#there is a Market for this and the overhead's low!

[yusuke-of-valla]

I have so many great video game ideas that are relatively low budget @ anybody hire me to be in charge of this shit I'm a genius

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, coercion, dub-con/non-con themes (flashback), HYDRA abuse, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst (tw: sexual violence)

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

series masterlist

The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments. 

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission. 

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative 

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

[risingoftime]

I need a fic about Bo from sinners fastttttt😛😛😛😛😛

CHOW'S CORNER MARKET | BO CHOW X F!READER

SYNOPSIS: Returning to your hometown in the South, you see that a lot has changed, but many people have stayed the same. Bo Chow was one of them. Still behind the counter, still wearing that same unreadable expression, still Mei’s daddy… only now, you were old enough to notice how good he looked when he leaned back in that creaky stool, arms folded, eyes trailing just a little too long.

CONTAINS: 18+ mdni, age gap (reader is his daughter's friend), kissing, explicit sexual content, PDA, forbidden love, hard core yearning, widower bo chow, dry humping, Bo is a munch, public sex, oral, p in v.

A/N: i got you babe!! ;)

You never meant to return to this town, let alone set foot in the Chow’s grocery store. The bell above the door hadn’t even finished ringing when you saw him behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, cigarette tucked behind one ear. He hadn’t changed much. Still wore that tired smirk like he knew something about you that you wished he didn’t.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, not looking up immediately. “That’s what you always said, right? Said you’d burn if you stayed.”

You rolled your eyes in response. The past you was very theatrical, anything I opposed felt like the end of the world. You stepped past the fresh peaches. They smelled like summer spent on your Nana's porch, sippin' sugar water. “And yet here I am. Guess I didn’t burn fast enough.”

He finally looked at you. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught Bo staring at you, too long, back when you used to trail behind his daughter like a shadow. You were only a couple of years older than Mei, but those five years felt like lifetimes when you turned twenty-three and started noticing how Bo’s eyes followed you, carefully.

“You here for something?” he asked, voice low, half a joke and half serious. Bo Chow wasn't the type to play around, and sure as hell wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He didn’t blink as he looked you over. He waited as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it anyway.

You swallowed. The air inside the store felt humid, even though the fan whirred lazily overhead. “I came for peaches, and I plan on making a pie,” you said, picking one up. "But maybe you got something sweeter behind the counter.”

Bo stepped around it, wiped his hands on a towel. “Still got that charm in your voice,” he said, now close enough that you could feel the heat of him. His eyes dropped to your lips, lingered. “Bet you still know how to use it, too.”

“Learned it from watching you,” you replied.

Like candle wax down a spine, the tension burned slowly, teasing every nerve.

“You were just a youngin' back then,” he muttered, like he was trying to convince himself.

“And now?” you asked. “What do you see now, Bo?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. And stayed there. “I see trouble,” he said. But he didn’t step away. Bo stood close, his fingers ghosting over the towel in his hands like he needed something to ground himself. You could hear the hum of the fridge behind you, the slow churn of old machinery and old feelings. Then, without thinking, you reached out.

Two fingers under his chin, tilting his face toward yours. A quiet challenge in your eyes. “If you see trouble, why aren’t you running?”

“Because I never could.” His jaw flexed under your touch.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. Bo wasn’t the gentle type. It was rough with restraint, the kind of kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and years of not now bottled into a single breath. His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you in like gravity had finally given him permission to fall. Your back hit the counter, knocking a jar of honey loose. Neither of you noticed.

Your fingers fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, mouths clashing like an argument long overdue. His lips were chapped, his stubble scraped against your skin, and when his tongue slid against yours, it felt like salvation disguised as sin.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he growled against your lips.

“But you are,” you whispered, tasting guilt and citrus.

Bo’s hand slid down your waist, gripping your hip. His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, trying to regain control but failing.

Outside, a car door slammed. You both froze. Reality slipped in like a cold wind through a cracked window. His chest rose and fell. Yours did the same.

“You need to go,” he said, voice low and tight.

But neither of you moved. Because no matter how far you ran, this small-town store always brought you back to the same place with lips swollen, bruised, and hearts just stupid enough to try again.

Mei’s friend.

That should’ve been enough to stop him. Had been, for years. Yet now, you stood there, lips parted, breath catching, and he felt it again, the sharp pull low in his gut.

Bo remembered you when you were younger, full of questions and quick wit, always hanging around the shop afterwith the other youth, stealing pickled plums and grinning like she owned the world. But now? You weren’t that girl anymore. And he wasn’t a man built for restraint.

Your fingers were still in his shirt, waist pressed flush against the counter. You weren't going to pull away, you were waiting and baiting his response.

His hand drifted without permission up your thigh, over your curves. He wanted to curse himself for how easily his body betrayed him. Because God, she was warm. And she made him feel alive in a way nothing had in years. Not since Grace died and the world's weight settled into his bones and stayed there.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he repeated, brushing his nose against hers, not quite kissing her again.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “And yet here I am. How often will you tell me what I should or shouldn't do?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I do.” Your voice was soft. “You’re the one pretending you don’t want it.”

Bo swore under his breath. His forehead hit hers again, harder this time. But when she confidently kissed him again, he let her. Let the whole world burn down around them. Because maybe he didn’t want to be good anymore.

Your fingers slid from his shirt to the nape of his neck, and just like that, he caved.

“Hold on,” he muttered against her lips. “Come on.”

Your eyes were already tracking him as he grabbed the keys off the hook and locked the store before closing all the blinds. The heavy metal clanged shut behind them, locking out the rest of the world and locking them in.

He backed her against the wall between sacks of jasmine rice and crates of long-forgotten sweets.

“You sure about this?” he asked, even as his hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress.

Your answer came in the form of curling your leg around his hip, pulling him into the space where only desire existed.

“You waited long enough, Bo,” you whispered, your voice thick with lust.“We both did.”

He lifted her like it was muscle memory. He’d dreamed of this too many times, not knowing how to do it by heart. Your back hit the wall. Bo buried his face in your neck.

“God forgive me,” he breathed.

When you moaned his name against his ear, he didn’t stop. In that moment, the woman, this girl who used to trail around with Mei like a shadow, had become a force of nature. And for once, Bo Chow let himself fall.

You grinded against Bo Chow's hard dick, already knowing the rhythm he hadn’t yet given you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, tongue tracing the beat of your pulse as he pinned you to the wall.

“Bo, please!” You gasped as you searched for any friction he could give you and Bo felt it like a match to dry kindling. His hand slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, remembering the shape of your spine, the softness of skin he wasn’t supposed to touch.

“You feel that?” he growled into her neck. “How long you been waiting for this?”

“Long enough,” she said, breathless. “Long enough to know I don’t want you gentle.”

Bo pushed you harder against the wall, grinding his hips into yours with a slow roll that had your head dropping back, lips parted, eyes half-lidded with need. Your hands were under his shirt now, nails raking across his chest like she wanted to leave proof. Wanted to mark him. Own him.

She bit his bottom lip when he kissed her again, really kissed her this time, and he responded by sliding his hand between them, under her waistband, finding her already wet for him.

“Shit,” he muttered, fingers slipping through heat. “You’re soaked through your panties.”

She arched into his touch, shameless. “Told you. I’ve been thinking about this for years.”

A wave of pure, unfiltered longing surged through him, gripping his heart with an intensity that took him by surprise. She had no idea what kind of thoughts he’d buried just to survive around her. What kind of guilt lived in his chest every time she smiled too sweet or leaned too close.

And now? Now he had you underneath him, splayed across the desk.

“Hold on,” he said, voice rough and low.

Bo carried you across the store to the old desk in the corner, swept thereceipts off with one arm, laid you down like something sacred.

Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath caught.

“I thought you didn’t want gentle,” he smirked, kissing the inside of her thigh.

“I don’t,”

“Good.”

Bo Chow was done pretending. Tonight, he was going to taste every part of you that he'd denied himself for far too long. Bo took hold of your hips and dragged you to the edge with slow precision. He didn't break eye contact as he descended lower and lifted your dress to reveal your wet panties that stuck to your skin. Squirming under his gaze, breath stuttered when Bo kissed the creases when your thighs met your core.

The first stroke of Bo’s tongue had you grasping at the desk, a lewd whimper slipped loose from your mouth. You desperately thrust your hips to put more of your pussy in his mouth.

“You have such a perfect pussy” Bo rasped, low and rough. You tasted better than he imagined. His tongue worked slow at first, savoring. Drawing circles, teasing the sensitive parts until you trembled around his shoulders.

“Right there… that feels so good” Your voice cracked, and that was all the encouragement Bo needed.

Bo gripped you tighter and devoured you like a man starved. You arched, cursed, and even cried out with your body trembling with every flick and suck of his mouth. His name spilled from you like worship.

When he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them to hit you G spot, your back left the table.

“That’s it,” he whined against her. “Let me have it.”

You came hard with your mouth open, and hands in his hair. Bo didn’t stop until you were twitching, breathless, wrecked.

When he finally rose, mouth glistening, chest heaving, your eyes met his. He leaned over you, pressed his forehead to yours, voice dark with promise.

He didn’t undress her, he roughly twisted her over, bent her bare chest against the cool wood of the desk, slid his pants just low enough, and guided himself into her with one steady, brutal thrust.

They both gasped. You were hot, tight, and still pulsing from before.

Bo planted himself deeper and deeper in you. The desk creaked under the beat. Your hand reached back to clutch his lower back, pulling him to drill into your insides, and he gave it to you. Every inch, every groan, every ounce of frustration and want he’d bottled up for years.

When he came, it was a full body surrender. He collapsed against her, both of them panting, and slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

And then, quietly, you asked, “What now?”

Bo didn’t have the answer.

[chilope]

Ask meme for people in their 30s

What was the first piece of furniture you bought?

What proportion of your meals do you cook?

Foaming hand soap or normal hand soap?

Favorite chore?

Least favorite chore?

Most precious thing one of your pets has destroyed?

Any groceries you've been getting into lately?

What cleaning product do you swear by?

What's your emotional support craft?

Youtube, cable TV, or streaming?

What's something you saved up for and then regretted buying?

How many cups can you see from where you're sitting?

Which filter are you most likely to go "eh, it's probably fine" when you find out you need to change it?

How often do you take baths?

Do you go down each aisle when you grocery shop, or only the ones you know you need stuff from?

Where do you go when you need to get out of the house but it's raining?

What's a movie you saw recently that you liked?

Pro or anti tchotchkes?

What's your go-to tape?

What's in your freezer right now?

Last concert you attended?

Favorite grocery store?

Paper bags, plastic bags, or reusable bags?

Do you get your government mandated 8 hours every night?

Favorite old person activity?

Would you rather sit on the porch drinking sweet tea or sit by the lake drinking beers?

Do you prefer Boardgame Night, Build-Your-Own-Pizza Night, or Movie Night with your friends?

