. “Okay, okay, please stop fighting with each other in front of the academic building like I’m the final boss.”

They both quieted instantly. Then Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “We just… wanted to hang out with you. Not in a weird way. Not in a ‘soulmate pressure’ way. Just… you.”

San nodded. “We can walk you somewhere. Or nowhere. Or just… exist near you for a bit.”

You looked at them — standing there, trying so hard to not try too hard.

And it hit you again: they weren’t asking you to choose. They were just trying to be close. To be present. To be themselves around you, and hope you’d let yourself do the same.

“…Come on,” you said softly, starting to walk. “You can both walk with me. But no more competing, got it?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Define ‘competing.’”

San sighed. “He’s already losing.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something warmer, easier.

You didn’t say much as you walked between them — not yet — but you didn’t run either.

And for them, that was already a win.

The three of you walked along the tree-lined path that cut through campus, leaves crunching softly underfoot. The air smelled like autumn and coffee, and for once, the thread around your wrist wasn’t overwhelming — just a soft, steady pulse. Like background music you didn’t mind anymore.

Wooyoung was rambling about some club’s haunted house fundraiser — complete with inflatable ghosts and “jump scares that would definitely make San scream.”

You smiled, listening but not saying much. It was easy to let his voice fill the space, to let it feel normal.

Then there was a pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.

You glanced to your left. San had fallen a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, gaze distant. Thoughtful.

Wooyoung slowed too, looking back. “Hey, you good?”

San looked up and gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Wooyoung joked, nudging him lightly.

But San didn’t laugh. Not this time.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said softly, eyes still on the path ahead, “if maybe the reason soulmates exist… isn’t to force people together. But to remind them they can be seen.”

You stopped walking. Slowly.

So did Wooyoung.

San finally looked at you.

“Not just loved,” he added, “but… understood. The way you think no one ever will. That kind of scary, messy, real understanding.”

His voice didn’t waver, but something in it was raw. Honest.

“And I think…” He exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment. “That maybe you’re scared of the bond because it already feels like we see you. And that’s terrifying when you’ve spent so long trying to keep certain parts hidden.”

Your breath caught.

Wooyoung was unusually quiet beside you.

San didn’t step closer, didn’t reach out. He just stood there, his own thread glowing faintly against the falling dusk light, as if saying — I see you, and I’m still here.

“I’m sorry if that’s too much,” he added softly.

You shook your head, your voice low. “It’s not.”

It was everything.

And though you didn’t say another word the rest of the walk, something shifted. Not in the bond.

In you.

---

You sat on your bed, legs crossed under you, hoodie still on like a shield even though the room was warm.

Hyojin was at her desk, scribbling notes half-heartedly until she noticed you hadn’t said much since you got back. She turned in her chair, watching you over the top of her laptop with that familiar “I know something’s up” expression.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you pulled your legs in tighter and rested your chin on your knees. “San said something earlier.”

That got her full attention. “Oh?”

You nodded; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“He said…” You took a breath. “That maybe soulmates aren’t about forcing people together. That maybe they’re just about showing someone they can actually be seen. Not just loved but understood.”

Hyojin didn’t speak, waiting patiently like she always did when you needed time to untangle your thoughts.

“And he said he thought maybe I was scared because I already felt like they saw me.” You paused. “And he’s right.”

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a dorm heater.

You finally looked up at her, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t think anyone ever really could see me. I got used to keeping the real stuff hidden. Even from you sometimes.”

Hyojin didn’t flinch. She just stood up, walked over, and sat on the edge of your bed, nudging your foot with hers.

“You don’t have to be scared of being seen, Y/N. Not with them. Not with me. But it’s okay if you still are.”

You blinked fast, feeling your throat tighten.

“I didn’t run today,” you whispered.

Hyojin smiled softly. “I know.”

“And it didn’t feel like the world was ending. Just… heavy.”

She leaned over and rested her head on your shoulder. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide from the weight of being known.

---

It was later in the week when it happened.

You had a late class that let out just after sunset, and the campus was quiet in that sleepy kind of way — golden lights flickering on, students trailing back to their dorms with earbuds in and backpacks slung low.

You didn’t expect to see him there.

Wooyoung, sitting alone on one of the benches near the fountain outside the arts building, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds dangling around his neck. A takeout container sat next to him, mostly untouched.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps — and when he saw it was you, he smiled.

Not the usual bright Wooyoung grin. This one was softer. Tired.

You almost walked past him. Almost.

But something in you stopped. Turned. Sat beside him, even though your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did you.

Just the sound of the fountain and the wind brushing through the trees.

Then, finally—

“I always thought being soulmates with someone would fix something in me,” Wooyoung said quietly, gaze fixed on the water.

You looked at him, surprised by the weight in his voice.

“But it didn’t. You showed up, and everything still felt… confusing. Unfinished. Scary, even.”

He rubbed his thumb over the glowing thread on his wrist, the light faint but constant. “And I realized, maybe soulmates don’t fix you. Maybe they just… stand next to the broken parts and say, ‘I still want you anyway.’”

You felt your breath catch.

“I don’t want you to love me because you’re meant to,” he went on, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to love me because one day you choose to. Because you look at me and San, and you don’t see a bond — you see us. Messy, flawed, ridiculous… but real.”

He finally turned to you, eyes soft and so achingly open, like he wasn’t afraid of you seeing the cracks.

“And if that day never comes… I’ll still be glad I met you. I’ll still think you’re brave for even sitting here right now.”

His voice caught at the end, just slightly — enough to make your chest tighten.

For a heartbeat, it looked like he might cry.

But then he smiled. Just barely. A little sad, a little accepting. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear — like it was something he’d already accepted in the quietest parts of his heart.

“Even if you end up finding someone else… I will still think about this.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small for the weight of what he’d just given you — something so gentle, and yet so devastating.

You didn’t speak.

You reached out instead — hand brushing his, fingers trembling — and laced your pinky with his.

He looked down at the touch. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with words or jokes.

He just held on.

---

The sky was bruised with early morning light when you found yourself in the greenhouse.

You weren’t sure what pulled you there — maybe San’s voice echoing in your head from days ago, maybe the part of you that couldn’t stop thinking about the way Wooyoung had looked at you like he was letting you go just to make you feel free.

Maybe you were tired of being afraid.

The glass walls let in soft gold light, and the air smelled of damp earth and something alive. The space was quiet, warm. Peaceful.

San sat near the back, legs crossed beneath him on a bench, a book in his lap. He didn’t look surprised when you entered — like maybe he already knew you were coming.

You stood awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.

“I didn’t come to study,” you said.

He smiled faintly, setting the book aside. “I didn’t either.”

You sat across from him, the little table between you filled with scattered pages, succulents, and a small ceramic frog someone had left there weeks ago.

For a long time, you just looked at each other.

Then you spoke.

“Wooyoung told me he’d be okay if I didn’t choose you both,” you whispered. “Said he’d still be grateful. Even if I found someone else.”

San’s brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, but not with anger — with emotion.

“I think that broke my heart a little,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Because… he meant it.”

San nodded, slow and steady. “He did.”

You took a breath. It felt heavier than it should have. “I didn’t realize… how much love can look like letting go.”

San leaned forward, arms resting on the table, voice low. “That’s what makes it real. Not just the bond. Not fate. Choice.”

You looked at him, and this time, you didn’t shy away from his gaze.

“I’m scared that if I let you both in… you’ll see all the parts I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. And you’ll love me anyway. And then I won’t know who I am without that love.”

San’s eyes softened, his expression still and grounding — like he was holding space for you without trying to fix you.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “loving someone doesn’t erase who they are. It just gives them more room to be.”

You stared at him for a moment. “How are you so calm about this?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I’m not. I’ve just spent more time thinking about you than my fear.”

You looked away, overwhelmed.

But then you felt it — his hand, reaching out across the table, palm open. Not grabbing. Just waiting.

You didn’t think.

You placed your hand in his.

Warm.

Steady.

No pressure.

Just San.

And for the first time, you thought: maybe I can do this.

---

It started with a text.

San: We’re heading to get icecream in a bit. You’re welcome to join. No pressure. We’ll be at the parlor by the cafe.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea.

It was just… an open door.

You stared at the message longer than you needed to. Then you packed your bag and left before you could talk yourself out of it.

The icecream parlor was quiet — all hushed voices, the occasional sounds of the freezer running, and late-afternoon sun filtering in through tall windows. It cast a warm glow across the marbled tables and wooden floor, soft enough to make it feel like a different world.

Wooyoung looked up first when you approached.

He didn’t react dramatically — no wide smile, no flirty comment, just a soft blink of surprise followed by a warm, quiet grin. The kind that said you’re here without a single word.

San gave a small nod, already clearing a spot at the table between them.

You sat.

No one spoke for a while. Not in the way that felt awkward — in the way that felt comfortable.

San was already with you eating icecream as Wooyoung was ordering his.

You looked at them once Wooyoung sat down, San offered to pay for yours as a "Thank you for letting us take you here" gift.

At one point, Wooyoung offered you a bite of his icecream. San rolled his eyes thinking he was trying too hard. You glanced at both of them, your chest tightening a little — not with fear this time, but with something warmer.

There were no dramatic declarations. No glowing threads buzzing like sirens. Just the gentle presence of two people who wanted you close, even if it meant sitting in silence.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, you realized:

This — this space, this peace — was its own kind of love.

You didn’t say anything.

But you stayed.

And that, for now, was more than enough.

---

The walk back to your dorm was… peaceful.

Wooyoung talked about some ridiculous online quiz he took that said he was a golden retriever (he wasn’t even mad — just proud), while San chimed in occasionally with dry remarks that made both of you laugh harder than necessary. The thread around your wrist pulsed gently with their presence, but not in a demanding way — just there, like a heartbeat.

No fighting. No forcing. No fear.

Just three people walking home under the orange glow of streetlights.

When you reached your building, they didn’t linger.

“Thanks for coming today,” San said softly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung added, leaning back on his heels. “You have no idea how much that meant to us.”

You smiled. “It meant something to me too.”

You didn’t have to say more than that.

They nodded, like they understood.

Inside the dorm, you barely had the door shut behind you before Hyojin popped up from the couch, eyes wide with anticipation.

“You’re glowing,” she said instantly, pointing at you. “Suspiciously.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes. “I was literally just studying.” You lied. You were technically already on a first date with them eating Icecream.

“With two soulmates who are in love with you,” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows. “Don’t play coy with me. I’m emotionally invested in this fanfiction of a life you’re living.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little tired.

“I’m serious though,” she said, walking into the kitchenette. “You need a change of scenery. Some dopamine. Some dancing. Good timing — Yunho and Yeosang are throwing a party tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

You blinked. “Yunho and Yeosang?”

“Yep.” She tossed you a granola bar. “One’s an extrovert golden retriever in human form — basically Wooyoung but louder — and the other’s a soft-spoken intellectual who wears sweaters even when it’s 90 degrees. He literally pulls Yunho away from dance circles by his collar.”

“…So, you and me, but more chaotic.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Yunho’s been asking if I’d bring you around anyway. Says Yeosang needs new people to judge quietly.”

You gave her a look.

“Come on,” she said, flopping onto the couch again. “You’ve spent weeks hiding. You deserve one night of music, weird drinks, and watching some guys do the worm badly on a hardwood floor.”

You hesitated.

And then… nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s go to a party.”

Hyojin beamed. “Hell yeah.”

---

The music was way louder than you expected.

As soon as you stepped into the off-campus house, the bass hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. Lights glowed warm and golden, laughter spilled from the kitchen, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the floor by the entryway — probably juice, possibly regret.

Hyojin tugged your wrist. “Okay, rules,” she shouted over the music. “Don’t drink the neon stuff. Don’t make eye contact with anyone doing interpretive dance. And if Yunho challenges you to karaoke — run.”

You laughed, nerves dissolving into adrenaline.

That’s when he appeared.

Yunho, tall and glowing like someone physically made of sunshine and Red Bull, bounded toward you both with open arms. “HYOJIN! You brought your mysterious roommate!”

“She’s not mysterious,” Hyojin shouted back. “She’s emotionally complicated!”

You gave a weak wave. “Hi.”

Yunho spun dramatically and pointed to the guy standing stiffly behind him, sipping from a plain paper cup like he didn’t want to be perceived.

“And this is Yeosang. He hates this.”

Yeosang gave you a polite nod and a “hello” so soft it nearly got swallowed by the music.

“I don’t hate this,” he muttered. “I’m simply observing this social chaos with anthropological detachment.”

“I once caught him reading Plato in a hot tub,” Yunho said proudly, already turning away like he hadn’t just exposed Yeosang’s deepest philosophical sins.

Yeosang stared ahead, expression perfectly blank, save for the smallest twitch of his eye. “…He tells everyone that.”

You tried — tried — not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

Before either of you could recover, Yunho took off like a rocket across the crowded living room, yelling, “Mingi!” like it was both a greeting and a battle cry.

Your eyes followed him just in time to see him tackle a very surprised — but delighted — Mingi onto the floor. The two of them dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, limbs flailing as people parted around them like it was normal for grown men to recreate WWE in the middle of a house party.

You glanced sideways at Yeosang, who hadn’t moved an inch, his cup still delicately held in one hand as he watched his best friend roll around on the hardwood floor.

“…Is he?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

Yeosang sipped his water like it was a fine wine, voice deadpan. “Drunk? Yes.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as a laugh slipped out.

Yeosang’s lips quirked, just slightly. “He gets like this when he’s happy. Or when he’s had anything mixed with blue raspberry.”

“Both, then?”

“Undoubtedly.”

The two of you stood there, quietly united in mutual secondhand embarrassment, watching Mingi attempt to pin Yunho while yelling, “SURRENDER TO YOUR DESTINY.”

You leaned in slightly. “Should we… help?”

Yeosang took another sip. “No. They’d just drag us into it.”

You nodded. “Smart man.”

For a moment, the party seemed to blur in the background — too loud, too fast — but right there, beside Yeosang and his cup of water, everything felt still. Safe. Strangely comforting.

And then a voice called from behind you—

“Y/N! San’s about to lose at flip cup, come watch!”

Wooyoung, of course.

Yeosang sighed lightly. “Good luck.”

You smirked. “Want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’m the designated plant guardian tonight. Someone has to keep the fern alive.”

You left him to it, weaving through the chaos toward the rest of the night — but not without glancing back and seeing Yeosang gently move a party cup away from the fern like it was sacred.

You were definitely coming back to talk to him later.

You didn’t mean to start a conversation with the guy in the flannel.

He’d bumped into you near the kitchen, offered a quick apology, and then started chatting about the playlist. He was funny. Not in a flirty, overbearing way — just easy to talk to. You weren’t thinking about anything beyond the song and the shared complaint about how warm the room had gotten.

But across the room, Wooyoung saw it happen.

He’d just returned from cheering San on in an incredibly one-sided flip cup match (San was losing. With dignity.), when he spotted you near the counter, laughing softly as Flannel Guy leaned in a little closer — just a little — to say something in your ear.

Wooyoung paused mid-step, the grin on his face faltering for half a second.

He wasn’t angry.

But something in his chest tightened.

He knew — he knew — you weren’t his. Not in the possessive way. Not in the way soulmates get written in stories, where the bond means instant belonging. That wasn’t how he saw you.

But he also knew how hard you’d worked to be open. How slowly you’d let your walls down. How every glance, every conversation, every inch of closeness with him and San had been earned with time, not thread.

And now Flannel Guy was standing too close, and you were smiling in that soft, slightly shy way Wooyoung had come to treasure like a secret.

San appeared beside him, holding two drinks. He followed Wooyoung’s line of sight, instantly zeroing in.

“That him?” he asked, tone even but eyes sharp.

“Who?”

“The guy you’re absolutely not staring at like he’s a threat to your entire bloodline.”

Wooyoung blinked, then snorted. “Okay, dramatic.”

San handed him one of the drinks. “You are going over there?”

“Nope,” he said quickly, then added, “Yes.”

He didn’t storm across the room. Didn’t interrupt.

Just appeared next to you, sliding into the space beside you with practiced ease, that trademark Wooyoung smile back in place — charming, casual, just a little too bright.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm. “You vanished. Thought maybe you were pulled into a karaoke cult.”

You looked up, surprised. “I was just—”

“Talking about the playlist,” Flannel Guy offered, clearly catching the shift but trying to play it cool. “You’re her friend?”

Wooyoung glanced at you, then back at him. “You could say that.”

The guy nodded, but the energy had shifted. You could feel it — subtle, but unmistakable.

Flannel Guy made a polite exit a moment later, something about checking on his friends, and you turned to Wooyoung with a lifted brow.

“You, okay?”

Wooyoung shrugged, sipping his drink. “Fine. Just… don’t want you getting stuck talking to a guy who thinks ‘early Drake’ is a personality.”

You raised a brow, amused. “That’s a very specific accusation.”

“I know his kind,” he said seriously. “They carry acoustic guitars to bonfires.”

You laughed — but you didn’t move away.

And Wooyoung smiled at that.

Just a little.

The party had started to wind down.

The music was still thumping, but slower now, more background than center stage. People drifted toward couches, clustered in corners, or disappeared into late-night walks and whispered laughter.

You found Wooyoung and San on the back patio — Wooyoung perched on the arm of a bench, San leaning against the railing, both of them quiet in that familiar way they got when the world slowed down around them.

They looked up when you stepped outside, your expression unreadable.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Can I talk to you both for a second?”

Wooyoung blinked, then stood up straighter. San gave a small nod, eyes steady on you.

You walked past them, to the far end of the patio where the light didn’t quite reach — private, but not dramatic. They followed, like they would’ve gone anywhere you asked.

You turned to face them, heart hammering in your chest.

“I need to say something,” you began, voice quiet but sure. “And I don’t know if it’s going to come out perfectly, but…”

You exhaled, looking between the two of them.

“I see you. Both of you.”

They didn’t speak — didn’t move — but something in their eyes softened.

“I see the way you’ve been holding back. The way you’ve waited for me to be ready. How you’ve never pushed. How you’ve been patient and kind and just… here.”

You looked down for a second, then back up, meeting San’s gaze first.

“You listen more than you speak. You give space even when it probably hurts to. You look at me like I’m already enough, even when I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

Then to Wooyoung.

“You make everything feel lighter. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. And even when you’re hurting, you still show up like you’re the one trying to make me feel safe.”

Wooyoung’s lips parted, a quiet breath catching in his throat.

“I know this bond is supposed to mean something,” you continued. “But you two are the ones who made it feel real. Not fate. You.”

They were both completely still now — not out of shock, but because they didn’t want to break the moment.

“I’m scared. I’m still scared,” you admitted, voice cracking just a little. “But not of you. Not anymore. I think I’ve just been scared of being loved the right way. Of being known.”

You let the silence sit for a second.

And then: “But I think I’m ready to stop running.”

Wooyoung was the first to speak — barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to jump in all at once. We’re not going anywhere.”

San stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the steady calm of his presence. “We’ll meet you wherever you are.”

You nodded slowly; eyes misty.

And then — for the first time — you reached out, you bridged the gap.

You took both of their hands.

One in each of yours.

And when the threads pulsed between all three of you, soft and steady, no one flinched.

---

The dorm was quiet when you got back.

Hyojin had left a note on the whiteboard stuck to the door: “Crashing at a friend. Try not to emotionally combust without me. 💖”

You smiled faintly as you slipped inside, flipping on the little lamp near your desk. The overhead lights stayed off — too harsh for how full your chest already felt.