Be honest, do you like all of the pictures of their babies that your friends send you?

Go-to holiday card format?

How many pairs of scissors do you own?

Do you still own your first car?

How do you take your morning coffee/tea?

What's something you collect?

What's your commute like?

Aisle at the grocery store you never bother walking down?

Do you keep a daily journal or agenda?

Do you still listen to the same music you listened to in high school?

What's the last filter you changed?

What little treat do you always get when you run errands?

Grocery list or no grocery list?

What's the oldest thing you own?

What's an unjustifiably expensive appliance that you really want?

Favorite book you've read recently?

Honest feelings on Settlers of Catan?

What's something you wish you had more time for?

What kind of stuff do you keep on the door of your refrigerator?

Lamps or overhead lighting?

If you could build your home from scratch, what outrageous feature would you want to build into it?

Do you bring a bag with you everywhere you go?

Pro or anti throw pillows?

How many blankets do you keep in your living room?

Did your relationship with your parents get better when you stopped living with them?

What's worse, the DMV or the Social Security Office?

Do you decorate your house for holidays? Which ones?

Favorite high-effort meal that you make?

Favorite low-effort meal that you make?

Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck?

What kind of bag do you use for your bag full of bags?

If you died and your ghost was stuck in the outfit you're wearing right now for the rest of time, would you be happy with it?

Do you have an opinion on your local weather reporter?

Do you have a favorite brunch spot?

Where are you on the minimalism-maximalism kinsey scale?

Opinion on Bath and Body Works?

Last time you visited a farmer's market?

Anything you're procrastinating on right now?

Do you get your taxes in as soon as possible, at the last minute, or late?

Do you keep any stuffed animals on your bed?

Are your garbage bags scented or unscented?

What are you looking forward to next week?

[mixolya]

omg God bless that anon who requested the kpop idol ! reader x sae bc the idea of wearing his jersey while performing during a show and sae watching you has been stuck in my head for a week

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: number one fan !

synopsis: you're on stage in his jersey and he's watching.

sae itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / secret relationship / drabble + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: yayayaya

madrid was alive. cameras flashing, fans flooding cobblestone streets, scarves and lightsticks and noise that spilled past curfews. the city didn't sleep, not with the champions league final and your group's sold-out world tour colliding in the same golden-glow city.

sae itoshi had won the match yesterday evening. he should've been celebrating with the team but instead, he was sitting in the back of a blacked-out van, hoodie up, baseball cap low, while some of his teammates tagged along because "come on, it's yn's group, there's no way we're missing this."

he didn't answer them when they said that. just pulled up his mask up a little higher. because no one knew. no one knew that the leader of the most in-demand kpop girl group on the planet was his girlfriend. no one knew that between rehearsals and press junkets and european away games, you carved out slivers of time for each other like thieves. that your calls came past midnight. that your matching lockscreens were never posted online.

and now, he was here, in a sea of screaming fans, stage lights melting overhead, just for you. the opening notes of the next performance blared through the speakers, something upbeat and punchy. the crowd erupted as your group ran back onto stage in coordinated outfits: each one of you wearing a football jersey, sleek, fitted, stylized with your group#s logo embroidered above the club crest.

sae sat up straighter. his fingers froze around the water bottle. one teammate nudged another beside him.

"bro- look." and there you were. front and center, spotlight sweeping over you, sweat at your temples, eyes blazing, wearing his jersey.

re al, #10, itoshi.

and the crowd didn't know, they just screamed because it was cute, trendy and a nod to the football energy flooding madrid that week. they thought it was stylish and clever marketing. sae sat stiff in his seat. he hadn't blinked once since you walked out.

on stage, you were catching your breath between songs, chest rising with each inhale. the lights dimmed slightly for the next vcr transition, and the fans chanted your group's name in perfect harmony, an ocean of lightsticks swaying like waves.

you brought the mic to your lips, a mischievous smile curving as you stepped forward, tapping the badge on your chest. the screams hit another octave.

"this one's for madrid tonight!" you shouted in near-perfect spanish, breathless and radiant. "did you guys catch the game?"

the stadium erupted, flags flew and fans roared back. you laughed, biting your bottom lip, and added playfully, "do you guys want to know who i was rooting for?"

the crowd screamed, a thousand voices tangled in excitement and curiosity, chanting teams and names, some yelling "barcha!" just to stir the pot. you raised a hand with a coy smile, pretending to deliberate as your members giggled behind you.

"hmm.." you tapped your chin, still breathless from dancing, eyes glinting under the lights. "should i tell you?"

they screamed yes.

you turned slightly, letting the jersey on your body do the talking as you twisted enough to show the back - itoshi, 10. the cheers doubled, even louder now, and the camera zoomed in to project his name and the jersey number across the screen.

"it's a cute jersey, right?" you grinned, winking. "i think he's pretty good!"

somewhere high up in the stands, hidden beneath a cap, sae itoshi stared down at you. and even though no one knew of you two, it was more than enough.

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[em1i2a3]

What if the gang were out somewhere and Bob saw someone who reminded him of his father so he starts having a panic attack and y/n has to calm him down <3

Never Let Me Go

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: On a day off, the team arranges to go to a farmers market to do a bit of R and R. But what happens when Bob has an unexpected encounter with a ghost of his past?

Warnings: Spoilers for Thunderbolts (will put this here because there is some plot from the Thunderbolts in here and some of Bob's story in here) Angst baby…Angst, Hurt/Comfort, and some fluff at the beginning. Descriptions of a panic attack, Mentions of Trauma. Bob and Reader are in an unlabeled relationship, they care deeply about one another and they are each other's comfort person they just don’t say they’re in a relationship, there are very minor discussions about sex (nothing graphic or extreme)

Author's Note: I love writing angst for Bob. The sugar puff doesn’t deserve the sadness but writing it is so simple and my brain eats it up like it’s junk food, and things fall into place so easily. Thank you for the request!! I enjoyed writing this very much, and building a backstory and everything. We love creative freedoms lol

Word Count: 5,583

Two nights before everyone’s scheduled day off, the Thunderbolts compound turned into a battleground–but not the kind with blood and broken glass.

No, this one was somehow worse.

It was filled with groaning, dramatic sighs, petty barbs, and the very serious politics of trying to plan a group outing with seven people who had wildly incompatible definitions of “fun.”

The common room buzzed with late-evening heat and lived-in clutter–dim overhead lights flickering slightly, a half-eaten bag of pretzels on the table, the low whir of the box fan doing a poor job of circulating the stale air. The couch cushions were sunken in all the wrong places. Someone had abandoned a trail of dirty socks that led ominously into the hallway like breadcrumbs. No one was taking credit.

Yelena had draped herself upside-down over the back of the couch like a melting spider, boots propped on one armrest, braid dangling down toward the floor.

“How about we don’t do another bar,” She said, idly twirling a throwing knife between two fingers. “Last time we went, I don’t even remember how I got home. And I’m positive Alexei smuggled out at least three ramekins.”

Alexei, currently half-submerged in the compound’s fridge, called out in his usual booming tone, “We didn’t have any here. Useful little things!”

Walker groaned from his claimed spot in the worn recliner, legs extended so far into the walking path that everyone had given up trying to step over them. “I’m all for anything but a cat café,” He muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Last time we did that, Alpine almost clawed my eyes out.”

Bucky, sprawled on the other end of Yelena’s couch, arms folded and expression unreadable, didn’t look up from the book in his hands. The aforementioned Alpine–elegant, pristine, and smug as ever–was nestled in his lap, purring like she owned the room.

“You sure it was because you had other cat fur on you,” Bucky said evenly, “Or because she just doesn’t like you?”

Walker rolled his eyes with the resigned aggression of a man who hadn’t experienced real peace since being assigned to this team.

“Oh, please. Like that little cotton ball has a moral compass.” As if on cue, Alpine–silent and serene just moments before–let out a sudden, loud hiss, her ears flattening dramatically. Ava snorted from her perch on the windowsill, one leg curled up beneath her as she scrolled through her tablet.

“Seems like she’s the only one of us with actual standards.”

While the rest of the team spiraled into another round of chaotic banter, you were tuned out–half-listening, half-smiling, but your attention was rooted in him.

Bob was stretched out on the far couch beneath you, lying on his stomach, shirt rumpled and ridden halfway up his back from where your hands had worked their way under the soft fabric. One of his arms was folded under him to cushion his face, while the other reached lazily backward–his hand resting on your calf, thumb rubbing idle, slow strokes over your bare skin like he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t sexual to either of you. It was instinctive, he just needed some part of him touching some part of you to stay grounded, that’s how it had been since the beginning of your friendship and it led into your odd romantic relationship as well.

You were perched on his lower back, straddling him comfortably, your knees braced on either side of his hips as you worked at the tense knots nestled deep in his shoulder blades and neck. The heat of summer lingered in the room, making everything feel a little slow, a little hazy, and super super hot. Bob’s skin was warm under your palms, and the muscles beneath flexed subtly with every careful dig of your fingers, trying to protest the intrusion.

Bob had come to you earlier that day–sheepishly, voice low–as if you hadn’t touched him a hundred times before.

”G-Got a spot I can’t really shake,” He murmured hand drifting to his shoulder, “Kind o-of feels like someone stuffed glass i-in there.” You’d been hunched over your laptop trying to finish your mission report, but without hesitation you immediately responded.

”Give me ‘till tonight,” You said, “I’ll work them out for you.” And you always kept your word with him no matter how chaotic your life got, because here you were–on top of him, pressing out tension filled knots caused by months of stress, uncomfortable nights on the couch, and bad posture.

He groaned loudly as your thumb found another tight point near the base of his neck.

”O-Oh god–yeah right there–w-what is that?!” You leaned down, mouth close to his ear, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper as your fingers kneaded deeper into the knot.

“It’s from you being curled up on this damn couch all the time,” You murmured, letting your teeth graze the slope of his shoulder before giving him a soft, playful bite right where the muscle dipped, where you had left a mark two nights before.

Bob let out a surprised noise–half a laugh, half a groan–and his grip on your calf tightened slightly. “You bite me, t-then go straight back to causing me unbearable pain, you can’t be giving me these mixed s-signals.” You smirked at this comment.

“I don’t make the rules,” You said sweetly, pressing your thumb into the lump again. “I just remove the knots.” He let out another groan, louder this time–squirming under you like he was trying to make some sort of escape from the sensation of you digging your fingers into the coiled lump.

“Does the sadist and her little masochist have any opinions on what to do for our day off?” Ava called dryly from the windowsill, without even looking up from her tablet. “Or should we give you a safe word and circle back?”

Yelena choked on her water.

You didn’t miss a beat. “It’s ’hot lava,’ if anyone’s asking.”

Bob snorted weakly into the cushion, his voice muffled but amused. “I thought i-it was you who suggested that l-last time.”

“Only because you got too cocky with the hot stones and almost passed out. I told you they would be too hot for your skin and you’d get all sweaty.”

“That was one time,” He mumbled. “And I was fine.”

“Fine doesn’t come with tunnel vision and almost putting your head through a wall…’”

“I hate both of you,” Walker grumbled from the recliner, dramatically swinging a leg off the armrest to sit up. “Can we please pick something before I throw myself out a window?”

“Promise you will?” Ava murmured.

“I think we’re all just a little too warm for rational thinking,” Bucky muttered, reaching up to gently scratch Alpine’s ear as she blinked lazily at the chaos. “We should do something low effort that we don’t have to put a lot of thought into.”

Alexei perked up from the kitchen where he was still chewing through what had to be his fourth slice of cold leftover pizza. “How do we feel about outdoors? I could go for rollercoaster ride. Or smoothie. Something festive!”

Ava finally held up her tablet. “There’s a farmers market across town. Live music. Local vendors. Fresh produce, kettle corn, homemade baked goods. Says there’s a guy who does wood-burned art and fireblowing.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I could go for some homemade pie,” You said, half to yourself, still working your fingers gently through the muscle beneath your hands. Bob twitched a little when you brushed against a sore spot, but didn’t flinch away.

“Mmh,” He hummed, shifting beneath you with a drowsy sigh. “If you’re going, I-I guess I’m in too…”

You glanced down at him, an amused curve lifting your lips.

“Yeah?”

He nodded against the cushion, his voice muffled but sure. “We’re a p-packaged deal, after all…Don’t l-like going anywhere without you.”

You smiled, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly.

And then–with surgical precision–you pressed down on the knot you’d been circling, just a little deeper. Bob let out a startled, half-choked yelp, his back arching under you before he sank back into the couch with a whimper.

“I was hoping my c-compliment would stop y-you from doing that.” He groaned, as you let out a small laugh.

“Then it’s set! Farmer’s Market it is.” Ava announced.

——————

Two mornings later you found yourself in your room as the sun rose—half dressed, half awake, thumbing through your closet like your brain hadn’t quite caught up to your body.

Sunlight filtered in through the slats of your blinds, striping the hardwood floor in long, amber bars and cutting soft golden edges along your furniture. The light glowed against the rumpled sheets on your bed, warmed the metal frames stacked against the wall, kissed the edge of the mirror you hadn’t quite cleaned. The air still held the hush of early morning. No shouting yet. No Alexei slamming cabinet doors like he was chasing down enemy intel. No scent of Walker’s industrial-strength coffee-sludge. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.

The rest of the team was still asleep–or pretending to be–but you and Bob had been up since just before five.

It hadn’t been loud, the way he woke. There was no scream, no flailing, no sheets twisted in panic. Just a sound–a single, sharp gasp. Like his lungs had suddenly remembered they were supposed to be working.

You’d jolted upright before he even spoke, your hand already reaching for him.

He wasn’t panicking. But the way he laid there with his chest rising and falling in quick, greedy pulls, told you everything you needed to know. His eyes weren’t wide with fear–just vacant. Like something had pulled him under, and the shore was still a little too far off.

So you didn’t ask.

You just shifted closer, let your hand curl gently into the hem of his shirt, and breathed with him until the rhythm returned to something human again.

When he could finally speak, his voice rasped against the pillow: “I think I’m up for good.”

So were you.

You’d shared a bed most nights since the early weeks of the Thunderbolts forming–before anyone knew what to do with Bob. Back when he couldn’t stand the idea of being alone and you hadn’t yet admitted how much you needed someone to need you. It had happened gradually–shared exhaustion turning into silent rituals. He never asked. He just showed up, and you let him in. That had been the way he communicated everything he needed.

He only ever slept in his own bed when he wasn’t feeling well–emotionally, physically, psychically. And when that happened, no matter how gently you protested, he always said the same thing: “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He never had.

But you understood. You always did.

So this morning, when he pulled away after the nightmare, you let him. You watched him leave quietly, silhouetted by the hallway light, and whispered “Okay” to the empty air after him.

And now, you were here, scanning your closet, still thinking about the way his breathing had sounded—too loud in the silence, like someone had pulled him from deep water.

The knock came softly. Just three taps.

“Hey,” Bob’s voice came from the other side of the door–low, rough with sleep. “Y-You decent?” You padded over from the closet, lips quirking at the way he still asked for permission to come inside the room.

”It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked, Bob,” You said, twisting the doorknob, “We’re way past the point of asking if I’m decent.” When you opened the door, his ears were already pink.

He stood there in a loose, heather-gray t-shirt that clung faintly to his chest from where he hadn’t fully towel-dried, and a pair of soft navy joggers that hung low on his hips. His feet were bare, hair still slightly damp at the ends, curling around his ears and brushing his jaw. It had grown a lot since you first met him–past his collar now, lighter at the tips from all the sun lately. He looked sleepy, and a little shy, and like something beautiful that had just barely survived the night.

In his hand, he held a single black hair tie looped loosely around two fingers.

You stepped aside, sweeping a hand toward the room in invitation. “Come on in.”

He entered quietly, the door clicking shut behind him, and his eyes drifted around like he hadn’t really seen your room in daylight before—even though he’d spent more mornings here than anywhere else in the world. It was familiar, yet it still made him nervous in the smallest ways, like your presence still overwhelmed him just a little. Like he couldn’t believe you kept letting him in.

He turned to you, holding up the tie.

“C-Could you…?” He asked, hesitating slightly. “You always…Y-You do it better than I can.”

You smiled—soft, fond. “Of course.”

He didn’t need any more prompting. Bob crossed to the foot of your bed and sat down on the floor, like it was his spot–like he belonged there. You sat behind him on the edge of the mattress and let your fingers ease through his hair–combing it gently, smoothing it back from his temples, parting it the way you knew he liked. It was soft, a little tangled at the ends, still warm from the shower. You moved with care, as if you were touching something breakable.

“You’re gonna need a trim soon, got some split ends.” You murmured, running your thumbs behind his ears.

“I like it long,” He said quietly, voice reverberating through the hush like it didn’t want to disturb the peace. “Y-You like it too.”

“Mmm. I do,” You admitted, smiling as you gathered the top portion into your palm. “Especially when you let me braid it.”

“That was once.”

“And you looked hot.”

He ducked his head with a flustered breath that almost passed for a laugh, “Y-You just say that so you can make m-me blush.” You didn’t answer that—just wrapped the tie once, twice, and secured the knot neatly at the back of his head, a soft half-up twist with the front strands falling just the way he liked.

He reached back, fingertips brushing the base of the tie, testing the tension.

“…Perfect,” he whispered. Then, quieter still: “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You paused.

Your hand was still on his hair, your other braced against the mattress. The warmth of his body radiated through the space between you, and when he tilted his head slightly–craning his neck to look up at you–it hit you again, just how much of your heart this man held without even trying.

You leaned forward without a word and kissed his forehead.

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t not romantic either.

It just…Was.

Soft. Slow. Steady. Your lips pressed right against the crease above his brow, where his worry lines always gathered, where the night had lingered like a bruise.

He exhaled through his nose, leaning into it like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like it was the only thing keeping him here.

“I’m right here,” You murmured, thumb brushing behind his ear. “Always.”

Bob swallowed, then reached up–fingertips barely grazing your knee. “W-We should get dressed,” He said softly, not quite moving. “Before Alexei starts a s-small kitchen fire trying to make pancakes again.”

You smiled faintly. “Good point. We’ll tag-team the fire extinguisher if we have to.”

He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. “P-Partner system?”

“You know it.”

——————

After breakfast–which was somehow miraculously fire-free, though only because Bob caught Alexei trying to flip pancakes with a chef’s knife–everyone eventually piled into the SUV like clowns in a circus car. Bucky had claimed the driver’s seat with a resigned kind of authority, while Yelena took the passenger seat, sunglasses already perched high on her head

Alexei and Ava were wedged into the middle row behind them, their usual brand of bickering already in full swing before Bucky had even started the car. Something about what counted as an appropriate booth at a farmers market.

You ended up squished into the very back row–one of the fold-out benches, technically meant for three, but realistically comfortable for maybe one and a half. Bob had climbed in after you without hesitation, knees bumping yours, and Walker–who drew the short straw after loudly insisting he “didn’t have enough leg room and should technically be at the front”–ended up next to you, with his arms folded and his head against the window.

This left you pinned between Bob’s warmth on one side and Walker’s long-limbed discomfort on the other, with nowhere to stretch his legs. You wouldn’t have minded normally–but the heat was already starting to build, and the SUV’s AC unit definitely didn’t sound promising to you.

Bob, as always, had found you without needing to ask. His hand was resting gently on your thigh, fingers curled softly into the hem of your shorts, not possessive, it was just to know you were there. His thumb brushed back and forth in slow, rhythmic strokes just above your knee, and you didn’t say anything about it. You never did.

He was wearing a pale blue t-shirt now, cotton thin and a little too big, sleeves hugging the curve of his biceps, his tied-back hair still damp at the tips where it clung to the back of his neck. He smelled faintly of cedar soap and laundry detergent, and the lingering trace of your shampoo from the bottle he sometimes used without asking.

Walker huffed beside you, shifting his elbow dramatically. “If either of you start making out back here, I’m tucking and rolling out of this moving vehicle.”

Bob blinked, innocent and mild as ever. “W-We weren’t–”

“You will, though,” Walker muttered. “I can already feel the sexual tension radiating off you like a goddamn space heater.”

“Can’t blame them,” Yelena called from the front, twisting around just enough to shoot you a knowing look over her sunglasses. “At least someone’s getting laid.”

“We’re not having sex,” You said flatly, eyes fixed on the fraying seat fabric beneath your thumb. You weren’t lying when you said it. Both you and Bob had your own reservations about the whole act itself, but it didn’t mean neither of you had your moments of wanting to do it then getting scared to ask. Nothing in the compound was a secret so exposing that to the group wasn’t really a big deal…Or so you thought.

The comment earned a beat of silence–just long enough for everyone to register how serious your voice was–before Ava spoke up.

“…That’s worse,” She said, blinking. “You mean all that flirting and massages haven’t gone anywhere?” Bob’s ears turned a shade of red so deep it looked biblical.

You didn’t flinch. “No. Not yet. We do other things,” You said pointedly, still not looking at anyone. “We’re just…Taking our time.”

“‘Other things,’” Yelena repeated, raising both eyebrows. “So you’re edging yourselves now?”

“Okay–nope,” Bucky snapped from the front seat, his grip tightening on the wheel. “We are not doing this. I don’t want to hear the word ‘edging’ in here for the rest of the car ride please.”

“Sorry,” Yelena muttered, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to scare Grandpa.”

“You do realize this means the tension is worse than we thought, right?” Ava added, adjusting her sunglasses without looking up from her phone. “You’re not sleeping together yet, but you’re still all over each other like a pair of Victorian lovers with a shared brain cell and a strict no-penetration clause? That sounds like psychological warfare.”