Wooyoung and San followed behind you, quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward or heavy, just… comfortable. Familiar. Like the air after a storm.

You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, curling up on the edge of your bed as they settled in, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, chin resting on the edge of the mattress. San leaned back in your desk chair, spinning slowly, rhythmically, his gaze soft as it drifted between the two of you.

No one spoke for a while.

And it was nice.

Eventually, Wooyoung broke the silence. “I missed this,” he said, voice low, like anything louder might shatter it.

You looked at him. “We didn’t really have this yet.”

He smiled. “Still missed it.”

San added quietly, “This is the first time we’ve all felt… aligned. Together. Without fear between us.”

You nodded slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.

There was no grand gesture. No dramatic music. Just the three of you sitting in the soft haze of a new beginning.

Eventually, Wooyoung nudged your leg with his elbow. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his.

At the same time, San stood and walked over, crouching beside the bed on your other side. You held your free hand up, and he took it without hesitation.

And just like that — the three of you, linked quietly, hearts in sync — you sat there in the dim dorm light.

No pressure.

No fear.

Just a beginning that felt soft. Safe. Real.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run from it.

San turned toward you gently, his hand still holding yours — grounding, warm, sure. You met his gaze, and something inside you melted at the way he was looking at you. Like you were something sacred. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be this close.

You took a breath, your heart fluttering like soft wings in your chest.

Then, without thinking — no overanalyzing, no running — you leaned in.

And San met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid to break you. But underneath that caution was something deeper — a longing that made your fingers tighten just slightly around his.

You felt him breathe against you.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And you let him.

You wanted to.

San’s heart was beating so fast you could almost feel the rhythm through his skin, like it was trying to leap out of his chest and into yours.

Then—

A very dramatic throat-clear.

“Okay, my turn,” Wooyoung announced, tapping San’s shoulder like he was cutting in at a dance.

San broke the kiss slowly, his face flushed and dazed, as he turned to look at his best friend.

“You’re seriously—”

Wooyoung was already leaning in, eyes twinkling but filled with something sincere behind the playfulness. “It’s only fair.”

You turned your head toward him, and before you could say anything, he kissed you too — but not the same.

Where San had been slow and steady, Wooyoung was soft and sweet and just a little smug about finally getting his moment. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his lips brushing yours like he’d dreamed of it but never dared to rush it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Worth the wait.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat.

And then San — who still hadn’t let go of your hand — leaned his head against your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate how smooth he is sometimes,” he muttered.

You laughed, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming warmth, the safety, the sheer realness of it all.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right here, in the quiet warmth of your dorm, with both of them beside you — one grounded, one glowing, both yours — you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t afraid anymore.

You leaned down in bed with them as they both held you in their arms from opposite sides.

---

The sunlight slipped through the blinds, golden and slow, warming the room just enough to make getting up feel illegal.

You were barely conscious, your face smushed into a pillow, your body tangled between limbs that weren’t entirely your own. One of San’s arms was looped around your waist, his breath soft against the back of your neck. Wooyoung’s legs were thrown over both of yours like he’d lost a battle with gravity sometime during the night and just made peace with it.

There was a quiet creak — the door opening.

“Morninggg—” Hyojin’s voice cut off mid-yawn, followed by a beat of silence.

You blinked slowly, groggily lifting your head and squinting at her like a confused meerkat peeking out of a blanket nest.

Hyojin’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“Well, well, well,” she said, arms crossed. “Looks like Y/N got herself a whole cat harem.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a muffled, exhausted noise.

San groaned softly behind you, pulling the blanket higher over all of you without even opening his eyes. Wooyoung cracked one eye open, saw Hyojin, and mumbled, “This isn’t a harem. It’s a heat-efficient cuddle pod.”

Hyojin snorted. “Sure, okay. Let me know when you start charging admission.”

And with that, she shut the door with a cackle, disappearing down the hall like the menace she was.

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, caught somewhere between embarrassment and the warm, sleepy contentment of knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

San hummed softly. “Did she say cat harem?”

“Don’t ask,” you mumbled.

Wooyoung shifted, nestling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “We should’ve locked the door.”

“Next time,” you sighed.

Neither of them moved.

Neither did you.

Because honestly? It was kind of the perfect morning.

The day started simple enough.

You'd suggested brunch. Wooyoung had offered to cook. San immediately declared he would supervise, which actually meant doing absolutely nothing useful. Hyojin, coffee mug in hand, sat on the counter like a queen surveying her kingdom of idiots.

“What are you making again?” you asked, tying your hair up and peeking into the fridge.

“Kimchi fried rice, soft scrambled eggs, and maybe some pancakes,” San replied, already slicing scallions with precision.

“Wow,” Hyojin said, sipping her coffee. “You’re really out here being a better partner than half the men on this campus.”

Wooyoung spun dramatically toward her. “Excuse you, I am also contributing.”

“To the chaos,” San muttered without looking up.

Wooyoung gasped. “I am the heart of this kitchen! The ambience! The charisma! The—”

“You’re the reason we’re out of clean spatulas,” you pointed out, holding up the one he used last night to “mix” instant ramen seasoning directly in the bag.

He winked. “Innovative, not destructive.”

You rolled your eyes.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was trying to focus, but San kept stealing bites of the chopped kimchi and turning up the volume on his “Cooking with Soulmates” playlist, which currently featured 2000s boy bands and at least one anime opening.

“San,” Wooyoung said patiently, “please stop dancing while I’m using a knife.”

“You can’t stop the rhythm, bro.”

You laughed as Wooyoung gave you a look like, see what I deal with?

Then—sizzle, pop, clatter.

San had turned too fast and knocked a bowl of eggs onto the floor.

“Oops.”

Wooyoung dropped his head onto the counter.

Hyojin didn’t even blink. “There it is. I was wondering when chaos would strike.”

Wooyoung crouched down to clean it up with a dramatic sigh. “I’m too pretty for this world.”

“Too clumsy, you mean,” you said, grabbing paper towels and helping.

Despite the mess, laughter kept bubbling up. The apartment was full of it — warm, genuine, the kind that made you forget about everything else. By the time the food was finally plated (only slightly delayed by Wooyoung burning one pancake into a hockey puck), the four of you were crowded around the table, mismatched mugs and all.

San looked over at you, smile soft.

“You good?”

You nodded, already reaching for your chopsticks. “Yeah. I’m really good.”

And as you listened to Hyojin roast Wooyoung for the third time that morning while he fake-cried into his orange juice, and San calmly ignored them both while handing you the best parts of the kimchi rice—

You realized this was your new normal.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

It happened on a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where the sky was impossibly blue, students were sprawled out on the quad like sleepy cats in the sun, and the stress of midterms hung just slightly less heavy in the air because someone was handing out free donuts by the library steps.

You’d just finished your psych lecture, notebook tucked under your arm, earbuds half-in. San had texted to say he and Wooyoung were waiting for you by the big tree near the fountain — the one you always ended up circling like a moth on days you didn’t want to head straight to class.

You spotted them instantly.

San, legs crossed in the grass, flipping through his annotated copy of something you definitely weren’t going to read unless threatened. Wooyoung, lying flat on his back beside him, sunglasses on, hoodie hiked up just enough to show the thread on his wrist glowing warm in the daylight.

When you approached, Wooyoung sat up. “There’s the smartest person in our polycule.”

“We’re not—” you started, but San just smirked and patted the spot beside him.

You sat down between them, letting your bag slide off your shoulder.

San casually reached over to tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your jaw for a beat longer than necessary.

You froze for half a second. Not because you didn’t like it — but because people were around. Out here, in the open.

San’s hand dropped, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

But Wooyoung saw it. Saw you.

And without saying a word, he reached out and slid his fingers through yours.

No big gesture. No loud announcement. Just a simple act of affection.

And you didn’t pull away.

You let him hold your hand, and you leaned a little into San’s side.

Someone nearby whistled. Another person did that thing where they nudge their friend like, “Look, it’s the soulmate trio.”

You didn’t run.

You didn’t hide.

You just smiled, cheeks a little warm, heart a little full.

“PDA level one unlocked,” Wooyoung whispered proudly.

“Don’t make it weird,” San murmured, but he was smiling too.

---

It was after your late lab, and the sky had dipped into that perfect indigo blue — the kind where the stars were just barely starting to show, and the streetlights cast soft halos on the brick paths winding through campus.

San and Wooyoung had waited for you outside, like always.

Wooyoung had your favorite drink in hand — slightly melted but still sweet — and San had that patient look on his face, the one that said take your time, we’re not in a rush.

You walked between them, your bag slung over one shoulder, all three of you heading toward the front gates where Wooyoung had parked his bike like a chaotic gremlin on two wheels.

It was quiet. Not awkward — just that kind of peace you’d learned to love. The kind that only came from being around people who didn’t need to fill the silence to feel close.

You passed the student center — a few people milling around, sitting on steps, laughing in small groups. Someone waved at Wooyoung. San nodded to a guy from one of his lit classes.

And then you stopped.

Not because of anything specific — no grand thought, no particular reason.

Just… because you felt it.

You turned toward Wooyoung first, reaching out to brush a bit of his hair away from his eyes where the wind had pushed it.

He blinked, lips parting slightly, like he was about to make a joke — something light, something very him.

But you didn’t let him.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Right there, in the middle of campus, under the glow of a streetlight.

Soft. Sweet. Real.

His breath caught — just for a second — and then he kissed you back, one hand resting lightly on your waist like he was afraid to hold too tight.

When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, stunned, lips still parted.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I wasn’t— That was—”

“I know,” you said softly.

San, behind you, let out the softest exhale of a laugh — warm and fond.

“You’re not even gonna warn us anymore, huh?” he teased gently.

You turned, reaching for his hand. “It just felt right.”

And it did.

Not because of the thread.

Not because of the bond.

But because it was you. And them. And this life you were slowly building, piece by piece, kiss by kiss.

---

It was later that night, after the campus had quieted and the stars had taken over the sky completely.

San walked you back to your dorm — not because he had to, but because he always did when it was just the two of you. The quiet walks had become a thing between you. No pressure. No rush. Just matching footsteps and the occasional shoulder bump under the moonlight.

Neither of you had brought up the kiss yet.

Not the one with Wooyoung.

Not the way it had happened — publicly, openly — like your heart had just decided it was done hiding.

You unlocked the door to your dorm, letting it click behind you softly, and dropped your bag onto the floor with a tired sigh.

San leaned against the wall beside your desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his head slightly downturned like he was thinking through every word before he even said it.

You turned to him, waiting.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“That kiss today,” he said softly, not looking at you just yet, “it wasn’t mine. And I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

You blinked, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Not because I was jealous,” he added quickly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “But because… it was real. And I’ve never seen you look so sure before. So free.”

You stepped closer, slowly.

“I was,” you said. “I am.”

San smiled — that small, quiet smile that didn’t need to be wide to mean everything.

“I’ve been waiting for you to let yourself want us,” he whispered. “Not just accept the bond. Not just stay. But want.”

You were close enough now to touch. You reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering at his temple.

“I do,” you said, just as quietly. “Want you.”

That was all it took.

San leaned in, slow, searching your face one last time — like he needed to see you give him permission even after hearing the words.

You closed the space for him.

The kiss was soft. Warmer than the first one. Deeper. Calmer. It didn’t burn, it settled — like sinking into something safe.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

“Feels different when it’s just us,” you whispered.

San nodded, lips brushing yours again as he spoke.

“It always does.”

It was raining when you arrived at their dorm.

Not the dramatic, thunderous kind — just a gentle, steady rain that made the windows blur and the world feel slower, quieter. San had texted you earlier: “Come over. Stay the night. Bring your comfiest hoodie.”

So you did.

Wooyoung opened the door before you could even knock, like he’d been waiting with his ear pressed to it. He was wearing pajama pants and one of San’s old t-shirts, and his smile lit up the dim hallway like sunshine in a storm.

“You’re here,” he said, and it wasn’t a question — it was a confirmation of something he’d been hoping for all day.

You stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your hoodie as San appeared behind him, hair damp from a shower, holding a mug of tea that he wordlessly handed to you.

“Chamomile,” he said. “For settling in.”

That was exactly what this night was — settling in.

No pressure. No grand gestures. Just warmth.

The dorm lights were low. A candle flickered on the windowsill — something cinnamon-sweet and comforting. The sound of rain tapping against the glass filled the quiet spaces between your words.

Wooyoung made popcorn — burned the first batch and blamed the microwave. San changed the playlist three times before settling on soft acoustic songs. You curled up on the bed between them, a blanket draped over all three of you, legs tangled and laughter easy.

At one point, Wooyoung tried to explain the plot of a movie he only half-watched last week, and San kept correcting him with actual facts until Wooyoung gave up and fake-sulked into your shoulder.

You kissed the top of his head. Just because you could now.

San was leaning against the wall behind you, fingers lazily tracing shapes on your thigh beneath the blanket. He wasn’t saying much — but his presence wrapped around you like gravity. Quiet, grounding, always there.

Eventually, the conversation faded, the rain still whispering outside, the playlist down to nothing but soft instrumentals.

You shifted, nestling closer to both of them, and whispered, “This feels like home.”

Wooyoung hummed sleepily, half-asleep already. “That’s because it is.”

San kissed your temple. “You’re not visiting anymore,” he murmured. “You’re just… with us.”

And that night — wrapped in their warmth, the bond humming quiet and content — you believed it.

---

The rain had stopped sometime in the early morning.

The world outside the dorm window was still, soaked and silver-blue in the soft pre-dawn light. Inside, it was warmer — cocooned in quiet breaths and shared blankets, the air heavy with sleep and something else.

You lay between them in the tangle of sheets, Wooyoung’s arm draped lazily over your waist, San’s fingers still linked with yours from the night before. None of you had spoken in hours. Not even in whispers. Just soft sighs, slow heartbeats, a peace so deep it didn’t need words.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was a feeling — deep in your chest, blooming behind your ribs like light warming the darkest part of you.

The thread.

That red, pulsing thread you’d feared for so long.

It tightened.

Not in a choking, panicked way. Not like it was pulling you in.

More like it was settling. Finding its shape around the three of you. Completing a loop that had taken its time, been patient, never forced you — just waited.

A quiet click, almost metaphysical — like the final piece falling into place.

You felt it hum beneath your skin, and this time, instead of fear, you felt complete.

You shifted slightly, just enough to see both of them. San stirred first, eyes still half-lidded but aware. Wooyoung blinked slowly, sleep still soft around the edges of him.

“…Did you feel that?” you whispered.

San nodded, voice gravelly. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung’s smile was slow, drowsy, genuine. “Finally.”

None of you moved to sit up. None of you needed to.

You just breathed together, wrapped in each other — the bond no longer glowing, but settled.

No more tugging. No more questions.

Just quiet connection.

A single thread. Three hearts.

And everything that came next.

•

A/N: Again! I hope you enjoyed :3 It is sort of my first soulmate au story and I'm fairly new so let me know how I did ^^ (I tried ;'3)

[goldfades]

in her younger days, they called her delta dawn; prettiest woman you ever laid eyes on

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 8.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (requested: Paige Bueckers x Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader reader since she might be going to the Wings) when paige is drafted to the dallas wings, she knows her life is about to change, but she doesn’t expect you. as a dallas cowboys cheerleader with your own set of rules and boundaries, the last thing you need is a distraction—especially not in the form of the star wnba player who seems to turn every gaze in the room. but as the season progresses and paths cross under the texan sun, paige's world of fast breaks and buzzer-beaters collides with yours, leaving neither of you the same.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff! paige teasing the hell out of reader, description of homophobia, the dcc being sweet(? whoa), one mention of man flirting w reader (EUGHHH), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | here's 8k of a tease!paige fic for yall... i hope yall forgive me for the last 3 soulcrushing fics 🫶🏼😘

You’ve always said you’d never date an athlete.

It’s a rule born of practicality, not bitterness. Athletes move fast—on the court, on the field, and in life. Your job as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader already demands a fine balance of composure and charm. The last thing you need is the whirlwind of someone else’s high-stakes career bleeding into your own meticulously crafted routine.

But tonight, standing under the hazy glow of the American Airlines Center lights, that rule wavers.

You’re here for one of those PR crossover events—a meet-and-greet between the Dallas Wings and the Cowboys organization, complete with forced smiles and photo ops. It’s the kind of gig you’ve done a hundred times, one where you’re used to being admired at arm’s length by players who rarely look past the sparkle of your uniform. You’re used to their lingering glances, their empty flirtations, and their assumption that you’ll fall in line with the rest of their carefully constructed narrative.

Paige Bueckers doesn’t look at you like that.

You notice her the moment she walks in, an air of effortless confidence preceding her like a tidal wave. She’s all sharp cheekbones and easy laughter, blending seamlessly into the room while somehow standing apart. Her presence feels unintentional, like she didn’t mean to be so magnetic but couldn’t help it anyway.

You try not to stare, but when her eyes catch yours—crystal-clear and curious—you know you’ve already lost.

"You're with the cheerleaders, right?" she asks, her voice low enough to feel like a secret, despite the bustling crowd around you. There’s no pretense in her tone, no undercurrent of ego or assumption. It’s disarming, the way she asks like she’s genuinely interested, not just making small talk.

"That’s right," you reply, lifting your chin with practiced ease. "And you’re with the Wings."

Her smile tilts, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the room. "Guess that makes us teammates now. Sort of."

You tell yourself it’s just a conversation. Just an introduction. But deep down, you already know—it’s the kind of beginning that doesn’t let you walk away unchanged.

The noise of the event fades into the background, dulled to a steady hum that makes it easier to focus on Paige’s voice—and the way she leans just slightly toward you, as if shielding the moment from the room around you.

“Teammates, huh?” you reply, arching a brow and forcing a practiced indifference into your voice. “I don’t know if standing in the same room counts as teamwork.”

She chuckles, low and warm. “Guess we’ll have to work on our chemistry, then.”

It’s a simple remark, delivered with the kind of ease that shouldn’t make your cheeks feel warm. But it does, and the sensation creeps up faster than you can stop it. You glance to the side, pretending to check on one of your teammates who’s caught in a conversation with a reporter, but the smirk on Paige’s face tells you she’s already noticed.

“You’re blushing,” she says, not bothering to hide her amusement.

“No, I’m not.” You shoot back quickly, the denial sharper than you intend. You straighten your posture, willing the heat in your face to cool. “It’s warm in here. Lights and all.”

“Sure,” Paige says, drawing the word out like she doesn’t believe you for a second. Her grin widens, and she takes a slow sip of her water, somehow managing to make even that look like a calculated move.

You cross your arms, trying to steady yourself. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Flirt with strangers at PR events.”

Paige lets out a soft laugh, her head tilting slightly as she considers your words. “Only the ones who pretend not to notice.”

The nerve of her. You fight the urge to look directly at her, keeping your gaze focused on the crowd instead. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Right. And you’re also not blushing.” She leans in just enough for her voice to lower, her next words meant only for you. “But you are.”

Your resolve cracks slightly, enough for a small, involuntary laugh to escape. You quickly recover, shaking your head as you fix her with a look that you hope reads unimpressed—but the way Paige’s smirk deepens makes you think you’re failing miserably.

“You seem awfully confident for someone who just got here,” you say, trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters.

Paige shrugs, her shoulders moving in an easy rhythm that matches the cadence of her voice. “I’m just observant. And, you know, good at reading plays.”