Walker groaned and slumped deeper into the seat. “Honestly, it sounds like a Cold War for sex.”

“P-Please don’t encourage that line of thinking,” Bob murmured weakly, looking like he wanted to disappear into the upholstery.

“Can we talk about this when we’re out of the car so I can make an escape at least?” Bucky muttered, signaling with more force than necessary before changing lanes.

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment. The heat of the van. The smell of sunblock and leather and too many bodies. Bob’s thumb–slow, steady–brushing along the inside of your thigh like it was the only thing grounding him. You felt him shift slightly, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned closer. His voice was low, meant only for you.

“Y-You okay?”

You turned toward him slowly, met his gaze. Soft, steady, still a little fogged from the early morning–but so achingly present. Like he never really looked at anything else when you were in the room.

You nodded once. “Yeah,” You said, quiet as the hum of tires on the road. “Just thinking.”

He didn’t ask what about. He just squeezed your leg gently, his palm warm against your skin, and looked out the window like the worst of the day was already behind you.

The SUV kept rolling–toward sun and stalls and small-town charm–and you tried to breathe past the flutter in your chest.

Because you felt that something was off in the air, you just couldn’t put your finger on it.

——————

The farmers market sat at the edge of town like something out of a picture book–sunlight caught in cloth-draped canopies, booths lined with jam jars and hand-poured candles, the air scented with kettle corn, grilled peaches, and the distant trace of burning sage. People moved in lazy loops past flower stalls and chalkboard signs, kids with balloon animals weaved through legs, and a folk band played off to the side under a vine-covered gazebo.

You stepped out of the SUV, blinking against the brightness, the warmth of the pavement radiating up through the soles of your sneakers. Bob was right beside you, stretching once with a soft grunt, hair tied neatly back, putting on a pair of sunglasses that hung low on his nose. You didn’t even have to reach for him–his hand found yours naturally, fingers curling between yours like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The others peeled off in separate directions almost immediately–Alexei making a beeline toward the smell of roasted nuts, Ava dragging Walker to a pottery booth under protest, and Bucky already halfway to the honey stand, which was conveniently located near one of the coffee tents, with Yelena following close behind, with a shout of “I’ll be back if I get bored!”

Bob stayed with you.

You walked side by side, fingers linked, your shoulder brushing his with every step. It was light between you–breezy, easy, with the kind of soft comfort you’d built slowly over time like a house made of quiet affirmations and gentle touches.

At a booth shaded by a white parasol, Bob picked up a toothpick sample of fresh mozzarella and sun-dried tomato, his eyes flicking to you like he was offering you it instead of him, and you shook your head, watching as he immediately popped the little stack into his mouth, slowly biting down on it like he was worried he may not like the taste. His facial expressions were unreadable to you.

“Is it good?” You asked, nudging him with your hip as he chewed.

He nodded, then grabbed a second one for you, a small pleased smile playing on his lips. “M-Maybe too good. W-We might have to come back.”

You grinned, leaning in to bite it off the toothpick, your fingers brushing his. He was right in the fact that it was indeed too good, even for just a little bit of mozzarella and sun-dried tomato. “We definitely have to come back.”

There were fresh apples dipped in honey, a booth with carved soap that smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a ceramic artist who pressed your hands into clay to make little thumb-heart tokens. Bob pocketed the one with your prints on it without a word.

And then the shift happened, the one that you were expecting from the beginning of the car ride.

It came all at once–subtle, but immediate if you knew what to look for. Bob stopped mid-step beside the stall with the pressed flower jewelry. His hand slipped from yours. His shoulders stiffened like someone had tugged a wire tight inside him. You turned to ask what was wrong–and followed his line of sight, laying eyes on what he was looking at.

The man was tall. Broad-shouldered. His white shirt was tucked into a pair of work-worn jeans, and his arms were tanned from years in the sun. His hair was cut short and neat, parted sharply to the side. And the mustache–thin, severe, like it had been trimmed with a ruler–made your blood go cold.

He was laughing at something the vendor said, shaking a paper bag open. Just a man. Just a stranger.

But to Bob, he was not, and you didn’t have to guess where his mind was going.

You’d seen that face once before–through the dim gray light of a memory that didn’t belong to you, in a space that pulsed like a wound. You’d seen that man through Bob’s eyes.

You’d been caught in one of his shame rooms with him. Not just as a witness–but trapped. Both of you pulled under by the twisting, coiled maze of Bob’s worst fears and guilt. It had taken hours to find a way out–at least it had felt like hours. You’d fought alongside him against illusions that clawed and mocked and whispered. And when you’d finally made it to the attic of his childhood home, where the air didn’t taste like blood and grief, he’d collapsed beside you like his bones had given out.

You remembered the stillness. The way he fixed your hair with shaking fingers. How he apologized–not for dragging you into his trauma, but just…For being like this. For not being able to protect you from what lived in his head.

You’d caught his chin, tilted his face up with a hand soft as a promise.

“Don’t apologize to me, Bob,” you’d whispered. “You’re the one who went through that. And you didn’t deserve a single thing that happened to you… You were just a kid.”

He’d cried. Silently, terribly, eyes shining like shattered glass. You wiped them away with your sleeve and pulled him against your chest, holding him like you could stitch the pieces back together just by keeping him close.

That was when Yelena had found you both, crouched in the attic like kids hiding from a thunderstorm.

Now, standing in the golden light of the farmers market, you saw the exact moment the past cracked through Bob’s present.

His chest rose too fast, too sharp. The edge of a panic attack wasn’t always violent with Bob. It was quiet. Internal. A collapsing spiral. And you could see it now—the way his eyes were locked on the man across the market, not blinking, like if he looked away for even a second the world might split open beneath him.

You stepped closer, slow but firm. “Bob,” you whispered. “Look at me. Just me.”

He didn’t move. His lips parted like he might say something, but no sound came out. His shoulders trembled. You saw the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—tight enough his knuckles were pale, as if his body was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet.

And then you saw it. The first shudder in his breath.

You reached for him. “Come with me,” You murmured, and gently–without tugging–you touched his wrist. “We’re gonna move, okay? Just here. Just around the corner. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Somehow, he followed. Wooden, barely lifting his feet off the ground, he let you guide him past the flower stall and behind a canvas tent stacked with baskets of late summer peaches. There was a quiet pocket of shade there, near a fold-out chair and an old milk crate someone had turned into a makeshift stand. The noise of the market faded just enough for you to hear the sound of Bob’s breathing–fast. Frantic. Hitching like he was fighting against his own lungs.

He dropped into a crouch the second you stopped, like his body couldn’t take the weight of standing anymore. His hands clawed into his hair, dragging back against the tied strands, and his whole frame bowed in like he was trying to fold in on himself and disappear.

“Bob,” You said, dropping to your knees in front of him, voice steady despite the panic clawing at your own chest. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

His eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, chest heaving. “I–I can’t–” His breath caught like he’d swallowed broken glass. “I can’t—get—air—”

“Yes, you can. You can, just follow me, okay? Just follow me.” You reached out and cupped one of his fists–clenched so tight it trembled–and gently started to peel his fingers apart, one by one.

“Easy,” You whispered. “ Give me your hand.” When his palm was open, you pressed it flat against your chest–right over your heart, where it pulsed at a normal pace against touch.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s real. I’m here. You’re here. We’re not back there.”You took his other hand next, gently, carefully, and placed it flat against his own chest. “Now match me. Just match me, okay?” Bob choked on a breath, sharp and wet, like he was trying to breathe through water. His heart was pounding wild and disoriented–like it was trying to break out of his body.

“I can’t–” He rasped again, and his voice cracked so violently on the last word that tears spilled from the corners of his eyes.

“You can,” You said, firm but soft. “Just one breath. Just one. In through your nose, nice and slow, okay? Just copy me. That’s all you have to do.” You exaggerated your own breath for him–deep, steady, slow. One hand guiding his against your heartbeat, the other pressing gently into his own chest. “Come on, Bob. In.” You watched his shoulders rise shakily.

”Good. Now hold for one, two, three…” You could see tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

“Now let it out.” You instructed. He shook violently as he exhaled, his hands twitching under your palms. You did it again. And again. Coaching him through each one. Repeating it like a litany.

“You’re doing so good Bob…You’re safe, you’re not back there, he’s not here, and he can’t hurt you…You’re not alone…I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

Eventually, his breath started to sync with yours, and his heartbeat began to ease slightly. Some inhales were a bit shaky and hitched, but it was still an improvement. You watched the color slowly return to his face, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders in uneven jerks. His fingers clenched reflexively into the fabric of your shirt, right over your heart, like he didn’t trust it to keep beating if he didn’t hold onto it.

His head dropped. His forehead pressed into your shoulder. And the dam broke.

Silent, shaking sobs wracked his chest—like everything he’d held in since that attic was clawing its way out now. You wrapped your arms around him, cradling the back of his head, letting him bury his face into your collar as his tears soaked into your tank top.

“I’m right here,” You whispered again, rocking him gently. “You’re okay.”

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. But you felt his arms come up–slow, hesitant–and wrap around you, clutching you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the present.

You stayed like that until the worst of it passed.

Until his breathing settled.

Until his hands stopped shaking.

Until the world tilted back into something resembling solid ground.

And when he finally lifted his head, eyes red and puffy, lips parted with the remnants of a thousand unsaid things–you just brushed his hair back from his damp forehead and kissed it once, like you had that morning, before giving him a small kiss on the lips.

Steady. Soft. A reminder that he was here with you and you weren’t going anywhere.

You stayed with him in the silence, until the panic ebbed like a tide pulling back from the shore.

[liuhsng]

✩ˎˊ˗ when fate calls ( psh ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ part of the untouchable series | enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — sunghoon x fem!reader

⤷ word count— 20.6k ⤷ taglist for the series — open !

⤷ warnings — a/b/o au, foul language, slowburn, enemies to lovers trope, mentions of drinking and alcohol, heavy angst + tooth-rotting fluff, indenial!sunghoon, mentions of the other parts from this series, not proofread

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as the eldest son of a powerful family, park sunghoon has always followed tradition, dedicating himself to his responsibilities. relationships never crossed his mind, his focus was on the life carefully planned for him. but then there was you, someone he had seen countless times yet never truly noticed until now. when realization dawned on him that you were his mate, it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain. it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain. the unexpeced idea of love terrified him, so he rejected the traditional courting that came with claiming an omega. but as his avoidance hurts you, the high and mighty alpha is forced to confront the truth he’s been running from: some things aren’t meant to be planned.

Park Sunghoon stared at the untouched coffee sitting on the edge of his desk, its heat long gone, leaving behind an aroma that lingered in the air. The clock on the wall ticked softly, mocking him with its glowing digits, 3:14 A.M. He was supposed to be asleep hours ago, but here he was, hunched over stacks of neatly organized paperwork. His bedroom, once a place of rest, now served as an office.