“Plays?”

“Yeah,” she says, her grin turning almost playful now. “Like how you keep crossing your arms when you talk to me. Defense mechanism.”

You uncross your arms immediately, regretting the move the second her smirk shifts into something closer to triumph.

“See?” she teases. “I was right.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, though the words come out more like a laugh.

“And yet,” Paige says, leaning back just enough to give you a moment’s reprieve, “you’re still talking to me.”

She’s not wrong, but you don’t let yourself linger on that thought. Instead, you square your shoulders, offering her a saccharine smile that feels like a small victory. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, though her tone suggests she doesn’t believe that either.

Before you can respond, one of your teammates waves you over, motioning for you to join the rest of the group as the event shifts into its next stage. You give Paige a tight nod, as if to signal that the conversation is over, and turn to walk away.

“Hey,” she calls after you, her voice cutting through the din like it’s meant just for you.

You glance back, already halfway across the room.

“See you around, teammate.”

It’s casual, almost lazy, the way she says it. But the spark in her eyes as she meets your gaze makes it feel anything but.

You don’t reply. Instead, you turn back toward your teammates, heart pounding against your ribs in a way that you’re certain Paige Bueckers has no right to cause.

The next day dawns like any other—a pale sliver of sunlight spilling through the blinds, the soft hum of your alarm shaking you from sleep. Your phone buzzes with a notification as you swipe to silence the alarm: a practice reminder from the squad captain, a half-hour earlier than usual.

You groan quietly, already feeling the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. Between your nine-to-five at the PR firm and cheer practice, your days rarely allow room for indulgence, let alone distractions.

Except today, there’s a distraction.

She flits through your mind the way sunbeams catch on the windshield during your drive to work—brief but impossible to ignore. Paige’s teasing smile, the easy way she leaned toward you as if she had all the time in the world to figure you out. You shake your head as you merge onto the freeway, cranking up the music to drown out the thought.

You’re good at focus. You have to be.

By the time you clock in, you’ve managed to push Paige into the back of your mind, hidden behind the mountain of emails that demand your attention. Meetings stretch into the afternoon, punctuated by a working lunch where you barely taste your food. Coworkers buzz about the latest office gossip, but you’re laser-focused on the client presentation you’ve been perfecting for weeks.

The hours blur together, and when you glance at the clock, it’s already 4:45. Just enough time to dart home, change into your uniform, and make it to practice.

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader practice facility is a world unto itself—bright, sterile, and unforgiving. The walls echo with sharp counts, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, and the biting critique of your coaches.

“Sharper arms, everyone! This isn’t a yoga class!”

You’ve been here long enough to tune out the tone and focus on the instruction, but it doesn’t mean the sting doesn’t hit when it’s directed at you. “You’re late on the second count, [Y/N]! Fix it, or you’re doing it alone!”

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply automatically, forcing the strain out of your voice. You adjust your footing, throw yourself into the next routine, and pretend you don’t feel your muscles screaming in protest.

Cheerleading at this level is a game of precision and endurance. Perfection isn’t just the expectation—it’s the bare minimum. Your coach’s voice drills into your head like a metronome, keeping you in line as sweat drips down your back.

And yet, even as you push through the routine for the third, fourth, and fifth time, Paige creeps back into your thoughts.

Her smirk, her voice, the way her laugh felt like a secret just for you. You bite your lip, snapping yourself back to the present. Distractions like this could cost you—your spot, your reputation, everything you’ve worked for.

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” the coach finally calls, her sharp tone softening just enough to feel like a reprieve. “Clean up the routine and be ready to run it full-out tomorrow. Dismissed.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and head toward the lockers, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

“You’re quiet today,” your teammate Dana says as she falls into step beside you.

“I’m always quiet,” you reply, but she shakes her head.

“Not like this. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She smirks knowingly, bumping your shoulder with hers. “I saw you talking to Paige Bueckers last night.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your expression neutral. “It was nothing. Just small talk.”

“Oh, really?” Dana drawls, clearly not buying it. “She looked pretty interested for it to be just ‘small talk.’”

“She’s friendly. That’s all.” You tug open your locker, keeping your voice steady, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you.

Dana’s grin widens. “Uh-huh. Friendly. Right.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “What do you want me to say? She was just being nice.”

“Sure. And you weren’t blushing at all.”

“I wasn’t,” you mutter, brushing past her, but Dana catches your arm, spinning you around just enough to read your face.

“You totally were,” she says, laughing. “I knew it. You’ve got a thing for her.”

“I don’t,” you insist, though the words feel flimsy even to you.

Dana studies you for a moment, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I think you should go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Her. Paige. She seems cool, and you...” She pauses, shrugging. “You deserve to let someone in for once.”

You open your mouth to argue, to insist that you’re too busy, that it’s not practical, that Paige is just a passing thought. But the words don’t come. Instead, you nod absently, murmuring a quick, “See you tomorrow,” before heading out into the cool evening air.

As you drive home, Paige’s voice lingers in your mind, weaving through the cracks of your carefully constructed resolve. You don’t want to admit it—not to Dana, not to yourself—but something about her feels different.

And no matter how hard you try to focus on the road, the echo of her teasing smile keeps pulling you back.

Paige’s day started like most others: early alarms, cold showers, and an endless loop of drills designed to sharpen her skills to a razor’s edge. Practice with the team wasn’t just a routine—it was a second language, something she could move through on instinct alone.

But today, instinct wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering.

She tried to focus on the sound of sneakers squeaking on the court, the coach’s whistle cutting through the air, and the weight of the ball in her hands. Still, her thoughts kept drifting—back to the sharpness in your voice, the way your eyes flitted everywhere but her when she leaned in, and that faint blush you tried so hard to hide.

“Paige!”

The sharp call of her name jolted her out of her thoughts, and she turned just in time to see Aariyah toss her the ball. She caught it, but not without a stumble.

“Yo, where’s your head at today?” Aariyah asked, crossing her arms as Paige dribbled toward her.

“Nowhere,” Paige lied, attempting a casual shrug. She passed the ball back, forcing herself to stay in the present.

Her teammates weren’t convinced. Throughout the rest of practice, they kept stealing glances her way, whispering to each other when they thought she wasn’t looking. Paige pretended not to notice, but she could feel the weight of their curiosity as the session dragged on.

By the time practice ended, her nerves were frayed. She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed her team into the locker room, the sound of banter and laughter filling the space.

“So,” Aariyah started, leaning against a row of lockers. “What’s up? You’ve been weird all day.”

“Nothing,” Paige said, but Aariyah raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“It’s not nothing,” Nyla chimed in, pulling her hoodie over her head. “You’ve been distracted since last night. What happened at that PR thing?”

Paige hesitated, debating whether to say anything at all. But the memory of your blush, your quick-witted deflections, and the way you seemed both intrigued and guarded all at once—it was enough to push her over the edge.

“Alright,” she admitted, leaning against the lockers. “There was this cheerleader there.”

“Ohhh, a cheerleader,” Nyla said, grinning. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“She’s… interesting,” Paige said, her voice casual but her mind racing. “What’s her deal?”

“She who?” Aariyah asked, curiosity piqued.

“I don’t know her name,” Paige admitted, running a hand through her hair. “She was there last night. Tall, sharp eyes, kind of guarded. You know her?”

Nyla’s expression shifted slightly, like she was putting pieces together. “You mean [Y/N]?”

“Yeah. That’s her.”

Aariyah let out a low whistle. “You’ve got your sights set on [Y/N]? Good luck with that.”

Paige frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s… complicated,” Nyla said, choosing her words carefully. “She’s been with the team for a while, but she’s always kind of kept to herself. No one’s ever seen her with anyone. Ever.”

“Like, dating?” Paige asked, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Aariyah said. “As far as we know, she’s single. Always has been. And, uh… probably straight.”

Paige tilted her head, unconvinced. “You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Bueckers,” Nyla said, rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re into her doesn’t mean she’s into you. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Paige shrugged, though the flicker of doubt in her chest was quickly overruled by something stronger. “Maybe you’re wrong. My gay-dar’s never failed me.”

Aariyah snorted. “Your gay-dar is not a superpower, Paige.”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Paige said with a grin, though her mind was already wandering back to you—your sharp tongue, your quick wit, and the way you seemed to light up just a little when you thought no one was looking.

She couldn’t explain it, but something about you felt… different.

“Alright,” Aariyah said, shaking her head. “You do you. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Paige just smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.”

As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, she felt a spark of determination settle in her chest. You might’ve been guarded, but Paige wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

And something told her that getting to know you would be worth the effort.

The energy inside AT&T Stadium was electric, a sea of navy and silver filling the stands as the Dallas Cowboys prepared to kick off their first game of the season. The buzz of excitement was contagious, spreading through the crowd and spilling onto the field where you stood, stretching and loosening up with your team in preparation for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders' first performance of the year.

Your routine was set to "Thunderstruck"—an intense, crowd-pumping track that had been drilled into your muscles and memory over countless rehearsals. The choreography was sharp, demanding, and thrilling, and as the minutes ticked down to showtime, you could feel the adrenaline beginning to build.

Stretching your hamstrings, you focused on controlling your breath, locking in. This was your ritual—shut out the noise, shut out the crowd, shut out everything except the beat and the moves.

But then you saw her.

Paige Bueckers, dressed casually yet effortlessly stylish, strolling into the VIP section with a small entourage. Her golden hair caught the stadium lights just so, and her signature self-assured smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she scanned the crowd.

Your focus cracked, just a little, as her gaze passed over the field. You could’ve sworn she lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, though it was probably your imagination.

“Oh, look who it is,” one of your teammates teased, nudging you playfully. “Miss Basketball’s here to watch you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to refocus.

“Someone’s blushing,” another teammate chimed in with a grin.

“I’m not blushing,” you shot back, but the warmth spreading across your face betrayed you.

“Alright, ladies,” your coach barked, clapping her hands. “Let’s lock in. Showtime in five!”

You nodded, shaking off the distraction as you straightened up. This wasn’t your first time performing on such a massive stage, but tonight felt bigger somehow. Maybe it was the buzz of the first game or the fact that Paige Bueckers was now seated comfortably in the VIP section, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the field.

You couldn’t afford to think about that. Not now.

When it was time to step onto the field, the roar of the crowd hit you like a wave. The drumline started, the booming bass syncing with your heartbeat as you marched into position with your squad. Your eyes locked forward, face set with a determined smile.

As the opening riff of "Thunderstruck" blared through the speakers, the adrenaline hit you full force. Every move was sharp, every beat perfectly timed. The routine was fast and furious, filled with high kicks, sharp turns, and intricate formations designed to wow the crowd.

You didn’t just dance; you performed. You poured everything into every move, channeling weeks of hard work, sweat, and discipline into the routine.

For a moment, you forgot about Paige entirely. You forgot about the teasing, the crowd, and even the VIP section. It was just you and the music, your body moving instinctively with every beat, every accent.

And when the final pose hit—arms stretched high as the crowd erupted into cheers—you felt a rush of pride. You’d nailed it.

As you walked off the field, your teammates high-fived and cheered, hyping each other up. “You killed it out there,” one of them said, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you replied with a small smile, glancing toward the VIP section despite yourself.

Paige was still there, leaning back in her seat, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. But unlike the rest, her gaze wasn’t on the team—it was on you.

The Cowboys had won, and with victory came celebration—a tradition as ingrained in the culture as the game itself. Even if it was meant to be a “lowkey” night, the so-called party still overflowed with boisterous laughter, the bass of music vibrating through the room, and the steady clink of glasses.

You stood in the corner of the dimly lit lounge, nursing a sparkling water. The oversized, lavish venue was packed with players, cheerleaders, and a smattering of VIPs. It was a mandatory-unspoken-rule sort of thing; showing face after a win was just part of the job. That didn’t mean you enjoyed it.

The football players were the worst of it. Sure, most of them were decent enough, but there were always a handful of rookies and cocky veterans who treated the cheerleaders like part of their post-game spoils. Your smile was polished and your patience saintly, but the constant attention grated on your nerves.

Tonight was no different. A rookie wide receiver with a too-white smile and a swagger far outpacing his résumé sidled up to you as if you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

“Hey,” he drawled, leaning in too close. The smell of his cologne—something aggressively woody—made your nose twitch. “You look incredible tonight.”

“Thank you,” you replied politely, sipping your drink and taking a half-step back.

He didn’t notice, or he chose not to. “So, what’s a girl like you doing standing all alone at a party like this?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Just enjoying the night.”

He took that as an invitation to lean closer, his grin widening. “Well, maybe you need someone to enjoy it with. How about I—”

The hand on your arm made your skin crawl.

You turned, polite facade dropping as you said firmly, “Back off.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, his grin faltering but still holding onto a thread of misplaced confidence. “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.”

“I said, back off,” you repeated, stepping out of his reach.

“Hey, no need to get all uptight—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice sliced through the noise, cool and edged with steel. You turned your head, and there she was. Paige Bueckers, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her jeans, exuding an aura of calm dominance that was impossible to ignore.

“Who the hell are you?” the rookie asked, puffing up slightly, his bravado clashing with her unbothered demeanor.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige said, her eyes narrowing. “What matters is she told you to back off. Twice.”

The rookie opened his mouth to retort, but Paige cut him off, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I suggest you listen, or I’ll be happy to explain it louder.”

The rookie hesitated, looking between you and Paige before finally muttering something under his breath and slinking away into the crowd.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Paige smirked, her hands still in her pockets as she leaned casually against the bar beside you. “Yeah, I did. Looked like you were about to throw a drink in his face.”

You snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Would’ve been satisfying.”

“Bet it would’ve,” Paige replied, her grin widening. “But then you’d have to deal with the PR fallout. Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

“Chivalrous,” you teased, trying to hide the fact that your cheeks were burning.

Paige tilted her head, her grin softening into something quieter, more genuine. “You alright?”

The question caught you off guard. You nodded, still holding her gaze. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime.” She glanced at the drink in your hand, then back at you. “So, are you always the life of the party, or is tonight a special occasion?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Definitely a special occasion.”

Paige’s smile deepened, her gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart race. “Well, in that case, consider me honored to witness it.”

Paige stayed by your side after the rookie incident, the two of you easing into a conversation that felt refreshingly unforced. For the first time that evening, you didn’t feel the need to wear the polished, ever-smiling Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader mask. You didn’t have to calculate every word, every laugh, every polite sidestep.

It surprised you how quickly you relaxed around Paige. Her humor was sharp but warm, and the way she listened made you feel... seen. The kind of seen that wasn’t about the uniform or the role you played. She wasn’t looking at the cheerleader. She was looking at you.

“You seem different,” Paige said at one point, leaning on the bar beside you, her fingers tracing the edge of a napkin.

You quirked an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Different? Is that your way of saying I’m weird?”

She laughed, her head tipping back slightly. “Not what I meant. You’re... real. It’s nice.”

That comment stuck with you, warming you from the inside. You weren’t used to people looking past the glossy, larger-than-life image you were expected to maintain.

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself craving something sweet and light to cut through the night. You turned to the bartender. “Can I get a Shirley Temple, please?”

Paige’s eyes lit up. “No way. That’s my favorite.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Swear on it.” She held up two fingers in a mock scout’s honor pose. “No judgment, but it’s kind of perfect. Sweet, nostalgic, doesn’t try too hard. Exactly my vibe.”

You smirked, shaking your head as the bartender slid the drink over. “Didn’t peg you for the Shirley Temple type.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises,” she said, flashing a grin that made your stomach flip.

By the time the party began winding down, the room thinning out, you realized just how much you’d enjoyed yourself. You weren’t even sure when the usual edge of tension had melted away, replaced by a lightness that felt foreign yet welcome.

Paige cleared her throat, her hands slipping into her jean pockets. “Hey, um... before you go.”

You looked up at her, noticing a slight shift in her demeanor. She wasn’t the effortlessly confident star athlete now. There was something endearingly hesitant about the way she scratched the back of her neck.

“Can I, uh, get your number?” she asked, her voice dropping just a fraction, as if saying it too loud might scare you off.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a teasing smile. “You? Nervous?”

She chuckled, the faintest hint of pink coloring her cheeks. “Is it working?”

With a laugh, you pulled your phone out and handed it over. Paige entered her number quickly, double-checking it before passing it back. “Don’t leave me hanging, alright? Text me sometime.”

You nodded, feeling a strange flutter in your chest as her fingers brushed yours during the exchange.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and caught Paige walking toward her teammates. She glanced over her shoulder at you, a cocky smirk spreading across her face as she mouthed, “Told you so.”

One of her teammates groaned and swatted at her shoulder, while another rolled their eyes, clearly unimpressed with Paige’s triumphant swagger.

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. Somehow, you had a feeling this was going to get interesting.

A few weeks had passed since that night at the party, and in the time since, Paige had somehow woven her way into the fabric of your life in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing earth-shattering. But you couldn’t deny it: she had become part of your routine.

Despite the whirlwind of your schedule—DCC practices, games, and the usual duties that came with being in the spotlight—the texts from Paige came often, little moments of respite during your otherwise hectic days. Sometimes it was a simple check-in: “How’s practice?” or “How’s the Shirley Temple holding up today?” Sometimes it was just something random, like a meme or a quote that had made her think of you. Every time you saw her name pop up, your heart did that little flip again, that same flutter that had been there since the first night you met.

The dates were simple and casual, which was just how you liked it. A quiet dinner, a walk in the park, the occasional movie, and for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself. You weren’t the cheerleader. You were just you. No performance. No expectations.

You thought you had the balance down, figuring out how to make it work despite the craziness of both of your lives. Paige was patient, always understanding when you had to cancel last minute or cut the night short. She didn’t pressure you. And, for once, you didn’t feel like you had to live up to an image for anyone, especially her.

It surprised you how easy it was to be with her. You hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her—but Paige was like a steady rhythm in the cacophony of your life. You found yourself looking forward to her texts, the way she’d always send a good luck message before your performances or a stupid meme to make you laugh on a rough day.

You didn’t mean to, but Paige was quickly becoming part of your routine.

But then came the photograph.

You hadn’t noticed the photographer—probably a fan at the café where you and Paige had been sitting, sipping iced coffee and laughing about some story she was telling. You only found out when the photo popped up on social media, your notifications blowing up with tags and mentions.

The picture was innocent enough: Paige leaning back in her chair, mid-laugh, while you rested your chin in your hand, looking at her like she was the funniest person alive. It was candid and warm, the kind of photo that screamed chemistry.

The next thing you knew, the photo of the two of you smiling, laughing, and holding hands was all over social media. The caption? "Paige Bueckers and the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader: New Couple Alert!"

You didn’t think it was that big of a deal at first. After all, both of you were public figures in your own rights, and being seen together wasn’t exactly a crime. But as the hours passed, the post went viral. Comments flooded in. Some were supportive, some not so much. And as the days went on, you started seeing more articles and posts about the two of you, your names being linked in headlines everywhere.

It felt like a dream at first—something light, playful. But then reality sank in.

The next morning, as you walked into the DCC practice facility, you could feel the weight of it. You hadn’t even spoken to your coach yet, but you could tell. She was watching you as you walked in, her gaze sharp, calculating.

Coach Anderson didn’t waste any time. After practice, she called you into her office, her expression hardening as soon as the door clicked shut behind you.

“Close the door, please.”

You did as instructed, your heart beginning to race as you tried to brace for whatever was coming.