As the eldest, it wasn’t just expected of him to succeed, it was demanded. Every report and signature carried the weight of the Park name. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, his head tilting toward the ceiling, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

The faint ache in his temples grew sharper, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the way his inner Alpha growled in frustration. "You’re supposed to take care of yourself—for her," it growled. "How will you protect an Omega if you can’t even do this much?"

His jaw clenched as he let out a quiet scoff. “There is no Omega,” he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would somehow silence the voice.

The thought of having a mate, someone who would rely on him, only added to his frustration. He was already drowning in expectations, chained to a life that had no room for distractions, let alone love.

but his inner alpha didn’t back down, the primal side of him rebelling against his neglect. it clawed at him, not with anger, but with frustration, urging him to stop, to rest, to breathe.

sunghoon shut his eyes briefly, a bitter laugh slipping out as he rubbed the back of his neck. the idea of prioritizing himself, of prioritizing someone else in the future, felt absurd. he didn’t have time to indulge in instincts or fantasies, not when there was a legacy to uphold.

he opened his eyes, his gaze falling to the cold coffee cup, his reflection faintly visible in the dark liquid. the alpha in him stirred again, growling low and dissatisfied, but this time sunghoon ignored it entirely. with a sharp sigh, sunghoon pushed the cup aside, the clock’s ticking growing louder in the silence. the hours dwindled, and morning was creeping closer, but he knew sleep wasn’t an option.

there was work to be done, and park sunghoon never left anything unfinished.

Sunghoon ran a tired hand down his face, sighing as his bloodshot eyes scanned the even larger pile of paperwork that greeted him. As the student council’s marketing director, his responsibilities seemed endless, and the fluorescent light overhead only made the mess on his desk look worse.

It was 6 A.M., and he was the first in the council room. Of course he was. He had made it a habit to arrive early, more out of necessity than enthusiasm.

A brief pang of guilt crossed his mind as he remembered his sister. He hadn’t been able to wait for her like he usually did, leaving the house before dawn without a word. “I’ll have to apologize later,” he muttered to himself, though the corners of his lips twitched upward in a humorless smirk.

Knowing his sister, she was probably already in Sunoo’s car by now, laughing about something with the Alpha. It didn’t help that Sunoo wasn’t just his best friend. The boy with the pink hair was also her Alpha, a relationship that Sunghoon had begrudgingly accepted but couldn’t help but feel protective about.

The thought made him snort under his breath. Of course, she’d be fine; Sunoo never missed an opportunity to step in, no matter how early it was.

The sound of the heavy, wooden doors swinging open pulled him from his thoughts. Jay walked in first, his tie already loose and his uniform jacket slung over his shoulder. The Alpha paused mid-step, his eyes narrowing as he took in Sunghoon’s slouched posture.

“Dude, you look like shit,” Jay said bluntly, tossing his bag on his own desk.

Sunghoon didn’t bother looking up. “Good morning to you too,” he replied dryly, his voice as flat as his expression.

Jake followed close behind, a half-eaten breakfast sandwich in hand. He took one look at Sunghoon and immediately stopped chewing. “Holy shit, did you even sleep?” Jake asked, his tone laced with disbelief. He gestured vaguely at Sunghoon’s face. “You look like a ghost.”

“Thanks,” Sunghoon deadpanned, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms. “Really needed to hear that.”

Jay snorted, leaning against his table. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a pureblooded, strong Alpha, you’re doing a great job of looking half-dead.”

Sunghoon gave them both a sharp glare but didn’t have the energy to retort. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning at the headache that was forming. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the dark circles under his eyes said otherwise.

“Yeah, sure,” Jay quipped, grabbing a stack of paperwork that was messily sitting on top of his table. “Keep telling yourself that, man.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, still looking skeptical. “You’re not going to drop dead on us, right? Because I’m not carrying your heavy ass to the nurse’s office.”

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon repeated, though even he wasn’t convinced by the words.

Jay exchanged a look with Jake, both Alphas sharing a sigh before Jay set his own paperwork down on the desk once again. “You know, if you die,” Jay began with a mocking grin, his tone more teasing than serious, “you do realize you’re going to leave all of this on your sister’s shoulders, right? She’ll probably curse your name for eternity.”

“Or possibly your mate,” Jake chimed in, his voice casual as he gestured toward Sunghoon. “You know, the one you’re supposed to be taking care of in the future by not working yourself into an early grave?”

Sunghoon stiffened at the mention of a mate, his jaw tightening. He hated when they brought it up, and Jake knew it. “I don’t have a mate,” he said coldly, his gaze darkening as he turned to the next set of papers.

Jay opened his mouth to add another comment, but before he could speak, a new voice cut through the room.

“Yeah, as if,” Heeseung’s voice drawled from the doorway, his tone laced with amusement.

He was leaning casually on the wooden door frame, arms crossed as he looked at Sunghoon. “He runs away from any Omega he sees. Poor guy probably wouldn’t know what to do if his mate actually showed up.”

Jake snorted, leaning on his own desk as he tossed his sandwich wrapper into the trash. “He’d probably pass out on the spot,” he added with a grin.

“Or just bury himself in more paperwork,” Jay said, shaking his head. “Honestly, Sunghoon, you’re making all of us pureblooded Alphas look bad.”

Sunghoon glared at the three of them, his annoyance visible. “If you’re all done wasting my time, I have work to do,” he muttered, his voice sharp as he pointedly ignored the way Heeseung’s comment bothered him more than it should.

But Heeseung wasn’t finished. “You know, it’s funny,” he mused, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “For someone so obsessed with rules and traditions, you’re awfully quick to ignore the most important one.”

“I have no time for this,” Sunghoon snapped, his tone colder now, though the way his pen stilled in his hand betrayed his frustration. His eyes stayed glued to the paperwork in front of him, refusing to meet Heeseung’s knowing gaze.

“No time for what?” the older Alpha challenged, his voice calm but laced with amusement. He stepped further into the room, his smirk deepening as he leaned casually against the side of his desk. “No time for the idea of a mate? No time for the Omega who’s meant to balance out that storm in your head? Or is it just no time for things you can’t control?”

“I said, drop it,” Sunghoon growled, his Alpha instincts flashing briefly in his tone as he clenched his jaw. His fingers gripped the pen so tightly it looked like it might snap in his hand.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow but didn’t back down. “I’m just saying,” he continued, his tone now more neutral, “if you keep running from it, you’re only going to make it worse. You think ignoring it will keep things normal the way you want it to?”

Sunghoon’s chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath, his irritation now mixed with something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He glanced briefly at the clock, as if that would give him an escape, before returning to his work. “I don’t run from anything,” he said quietly.

Heeseung’s scent spiked up then, as if challenging Sunghoon. The sharp scent of coffee and leather surrounding Sunghoon spiked in response, tension building between the two pureblooded Alphas as the room seemed to pulse with an unspoken challenge.

But Heeseung tilted his head, studying Sunghoon for a moment. “Whatever you say,” he said finally, his smirk softening into a faint smile.

“But don’t come crying to us when it all catches up to you.” With that, he pushed off the desk, casually moving the placard on his own desk that read Vice President, Lee Heeseung, sliding it to the side as he stood up, making it clear that he wasn’t going to stay much longer.

Heeseung strode toward the door, hands casually shoved into his pockets, his movements deliberate but effortless. Just before he left, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Sunghoon. “See you later, Park,” he called, his voice light but carrying an unmistakable edge.

“I mean, he had a point,” came a new voice from the doorway, breaking the silence. Their gaze snapped up, and Sunghoon saw Sunoo leaning casually against the frame, his usual carefree demeanor somehow at odds with the tense atmosphere.

The pink-haired Alpha’s arm was slung over his sister’s shoulder, and despite the casualness of the gesture, Sunghoon couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the sight of it. Sunoo didn’t drop his arm but instead moved it to hold her hand, intertwining their fingers as if marking his claim on her.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he watched them. “Right, you’re mated to my sister,” he said, the words coming out almost like a warning as his gaze flicked from Sunoo to his sister.

Sunoo grinned, unfazed by the glare. “Yeah, well, we did kind of notice you were a little… tense. Thought we'd come and check on you.”

“How long have you two been standing there?” Sunghoon asked, his voice laced with a hint of exhaustion. His patience was already running thin after the exchange with Heeseung, and now this.

Sunoo shrugged, his smile widening as he stepped further into the room, his mate right beside him. “Long enough to hear your conversation,” Sunoo replied, his voice light.

“And to know you’re not fooling anyone,” Sunghoon's sister added, her tone teasing but with a hint of seriousness. “Not even your inner Alpha, by the way.” She shrugged, as if the comment was an afterthought, but it hit right where it mattered.

Sunghoon glared at them both, irritation flashing in his eyes. He wanted to deny it, to brush it off as just another conversation about his future, but deep down, he knew they were right.

The hallway seemed to clear instinctively as the student council made their way through. A group of powerful pureblooded Alphas, they carried themselves with the kind of confidence and authority that left no room for doubt about their status.

Ni-ki, ever energetic, walked in front, his eyes filled with curiosity as he turned to Jake. “So, about the proposals under the secretary committee…” he began, his voice full of interest. “Do you think there’s anything the public relations committee can help with?” Ni-ki’s gaze flickered to Jake's tablet, whose fingers were drumming absently on the screen.

Jake looked up from the screen, considering the question for a moment. “You guys could help with the promotions. We need the best PR support for this one.”

“Right,” Ni-ki nodded, clearly processing the info. “I’ll talk to them about the promotions then. We’ll get it done.”

Meanwhile, Heeseung and Jungwon were having their own little debate, their voices rising in the back as they argued about something entirely unrelated to council work. “I’m telling you, that new pheromone perfume? It’s garbage. They’re marketing it like it’ll solve everything,” Heeseung said, shaking his head.

Jungwon chuckled, shaking his head. “Garbage or not, some Betas are eating it up. You can’t deny it’s working.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Trailing just a step behind, Sunoo and Jay passed a football between them, their movements smooth and practiced. “Why are they always like this?” Sunoo muttered, his gaze flickering to the pair ahead.

Jay shrugged, catching the ball effortlessly before tossing it back. “It’s entertaining. Besides, this is tame for them.”

Sunghoon, walking a bit apart from the group, scrolled through his tablet with furrowed brows. His father had sent over another set of files, and while he was used to the constant influx of work, it didn’t make it any less exhausting.

“Seriously, Jungwon, you’re impossible,” Heeseung muttered, shaking his head as he dodged Jungwon’s attempt to nudge him.

“Not like you have a choice,” Jungwon teased, flashing a mischievous grin.

Behind them, Sunoo caught the football mid-air and smirked. “I bet Heeseung’s just mad because Jungwon actually has a point for once.”

Jay chuckled. “Don’t push it. You know how he gets when he’s losing.”

Their banter continued, but Sunghoon remained in his own bubble, his fingers scrolling mechanically over the screen. That was until a familiar voice called out.

“Jake!”

The group collectively slowed, all their attention flicking to you as you approached. Jake stopped in his tracks, lowering his tablet to meet your gaze.

“Hey,” you said, slightly out of breath. “I need your help with something.”

Jake’s brows furrowed slightly. “What’s up?”

You handed him your tablet. “It’s about the proposal breakdown you sent. The third column—again, it’s all messed up, and I can’t figure out why.”

Jake blinked and then laughed softly, shaking his head. “That thing’s cursed.”

You groaned. “Please tell me you can fix it.”

“Of course.” Jake started tapping on your screen, walking alongside you as he explained the error. You nodded along, grateful for his patience.

Behind you, Sunoo and Jay exchanged a glance, their conversation fading as they tuned into yours. Sunoo tossed the ball back absently. “They’re a bit too comfortable, don’t you think?”

Jay smirked faintly, his tone teasing but light. “Maybe Jake’s just that charming.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened, his fingers pausing on the screen as he forced himself not to glance in your direction. Something about the way you walked so effortlessly into their group, completely unfazed, grated on his nerves. His inner Alpha stirred, but he pushed the feeling down.

Jungwon, noticing the way Sunghoon’s scent subtly shifted, leaned toward Heeseung. “You smell that?” he whispered, a sly grin forming.

Heeseung, ever the observant one, smirked knowingly. “Oh, I smell it alright.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicked up briefly, landing on you and Jake. He quickly looked back down at his tablet, though the irritation bubbling under the surface didn’t fade.

“You good, man?” Jay called out, the football now tucked under his arm.

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon muttered, his voice clipped.

“Yeah, just approach me whenever you need help with that,” Jake said, his tone casual as he handed your tablet back. A small, easy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, the kind that made it impossible to feel tense around him.

You mirrored his smile, genuinely grateful. “Thanks, Jake. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

Turning your attention to Ni-ki, who was walking just slightly ahead, you called out, “Oh, and Ni-ki, I already mentioned the pending tasks to Jake earlier. I think some members of the secretary committee might be able to lend a hand if you’re short on people for logistics.”

Ni-ki glanced back at you, surprised but clearly impressed. “Really? That’d be a huge help. Thanks, (Y/N).”

So you were close to Ni-ki too? Sunghoon’s grip on his tablet tightened slightly, his jaw ticking as he skimmed the lines of text that no longer registered. His focus wasn’t on the files his father had sent him anymore; it was on you. You were supposed to be under Jake’s committee, and yet here you were, chatting easily with Ni-ki like you belonged in every conversation.

Jake noticed the subtle exchange and shook his head with a playful scoff. “You’re getting way too independent for my liking, Nishimura,” he teased, shooting the youngest Alpha a pointed look. “You’re consulting (Y/N) without even running it by me first? Seriously?”

Ni-ki smirked, unfazed by Jake’s mock scolding. “(Y/N)’s good at this stuff. Besides, teamwork, right?” He threw Jake’s own words back at him, grinning.

You laughed, shaking your head at their banter. “Don’t worry, Jake. You’re still the boss. Ni-ki just wanted to cover his bases, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to get a head start.”

“See?” Ni-ki said, raising a brow at Jake. “Efficiency. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Before Jake could retort, Sunghoon cleared his throat, a sharp sound that cut through the light-hearted conversation like a blade. Everyone stopped talking almost instantly, turning their attention toward him.

“My next class is just around this corner,” Sunghoon said, his voice calm but clipped, as if he wasn’t in the mood to entertain any further distractions.

His gaze briefly flickered to you, unreadable yet heavy, before he shifted his attention back to the tablet in his hands. Without another word, he began walking ahead, leaving the group behind.

Jay and Sunoo exchanged glances, the teasing smirks they’d been wearing moments ago replaced by something more knowing. Sunoo raised an eyebrow at Jay, who shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Interesting,” Jay muttered under his breath, loud enough for Sunoo to hear but quiet enough to avoid catching Sunghoon’s attention.

Sunoo nodded slightly, his lips twitching in amusement as he leaned closer to Jay. “Very interesting.”

You, oblivious to the subtle exchange between the two Alphas, kept walking alongside Jake, still completely engrossed in the conversation. “Anyway, just let me know if there’s anything else I can help with. I don’t want to overstep, but I figured I might as well be useful where I can.”

Jake chuckled, his laid-back demeanor putting you at ease. “Overstep? You? Nah, you’re just making my job easier. Keep it up, (Y/N).”

Meanwhile, Sunghoon, now a few steps ahead of the group, tried to keep his focus on the files displayed on his tablet. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept drifting back to you—walking too close to Jake, smiling too easily at his jokes, and being too comfortable in a group of Alphas where Sunghoon felt like you stood out the most.

His inner Alpha stirred uneasily, frustrated and annoyed at the pull you had over him. He hated how it made him feel, how he couldn’t seem to control the way his senses sharpened whenever you were nearby. His scent of coffee and leather spiked faintly as he clenched his jaw, pushing the feelings down as best he could.

Heeseung, noticing the slight change in Sunghoon’s posture and scent, smirked to himself but didn’t say a word. Jungwon, however, nudged Heeseung with his elbow, his expression smug.

“Called it,” Jungwon whispered, earning a chuckle from Heeseung.

You, still entirely unaware of the tension you were unknowingly creating, glanced toward Sunghoon’s retreating figure for a moment, a small frown of curiosity crossing your face before you turned back to Jake. “Do you think he’s okay?” you asked, your voice tinged with concern.

Jake glanced ahead, following your gaze to where Sunghoon had disappeared around the corner. “He’s fine,” he replied, though there was a knowing edge to his tone. “He just takes things a little too seriously sometimes. Don’t worry about him.”

But you did. You couldn’t help it.

And neither could Sunghoon.

The classroom buzzed faintly with the low hum of people talking and the scratching of pens on paper. Sunghoon sat by the window, his tablet propped up in front of him, displaying spreadsheets and documents his father had sent over earlier, but his eyes weren’t on them. Instead, they were fixed on the gray sky outside, his thoughts wandering far from budget allocations and meeting agendas.

You.

You’d been on his mind since lunch, and no matter how much he tried to push the thought of you away, it kept resurfacing and demanding his attention. You’d always been around, working under Jake in the secretary committee. He knew you, he had seen you countless times in meetings and events.

But you’d never lingered in his thoughts before. So why now? Why did the sight of you walking beside Jake earlier make something in his chest tighten uncomfortably?

The faintest hint of honey and lilac lingered in his memory, soft but intoxicating. He swore he could still smell it even now, though he knew it was impossible. Your scent—it clung to his thoughts.

His jaw clenched, and his brows furrowed as he tapped his pen against the desk. He didn’t understand it. There was something about you that had his Alpha instincts stirring, clawing at the edges of his mind. His wolf, a part of him he usually kept tightly controlled, was restless.

“Mr. Park,” his professor’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Sunghoon blinked, snapping his gaze toward the front of the room. The professor was staring at him, waiting for an answer to a question he hadn’t heard.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, his classmates glancing between him and the professor. But then Sunghoon straightened in his seat, his expression calm as he answered, “The proposed budget allocation for next semester’s extracurricular activities needs to account for inflation trends. That’s why the margin was adjusted to five percent.”

The professor raised a brow, nodding approvingly. “Correct, Mr. Park. As expected.”

Sunghoon’s classmates exchanged looks, some impressed, others annoyed, but he ignored them. His body was here, in this classroom, answering questions and keeping up appearances, but his mind? His mind was with you.

The bell rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He packed his things quickly, stepping out into the hallway where Jungwon was waiting for him, leaning casually against the wall.

“Took you long enough,” Jungwon teased, stepping beside him as they walked toward their next meeting.

Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately, his thoughts still tangled. Jungwon glanced at him, his brows furrowing slightly. “You good?”

“Fine,” Sunghoon muttered, his tone clipped.

They turned a corner, and Sunghoon’s steps halted for just a moment. There you were, standing a few feet away, chatting with Jungwon and Sunoo’s mates. You nodded at something one of them said, a small smile gracing your lips as you gestured excitedly with your hands.

Sunghoon’s chest tightened again, that unfamiliar feeling stirring in the pit of his stomach. His wolf bristled, the instinctive urge to step closer, to claim what was his. But he shoved it down, locking it away behind the mask of indifference he’d perfected over the years.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his briefly. Without saying anything, you gave Jungwon a small nod, silently acknowledging him. Sunghoon caught the faint smile you sent his way before your attention returned to the conversation in front of you.

“Looks like we’re all heading to the same place,” Jungwon said lightly, his tone casual as he nudged Sunghoon forward.

Sunghoon didn’t respond, his grip tightening around his backpack strap as he forced himself to move. You were close, too close. He could hear your laugh, soft and full of life, as you spoke to Sunoo’s mate. He could smell your scent, and it made his inner Alpha agitated.

He didn’t like this.

Didn’t like how his instincts reacted to you.

Didn’t like the way his thoughts strayed toward you when he had more important things to focus on.

Didn’t like how his body seemed to recognize something his mind refused to.

Heeseung and Jay passed by, still caught up in their conversation, but Heeseung sent him a knowing glance. Not fully understanding, but suspecting something.

Sunghoon shut it all out—he had no time for love, no time for whatever this was.

Without another word, he walked past you, through the council room doors, and forced himself to bury whatever this feeling was before it could take root.

You hesitated for a moment, watching Sunghoon as he disappeared into the meeting room without sparing you another glance. It wasn’t the first time he’d brushed past you like that, but something about today felt different. The way his shoulders tensed, the way his gaze hardened the second he saw you—it was like you were a problem he didn’t have time for.

And you didn’t understand why.

Sunoo’s mate, who just so happened to be Sunghoon’s younger sister, sighed beside you, her voice low as she leaned in. “Don’t bother,” she murmured, arms crossing as she watched her brother’s retreating figure. “He’s always like that.”

But was he? Because despite her words, you had a gnawing feeling that the way Sunghoon treated you was different. Like there was something beneath his cold exterior, something you couldn’t quite understand.

You were still lost in thought when Ni-ki slid into the seat next to you. His presence was casual, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

He nudged you lightly, voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “Why are you staring at Sunghoon like that?”

You snapped out of your daze, your eyes widening slightly. “What?”

The younger Alpha smirked, resting his chin on his hand as he observed you. “You’ve been watching him since he walked in. And don’t even try to deny it.”

Heat crept up your face as you quickly looked away. “I wasn’t—”

“Uh-huh,” Ni-ki cut in, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, (Y/N). Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You huffed, shaking your head before turning your attention back to Jungwon as he finally started the meeting.

Jungwon leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the smooth wood of the long table before his lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Alright, before we get to the real agenda… I’m assuming everyone here knows they’re expected to be at the grand dinner our dear marketing director's family is hosting?”