“Listen,” she started, her tone measured but firm, “you’re one of our best, and I don’t want this to come off as harsh. But... the photo. It’s everywhere. And it’s not great for the team’s image.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Not great?”

She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “You know how this works. The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders represent a certain... ideal. We have an image to maintain, and this? People are already making assumptions. It’s distracting.”

The knot in your stomach tightened, anger starting to bubble beneath the surface. “What assumptions?” you asked, your voice steady but edged.

She hesitated. “You know what I mean. People are speculating. And it’s not... on-brand.”

You stared at her, disbelief mingling with frustration. This was exactly what you’d feared—the constant balancing act of being what everyone expected you to be. But as much as you hated confrontation, something inside you refused to back down this time.

“I’m not straight,” you said, the words clear and unwavering.

Your coach froze, clearly not expecting you to address it so directly.

“And I’m not going to pretend to be,” you added, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve given everything to this team. I’ve worked my ass off to be here, to be the best. My personal life doesn’t change that.”

She blinked, visibly stunned. You’d always been a “yes, ma’am” kind of girl—polite, compliant, eager to please. But now, your voice was steady and your gaze unyielding.

“This.” She sighed, gesturing vaguely, her lips curling into a tight line. “The public—our fans—they have an image of you. And this”—she motioned to the photos on her phone—“does not fit that image. You’re part of the Dallas Cowboys brand now, and I need you to understand that.”

You felt your stomach drop. You knew where this was going. This wasn’t just about the photos. It was about the implications.

“You’re a cheerleader, and you’re expected to maintain a certain image. You can’t just… throw that away because of a relationship,” Coach Anderson continued, her voice harder now, almost condescending. “This is about professionalism. Your image. Do you understand?”

You stared at her for a moment, feeling the familiar, suffocating weight of expectations pressing in on you. For a second, you almost nodded, almost let yourself fall back into that mold of obedience, that role you were supposed to play.

But then, you remembered something. You remembered what Paige had told you about being real, about not pretending. You remembered the feeling of being yourself in her presence.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“No,” you said, the word sharper than you intended. Your heart was pounding now, but there was no going back. “I don’t think I do understand.”

Coach Anderson blinked, clearly taken aback by your tone. You took a step forward, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not going to pretend. Not for the team, not for anyone. If you think I’m going to sit here and fake being something I’m not for the sake of image, you’re wrong.”

Her eyes widened slightly, clearly shocked by your response. You were the quiet, obedient one. The one who never rocked the boat. The one who followed orders. To see you—to hear you—talk back like this was completely foreign to her.

“You’re talking about who I am,” you continued, your voice gaining strength. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m not straight, Coach. I don’t owe you, or anyone else, an explanation for who I’m dating. If this”—you pointed at the photos again—“is a problem, then I guess I’ll have to deal with that.”

Coach Anderson stared at you, open-mouthed, for a moment, as if processing what you had just said. She blinked a few times, her face hardening into a tight, inscrutable mask. You could feel the weight of her gaze on you, assessing, perhaps judging, but you didn’t flinch.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You felt like you.

Finally, she spoke, her voice cold. “I never thought I’d hear those words from you. You’ve always been… so compliant.”

“Well, not anymore,” you said firmly, not backing down. “I’m not going to play by your rules if they’re going to make me pretend to be something I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s a problem, but that’s who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy, your coach’s face unreadable as she regarded you. For a moment, you wondered if you’d gone too far, if you’d just tanked your entire career with a few sentences.

But then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Just... keep it low-key, alright? We can’t afford unnecessary drama.”

You nodded once, standing. “I always do.”

And when you left her office, you felt lighter than you had in ages, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The familiar tension that had always been there when you wore that uniform was gone.

You weren’t just a cheerleader anymore. You were you.

The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room as you curled into the plush couch, a blanket thrown lazily over both your legs. Paige sat at the other end, her legs stretched out, socked feet occasionally brushing against yours. Some random movie was playing, one neither of you had really been paying attention to. The kind that served as background noise more than entertainment. It had been a long day, and this—just sitting together, the world quiet—was exactly what you needed.

You hadn't mentioned the conversation with your coach earlier. It wasn’t worth souring the moment, and besides, the heaviness from earlier had already lifted, replaced by the comfort of Paige’s presence. She had a way of making everything else feel smaller, less significant, like her calm confidence could shield you from anything outside these four walls.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn sitting between you, tossing a piece in the air and catching it expertly in her mouth. She smirked, satisfied, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her playful display.

“Show-off,” you teased, nudging her foot with yours.

“What can I say?” she replied, her grin wide and unabashed. “Natural talent.”

The movie’s dialogue droned on in the background, but Paige muted it with a flick of the remote, letting the quiet settle over you. She shifted slightly, resting her head against the arm of the couch, and looked over at you with a soft expression that made your chest feel warm.

“You know,” she began, her voice casual but carrying that undertone of something deeper, “when I was a kid, I used to think being good at basketball was enough. Like, if I could just be the best, everything else would fall into place.” She laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. “Turns out, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I guess… I started realizing that it’s not just about being good. It’s about how people see the game. Women’s basketball doesn’t get the respect it deserves, you know? I want to change that. I want little girls to grow up seeing us on TV, in the spotlight, and thinking, I want to do that too. Not as some second-tier option, but as the dream.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and you felt your heart do that stupid fluttering thing again. There was something so earnest, so fiercely passionate in the way she spoke, like the sheer force of her determination could bend the world to her will. You could see it—the little girl Paige, dribbling a ball on some driveway somewhere, dreaming of being a trailblazer, not just a player.

“That’s…” you started, struggling to find the right words. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she smiled, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “It’s just a dream.”

“Yeah, but you’re living it,” you insisted. “You’re out there, doing exactly what you said. You’re making it happen.”

She looked at you for a moment, her smile softening into something more vulnerable. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “That means a lot.”

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, and after a moment, Paige nudged you with her foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your dream,” she clarified. “What was it? Little you, running around in pigtails or whatever, what did she want to do?”

You laughed, leaning back into the couch cushions as you thought about it. “I always loved dancing. I think I was four when I begged my mom to put me in ballet classes. I was obsessed. And when I got older, it wasn’t just about the dancing anymore—it was about the performing, you know? The way it felt to be on stage, like for those few minutes, nothing else mattered.”

Paige listened intently, her gaze fixed on you in that way that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

“The DCC gave me a place to do that,” you continued, your voice softening. “I know it’s not perfect—God knows they’re not exactly progressive—but it’s still a dream. Getting to do what I love, to perform for a crowd… it’s everything I wanted.”

Paige smiled, a small, thoughtful curve of her lips. “You’re good at it,” she said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen me dance.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she countered, her tone teasing but warm. “And besides, you wouldn’t be where you are if you weren’t incredible.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you ducked your head, pretending to adjust the blanket so she wouldn’t see. “You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin, leaning back against the couch. “But I mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the quiet between you filled with an unspoken understanding. It was rare, you realized, to have a moment like this—where everything felt easy, natural. Where you could just be.

As the credits rolled on the muted movie, Paige stretched, her arm brushing against yours, and you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket draped over you.

“You know,” she said, her voice light but with a playful edge, “I think little-you and little-me would’ve been friends. Or at least rivals.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “Oh, definitely rivals. I would’ve wiped the floor with you in a dance-off.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. “Bold claim, cheerleader.”

“True claim,” you shot back, grinning.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, and as the night stretched on, you found yourself leaning into the comfort of her presence, the weight of the world falling away, if only for a little while.

Paige grinned, leaning back against the couch cushions with a kind of effortless charm that made your stomach do somersaults. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.” She winked, and it was ridiculous how easily she could fluster you with the smallest gestures.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping before you could help it. “That’s what you’re going to lead with? Popcorn tricks?”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” she shot back, her grin widening. “This could’ve been my party trick if basketball didn’t work out.”

You raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? And where does ‘world-class popcorn catcher’ rank next to WNBA superstar?”

She pretended to think, tapping her chin dramatically. “Probably right under future Hall of Famer and your biggest fan.”

That last bit caught you off guard. Paige said it so casually, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could make your heart skip a beat. She didn’t even look at you after, just grabbed another handful of popcorn like she hadn’t just said something that would live rent-free in your mind for days.

You tried to play it cool, focusing on the screen and not the way your cheeks felt like they were on fire. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like it,” she teased, nudging your leg lightly with her foot.

And damn it, she wasn’t wrong.

The sound of her phone vibrating against the coffee table pulled both of you out of the easy rhythm of banter. Paige reached for it, glancing at the screen. The shift in her expression was subtle, but you caught it—the way her brows furrowed just slightly, the ghost of a smirk softening into something more reserved.

“Press conference clips,” she muttered, tossing the phone back onto the table without opening the notification. “Guess they’re making a thing out of it.”

It didn’t take a genius to know what “it” was. The photo, the headlines, the endless speculation. You felt the weight of it again, creeping in at the edges of this quiet moment. But before you could say anything, Paige turned her attention back to you, her expression steady.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “People are going to talk. Let them. It’s not going to change anything.”

You studied her, the way she always seemed so sure of herself, so unshaken by the noise. It was one of the things you admired most about her—the way she carried herself with this quiet confidence, like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

“Doesn’t bother you?” you asked softly, the words coming out before you could second-guess them.

She shrugged, her lips curving into that easy, self-assured smile that felt like a safety net. “Why would it? I get to date you. Let ‘em be jealous.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved, replaced by the warmth of her words and the steady, unflinching way she looked at you. Paige Bueckers, always cool under pressure, had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

The next couple of weeks pass surprisingly smoothly, at least on the surface. Coach Anderson hasn’t said a word about the photos since your last meeting, and it’s not hard to figure out why. You’re the top cheerleader, the face of the squad, and the one she relies on to land those impossible stunts and lead the team’s routines. Letting you go now would only create a whirlwind of drama she clearly wants to avoid.

But that doesn’t mean everything is perfect.

Your teammates—most of them, anyway—don’t go out of their way to make life easy for you. There’s no outright hostility; it’s all subtle, quiet, passive-aggressive. Like when you’re practicing the pyramid, and someone “accidentally” tightens their grip too much on your ankle, or when you call for a run-through and the response is a too-sweet “Of course, captain,” followed by exaggerated sighs and barely concealed eye-rolls.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough that you can feel the weight of it. Even when no one’s saying anything, the whispers just outside of earshot, the exchanged glances, and the forced smiles remind you that the photos are still fresh in their minds.

You grit your teeth and keep going. Every time you land a clean tumble or nail the timing on a routine, you know you’re proving them wrong. Performance after performance, you remind everyone why you’re the one leading this team.

Then, one Friday night after a big game, the dam breaks—but not where you expect it.

The team’s win had been huge, a tight match that came down to the final seconds. The cheer squad had been flawless, their chants and stunts keeping the crowd alive and electric. As you gather with your squad on the sidelines, still buzzing from the game’s energy, the reporters swarm in.

The questions start innocent enough. Someone asks about the routine, another about the game’s atmosphere. You answer them like you always do—polished and professional.

But then a reporter steps forward. A man with a smirk that makes your skin crawl, and a voice dripping with fake politeness. "Great work tonight," he starts, holding his mic out to you. "But I have to ask—given all the controversy around those photos recently, do you really think you’re the right person to represent this team?"

The question catches you off guard, even though maybe it shouldn’t. You feel the weight of it settle like a rock in your chest, heavy and sharp. Around you, the other girls stiffen, and the camera lenses zoom in, waiting for your reaction.

You take a breath, keeping your expression calm even as irritation simmers just beneath the surface. "Well," you say, your voice steady, "those photos have nothing to do with my role here. What matters is the work we put into this team—on and off the field. And if you watched tonight’s game, I think the results speak for themselves."

Your response is measured, professional. But it’s not enough for him. "Still," he presses, his smirk widening, "don’t you think it sets a... questionable example for young girls watching?"

It’s such a loaded, condescending question that the irritation flares into anger. Before you can reply, though, one of your teammates steps forward. "Excuse me," she says sharply, her voice cutting through the tension. "What kind of example are you setting by asking that question? Maybe focus on our performance instead of gossip."

The reporter’s smirk falters, and another cheerleader speaks up, her arms crossed. "Yeah, seriously. We just worked our butts off out there, and this is what you want to talk about? Seems like a ‘you’ problem."

A few of the others chime in, their voices firm and united. For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’re standing on shaky ground. The reporter stumbles over his words, trying to regain control, but someone from the PR team steps in and quickly ends the interview.

When the chaos dies down, and you’re gathering your things, one of your teammates catches your eye. "We’ve got your back," she says simply, offering you a small smile.

The others nod in agreement, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady when you reply. "Thanks. That means a lot."

It’s not a perfect resolution, but as you leave the field that night, you feel lighter. For the first time, it feels like you’re not fighting this battle alone.

The atmosphere shifts after the interview ends. The biting coldness that had lingered for weeks, the pointed whispers and passive-aggressive smiles, seems to melt away. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like an outsider among your own team.

One by one, the girls gather around you. At first, it’s tentative—an awkward shuffle of sneakers on the turf as if they’re testing the waters. Then someone breaks the tension by stepping closer and wrapping their arms around you.

It’s unexpected, but the gesture cracks something open inside you. Before you can process it, another cheerleader joins in, and then another, until you’re at the center of a warm, chaotic huddle.

The hug isn’t perfect. Arms bump into shoulders, someone’s pom-poms tickle your cheek, and there’s a faint whiff of sweat and body spray mingling in the air. But none of that matters. What matters is the sincerity in the way they hold you, the murmured “We’ve got you” and “Don’t let them get to you” that make your throat tighten with unexpected emotion.

“Look,” one of them says with a grin as the group hug breaks apart, “we may not always be the easiest people to deal with, but you’re our captain. No reporter or stupid photos are gonna change that.”

Another girl chimes in, smirking. “And if they ask anything dumb again, we’ll handle it. You just focus on flipping in midair like it’s nothing.”

The laughter that ripples through the group is light, genuine, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like part of the team again. The weight of their support, of their acceptance, feels like armor you didn’t know you needed.

When the moment starts to fade and the team begins gathering their things, you feel a familiar hand slip into yours. Paige is there, her grip warm and steady, her smile soft in a way that’s meant just for you.

“Ready to go?” she asks, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, glancing around at the others. The team is still buzzing, joking and chatting as they trail toward the locker rooms, but a few of them shoot you quick, encouraging smiles.

As you and Paige step out of the arena, hand-in-hand, the crisp night air greets you. The world outside is buzzing, reporters still milling about, cameras flashing as fans cheer and chatter. You know they’re looking. You can feel the weight of their stares, the subtle tilt of a camera lens in your direction, the whispers that follow wherever you go.

But tonight, for once, you don’t care.

You hold Paige’s hand tighter, her fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels unshakable, grounding. You catch her eye, and there’s something fierce in her smile, a kind of defiance that mirrors your own.

“Let them look,” she says, her voice firm but laced with humor. “What are they gonna do? Take more photos?”

The words make you laugh, a sound that feels freer than it has in weeks. Together, you walk through the crowd, the world around you blurring into the background as you focus on each step forward.

People snap pictures, murmur among themselves, and even call out questions, but none of it matters. Not the flashes of cameras, not the speculative headlines that will follow. What matters is the solid warmth of Paige’s hand in yours and the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, you’re not walking alone.

As the two of you disappear into the night, you feel lighter. Stronger. You’re still the same person who weathered the worst of the storm, but now, you have people at your side who will weather it with you. And that makes all the difference.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: The Hideout

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: some times Paige can be a lot to handle and she know it

🏷️: @yailtsv , @sitawita , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paige05bby , @paxaz535

Pt.2

Pt.3

I love Paige. I really do. She’s the best girlfriend in the world. But when she and KK get in the same room? It’s like a tornado of chaos.

Their energy bounces off each other like a never-ending ping-pong match of noise—laughing, yelling, vocal stimming, making random noises for no reason other than they can. It’s fun to watch… until it isn’t. Until it gets overwhelming. Until I start feeling like my brain is melting from the inside out.

And right now, they’re on TikTok Live together.

Loud. Clowning. Doing everything but keeping the volume at a level fit for human ears.

I can already feel my head getting heavy, my breathing uneven. If I stay in here too long, I’m going to crash, and they’re not even close to being done.

Yeah, I need an escape.

Quietly, I slide off the couch and out of Paige’s room, leaving her and KK to their chaos. They don’t even notice me leaving. I love them, but that’s fine with me.

I head straight for the one place I know will be peaceful: Caroline’s room.

Her door is slightly cracked, and when I push it open, she’s already lying in bed, scrolling on her phone. Azzi is sitting at the desk, laser-focused on her laptop, probably taking one of her many online exams.

Caroline glances up, taking one look at me before smirking. “Lemme guess—Paige and KK?”

“Obviously.” I sigh dramatically, shutting the door behind me. “I need a safe haven.”

Azzi hums without looking away from her screen. “You always come here when they’re too loud.”

“Because it’s quiet.” I flop onto Caroline’s bed, sighing into the comforter. “And because Caroline lets me watch The Vampire Diaries with her.”

Caroline laughs, clicking the remote. “You lucky I was just about to start an episode. Get under the covers, babe.”

I don’t hesitate, immediately snuggling into the blanket as she starts the episode. The Vampire Diaries plays softly in the background, a perfect contrast to the noise I just escaped from.

Azzi, still focused on her test, speaks without turning around. “Paige is gonna notice you’re missing in, like, five minutes.”

I groan. “Yeah, but that’s a five-minute head start. Let me have this.”

Caroline chuckles and pats my head. “If she comes looking for you, we’ll protect you.”

I smile, appreciating the solidarity. I know Paige doesn’t mean any harm, but when she’s with KK, it’s like she forgets the rest of the world exists. She gets so caught up in their antics that she doesn’t realize how overwhelming it is until it’s too late.

And sure enough, just as Azzi predicted, five minutes later, we hear Paige’s voice echoing from down the hall.

“Babe?”

I tense immediately.

Caroline grabs the remote and turns the volume down, while Azzi finally looks up from her laptop.

Paige’s footsteps get closer.

“Y/N?” Her voice is a mix of confusion and mild concern. “Where’d you go?”

I look at Caroline with wide eyes. “Help.”

She grins. “Get under the blanket.”

Without hesitation, I throw the blanket over my head just as the door swings open.

Azzi, quick on her feet, takes it a step further by getting up and sitting on top of me through the blanket.

Paige peeks inside, frowning. “Have either of you seen—”

Caroline, the best wingman, smoothly interrupts. “Hey, Paige. What’s up?”

Azzi, still sitting on me, casually leans against Caroline, resting her head on her shoulder. “We’re cuddling,” she adds, trying to sound nonchalant.

Paige raises an eyebrow. “… You’re cuddling?”

“Yeah,” Caroline nods. “Bonding moment, for the scissor sisters.”

Paige glances at Azzi suspiciously. “And you just so happened to start cuddling the second I came looking for Y/N?”

Azzi shrugs. “Coincidence.”

I hold my breath under the blanket, praying she buys it.

Paige looks around the room, her eyes narrowing. She’s suspicious, but Azzi is still sitting directly on top of me, and Caroline is playing it cool.

Paige sighs. “Alright, well, tell my actual girlfriend to come back when she’s done hiding.”

Azzi smirks. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Paige rolls her eyes but doesn’t press further. She shakes her head and leaves, closing the door behind her.

I exhale the second I hear her footsteps disappear down the hall.