Collective groans echoed through the room.

Jay was the first to voice his displeasure, rolling his eyes as he slumped against his chair. “No offense, Sunghoon, but I was trying to pretend I forgot about that.”

“Do we really have to go?” Sunoo sighed dramatically, slouching back in his seat with exaggerated defeat. “What if I suddenly develop a rare illness that prevents me from attending formal events? I think it’s highly possible. I should get it checked out.”

“You and me both,” Jay added, rolling his eyes.

Jungwon chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll make sure our dear school nurse looks after you.” His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes made it clear—none of them were getting out of this.

You sat quietly at the far end of the table, taking in the conversation with mild amusement. The mention of the event piqued your curiosity, though you weren’t as vocal about your distaste for it as the others.

Instead, you found your gaze wandering toward Sunghoon, who, as expected, remained perfectly composed, his expression cold, eyes still skimming over his tablet as if this conversation didn’t concern him in the slightest.

Unlike the others, Sunghoon wasn’t one to complain about formal events. No, he was used to them. They were expected of him, just as everything else in his life was predetermined. And yet, despite his practiced facade, something about the way he held himself—his grip tightening around the device, his jaw tensing ever so slightly—told you that he wasn’t entirely unaffected.

Not that you would ever get the chance to ask him about it.

Because every time you so much as looked his way, his entire demeanor shifted, as if your presence alone irritated him. And it stung, just a little.

Jungwon, unaware of the silent exchange, finally clapped his hands together. “Alright, moving on. Since we’re all forced to attend that wonderful dinner, let’s get to what actually matters—the upcoming school festival.”

A shift in everyone's demeanor followed as the real meeting began. Papers rustled, files were opened, and everyone straightened up, ready to discuss proposals and assignments.

“The main goal for this meeting is to finalize activity proposals before we present them for approval. We have a rough list, but we still need to sort out logistics,” Jungwon continued. “Jake, you and your team already compiled the initial proposals, right?”

Jake nodded, pulling out a neatly organized folder. “Yeah, I went through the ones submitted last week. I’ll run through them real quick.”

As Jake started going over the list, you chimed in with some of your own notes, offering insights from the secretary committee’s perspective. “Some of these proposals overlap with past events, so we might want to rethink a few of them to keep things fresh. Also, we should factor in the budget constraints before finalizing anything.”

Jay, being the treasurer, leaned forward, tapping his pen against his notebook. “Speaking of budgets, don’t forget that we still need funding for venue rentals and logistics.”

Heeseung snorted. “Stop acting like we’re broke. We could fund the whole event if we wanted to.”

Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, but just because we have the funds doesn’t mean we should start tossing money around like it’s fucking Monopoly cash.”

Sunoo, the student relations director, hummed in approval. “Okay, but let’s consider which ones would actually engage the student body. No point in budgeting for an event no one shows up to.”

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, shrugging. “That’s fair, but we do have the resources. As long as it’s reasonable, funding isn’t really the issue.”

Jay sighed, still skeptical. “Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when we go over budget because someone thought a fireworks show would be a great addition.”

The discussion flowed naturally, Ni-ki making suggestions from the public relations side. “We also need to think about how we’re promoting these events. Even the best ideas fail if no one knows about them. I can get the PR committee to start drafting marketing strategies once we finalize the shortlist.”

But amidst all of this, Sunghoon was distracted. No one would have noticed—no one except Heeseung, of course.

Because while the others were engaged in conversation, Sunghoon was stuck in a losing battle against his own thoughts. His gaze flickered to you more times than he wanted to admit, even as he forced himself to keep his attention on his tablet. He wasn’t just distracted; he was frustrated.

Why did he care? Why did it bother him when you spoke so easily with the others? You had always been there. You had always been part of these meetings, always sitting on the opposite end of the table, working just as hard as the rest of them.

So why, now of all times, was he so hyperaware of you?

Why did your voice pull him from his thoughts? Why did the scent of honey and lilac make his muscles tense?

He didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have time for love.

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung’s voice cut through his thoughts suddenly, snapping him back to reality.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I agree with (Y/N)’s suggestion.”

Silence.

Jay raised a brow, glancing at Heeseung before turning back to Sunghoon. “You sure about that, man?”

Sunoo looked equally amused, glancing between you and Sunghoon as he tossed the pen between his hands. “Because that was the first time you spoke since the meeting started.”

The corner of Heeseung’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “So, you were listening, huh?”

Sunghoon clenched his jaw. Heeseung knew. He always knew.

But instead of giving them the satisfaction, Sunghoon merely straightened in his seat, exuding the same indifference as before. “Of course I was. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t.”

Then Heeseung let out a low whistle, still smirking, only leaning back in his chair. “Right. If you say so.”

Jungwon, still trying to be professional, shook his head. “Alright, focus, people.”

You, however, weren’t paying attention to them anymore. Your gaze drifted toward a specific pureblooded Alpha—the way he sat stiffly, the way his fingers tapped against the screen with an edge of tension.

And suddenly, you weren’t just confused.

You were curious.

Because if Sunghoon truly didn’t care about you, why did he remember every single word you had said?

You replayed every moment you saw him from earlier that day—his quiet, almost reluctant responses to you, how he kept his distance but somehow always seemed to be aware of everything you said and did. His voice echoed in your head now, and it made you question everything you’d assumed about him.

Was this really indifference? Or was it something else?

The meeting droned on, but your mind couldn't stay focused. It kept drifting back to him—his posture, the sharpness of his eyes, the moles on his face that somehow made him even more attractive, the way he always seemed so calculated, like he was constantly running scenarios in his head, measuring each move.

Sunghoon wasn’t just someone who blended in with the group. No, he commanded attention, even without trying.

And yet, there he was, looking as uninterested as ever, his expression stoic as he scrolled through something on his device. But that nagging feeling—like there was something more beneath his mask—kept poking at you.

Without thinking, you leaned back in your chair, letting the tension in your body melt away for a moment, trying to get a glimpse of the real Sunghoon—not the calculated, polished version he liked to show other people.

You had to admit, you were intrigued. The pureblooded Alphas were all so predictable in their own ways, but Sunghoon was different.

Your thoughts were interrupted when Heeseung cleared his throat, looking at Jungwon with a raised eyebrow. “We’re talking about the theme for the event, right?” he asked casually, as if the meeting hadn’t slipped into a quiet lull.

Jungwon nodded, unfazed. “Yes. But we need more input from everyone. Ideas that aren’t just—”

“I have one,” you cut in, unable to resist any longer. Your voice came out clear and confident, a stark contrast to the flurry of thoughts racing through your mind. “We could go with something subtle but impactful. A theme that revolves around contrasts. Like light and dark, maybe even using elements of nature, contrasts of seasons, or contrasting textures. After all, it’s all about balance.”

You paused, feeling everyone’s gaze on you for just a moment longer than necessary. But you held it together.

The room fell silent. Sunghoon didn’t react immediately, but you could sense his attention subtly shifting in your direction. You dared to meet his eyes for a split second, but he quickly looked down at his tablet again, feigning disinterest.

But you noticed the way his lips pressed together, the slight tension in his jaw that he never showed anyone else. You wondered if he was considering your words or if he was just trying to avoid acknowledging the pull you had on him.

Finally, Sunghoon spoke up, his voice surprisingly calm. “It’s not bad,” he said, looking up from his tablet. “Contrast is a powerful tool. We could work with it.” His gaze lingered on you for a brief second before he turned his attention back to the discussion, as if the acknowledgment had been nothing more than a casual comment.

You blinked, slightly taken aback. The unexpected approval from him felt different from the usual dismissive reactions. But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You quickly nodded, trying to maintain your composure.

“I’ll send a more detailed proposal with visuals after the meeting,” you added, pushing forward.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything more, but you caught the way his gaze flickered toward you again, his eyes narrowing just slightly. There was a brief pause, like he was weighing his next move.

The air had shifted just a little, and you couldn’t quite place why. But you were certain that there was something more to his response, even if he tried to brush it off as nonchalance.

The rustling of papers and the faint creak of chairs filled the council room as everyone packed up. The meeting had dragged on longer than expected, and most of them were ready to go home.

Jake slung his bag over his shoulder, exhaling. “Alright, let’s go. I think we all want to sleep at a reasonable hour.”

Ni-ki snorted. “Reasonable? You all literally run on caffeine and stress.”

Jake rolled his eyes, already walking toward the door. “Just hurry up.”

One by one, they filed out into the dimly lit hallways, their chatter echoing through the empty corridors. Outside, the night air was crisp, the usual warm breeze replaced by a sharper chill.

The campus at night had an almost eerie but majestic feel to it, grand architecture bathed in soft golden lights, towering columns casting long shadows across the marble pathways. The air smelled of expensive cologne and freshly trimmed gardens—the very image of wealth and privilege. It was the kind of place that asked for admiration, yet felt untouchable, like something straight out of a dream.

They walked in their usual loose formation toward the parking lot, their voices filling the space between them. Sunoo and Jay were deep in a debate about their next group dinner, Ni-ki throwing in sarcastic remarks while Heeseung poked fun at Jungwon’s overly formal meeting style.

But Sunghoon?

Sunghoon was silent.

He walked with them, hands shoved into his pockets, his usual confident stride still the same. And yet, he wasn’t really there. He wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, wasn’t throwing in his usual sarcastic remarks. He barely even reacted when Ni-ki nudged him in the ribs or when Heeseung smirked at him like he was waiting for a comeback.

Jay was the first to notice. He narrowed his eyes, slowing his steps to fall in line beside him. “What’s up with you?”

Sunghoon blinked, like he hadn’t even realized someone was talking to him. “What?”

Jay gave him a look. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Like, more than usual. It’s kinda freaking me out.”

Sunghoon exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. And they all caught it.

Because for the briefest second, his scent changed—something bitter wafted through the air.

Jay’s eyes flickered, but he let it go. “If you say so.”

The conversation picked up again, but Sunghoon remained detached, walking alongside them but never really taking part in any of the conversations.

They reached the parking lot, and the group naturally split off toward their respective cars, saying their goodbyes.

Sunghoon walked toward his own: a sleek, black sports car, polished to perfection. It stood out even among the other luxury vehicles, a clear reminder of his status.

He pulled the door open but didn’t start it. Instead, he sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel as he stared straight ahead.

The quietness of the parking lot pressed down on him, leaving nothing but the hum of distant streetlights and the faint ringing in his ears.

And then, for the first time all night, his inner Alpha spoke.

"Pathetic."

A dull throb started in his temples. He shut his eyes, jaw clenching.

"You’re running, aren’t you?"

“Shut up.” His grip on the wheel tightened, but the voice didn’t stop. It never did.

"You saw her today. Again. And what did you do?"

His chest ached. “Nothing.”

His inner Alpha scoffed. "Exactly. You ignored her. You walked past her like she was nothing."