Azzi finally moves, letting me breathe again. Caroline laughs, pulling the blanket down to reveal my relieved face.

“That was close.”

Azzi stretches, flopping onto the bed next to us. “She’ll get over it.”

Caroline nods. “Now, let’s finish The Vampire Diaries before she comes back.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Between the soft background noise, the warmth of the blankets, and the security of knowing Paige won’t be back for a while, my body finally relaxes.

It doesn’t take long before my eyes start feeling heavy.

And before I know it, I drift off to sleep.

⸻

The next morning, I wake up to the sun peeking through the blinds.

I’m still sandwiched between Azzi and Caroline, the three of us curled up under the covers like a pack of hibernating bears.

It’s comfortable. Warm.

Then I realize something.

I sit up groggily, rubbing my eyes. “Wait… where’s Paige?”

Caroline stretches, yawning. “I think she saw us sleeping and just let us be.”

Azzi hums in agreement. “She didn’t come back.”

Guilt tugs at my chest.

Paige must have gone back to her room and slept alone.

I swing my legs out of bed. “I should go find her.”

Azzi smirks. “Make sure she’s not too mad.”

Caroline pats my back encouragingly. “Good luck, soldier.”

I roll my eyes playfully and slip out of the room, heading down the hall.

When I step into Paige’s room, she’s still lying in bed, scrolling on her phone. She looks up when she sees me, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, look who finally decided to come back.”

I walk over, climbing into bed beside her. “You could’ve woken me up.”

She shrugs. “Figured you needed the sleep.”

I bite my lip, feeling bad. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you. You and KK were just… a lot last night.”

Paige sighs, pulling me into her arms. “Yeah, I know. KK hypes me up too much. I didn’t even realize I was overwhelming you.”

I nuzzle into her chest, appreciating the warmth. “It’s okay. I just needed a break.”

She kisses the top of my head. “Next time, just tell me, babe. You don’t have to run away.”

I smile. “Even if you and KK are on Live?”

She groans dramatically. “Even then.”

I chuckle, snuggling closer. “Deal.”

Paige holds me tighter, and for the first time in hours, I feel completely at peace.

---

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                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[thedensworld]

Run Devil Run | c.sc

Pairing: Incubus Seungcheol! x Con Artist Reader! (feat. Incubus Jeonghan)

Genre: Supernatural romance au!

Type: fluff, angst, fantasy, smut (mdnil!)

Word Count: 16k (supposed to be 24k—tumblr didn't let me)

Summary: Who would've thought that a simple job—to stage a scandal with a rising actor—would entangle you in the world of an incubus label director?

The bar buzzed with conversation, jazz humming softly in the background. It was Saturday night—meaning Yoon Jeonghan would be here.

You’d done your research. A top actor, effortlessly perfect, scandal-free. Your client wanted that to change.

Your task? Make him fall. Break him. Ruin him.

At the bar, Jeonghan leaned against the counter, whiskey in hand, smirking at a friend’s story. A glance—brief but deliberate—flickered your way.

Hook set. Now, let him bite.

The job had come a week ago, a simple text: “I need your help.” You ignored it—until the money arrived. Then a name: Yoon Jeonghan.

The woman’s story was familiar—whirlwind romance, lavish dates, and then… nothing. Left in the cold, she wanted revenge.

You didn’t care for love or betrayal. You cared for the payout. And tonight, Jeonghan would learn that even the untouchable could fall.

You swirled the drink in your hand, watching as Jeonghan laughed at something his friend said.

Jeonghan was used to being chased.

Women fawned over him, men admired him, and the world seemed to orbit around his existence. Yet—you wouldn’t do either. That was the trick. The secret to standing out in a crowd of people desperate for his attention.

So, you didn’t approach him.

You didn’t stare.

You didn’t giggle or whisper or find excuses to brush against him like others did.

Instead, you let him notice you.

A game of restraint. Push and pull. You exchanged fleeting glances, offering just enough of a smile before looking away—calculated disinterest wrapped in a veil of mystery. Just enough to spark curiosity.

And then, as expected, the inevitable happened.

He came to you.

“You seem familiar,” Jeonghan mused, sliding into the barstool next to you. His voice was smooth, effortless—the kind that made people want to listen. The kind that could make anything sound interesting.

You blinked, feigning mild confusion. “Do I?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the slow precision of someone who enjoyed the chase, not just the catch. His smirk deepened, a quiet amusement settling in his gaze, as if he had already figured something out.

“No,” he said. “But I wanted to see what you’d say.”

Clever.

You exhaled a soft chuckle, tapping your fingers against the glass, letting the moment stretch just a second too long. “And what did I say?”

Jeonghan took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“Exactly what I expected.”

The corner of your lips twitched, but you held back a full smile. Interesting. Yoon Jeonghan had expected you to play along, and you had. But now came the real challenge—staying one step ahead of him.

“You must hear that a lot,” you mused, swirling your drink, letting the ice clink against the glass. “People thinking they know you.”

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, elbow resting on the bar, gaze never leaving yours. “You tell me,” he countered. “Do you think you know me?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. Did you know him? Not in the way his fans did, not in the way his past lovers did. You knew his habits, his routines, his weaknesses. You had studied him like a script, memorized the beats of his life until you could predict his next move.

But the real answer? Not yet.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, lips curving just enough to leave him guessing. “But I do know people like you.”

Jeonghan’s brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “People like me?”

“Effortless,” you said, lifting your glass in a lazy gesture toward him. “Everything comes easy to you. You don’t chase—you let people come to you. And when they do, you decide how long they get to stay.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if to acknowledge the hit. Bullseye.

“And yet,” he murmured, resting his chin on his palm, “you’re still here.”

You hummed, letting his words settle between you. “Maybe I just like a good drink.”

Jeonghan’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. He didn’t believe you. And that was fine—you weren’t here to be believed. You were here to make him want more.

“Then let me buy your next one,” he said smoothly, signaling the bartender without waiting for your answer.

You should’ve refused. That would’ve been the smarter move. But you let the moment linger, let the tension coil just a little tighter before you nodded.

One drink. One conversation. One night.

Step one was complete.

But Jeonghan wasn’t the only one watching you tonight.

*

The articles were everywhere. Headlines flashing across news sites, gossip forums buzzing with speculation, and YouTube videos dissecting every detail of Yoon Jeonghan’s playboy agenda.

You watched it all unfold with a satisfied smile, the soft trickle of water from your watering can filling the quiet space of your office. The scent of damp soil mixed with the rich aroma of coffee, the warmth of the air feeling heavier than usual.

Your laptop played a video in the background, a commentator going on about Jeonghan’s fall from grace. It was almost amusing—how quickly the world turned on someone they once adored. But you knew better than anyone that public opinion was fickle.

Then, your phone buzzed.

A notification flashed across the screen. Transaction complete.

Your client—Jeonghan’s scorned ex—had sent the rest of the payment.

Your smile grew.

You set down the watering can, wiping your hands on your jeans before sinking into the worn-out couch. Your office—small, cluttered, filled with plants—was yours. For now, that was enough.

You pulled out your calculator, fingers moving swiftly.

First, your brother’s tuition—non-negotiable.

Second, your grandmother’s care home—she deserved comfort.

Third, office renovations—peeling ceilings, a collapsing couch, long overdue.

Lastly—yourself. Barely enough, as always.

Despite pulling strings to bring down a top actor, you were still scraping by. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

On your laptop, gossip videos dissected the scandal you’d created. They’d never know the truth.

Or so you thought.

Your phone buzzed, a new message lighting up the screen. And just like that, something shifted.

Unknown Number: You work fast.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even process it, another message came through.

Unknown Number: But tell me—did you really think you could play this game without consequences?

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to loosen your grip on the phone. Threats weren’t new.

People didn’t like to lose—especially the rich and powerful. Anonymous warnings were nothing new—bitter exes, regretful clients, or nosy threats trying to scare you into confessing.

Your eyes flickered to the message. Jeonghan? Unlikely. You had covered your tracks well. He was an actor, not an investigator, too busy with the media storm to suspect you.

Whoever it was, it didn’t matter. You tossed your phone onto the coffee table, watching it slide to a stop. Job done. Paid. Time to move on.

Yet, as you leaned back, arms crossed, the unease lingered.

*

The air in the office was tense, thick with the weight of unspoken accusations. The blinds were half-drawn, blocking out the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The atmosphere was suffocating, the kind that made even the most composed individuals feel restless.

Director’s Office.

Yoon Jeonghan sat in the center of it all, arms crossed, his usual effortless confidence slightly fraying at the edges. Across from him, his lawyer and the head of PR were reviewing documents, their expressions unreadable.

At the head of the table sat Choi Seungcheol—director of the label, and the one man in the room Jeonghan actually cared to hear from.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before leaning forward. "You saw her, right? She was seducing me first." His tone wasn’t defensive—more exasperated, like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain himself. His gaze flickered toward Seungcheol, silently urging him to back him up.

After all, Seungcheol was there that night. He saw it happen.

But the director didn’t react. He sat with his arms folded, watching Jeonghan with the kind of expression that made it clear he wasn’t interested in excuses.

The PR manager sighed, adjusting her glasses before flipping a folder shut. “That doesn’t change the fact that you wanted to keep in touch with her,” she said, her voice professional but firm. “We warned you about this, Jeonghan. You know how fragile your public image is. The media was just waiting for a story like this.”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, leaning back in his chair. “So what? I can’t even talk to someone without it becoming a scandal?”

His lawyer, who had been mostly silent until now, finally spoke. “It’s not just about talking to her,” he said evenly. “The photos, the texts, the late-night meetings—it all paints a picture that’s hard to defend.”

Jeonghan frowned. He had played this game long enough to know how the industry worked, but this—this felt orchestrated. Too precise. Too perfectly timed.

“Someone set me up,” he muttered, more to himself than to the room.

“I don’t care who approached who,” Seungcheol finally said, his voice edged with irritation. “I care that this is everywhere. I care that my phone has been ringing non-stop since morning. And I care that the shareholders want a statement before this gets any worse.”

His gaze hardened as he looked directly at Jeonghan. “I need a solution. Now.”

Silence hung in the room. The PR manager exchanged a look with the lawyer before clearing her throat. “Damage control is possible,” she said, flipping through her notes. “We issue a vague denial—something like, ‘These rumors are unfounded, and we ask for privacy.’”

Jeonghan scoffed. “That makes me look guilty.”

She shrugged. “You already do.”

Before he could argue, Seungcheol spoke. “What about flipping the narrative? A bigger distraction.”

Seungcheol tapped the desk, thinking ten steps ahead. “A fake relationship could work. But we need more—something bigger to pull focus.”

Understanding clicked. The PR manager hesitated. “You want another couple. A distraction.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol said. “Jeonghan’s scandal won’t fade with a denial alone. But if we drop a flashier dating rumor within the label, it’ll steal the headlines.”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses. “So, we sacrifice another artist?”

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “We redirect.”

A heavy silence settled. The PR manager finally asked, “Do you have someone in mind?”

Seungcheol nodded. “Mingyu.”

Jeonghan snapped his head up. “What?”

“He’s perfect. Popular, clean, beloved. A dating rumor with the right person won’t hurt—it might even help.”

Jeonghan scoffed. “You think he’ll just agree to this?”

Seungcheol’s gaze turned cold. “Mingyu knows how this industry works. And if he doesn’t—he’ll learn.”

The heavy door clicked shut behind the PR manager and lawyer, leaving the room unnervingly silent. The moment they were gone, Jeonghan let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration no longer masked by the polite indifference he wore in front of them.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pushing himself up from his chair and pacing toward the window.

Seungcheol watched him from behind his desk, fingers loosely laced together. His expression was unreadable, but Jeonghan had known him long enough to recognize when he was thinking—really thinking.

“You were there that night.” Jeonghan said, turning back to face him. “She flirted on me first. You saw it.”

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I did.”

“Then why the hell am I the one getting burned for this?” Jeonghan scoffed. “I didn’t even take her home. Hell, we barely touched. And yet, somehow, I wake up to articles painting me as some kind of serial womanizer?”

Seungcheol tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze still sharp. “Because it wasn’t just that one night, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan’s frustration stilled.

“What?"

Seungcheol tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but firm. “You kept talking to her after that.”

Jeonghan frowned. The past few weeks flashed in his mind—messages exchanged late at night, conversations that stretched on longer than he expected. She was intriguing, he’d give her that. Something about the way she spoke, the way she held herself, made him curious enough to keep coming back.

“I mean… yeah,” Jeonghan admitted, crossing his arms. “But it wasn’t anything serious. Just casual conversations.”

Seungcheol arched a brow. “Casual conversations that somehow ended up in the hands of reporters.”

Jeonghan clenched his jaw. He hated this. The scrutiny, the accusations, the way the media twisted reality until even he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

With a sharp exhale, he stood up abruptly, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The city stretched beneath him—bright, alive, and completely indifferent to the storm brewing in his career.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, his reflection staring back at him. “Why now? Why her?”

A beat of silence.

Then—Seungcheol’s voice, quieter this time. “That’s what I’ve been wondering too.”

Jeonghan turned, catching the way Seungcheol’s gaze had darkened.

It wasn’t just frustration anymore.

It was something else. Something more calculating.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, Jeonghan felt a flicker of something uneasy settle in his chest.

*

Your eyes fluttered open, neon light streaking across the ceiling. A slow breath, a hand against your chest—your heartbeat was fast but steady. Just a dream.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Yet, warmth lingered down your arm, a whisper brushing your ear. The details slipped away the more you reached for them.

"I finally found you."

The words echoed—unfamiliar yet strangely familiar. Stress, maybe. Or exhaustion. You sighed, rubbing your face, glancing at the clock. Too early to wake, too late to sleep.

You swung your legs over the bed, cool floor meeting your feet. Just a dream. But as you poured a glass of water, unease crept in. It didn’t feel like a dream.

Settling at your desk, your laptop’s hum filled the quiet. The screen glowed as you skimmed emails—clients, trouble, requests. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad when a notification popped up.

Hansol [2:03 AM]: Not sleeping yet?

You sighed, already knowing where this was going.

You [2:04 AM]: Why?

The reply came almost instantly.

Hansol [2:04 AM]: Have you thought about the last project I told you? The offer still stands, sweetheart.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

You [2:05 AM]: No bride project for at least ten years. The last one gave me so much trauma I had to get therapy sessions with Seungkwan.

A beat passed before his response popped up.

Hansol [2:05 AM]: LOL! Then let me know if you’re willing, alright? The money is yummm.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Of course, he’d say that. His “bride projects” paid well but came with headaches, complications, and emotional baggage you had no interest in carrying again.

Closing the chat, you turned back to your emails—plenty of jobs, none that would leave you questioning your life choices at 2:30 AM. The city never slept, and neither did you.

The streets were quieter, wrapped in a hush interrupted by the occasional car. The neon glow of the convenience store flickered as you pushed the glass door open, the familiar chime greeting you. You had one mission—ramen.

As you debated between spicy or cheese, thud.

A sharp collision sent you stumbling.

“Shit, sorry,” a low voice muttered.

You looked up. A man in a dark hoodie, his features shadowed. Just another late-night customer—except something about him felt familiar. Not his face, not his voice, but the scent that lingered as he passed—warm, deep, intoxicating.

Your fingers tightened around the ramen cup as you watched him grab a drink and head to the counter. Had you met him before?

You weren’t sure. But as you stepped back onto the quiet street, the feeling lingered in the cold night air.

*

Hansol’s car smelled of coffee and faint cologne, a familiar mix that usually kept you alert—but not today. Your head lolled against the seat, exhaustion weighing you down as the city blurred past. Before you could fight it, your eyes slipped shut.

Hansol chuckled. "Wow. You’re actually sleeping?"

You barely registered his teasing. He’d never seen you like this—always sharp, always tense. But lately, even with rest, the exhaustion never left.

A gentle nudge stirred you. “Hey, we’re here.”

Blinking, you sat up, wincing. “My head hurts.”

Hansol glanced at you. "You drank last night?"

You hadn’t. In fact, you’d been sleeping better than ever—yet waking up drained.

"You should see a doctor," he muttered. "It’s time, Y/n."

You shot him a glare. “I don’t need a doctor.”

He sighed but let it go.

Stepping out of the car, you slipped effortlessly into your role. The fatigue faded as you straightened your posture, the poised, confident woman you were paid to be taking over.

Hansol dropped you at the meeting point, and soon, a sleek black car arrived. Your client stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks with a practiced smile.

"Shall we?"

Looping your arm through his, you matched his polished aura. "Of course," you replied, flashing a perfect—if tired—smile.

Dinner went flawlessly.

Every answer was effortless—Ivy League graduate, prestigious hospital, exclusive golf membership, world-renowned cooking class. His skeptical parents melted, and even your "fiancé" looked relieved. If his mother had planned more blind dates, this dinner had surely put an end to them.

Stepping outside, you exhaled as the cool night air washed over you. The act was over. Another job done. Another paycheck secured.

You turned to bid your client goodbye, offering a polite nod as he thanked you. But as he walked away, a strange unease crept up your spine.

Something was missing.

Your bag.

Your pulse quickened. You glanced around, retracing your steps in your mind. Had you left it inside? Dropped it along the way? You turned, scanning the pavement, your fingers twitching with impatience.

Then, a shift.

A scent—faint yet unmistakable—brushed past your senses.

Your breath hitched.

It was subtle but eerily familiar, the kind of fragrance that stirred something deep in your memory, something you couldn’t quite grasp. Your body tensed before your mind could make sense of it.

And then you saw him.

A man stood before you, holding your bag.

"You left it on your chair," he said.

His voice was deep, steady—too steady. There was something unsettling in the way he spoke, an inexplicable weight behind his words. His presence was striking, commanding, as if he belonged nowhere yet filled the space completely.

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

Something about him…

The way he stood, the way his fingers curled around the strap of your bag, the way the glow of the city lights flickered against the sharp lines of his face—it all felt disturbingly familiar.

“Ms?”

His voice cut through the thick silence, pulling you back from the haze clouding your mind. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to focus.

He extended your bag toward you. “Here. I need to go.”

You reached out, fingers barely brushing against the fabric before he turned away, slipping into the night like a shadow.

And then it hit you.

Your breath caught, cold and sharp.

A chill slithered down your spine, your limbs locking in place as realization clawed its way through you.

It was him.

The man from your dream.

The whisper still lingered in your ears.

The ghost of his touch still burned on your skin.

And now—he was real.

The dream wrapped around you like silk, pulling you into something deep, something intoxicating. You weren’t just dreaming—you were feeling.

Warm hands traced the curve of your waist, deliberate and slow, as if memorizing every inch. A breath ghosted against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"You feel it, don’t you?" The voice was deep, teasing, laced with something darkly amused.

You did.

Your body arched instinctively, pressing into the warmth that surrounded you. His touch was light but possessive, fingertips skimming along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before stopping—just enough to drive you insane.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. The way his lips hovered just above yours, close enough to steal your breath, but not quite touching. The way his presence consumed you, making it impossible to think.

"Who…" Your voice was barely a whisper, lost between shallow breaths.

His lips brushed your ear. "You already know."

Your pulse surged, heat pooling low in your stomach. You wanted to answer, to reach for him, but the moment your fingers grazed his skin—

You woke up.

A sharp inhale, your chest rising and falling as if you had run miles. The air in your room felt too cold, your sheets too warm, your skin still tingling from a touch that wasn’t real.

But it had felt real.

Your fingers curled against the fabric beneath you, trying to shake off the lingering sensation. Your mind was still hazy, but one thought pushed through the fog.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t just a dream.

*

The hotel lobby buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses as you nursed an overpriced latte, eyes on your client’s target—a CEO lost in conversation with a younger woman. Routine. Predictable.

Then, the air shifted.

A presence entered, commanding, electric. Your breath hitched. Him. The man from your dream. Tall, refined, exuding quiet authority. His sharp gaze swept the room, as if aware he was being watched.

Impossible. Just a dream. And yet, he was here.

You should’ve ignored it. Stayed focused. But your feet moved before you decided.

He was heading to the bar.

Your heels clicked against marble as you followed, anticipation curling in your stomach. He looked rich—dangerously so. But you knew this world, played its games, mastered its weaknesses.

Still, as you stepped into the dimly lit bar, your confidence wavered.

Seungcheol sat alone, whiskey in hand, fingers tracing the rim. Shadows accentuated the sharp planes of his face—control, power, effortless command.

And against all reason, you walked toward him.

He noticed you the moment you approached. His gaze flickered to you, lingering, as if he had already expected your arrival.

“The bag?” His voice was smooth, rich—like something expensive and aged, much like the drink in his hand.

You nodded, fingers lightly brushing over the strap of your purse. “I saw you the other night. I wanted to thank you properly.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle yet undeniably amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Neither did I.” The words left your mouth before you could filter them. It was true—you hadn’t planned on this. But now that you were here, standing in front of him, you weren’t sure if you wanted to walk away.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly, studying you with the quiet intensity of someone who had already figured out half of your secrets. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was sharp.

Then, as if testing the waters, he asked, “Was that your boyfriend with you?”

Your breath hitched—just barely—but you recovered quickly, shaking your head. “No, he’s just a friend.”

He hummed, as if considering your answer. Another brief silence stretched between you. The awkwardness was all on your side, and yet, he didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just observed.

You weren’t sure whether that made him dangerous or intriguing.

The bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, and Seungcheol picked up the glass, taking an unhurried sip before finally speaking again.

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said at last, setting his drink back down. “Choi Seungcheol.”

For the first time in years, you hesitated.

Not because you didn’t have a name prepared. Not because you were crafting the perfect lie.

But because, against every instinct, you didn’t want to lie.

So, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time. You reached out, your fingers meeting his in a firm handshake. His grip was warm, steady, unwavering.

“Ji Y/n.”

Seungcheol held your gaze for just a second longer than necessary. And in that fleeting moment, as your skin tingled where it touched his, you had the unsettling feeling that this man—unlike anyone before him—wasn’t easily deceived.

At first, it was just a dream—fleeting images, whispers, a touch so real you woke up breathless. But as the nights passed, the dreams became more vivid, more intense. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his gaze, the ghost of his voice murmuring things you could never quite remember in the morning.What unsettled you most wasn’t the dreams—it was how easily you fell into them.

For someone who once needed medication just to rest, sleeping before 11 felt unnatural. And yet, here you were, slipping into unconsciousness effortlessly.

Then, Seungcheol started appearing.

At a restaurant, seated a few tables away, his laughter blending into the hum of business chatter. At a convenience store, where his hand brushed yours as you reached for water.

“Didn’t take you for the instant ramen type,” he mused.

“Didn’t take you for a convenience store kind of guy,” you shot back.

Then, a café. A library. Each time, his presence was casual, yet deliberate. Until now—when he stood just a few shelves away, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading.

You leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “Busy man like you sure has a lot of free time.”

He smirked. “Coincidence?”

“No.”

“Luck, then?”

You scoffed. “Not the word I’d use.”

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—rich, spiced—filling the space between you. “Then what would you call it?”

Your pulse skipped.

Coincidence? Fate?

Or something else entirely?

*

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But here you were, beneath him, the warmth of his body caging you against the mattress. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the depth in his dark eyes as he looked at you—really looked at you.

Your breath was uneven, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor you. Seungcheol’s fingers traced a slow path down your arm, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver through you.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, a touch so gentle it almost felt unreal. “Tell me to stop,” he said, almost like a challenge.

You parted your lips, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. But they never came.

Because despite everything—despite the dreams, despite the unsettling pull you felt toward him, despite the fact that you barely knew him—

You didn’t want him to stop.

His kiss was deep, consuming, as if he was trying to claim every part of you. The room filled with the sounds of your shared breaths, your soft whimpers against his mouth. His movements were measured, deliberate—each thrust a silent declaration.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, one hand moving to tilt your chin upward.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. There was something vulnerable there, something raw that made your chest tighten. The intensity in those dark eyes was almost too much to bear.

Your fingers traced the contours of his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your touch as he moved. This intimacy—it terrified you. Not because it felt wrong, but because it felt too right.

"I've wanted this," he confessed against your neck, his voice strained. "Wanted you."

You arched into him, your body responding to his confession in ways your words couldn't yet articulate. His name escaped your lips in a breathless whisper, and you felt him shudder against you.

"Say it again," he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"Seungcheol," you breathed, and it felt like surrender.

His rhythm changed, became more urgent, more desperate. Your nails dug into his shoulders as pleasure built within you, a crescendo approaching its peak. The world narrowed to just this—his body against yours, the heat between you, the way he looked at you like you were something precious and wild all at once.

"Seungcheol," you gasped, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. His rhythm never faltered, even as your body began to tremble beneath him.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let go for me."

The pressure building inside you crested like a wave. Your vision blurred at the edges as pleasure consumed you, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers. Seungcheol watched your expression intently, seeming to savor every flicker of ecstasy that crossed your face.

"Beautiful," he murmured, slowing his pace slightly to let you ride through the intensity of your release.

When you began to come down, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breathing labored. "Not done with you yet," he whispered, adjusting his angle slightly before resuming his determined pace.

Your oversensitive body quivered as he continued his relentless rhythm, each thrust sending aftershocks through your system. The new angle had him hitting a spot that made your toes curl, building another impossible wave of pleasure.

"I can't—" you whimpered, but Seungcheol silenced you with a deep kiss.

"You can," he breathed against your lips. "One more time for me."

His movements became more erratic, a telltale sign he was close. One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your most sensitive spot with practiced ease. The dual sensation was overwhelming, drawing a broken cry from your throat.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice strained. Sweat glistened on his brow as he maintained his punishing pace. "Together this time."

Your body responded to his command as if it belonged to him, trembling and tightening around him as a second climax built impossibly fast. His eyes never left yours, dark with hunger and something deeper—possession, adoration.

"Seungcheol, I'm—" Words failed as pleasure crashed through you again, more intense than before. Your back arched off the bed, pressing your chest against his.

"Fuck," he growled, his rhythm faltering at last. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks as he drove into you one final time, burying himself deep. You felt him pulse inside you as he came, his whole body tensing before he collapsed against you, careful to brace most of his weight on his forearms.

You had slept with Seungcheol more times than you could count.

What started as a dream—his touch, his voice, the way he fit so seamlessly into your nights—became reality, over and over again. Every time you were with him, it felt like stepping into a world where only the two of you existed. His lips traced paths you once imagined, his hands held you in ways that left no room for doubt. He knew your body better than you did, drawing out sensations that blurred the lines between dreams and waking.

And yet, no matter how many times you fell asleep beside him, no matter how deeply you surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, you always woke up exhausted.

At first, you ignored it. You chalked it up to the intensity of it all—the way he consumed you, the way you let him. But then it became impossible to overlook. You were sleeping earlier than ever, yet you woke up feeling depleted. Your limbs ached, your thoughts dragged, and there was a strange hollowness in your chest, like something inside you was slowly being siphoned away.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, only seemed to thrive.

You noticed it more with each passing day. He looked sharper, stronger—his skin glowing, his energy boundless. If exhaustion ever touched him, he never showed it. If anything, he seemed even more alive after every night spent with you.

The realization gnawed at you, a silent unease creeping up your spine.

One night, as you lay in his arms, your body sinking into the mattress with a heaviness you couldn’t shake, you finally gave voice to the thought that had been haunting you.

“Do you ever get tired?”

Seungcheol’s fingers stilled against your skin, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable in the dim light.

“Why do you ask?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to push past the drowsiness that had already begun to pull at you. “Because I do.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at you. Then, with a slow, almost knowing smile, he reached out, his fingertips tracing along your collarbone.

“Maybe you should rest more,” he murmured.

And just like that, exhaustion swept over you again, pulling you under before you could say another word.

*

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “She looks like hell.” He gestured toward the closed bedroom door, where you lay unconscious, an IV hooked into your arm. “And before you start—yeah, I know you don’t want me here, but someone has to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t drain her.”

Jeonghan gave him a pointed look. “Then why is she hooked up to an IV in your bed? You’ve been feeding on her too much, Cheol.”

Silence settled. Then, Jeonghan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “So, this is it? You’re using her to set a trap?”

Seungcheol leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t she do the same to you?”

Jeonghan’s smirk faltered for half a second before he scoffed. “I knew she was playing a game the moment she approached me. I just didn’t expect you to be part of it.” He studied Seungcheol.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. His gaze landed on you, your figure shifting beneath the blankets. A deep sigh left his lips—part relief, part something heavier he refused to name.

Your eyelids fluttered open, confusion flickering as you spotted the IV in your hand before meeting his gaze.

“You passed out yesterday,” he said, voice low. “I called a doctor.”

Your brows knitted. “Yesterday?” Your throat was dry.

Seungcheol handed you a glass of water. “Drink.”

You sipped slowly, mind piecing things together. Exhaustion, then nothing. A blank space where time should have been.

“What happened to me?”

Seungcheol’s expression remained unreadable. “You’ve been overworking yourself. Your body shut down.”

A lie. A careful one.

“I don’t just pass out,” you muttered. “What aren’t you telling me, Seungcheol?”

His fingers curled slightly against his thighs. “You need rest. That’s all that matters.”

Doubt lingered, but you couldn’t resist the pull—an invisible force tethering you to him. You should have been wary, but his touch sent warmth through your veins, his presence grounding you.

You let yourself drown in him, as if he were a calm ocean, deep and endless. You didn’t care if you couldn’t breathe—as long as it was him, you’d be fine.

And you were addicted. Obsessed.

With the way his fingers traced your skin, the way your name sounded in his voice. The way he kissed you—slow, deliberate, savoring every second—left you aching for more.

It wasn’t just desire. It was something dangerous.

And even if it destroyed you, you didn’t want to escape.

*

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he took in your appearance, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "You're so busy these days. Rest, won't you?"

You forced a small smile, gently pulling back. "I’m fine."

He didn’t look convinced but let it slide, plopping onto your couch and stretching out. Then, as if it had just crossed his mind, he asked casually, "By the way, I saw you with a man the other day. Who’s that?"

Your body stiffened for a fraction of a second before you masked it by tidying the scattered papers. "What man?"

Hansol scoffed. "Don’t play dumb. I know all your clients, and that guy? He wasn’t one of them." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So? Who is he?"

You sighed. Hansol wouldn’t drop it. "Just someone I met recently."

"And by ‘met recently,’ you mean what? Your new mark?"

You hesitated before shaking your head. "No."

"Then what is he?"

That was the real question, wasn’t it? Even you weren’t sure how to answer.

"Anyway..." Hansol grinned, pulling out a freshly purchased comic book. "Look at this! Just got it today."

You glanced at the cover, amused. "You still buy physical comics? Everyone’s moved to digital."

He scoffed, hugging the book dramatically. "Digital has no soul. Nothing beats flipping through real pages."

You chuckled. "Alright, what’s this one about?"

His eyes lit up. "It’s about an incubus."

Your brows furrowed. "An incubus?"_

Hansol blinked. "Wait—you seriously don’t know?"

You shrugged. "Should I?"

He sighed, flipping a page. "An incubus is a demon that seduces humans and feeds off their energy. You know—" he wiggled his eyebrows—"in that way."

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder. "Figures you’d be into this."

"Hey, don’t judge! It’s actually good. It’s about a girl who dreams of an incubus but doesn’t realize he’s real. Every night, he visits, making her crave him until she’s completely dependent. She thinks she’s just exhausted, but he’s been feeding on her, draining her little by little. By the time she figures it out, she’s already too weak to fight back."

Something twisted in your stomach.

Tired. Drained. Weak.

Hansol kept talking, flipping pages. "She loses weight, feels dizzy all the time. Always tired but wants him more, not knowing why." He smirked. "Sounds intense, right?"

You swallowed, forcing a chuckle. "Yeah… intense."

"Told you it’s good. You should read it. Might learn something interesting."

You laughed along, but your hands tightened around your sleeve.

Because suddenly, the exhaustion, the weight loss, the dreams—none of it felt like a coincidence.

You found his business card when you were at his place one night. It must have slipped out of his pocket, lying unnoticed on the floor. Instinctively, you reached for it, intending to put it back where it belonged. But the moment your eyes scanned the text, your breath hitched.

Choi Seungcheol

Director of Universe Factory.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. Jeonghan’s label.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp.

How had you missed this? How had you not recognized his name, his face, his presence?

The realization hit like a freight train. Did Seungcheol know?

Did he know that you were the one responsible for making his company’s profits plummet a month ago? The same person who had meticulously executed a con that left Universe Factory scrambling to recover?

A cold shiver ran down your spine.

You had to get away.

You tried. You really did.

You made excuses—work, exhaustion, anything you could think of to put distance between you and him. He never questioned it, only offering short replies to your messages, never demanding more.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because even when you weren’t with him, he was still there. Lingering in your thoughts. Haunting your dreams.

The first night, it was just a presence—watching from the edges of your subconscious.

The second night, he was closer. A whisper at your ear. A phantom touch against your skin.

The third night, you woke up breathless, his name slipping from your lips before you even realized.

You pressed a hand against your chest, your heart racing.

You had stopped seeing him.

So why did it feel like he had never left?

*

Seungcheol had been wondering about you.

He wasn’t sentimental—more of a deal with the mess later kind of guy. But you had left him with a mess he couldn’t clean up.

Something had changed.

He had been watching—casually, of course. Just a little supernatural surveillance. Totally normal. Except what he saw wasn’t.

You were better. Brighter. Lighter. The exhaustion that once clung to you was gone. Meanwhile, he was restless, irritable—craving something he couldn’t name.

Then, there was that night. When Jeonghan touched you, Seungcheol saw it—a spark. Energy demons would kill for. A problem.

So when Jeonghan’s photos with you surfaced, Seungcheol stepped in. Don’t see her again.

Jeonghan had only smirked. Oh, you have no idea.

Maybe he didn’t. Because then, Seungcheol crossed the line.

A little dream visit—just curiosity. But then, it became a habit.

Your subconscious wrapped around him like warmth after centuries in the cold. Your energy seeped into him, made him sharper, stronger—alive.

It wasn’t just hunger anymore.

It was you.

And now, he was hooked.

*

The smoky scent of the city clung to the cool breeze as Seungcheol spotted you instantly—he always did. The way your grip tightened around your glass and your shoulders stiffened told him everything. You weren’t just uncomfortable. You were ready to bolt. And you did.

Seungcheol sighed, already knowing you wouldn’t make this easy. He followed at a steady pace, matching your quick strides onto the quieter streets. The moment you felt him near, you spun around, eyes sharp.

"Don't touch me," you said, voice firm. "I'm done."

Seungcheol exhaled, half frustrated, half amused. But then he saw them—a group of men lingering in the shadows, eyes locked on you. His smirk vanished. Before he could act, you stopped abruptly, your next words heavier than before.

"Let's stop all of this."

Your gaze met his, searching. Then, barely above a whisper—“I know you’ve been hiding something. And now... I know.”

Seungcheol’s smirk returned, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Huh. So you figured it out."

"You knew I'm a con artist," you pressed. "You’re dragging me down, aren’t you?"

Seungcheol blinked, then chuckled. "Huh?" His tone was almost amused.

"You’re doing this for revenge," you accused.

His smirk deepened as he stepped closer. "That’s all you know?" His voice was smooth, teasing—testing you.

Your breath hitched. "What else is there to know?"

Seungcheol tilted his head, considering. Then—"If you really knew me, sweetheart, you'd know I never get involved unless there’s something in it for me."

Your pulse quickened. “Right. You wanted revenge for Jeonghan.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “But if that’s all you think this is about…”

The flickering streetlights cast shifting shadows over his unreadable expression, making you feel like you were standing at the edge of something dangerous.

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, voice steady despite the tension coiling in your chest.

Seungcheol only hummed, stepping forward. You instinctively stepped back.

That smirk deepened.

“Think about it,” he murmured. “If I really wanted revenge, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach twist the way it did.

You narrowed your eyes. “So what do you want?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, eyes flickering over your face like he was searching for something. Then, suddenly, his gaze dropped lower—to your wrist.

A slow grin curled at his lips.

“You’re still wearing it.”

You froze.

Your pulse pounded as you followed his gaze—only to realize what he was looking at.

The bracelet.

A simple, dark-threaded band with a single obsidian stone at its center. A gift—at least, that’s what he had called it when he first slipped it around your wrist.

You had never really thought about it before, had never even considered taking it off. But now, standing under the weight of his gaze, it felt like something else entirely.

A claim.

Your stomach twisted.

You looked back up at him, searching his face, suddenly desperate for an answer you weren’t sure you wanted. “What is this?”

Seungcheol chuckled, a deep, amused sound that sent a chill down your spine.

“You don’t know?” He stepped closer, voice dropping just slightly. “And here I thought you were catching on.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Something about the way he was looking at you made your breath catch.

Your mind flashed back to Hansol’s words from days ago—the way he had joked about incubus—demons and energy and how they marked their territory. You had laughed it off at the time.

But now…

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight around your wrist.

Seungcheol’s smirk didn’t fade. “Let’s just say… it’s been keeping you safe.”

Your heart pounded.

Safe from what?

And why did it suddenly feel like you had been walking into a trap this whole time—one that had already closed around you before you even realized it?

*

The room was enveloped in a hushed silence, broken only by your soft moans and the distant, steady hum of the city beyond the window. His breath was steady and rhythmic, while his fingers lazily traced gentle circles on your skin, providing a soothing contrast to the electric tension in the air.

Again.

You were at a loss as to how you always found yourself in this position—beneath him, with him, despite the myriad reasons you had to stay away. Yet here you were, captivated once more.

His body moved with a practiced rhythm, sending you spiraling into a realm of bliss. The way he touched you was intoxicating, and you craved him repeatedly, an insatiable desire igniting every nerve. His lips melded with yours, a fervent welcome to another peak of ecstasy. You moaned his name, a symphony of pleasure that made him chuckle, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

“Tell me you still don't want me," he murmured, his voice a low growl as he thrust into you with an urgency that matched the intensity of your need.

You couldn't lie—not in this moment when your body betrayed every rational thought. Words failed as pleasure coursed through you, rendering your earlier protests meaningless. The moonlight filtering through the half-drawn blinds painted silver streaks across his shoulders, illuminating the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I..." your voice faltered as he shifted his angle, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"That's what I thought," Seungcheol whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine. "You can deny it to yourself all day, but your body never lies to me."

Your fingernails dug crescents into his back, marking him in ways your pride would never allow you to claim out loud. The evidence of your surrender was written in every arch of your spine, every breathless plea that escaped your lips.

"I hate you," you whispered, the words lacking any conviction as they dissolved into another moan.

Seungcheol laughed, the sound vibrating through your joined bodies. "No, you don't." His pace slowed deliberately, making you whimper in protest. "Say it. Say what you really feel."

The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes that bore into yours, demanding honesty when you were at your most vulnerable. He knew exactly what he was doing—reducing you to nothing but raw sensation and truth.

"I need you," you admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you.

It seemed to satisfy him.

"It's not fair," you managed to whisper, your voice breaking as he continued his relentless pace. "The way you—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his hand slid between your bodies, finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

Seungcheol's eyes darkened, pupils dilated with desire as he watched your expression change. "Life isn't fair, baby," he said, his voice rough with restraint. "But this—" he rolled his hips in a way that made you arch off the bed, "—this is exactly what we both need."

The sheets lay tangled around your legs, a testament to the fervor of moments past, and the comforting warmth of Seungcheol's body remained pressed against you. His touch was still imprinted on your body, the weight of him lingering even as he shifted beside you, one arm draped over your waist like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

“You never learn, do you?” he mused, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Shut up.”

His chuckle was deep, amused. “You say that, but here you are.”

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Why are you here, really?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

But then, without warning, he reached down, fingers barely grazing your wrist—right over the bracelet. A slow, almost possessive touch.

And suddenly, you remembered Hansol’s words again.

Demons don’t just take.

They claim.

Your stomach twisted.

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

The truth was, you had been thinking about it. Ever since he pointed out the bracelet, ever since he hinted at something you weren’t sure you were ready to understand.

And now, here you were.

Back in his space.

Back in his hands.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost… coaxing. “You’re exhausted.”

You wanted to protest, wanted to push him away. But the moment his fingers traced slow circles over your wrist, a sudden, overwhelming exhaustion settled over your body.

Heavy. Draining.

Your eyelids fluttered.

You barely felt it when he pulled you to his chest, guiding you under the sheets, his warmth pressed against your back.

The last thing you heard before sleep took you was his voice, a whisper against your skin.

“You’re mine.”

*

The night stretched in quiet warmth, the city lights casting soft glows against Seungcheol’s bedroom walls. His sheets smelled like him—musky, familiar, intoxicating in a way that made it harder to breathe. Your body still tingled from where he had touched you, but your mind was louder, restless, caught in the weight of everything you hadn’t said yet.

You turned your head, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair was slightly tousled, how his lips were parted just enough to make you want to kiss him again. He looked relaxed, at ease—like none of this meant as much to him as it did to you.

That thought hurt more than it should have.

“I think I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak. “I think I love you.”

Seungcheol stilled.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. No teasing smirk, no amused glint in his gaze—just quiet, unreadable silence.

Then, he exhaled, running a hand throuugh his hair. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m not just saying it,” you murmured, your fingers tightening around the sheets. “I mean it.”

Seungcheol sighed, his expression conflicted. “You think you mean it,” he said carefully. “But we both know what this is.”

Your chest tightened. “And what is this?”

He hesitated. “It’s… fun. It’s good. But it doesn’t have to be more than that.”

You felt something inside you crack.

“You think I only want this because it’s fun?” Your voice was quieter now, the hurt creeping in despite how hard you tried to hold it back.

Seungcheol sighed again, this time rubbing the back of his neck like this conversation was making him more tired than it should. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Too late.

“You keep coming back to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I know part of it is because I—” He stopped himself, looking away. “I know what you did to Jeonghan.”

Your breath hitched.

“I know why you started this,” he admitted. “And I don’t think you owe me… whatever this is.”

He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t being cruel. But somehow, his quiet honesty hurt even more.

“I wasn’t lying,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I do love you.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. “I’m not the kind of person you should have feelings for.”

Silence.

Seungcheol woke to silence—empty, cold. His arm reached out, fingers brushing against vacant sheets. You were gone.

His jaw tightened. Last night. Of course.

He exhaled, rubbing his face. He had warned you—he wasn’t someone you should want. But it didn’t matter.

His fingers brushed the bracelet on his wrist—the same one you wore. A claim. A binding.

You could try to leave. You always did.

But you would always, always come back.

*

You sat in front of your laptop when the door opened. Looking up, you saw Seungcheol enter, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket draped over his arm.

Three days. Three days of silence, of neither seeing him nor feeling his presence in your dreams.

You missed him—that much you could admit. But missing him didn’t change the fact that you felt alone in this game, one where the rules were never in your favor. And if there was one thing you hated, it was losing.

Straightening, you leaned against your desk, arms crossed. "I'm not an entertainment label director, so my office isn’t sleek or modern," you remarked casually, but there was an edge to your tone.

Seungcheol chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked exhausted—shoulders slightly slumped, faint lines near his eyes.

"You’re avoiding me." His voice was low, unreadable.

Before you could respond, his finger traced the curve of your jaw, featherlight yet sending a shiver through you.

"I’ve been busy."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Too busy to even dream?"

You stiffened. Of course, he had noticed.

His hands settled on your waist, grounding you. His voice softened. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

You turned away, throat tightening. He had wounded you, and the worst part? He didn’t even realize it.

It hurt.

You had confessed, bared your heart, only for him to look at you like you were foolish. Like your love was laughable.

He didn’t think you deserved him. That someone like you should love someone better.

But what was he? An incubus? A demon who fed on pleasure, draining those he touched?

The thought ached, a dull weight pressing on your ribs.

"Please, don’t."

Your voice was fragile, but it was enough to make him freeze. His grip on you tightened—not in possession, but in hesitation.

Even now, he was still searching for an answer instead of realizing what he had done.

His eyes, usually dark with desire, flickered with something else—confusion, uncertainty. And then, frustration.

"You don’t mean that," he murmured. "You always come back to me."

A bitter laugh threatened to spill from your lips.

"Is that what you think?" you whispered, finally turning your gaze to meet his.

His breath hitched.

You saw it then—the faintest crack in his confidence, the small flicker of doubt behind his usual smirk.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you, his warmth wrapping around you like a force you couldn’t escape.

And you—God, you—tried so hard to fight it.

Tried to fight the way your body still reacted to him, the way your heart still ached for something more, something real.

You wanted to hate him.

But you wanted him more.

And that was the cruelest part of it all.

The kiss was deliberately slow, lingering in a way that felt like a silent argument—one neither of you was willing to lose. It wasn’t just about desire; it was about proving something. That this pull between you was inevitable. That no matter how much you tried to deny it, fate had already tangled you together.

You wanted to push him away, to yell at him to leave, to tell him that you were done. But you couldn’t. Physically, you couldn’t. Your body refused to obey the logic screaming in your head, betraying you in the cruelest way.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the haze, snapping you both back into reality.

You broke apart just in time for the door to swing open.

Hansol froze at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the tension in the room—Seungcheol too close, your pulse too quick.

"I… didn’t know you had a guest," Hansol mused, gaze flicking between you two before smirking. "Should I step out?"

You steadied yourself. "No, you’re good. He was just leaving."

Seungcheol’s smirk lingered, but he didn’t argue. You pushed him back, out the door, locking it before he could speak.

Hansol crossed his arms. "Okay. What the hell was that?"

You exhaled. "Did you bring the comic?"

He blinked, then pulled it from his bag. "Almost forgot."

You traced the cover, grounding yourself. Hansol studied you. "Who was that?"

"Nobody."

Hansol scoffed. "Right. Locking the door wasn’t suspicious at all."

"Do you want me to read or not?"

He sighed, then muttered, "If he’s messing with you, I’ll handle it."

You smiled, knowing he couldn’t. Not when Seungcheol wasn’t even human.

*

Seungcheol and Jeonghan sat at the dimly lit bar, the low hum of conversation surrounding them. Seungcheol looked exhausted—more than Jeonghan had ever seen.

"You’re never this tired," Jeonghan mused, swirling his drink. "Haven’t fed in a week?"

Seungcheol exhaled heavily, rubbing his face. As his wrist shifted, Jeonghan caught sight of it—the bracelet. His expression darkened.

"You actually did it," Jeonghan muttered, fingers tracing the intricate design. "You claimed her."

Seungcheol gave a small, reluctant nod.

"You know what that means, don’t you?" Jeonghan pressed. "It binds her to you. No other demon can touch her. But you can’t just walk away either." He studied Seungcheol’s face. "Let me guess—you haven’t fed on her since."

Silence.

Jeonghan scoffed. "She’s avoiding you?" His smirk was sharp. "The great Seungcheol? And here I thought humans were addicted to you, not the other way around."

More silence.

Jeonghan sighed. "I warned you," he said, shaking his head. "You were playing with fire the moment you visited her dreams. But claiming her?" He gestured at Seungcheol’s worn-out state. "Look at you. You’re falling apart."

Seungcheol scoffed, but there was no amusement in it. "She didn’t walk away."

"Then where is she?" Jeonghan challenged.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

"You thought you had control," Jeonghan continued. "Thought she’d keep coming back. But you did something worse." He leaned in, voice quiet but sharp. "You made her love you."

Seungcheol inhaled slowly, the weight of the words settling.

"And now," Jeonghan murmured, "you’re suffering the consequences."

Seungcheol chuckled dryly. "Drop it."

Jeonghan set his glass down. "You know what happens when a demon loses control of the bond."

Seungcheol remained silent, but his grip on his glass trembled. The exhaustion wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was something deeper. A creeping weakness. His once-effortless strength now required effort.

"You’re already feeling it," Jeonghan observed.

"I just need to feed," Seungcheol muttered.

Jeonghan scoffed. "You think that’s it?" His gaze flicked to the bracelet. "You tied yourself to her. And she’s rejecting you." His voice dropped. "You already know what that means."

Seungcheol swallowed hard. He knew.

The demon in him was fading. And something else—something human—was taking its place.

*

A late-night knock startled you. You had been drowning in work, avoiding sleep—avoiding him.

But there he was.

Seungcheol stood at your door, weaker than you’d ever seen him. Paler, unsteady, his usual confidence gone.

"Seungcheol—"

"I need you..." His voice was strained before he collapsed.

Instinct took over. You caught him, his body cold, his breath shallow. Panic rose as you reached for your phone, but his weak grip stopped you.

"No… don’t," he murmured. "Your touch… it’s enough."

Your heart pounded.

Guiding him to the couch, you watched him slip into unconsciousness. Your gaze flickered to Hansol’s comic—a scene of an incubus fading without his bonded partner.

Your stomach twisted.

"How much do you need me, Seungcheol?" you whispered, brushing your fingers over his icy skin.

His eyelids fluttered. A ragged breath.

More than you had ever imagined.

"A kiss?" You swallowed, searching his face. "Sex?"

His fingers twitched weakly beneath yours, but then, his voice—so soft, so unlike him—broke the silence.

"I just need you here."

Your breath hitched.

For the first time, there was no teasing in his tone, no smirk playing at his lips. Just quiet, raw honesty.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows, the scent of cologne and something unmistakably him lingering in the air. A slow, rhythmic beeping filled the silence, drawing your gaze to the IV drip beside you.

Your body felt impossibly heavy, fingers curling weakly against the sheets. Then, you noticed him.

Seungcheol sat beside the bed, dark eyes trained on you. He looked different—strong again. The exhaustion that once drained him was gone. A chill ran through you.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this," he murmured.

Your throat was dry. "What time is it?"

"You passed out for two days."

The weight of his words settled over you. Two entire days—gone.

Your mind traced back to when he had collapsed in your arms, weak and powerless. And now… he was whole.

"You drained me."

He didn’t deny it. Just a slow, deliberate nod.

"You know now."

Seungcheol parted his lips—I was…—but the words never came.

"You almost died." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Without thinking, you reached out, cupping his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

"But I drained you."

You shook your head, a tired smile forming. "I'll be fine."

His gaze lingered before he pulled the duvet over you both, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced your face, memorizing you.

"I missed you..." His voice was fragile.

You hesitated before muttering, "I missed you too."

Something in him softened, but it was fleeting. He took your wrist, pressing a lingering kiss near the bracelet—his mark on you.

"But if I keep doing this… I’ll drain you."

"You can drain me," you replied without hesitation.

His jaw tightened, resisting the urge to kiss you, to erase this moment.

"I told you," he whispered, "I'm not someone you can have feelings for."

Your breath hitched. "Then what? Let you waste away for two weeks, only to return to me in the middle of the night, desperate?"

His breath caught.

For the first time in centuries, Seungcheol felt something foreign coil inside him—something dangerously human.

"You don’t love me," you whispered, resigned. "But you need me."

Seungcheol clenched his jaw, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his touch. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to push you away.

But he couldn’t.

Because you were right.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on your wrist before he forced himself to let go. His lips parted, but for a long moment, no words came. You watched him, breath steady, heart not.

"You deserve the truth," he finally said, quieter than you'd ever heard him. "I should've told you a long time ago."

You waited.

"I'm an incubus."

His gaze stayed on you, searching for fear, for rejection. But you stayed. You always stayed.

"I feed on energy," he continued. "Desire. Touch. That’s how I survive."

You curled your fingers into the duvet, letting his words settle. You had suspected it—pieced it together from his presence in your dreams, the way he moved, and most of all, from the comic Hansol had lent you.

"I read about this," you said, voice steady. "In a comic."

Seungcheol blinked. "A comic?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It explained a lot—how incubi bond, how they claim someone as their main energy source." You glanced at your bracelet, smirking. "Though it didn’t mention incubi being this annoyingly persistent."

He let out a short laugh. "That’s what you’re taking from this?"

"Well, yeah. You disappear for weeks, show up half-dead, and now I’m your personal charger."

He scoffed, amusement flickering in his eyes. "It’s more complicated than that."

"Maybe. But it also means you need me more than I need you."

Seungcheol leaned in, smirking. "Is that so?"

You lifted your chin, playful. "Pretty much. So, what do I get for keeping you alive?"

He studied you, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. I’ll owe you one."

You grinned. "Make it a big one."

Shaking his head, he chuckled. "You really are something else."

*

Jeonghan finally saw you again after months of you staying with Seungcheol, and to say he was amused was an understatement. The very person who had caused a scandal, who had once driven Seungcheol into a blind rage, was now living under his roof.

Leaning against the bar counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips, he asked, "So, you stopped being a con artist?"

You matched his smirk. "Who said I did?" The challenge in your eyes hadn’t entirely faded.

Jeonghan chuckled. "You weren’t this feisty when you approached me."

You shrugged. "That was work, Jeonghan. I was paid for that."

Turning to Seungcheol, Jeonghan smirked. "See? I told you—humans are more evil than us."

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not this again."

Jeonghan only grinned. "It’s just funny. You were ready to tear the world apart over her, and now? Look at you—domesticated."

Seungcheol didn’t want to admit it, but something was changing. He felt drowsy, struggled with paperwork, even found himself getting emotional over your favorite animated movies.

Jeonghan noticed. "Have you been visiting the Underworld lately?"

You perked up. "What’s the Underworld?"

"A place where we were born," Jeonghan said vaguely.

"I thought incubi were born from humans," you mused.

Seungcheol chuckled, handing you a plate of apples as he settled beside you. "Your comic didn’t mention that?"

Jeonghan smirked. "You learned about us from a comic? Alright then, what else have you learned?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Well, incubi are supposed to be effortlessly seductive, but judging by Seungcheol’s struggle with paperwork, I think my comic exaggerated."

Jeonghan laughed while Seungcheol groaned. "Remind me why I keep you around?"

"Because you need me." You grinned, taking a bite of your apple.

Jeonghan nudged Seungcheol. "She’s not wrong."

You tapped your fingers against the plate. "Actually, some things in the comic were true—incubi can’t form real emotional attachments, they need to bond with someone to maintain energy, and if they go too long without feeding, they lose their abilities."

Jeonghan and Seungcheol exchanged glances.

“That’s... accurate,” Jeonghan admitted. "Who wrote this comic?"

"Some guy named Laurent."

Both men froze.

You frowned. "What?"

Seungcheol sat up. "Laurent?"

Jeonghan let out a low whistle. "That explains it."

Your curiosity grew. "You know him?"

Seungcheol exhaled sharply. "He’s one of the oldest incubi. No one’s seen him in centuries."

Jeonghan crossed his arms. "If he wrote that comic, it means he’s been watching from the shadows."

You blinked. "So… I’ve been getting life lessons from some ancient demon?"

Seungcheol groaned. "Pretty much."

Jeonghan smirked. "And here I thought it was just a random fantasy story."

You glanced at the comic, suddenly seeing it in a new light. "Great. So I’ve basically been studying from a demon history book."

Seungcheol and Jeonghan shared a look. They knew what to do.

*

Tracking Laurent down had taken effort—favors, cryptic messages, and a web of connections. Yet, standing before a plain apartment door, Seungcheol felt an odd disbelief. No hidden sanctuary, no forgotten castle—just this.

With a breath, he rang the doorbell. An older man answered, his sharp gaze assessing.

"I’m here for Laurent," Seungcheol said evenly.

The man’s lips curled. "What’s your business?"

A strange unease crept into Seungcheol—his hands trembled. Why?

Then—

"Scoups?"

His demon name. No one had called him that in ages. Seungcheol stepped back, stunned.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled. "It’s been a long time." He pushed the door open. "I’m Laurent."

Silence.

Seungcheol stiffened, mind reeling. Laurent—one of the most powerful incubi—stood before him, aged. Human.

They sat in dim light, the air thick with unspoken truths. Laurent poured himself wine, watching Seungcheol with quiet amusement.

"You already know why you’re here."

Seungcheol’s fists clenched. The exhaustion, the emotions, the way his body responded to you like a man’s, not a demon’s.

Laurent sipped his drink. "You’re becoming human."

The words hit like a blow.

"Why?" Seungcheol demanded.

Laurent’s smirk was almost pitying. "The energy we take—it doesn’t just sustain us. When given willingly, with love—it changes us."

Seungcheol froze. Images of you flashed in his mind—your touch, your warmth, your unwavering presence.

"You love her," Laurent said simply.

His stomach twisted.

"And she will die."

The air left Seungcheol’s lungs.

Laurent’s voice softened. "Just like mine did."

Seungcheol saw it then—the empty, endless future without you.

"You have a choice," Laurent said.

Seungcheol swallowed hard. "What choice?"

"Leave. Sever the bond. She’ll live."

A cold, meaningless existence stretched before him.

"And if I stay?"

Laurent’s gaze darkened. "Then she will give all of herself to you until there’s nothing left."

Later that day, you noticed Seungcheol sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the floor. His usual sharp, confident presence was replaced with something distant, something unsettling. His fingers idly played with the edge of the bracelet on his wrist—something he rarely did unless he was deep in thought.

You set down your book and shifted closer to him. “Seungcheol?” you called softly, but he didn’t react.

Frowning, you reached out and touched his arm. That finally pulled him out of his trance, his dark eyes flickering to you as if just realizing you were there.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, searching his face.

For a moment, he hesitated. You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed back words he wasn’t sure he should say. But then, with a slow exhale, he leaned back against the couch and ran a hand down his face.

“I met Laurent today,” he admitted. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual weight.

You tilted your head. “And?”

He let out a bitter chuckle. “And he’s human.”

That made you pause. “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol turned his head to look at you, his expression unreadable. “He used to be like me. An incubus. One of the strongest. But… he told me something.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

Seungcheol’s fingers tightened around the bracelet, as if grounding himself. “He said that the energy we feed on… if it comes from someone who loves us, it changes us. It makes us human.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I never thought that was possible, but… he’s proof.”

Your lips parted slightly, trying to process that revelation. “So… you’re becoming human?”

He inhaled sharply, his gaze dropping. “It seems like it.”

Your heart pounded at the thought. Seungcheol, the man who had once told you he couldn’t feel love, who had warned you not to fall for him—was changing.

“You’re becoming human?” you repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it even more real.

Seungcheol’s brows furrowed slightly at your reaction, but before he could say anything, you reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Seungcheol, that’s… that’s amazing! Do you know what this means?”

His lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “…What?”

You laughed softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It means we could grow older together. You won’t have to live in the shadows anymore, no more feeding on others—just us, together.” The words tumbled out with excitement, your heart swelling with a hope you never thought you’d have.

But Seungcheol didn’t smile.

Instead, his grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, and your joy slowly began to wane.

“…What is it?” you asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Seungcheol took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping before he finally forced the words out. “Laurent’s bonded partner didn’t survive.”

Your heart stopped.

The warmth you felt just moments ago was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by something cold and heavy in your chest.

“What?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. “Laurent became human because his partner loved him. But that love… it drained them. Took everything from them until there was nothing left.” He finally met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw something you never thought you’d see in his eyes.

Fear.

“If this keeps happening,” he whispered, voice unsteady, “you’re going to die.”

*

"Whatever happens in the future, let's face it together."

Seungcheol took a week off. It shocked everyone—he had never taken a break before, never needed one. But this time, he did. And if things between you and him were bound to change, if your time together was uncertain, then he wanted to spend at least this one week with you.

The days passed in a blur of warmth and quiet happiness. Mornings began with sunlight filtering through the curtains, the soft rustling of sheets as you slowly woke up. Seungcheol was already beside you, tracing his fingers over your cheek, smiling as he watched you stir.

"You made me breakfast?" you murmured, voice still laced with sleep.

He nodded, leaning in to kiss you. "Of course."

And though breakfast wasn’t the only thing shared that morning, you were grateful.

The week felt almost surreal—coffee dates where he held your hand across the table, late-night drives with the windows down, cool air rushing past as he stole glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Dinners where he let you order for him, just to see what you’d choose. Walks through quiet streets, fingers laced together as you talked about everything and nothing.

For the first time in his existence, Seungcheol understood happiness—not fleeting pleasure or the rush of energy from feeding, but something real. If this was what it meant to be human, then maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so bad after all.

Time stretched, endless yet fleeting. He had never lived like this before—indulgently, freely, with no urgency pressing against his back. He no longer needed to feed, no longer felt the ache of hunger clawing at him. Instead, he felt full in a way he couldn’t explain.

With you, time was measured in laughter filling his home, in the absentminded way your fingers played with his as you watched movies. In the weight of your head against his shoulder when you dozed off mid-conversation, in the way you hummed while stirring sugar into his coffee—like you belonged there.

One evening, you dragged him grocery shopping. A mundane thing, something he’d never thought about. But as he watched you debate over cereal brands, something settled in his chest. He wasn’t just existing—he was living.

"You okay?" you asked, tilting your head.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring. Exhaling a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Yeah… I just—" He hesitated. "I think I’m human now."

You furrowed your brows. "Seungcheol, you’ve been human for weeks."

He swallowed. It wasn’t just the physical changes—no fangs, no unnatural strength. It was the way his heart ached at the thought of losing this, of losing you.

Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. Right there, in the middle of the grocery aisle, between shelves of canned goods and snacks, he buried his face in your shoulder, holding you tightly.

"You made me human," he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Good. Now you can grow old with me."

"You're my first happiness."

That night, Seungcheol held you closer than ever before. There was something different about the way he felt your warmth against him—something deeper, something human. For the first time in his existence, he felt alive.

His body no longer burned with an unnatural energy. Instead, there was only the steady rhythm of his heart, matching yours. His breaths, once controlled and measured, now rose and fell in sync with yours. He had never truly slept before—not in the way humans did—but with you beside him, he drifted off into the most peaceful slumber he had ever known.

At some point in the night, you had whispered, voice quiet but full of meaning, “If you said I’m your first happiness, promise me I’ll be your first grief as well.”

He had furrowed his brows, eyes still heavy with sleep, and pulled you even closer. “Don’t say things like that,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. “We have time.”

You had only smiled in response, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his chest until his eyelids finally shut.

For the first time in his life, Seungcheol dreamt—not of darkness or hunger, but of a future with you. A future where you both grew old together, where he learned to live as a human by your side.

That morning, the world was unusually quiet.

A soft breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of a city slowly waking up. The golden light of dawn stretched across the sheets, warm and gentle, casting a glow on the two figures still lying in bed. Everything felt still, peaceful—like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Seungcheol stirred first.

His arms were still wrapped around you, your body tucked safely against his chest. A small, content sigh escaped his lips as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you. For the first time in his life, he had truly slept. And it had been beautiful. Warm, comforting—human.

He never thought he’d experience something so simple yet so precious.

His lips curled into a lazy smile as he murmured, “Morning…” his voice husky from sleep.

But you didn’t answer.

His brows furrowed slightly, but he brushed it off. You always took a little longer to wake up, especially after nights like last night. His fingers found your cheek, ready to trace the familiar shape of your face, but the second they touched your skin, something cold shot through him.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched.

His entire body tensed as his mind tried to deny what his senses were telling him. Slowly, he pulled away just enough to look at you. His heart slammed against his ribs, harder and harder, as his hands gently shook your shoulders.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice unsteady. “Time to wake up.”

But you didn’t move.

Seungcheol let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm. Maybe you were just in a deep sleep. Maybe you had overexerted yourself the day before. Maybe—

He pressed his fingers to your wrist.

Nothing.

His throat tightened. His hands trembled as they moved to cup your face, tilting your head ever so slightly. Your lips, once so full of warmth and laughter, were parted slightly—silent, unmoving. Your skin, which had always been so soft under his touch, now felt distant, cold.

Seungcheol’s stomach dropped. A sharp, unbearable pain coiled in his chest as he shook his head, as if denying reality could somehow undo it.

“No,” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He pulled you into his arms, holding you as if his warmth could bring you back. “No, no, no—please, baby, wake up.”

His grip tightened, desperate. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as his world began to shatter. “You said we’d grow old together,” he choked out. “You promised.”

But you didn’t answer.

You never would again.

And just like that, Seungcheol understood.

He had finally become human.

And now, he had to endure the cruelest part of being one.

Loss.

His first happiness. His first grief.

Seungcheol held you tighter, his body wracked with silent cries, whispering your name over and over again like a prayer, like a plea.

But the only answer was silence.

*

Sleep, my love, don’t be afraid,

I’ll hold you close till dreams fade.

Hush, my love, don’t shed a tear,

My heart will always keep you near.

Drift, my love, where stars shine bright,

I’ll follow after—just not tonight.

*

Seungcheol jolted awake, breathless, your voice still lingering—a lullaby so vivid he swore you had been there.

The next night, half-asleep, he saw you again. Sitting at the edge of his bed, fingers threading through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Warmth spread through him—until he woke up to an empty room.

At work, he was a shell of himself. His staff whispered, assuming love sickness, a long-distance strain. No one knew the truth.

Until Jeonghan, absentmindedly, let slip: her funeral.

The office fell silent. The rumors shifted.

"Boss’ girlfriend passed away?"

The weight of it settled. It explained his hollow eyes, his exhaustion, the way grief clung to him like a shadow.

But even with the world knowing, nothing changed. Seungcheol still woke up alone.

"You know," Jeonghan started, his voice casual, "since you’re human now, maybe you should start thinking about dating again."

Seungcheol barely reacted. He exhaled slowly, shutting the file and setting it aside. "Not interested," he muttered, rubbing his temple as if the mere suggestion gave him a headache.

Jeonghan sighed. "Look, I get it. Losing her… it messed you up. But you can’t spend the rest of your life alone. You’re human now, Seungcheol. That means your time is limited. And whether you like it or not, humans aren’t meant to live in solitude."

Seungcheol let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I’ve lived for centuries without love, Jeonghan. I can do it again."

"But you weren’t human then." Jeonghan tilted his head, studying him. "You feel things now, don’t you? The loneliness, the exhaustion… the emptiness."

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Jeonghan could see it in his eyes.

Instead, Seungcheol changed the subject. "Why are you really here?"

Jeonghan smirked, knowing he had struck a nerve but letting it slide. "The governor’s charity ball. It’s next week, and you need a partner."

Seungcheol scoffed. "I’ll pass."

"You can’t pass," Jeonghan corrected, pushing himself off the desk. "It’s an important event for your company, and the governor personally invited you. You know how these things work—you show up alone, and people start whispering even more." He smirked. "And trust me, you don’t need any more rumors flying around about you."

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’ll figure something out."

"You mean I’ll figure something out," Jeonghan corrected with a grin. "Don’t worry, I’ll find you the perfect date."

Seungcheol waved him off dismissively. "Don’t bother."

Jeonghan ignored him, already pulling out his phone. "Too late. Consider it my personal mission to make sure you don’t look miserable at that ball."

Seungcheol didn’t argue. He was too tired to. And deep down, maybe he knew Jeonghan was right. But that didn’t mean he was ready.

*

The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Seungcheol stirred, his breaths uneven as his body adjusted to reality. His skin still burned with the lingering sensation of touch—your touch.

It had been so vivid. Too real.

In the dream, you had been there, warm and alive, your hands tracing over his skin like you were memorizing him all over again. He could still hear your breathy laughter against his ear, feel the way your fingers tangled into his hair as you whispered his name like a secret only the two of you shared. Your lips ghosted over his, gentle yet intoxicating, pulling him deeper into something that felt both familiar and foreign.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his chest tightening. The dream wasn’t just intimate—it was overwhelming. He had never felt so close to you before, not even when you were alive. As he stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest. It wasn’t just a dream. He knew it. He could feel you.

But you were gone.

The cruel reminder settled over him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand over his face. He needed air. He needed to move. Anything to escape the phantom sensation of you still lingering on his skin.

As he got up, his gaze landed on the mirror across the room. For a moment, he swore he saw something—someone. A soft silhouette, watching him with the gentlest smile.

He blinked, and it was gone.

But the warmth in his chest remained.

The day of the charity ball had arrived, but Seungcheol barely felt present.

His phone buzzed with a message from Jeonghan.

Jeonghan: Found someone for you. She's the daughter of a business partner. Classy, quiet, won’t talk much. Just show up and leave—it’s just one night.

Another text followed, listing the dress code details. Jeonghan had already informed Seungcheol’s secretary, who had arranged everything.

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. He had barely gotten through the day, his energy drained before the event even started. The morning had already left him shaken—your dream, your touch, your presence still lingering in his mind like an unfinished melody. He barely had the focus to sit through meetings, and his staff had stopped trying to engage him in conversation.

They all knew. The rumors had already spread.

"Boss' girlfriend passed away."

He could feel their pitying glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. He hated it. Not because they were wrong, but because they were right. He had lost you. And the weight of that loss sat so heavily on his chest that even breathing felt exhausting.

The thought of putting on a suit, standing beside a stranger, and pretending for the night—it was suffocating. But he had no choice.

With another tired sigh, Seungcheol loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was going to be a long night.

As Seungcheol arrived at the grand charity ball, his phone buzzed with a message from the woman Jeonghan had arranged for him.

_I'll be waiting outside the ballroom._

With a quiet sigh, he notified his secretary before making his way through the lavish venue, away from the crowd and towards the entrance.

His eyes landed on a woman standing with her back to him. Short, wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she wore a gown that matched the tone of his suit perfectly. Jeonghan hadn’t even mentioned a name. How was he supposed to address her?

For the sake of appearances, for the sake of networking and those who relied on him, he had to do this.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward.

"Excuse me?"

Seungcheol’s breath hitched. His body stiffened as the woman turned around, and suddenly, the noise from the ballroom behind him faded into nothing.

It was you.

Standing there in the dimly lit hallway, wearing the same tone of gown that matched his suit perfectly, you looked just as you always had—alive, warm, real.

His mind refused to process what he was seeing.

His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach out or step back. He had spent months waking up to the ghost of your touch, hearing your voice in dreams, feeling your presence haunt every waking moment. But this—this wasn’t a dream.

It couldn’t be.

You smiled softly, as if his shock amused you. "You're late," you teased, tilting your head slightly.

Seungcheol’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat tightened. His heart—his human heart—was beating so loudly he could hear it in his ears.

This was impossible.

“You…” His voice barely came out. “You’re—”

You took a step closer, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly against the lapel of his suit, the same way you always did when fixing his collar before events. “Did you miss me?”

His breath shuddered. His entire world tilted on its axis.

Seungcheol didn’t know if he was dreaming, if he had gone insane, or if something beyond his understanding had brought you back to him.

But at that moment, he didn’t care.

Because you were here. And that was all that mattered.

*

Jeonghan was deep in conversation about his acting comeback when he saw you—alive, casually dining with one of Seungcheol’s business partners. His breath hitched. Impossible. Yet there you were, smiling and waving as if nothing had happened.

Later, he found you waiting for him. Arms crossed, you met his gaze.

"You mind explaining how you're here, breathing?" he asked.

“It’s complicated," you admitted. "God gave me another chance—on one condition."

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. "You’re not human. What condition?"

"A job. A mission." You smirked. "Exposing frauds."

He scoffed. "Fitting for an ex-con artist." Then his tone shifted. "Have you seen Seungcheol?"

You hesitated.

Jeonghan studied you. "You know he’s human now, right? And a wreck since you left. Barely eating, barely sleeping. Still hears your voice."

Your fingers tensed around your glass.

Jeonghan sighed. "Why are you really here?"

A whisper. "I had to come back."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jeonghan exhaled. "Go see him."

And now, Seungcheol stood frozen in the dimly lit corridor just outside the ballroom, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and longing. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you or step back, afraid this was nothing but a cruel trick his mind had conjured.

But you were real. The warmth of your skin, the rise and fall of your breath—it was all real.

Before he could think, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his grip almost desperate, as if you would disappear the moment he let go. His heart pounded against his ribs, erratic, uneven, human.

He buried his face against your shoulder, inhaling deeply, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You smiled softly, your hands finding their way to his back, tracing slow circles to soothe him. “You’re not dreaming, Seungcheol.”

His arms tightened around you, afraid—so afraid—because he had already lost you once. He had held you in his arms before, lifeless and cold, and now here you were, warm and steady, breathing life back into his world.

“I’ll be here, Seungcheol,” you murmured, your voice gentle, reassuring. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “You can’t just say that and disappear again,” he muttered, his voice rough with emotion.

You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “I won’t. I promise.”

Seungcheol finally loosened his grip, just enough to look at you properly. His eyes traced over every detail of your face, memorizing you all over again as if you might disappear if he blinked.

“You said you wouldn’t go anywhere,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek, still afraid to believe this was real. “But how? How are you here?”

You let out a small sigh and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

Seungcheol studied your face, searching for answers, but the warmth in your eyes kept him grounded. He nodded slowly, though he still had a thousand questions swirling in his mind.

Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted. He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “In my dreams…” His fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “The lullaby. You touching my hair. Kissing my temple.” He looked at you intently, almost afraid of the answer. “Was it really you? Or just my mind playing tricks on me?”

Your expression softened, and you reached up, cupping his cheek with both hands. “It was me, Seungcheol.”

His breath hitched.

“I couldn’t wait until today,” you admitted with a small, sad smile. “I wanted to see you. Even if it was just in your dreams.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment, taking in your words, letting them sink into every part of him. His grip on you tightened as if needing to anchor himself.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Hearing you. Feeling you. And then waking up to nothing.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “You’re here now.”

“I am.”

And for the first time in months, Seungcheol felt something other than grief—something like hope.

Later that night, as Seungcheol and you stepped out of the ballroom, his secretary followed closely, ensuring everything was in order before escorting you both to the car. The evening had been overwhelming—full of whispers, stolen glances, and emotions Seungcheol wasn’t ready to process just yet.

But as they reached the parking lot, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. His secretary looked at him in confusion.

“Sir?”

Seungcheol exhaled, then turned to face him with a firm expression. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow morning, I want you to make an announcement at the office.”

His secretary straightened. “An announcement, sir?”

Seungcheol nodded, glancing at you briefly before saying, “Tell everyone my girlfriend isn’t dead.”

There was a beat of silence.

His secretary’s eyes widened slightly, his professional mask slipping for just a second before he quickly composed himself. “I—Understood, sir.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, before letting out an amused chuckle. “Wow,” you muttered, looking at Seungcheol. “That was… direct.”

Seungcheol turned to you, his expression serious yet affectionate. “I don’t want anyone talking about you like you’re gone.” His fingers brushed against yours before he clasped your hand fully, squeezing it gently. “You’re here. And I want the world to know it.”

You tilted your head, watching him, your heart swelling at how fiercely he claimed you—like he was making sure no one, not even fate, could take you away from him again.

With a soft laugh, you squeezed his hand back. “Well then, I guess I’m officially back.”

As the car door opened, you reached for Seungcheol’s wrist, stopping him before he could step inside. He turned to you, puzzled, but his expression shifted when he saw what you held—a bracelet, woven from threads darker than night, laced with a faint shimmer of silver that seemed to glow under the ballroom lights.

Without a word, you wrapped it around his wrist, fastening it with a soft touch. The moment it clicked into place, a faint warmth pulsed against his skin, spreading up his arm like a heartbeat in sync with yours. Seungcheol's breath hitched as he felt something shift within him, something deep, as though an invisible thread had tied you both together.

His fingers traced the charm at the center, feeling a soft hum of energy beneath his touch. “What is this?” he asked, voice quieter than before, almost reverent.

“A bond,” you murmured, watching his reaction. “A connection. A reminder that no matter what happens, we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Seungcheol stared at you, then at the bracelet. He felt it—you—through it. Your presence, your energy, something anchoring him in a way he hadn't felt since the moment he realized he was losing his power. His grip on your hand tightened, afraid to let go, afraid that this was all still just a dream he would wake up from.

You smiled softly, brushing his hair back as you whispered, “Whatever happens, we’ll find a way.”

The silver in the bracelet gleamed faintly, as if responding to your words, sealing the promise between you.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his heart pounding in a way it never had before. Then, pulling you into his arms, he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, breathing you in as if grounding himself in your reality.

“We always do,” he whispered. “And this time, I won’t let anything take you from me.”

The bracelet pulsed once more, as if sealing the vow between you both.

*

The memory returned like an old song—familiar yet distant. Seungcheol still tasted the bitterness of wine, the scent of aged oak and candle wax lingering in Laurent’s dimly lit apartment.

Laurent swirled his glass, voice tinged with regret. “I once thought love was just a transaction, a necessity for survival.”

Seungcheol listened.

“But after I became human, I realized how little I understood—the way love lingers, even when they’re gone.” Laurent sighed. “I wish I had cherished her more. Maybe then… she would’ve found a way back too.”

Seungcheol’s grip tightened. He knew who Laurent meant.

Laurent chuckled, void of amusement. “I was a new human. My heart was still learning. But you—you loved her enough to defy the order of things. To believe there was still a way.” His gaze softened. “I never did. And that’s why she never returned.”

Seungcheol watched the wine cling to the glass before slipping down.

Laurent leaned back. “I hope your story has a different ending.”

The words stayed with him.

Now, as you brushed your fingers against the bracelet on his wrist, Seungcheol held onto that memory—and onto you.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to lose you.