“Because she is nothing to me.” But even as he said it, his own words felt hollow.

"Liar."

His head pulsed, frustration clawing at his skull. He couldn’t do this. He had responsibilities. Expectations. He had worked too damn hard to let something as simple as instincts get in the way.

His life was structured, orderly. He had a plan.

He had no time for love.

No time for distractions.

And yet, the way his instincts clawed at him, the way his Alpha had been restless all evening, it was suffocating.

His own body was betraying him.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temple. Not now. Not ever.

With a final, sharp breath, he yanked the car door shut, sealing himself inside.

And then, without another second wasted, he started the engine and drove off into the night.

The drive home was a blur. Sunghoon barely remembered driving through the city streets, his grip on the wheel tense, jaw locked as he forced his thoughts elsewhere—anywhere but where they wanted to be.

But the moment he pulled into the long, private driveway leading to his family estate, he knew that tonight was going to be hell.

His home was as grand as expected from a family like his—towering windows, intricate stonework, and the ever-present air of power. The gates shut behind him, and for a second, he let his forehead rest against the steering wheel. Maybe if he sat here long enough, his thoughts would settle.

Your scent still clung to his senses—honey and lilac, sweet but not overpowering. It had wrapped around him in the council room, seeped into his skin, and now it refused to leave. He hated how much it soothed him, how his muscles almost wanted to relax, how it made something deep in his chest coil tighter instead of loosening.

"You’re being pathetic," his alpha sneered, voice curling in his mind like a mocking whisper. "Avoiding her doesn’t change the fact that she’s yours."

Sunghoon’s lips curled into a silent snarl as he shoved the car door open, stepping out into the crisp night air.

“She is not mine.”

His inner alpha laughed, low and knowing. "Keep telling yourself that. See how well that works."

Ignoring the voice, he strode toward the house. The moment he stepped inside, everything felt too much. The walls felt closer. The silence was suffocating. His body was tense with an agitation he couldn’t shake. His instincts were screaming at him to move, to do something.

He made his way upstairs, stripping off his blazer and tossing it carelessly onto the chair by his desk. His bathroom door was open, the mirror catching his reflection. His eyes were sharp, glowing under the dim lighting, the exhaustion on his face barely hidden beneath the tension.

He turned away, forcing himself not to linger.

A shower. Maybe that would help.

The water was scalding against his skin, yet it did nothing to ease the heat gnawing at his chest. The steam didn’t drown out your presence—your scent lingered, thick in the air. His hands clenched against the tiles, his body stiff as the wave of frustration rolled over him.

“She’s under Jake in the secretary committee,” he muttered, trying to remind himself why it couldn’t be this way. “She’s always been there, but you never cared before. Why now?”

His alpha growled, the voice inside him bitter. "Because you were blind before."

“And I’m not now?”

"No. And you hate it."

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, the water running down his back as he scrubbed it away, scrubbing away the thoughts that wouldn’t leave.

He was supposed to have control. He couldn’t let this slip. He had responsibilities, obligations—his family, the council, the expectations weighing on his shoulders. He could not afford distractions.

And yet…

The moment he collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion tugging at him, he couldn’t escape the truth. The weight of it crushed him as he stared at the ceiling, and despite all the effort to push it down, all he could think about was you.

His body fought against it. His mind screamed at him to focus, to remind himself of his purpose. But his heart, and his damn alpha—kept drawing him back to you.

He lay on his bed for what felt like hours, the shadows from the window stretching over the floor, taunting him with the silence that felt too heavy.

“Get up,” he muttered to himself, sitting up abruptly, his body moving almost involuntarily. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't let himself relax. He needed something to focus on, something that would force his mind to behave.

Sunghoon stalked over to his desk, flicking on the lamp with a snap of his fingers. The pile of paperwork in front of him was waiting; papers that he had ignored for far too long, reports that needed reviewing, contracts his father had left for him to examine.

He grabbed the nearest stack, flipping it open, pretending to care about the figures and legal jargon written on the pages. But it was useless. His eyes skimmed over the words, but none of it made sense. His mind was elsewhere. His fingers would itch for the next page, yet they weren’t moving fast enough.

He cursed under his breath, trying to force his attention back onto the papers, but his thoughts kept drifting—drifting to you.

He slammed the folder closed, frustration clawing at him, his teeth gritting as he let out a harsh breath. What the hell was wrong with him?

"You know the answer," his inner alpha purred darkly. "It’s only a matter of time before you crack."

He shook his head, trying to fight back the growing sensation of need. He couldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow it.

Still, the clock ticked on, its hands mocking him, each second louder than the last.

He pushed himself up from his desk, pacing the room in frustration. His mind was a battlefield, the war between his own instincts and the duties he had been born into. He couldn’t just let go.

He had responsibilities. But everything in him—his very core, his inner alpha—was screaming for him to do the one thing he refused to acknowledge: follow his instincts. Go to her. Take the step forward.

"You’re already in too deep," the voice reminded him again, this time quieter, almost tender. "She’s not just anyone. she’s yours."

Sunghoon froze, his back against the wall as the words hit him harder than he could have ever anticipated. His heart skipped a beat. The thought of you, the reality of you being his, it felt almost too much to bear.

His alpha wasn’t wrong. But the fear of breaking the walls he had carefully built around his life, the fear of losing control, it was all too overwhelming.

Finally, Sunghoon gave in and walked over to his walk-in closet, the weight of his thoughts dragging him down. He yanked open the door, revealing rows of neatly organized clothes.

His eyes scanned the options without much focus, hand moving almost automatically as he grabbed a random hoodie from the rack. Pulling it over his head, he felt the familiar weight of the fabric, but it did little to comfort him.

Maybe a walk would help. Fresh air. Something to clear his mind. Maybe then, he could shake the way his body burned for something, anything that wasn’t this.

But the instant he stepped out into the cool night, his mind betrayed him again. He walked in the direction of the garden, his eyes glued to the ground, his thoughts clouded.

And there, in the garden, where the cold air mixed with the scent of flowers, the feeling hit him again, the overwhelming, suffocating need to give in.

Sunghoon found himself staring at the moon, and then, without realizing it, his mind drifted again.

You.

And when he tried to stop it, it came anyway.

Sunghoon’s frustration increased, his fingers clenching into fists at his sides. The wind swept across the garden, rustling the leaves, and yet he felt nothing but this suffocating pull toward you, toward whatever this was. The thoughts were relentless, the pull of his instincts gnawing at him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the chaos of his mind. He pulled it out, his eyes narrowing at the message from Jungwon, “Need you in the council office tomorrow for another meeting. Can’t do this without the rest of you guys.”

Sunghoon scoffed, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more committee business. He was already drowning in it.

Yet, despite himself, he began to walk back toward the house, his pace quickening as if his legs knew what his mind refused to accept—that he couldn’t escape this. Not for long.

The only thing on his mind now was what he couldn’t have. And the bitter, hollow feeling that came with it was growing by the minute.

The morning light barely made its way through the heavy curtains, casting faint shadows on Sunghoon’s disheveled bed. He groaned as a loud knock broke through the quietness of his room. The sound echoed in his head, still hazy with the remnants of sleep.

Reluctantly, he reached for his phone, eyes squinting against the harsh glow of the screen. 7:00 AM. The numbers were bold, a text from his sister flashed across the screen, accompanied by a string of impatient emojis.

“Sunghoon, get up. We need to head to the venue. There are last-minute details to fix before the event.”

A sigh slipped past his lips. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled into this whirlwind of preparations, but as usual, duty called. His inner alpha thrashed beneath the surface, restless as ever, but there was no time for that. He had responsibilities to uphold.

Another knock came, louder this time. “Hurry up!” His sister’s voice echoed from the hallway, laced with a teasing urgency.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed. His body felt heavy, his mind clouded, but he forced himself to push through. His sister’s impatience was nothing new, but today, it felt more grating than usual.

He stumbled to the door, opening it to find his sister standing there with arms crossed, an amused smile playing at the corner of her lips. “You're seriously still in bed? I swear, you’re getting worse with every event,” she said, her tone light but laced with the expectation of someone who knew he could do better.

Sunghoon rubbed his eyes, his voice groggy. “I’m coming,” he muttered, trying to shake off the sleepiness clinging to him. She rolled her eyes, brushing past him and heading down the stairs without another word.

Minutes later, he stood in front of the full-length mirror in his closet, adjusting the black Dior suit his mother insisted on for every event. The fabric felt familiar, but it didn’t comfort him the way it usually did.

His reflection stared back at him: sharp, immaculate, and detached. The face of someone who had never been able to escape the expectations placed upon him. He barely recognized himself some days.

Sunghoon’s sports car sped down the quiet road, the cool morning air rushing through the slightly open windows. His sister, as usual, was absorbed in her phone beside him, chattering on about whatever had caught her attention.

But Sunghoon’s mind was elsewhere. It kept drifting back to the image of you at the council, the way you carried yourself with ease, how your presence lingered in his thoughts like a scent he couldn’t shake.

“You’re driving like you’re half asleep,” his sister finally commented, giving him a quick glance with raised brows. “Sunghoon, are you okay? You’ve been off all week.”

He blinked, pulling himself out of his daze and offering a strained smile. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice betraying him as he tried to brush it off.

She eyed him skeptically. “You’ve barely talked to anyone at home this week. What’s going on?”

Sunghoon stiffened but didn’t respond immediately. His mind briefly flickered back to you, but he shook it off, trying to stay focused.

“Have you found your mate yet?” she asked, her voice soft but curious—not teasing. She could sense the change in him even if she didn’t fully understand why.

Sunghoon’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he kept his gaze on the road. His mate. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about that possibility, not when everything felt so complicated.

“No,” he muttered, the word coming out sharper than he intended. “Not yet.”

His sister let out a dramatic sigh, clearly unimpressed. “You’re such a mess. Honestly, you could just relax. It’s not the end of the world if you let your guard down for a second.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued driving, his mind still wrapped up in the swirling tension inside him. Why couldn’t it be anyone else? Why did it have to be you? He couldn’t seem to make sense of it.

The silence stretched on until his sister mumbled something under her breath, so quietly that he almost missed it.

“The poor girl.”

His head snapped toward her, brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

She looked at him knowingly, the edge of her teasing never fully disappearing. “You’ve been pushing her away all week, haven’t you?” she said softly, almost pitying. “And you think she doesn’t notice? Poor girl. She probably thinks you’re confused with the way you keep looking at her.”

Sunghoon’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of them lingered in the air between them. His mind was too busy to process it. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t let himself get distracted by his feelings now, not when there was so much at stake.

His sister didn’t press the matter further. The drive continued in silence until they arrived at The Park Hotel, Seoul—a towering, luxurious building that his family owned. Sunghoon parked the car and shut off the engine, forcing himself to breathe.

As he stepped out of the car, his gaze landed on a sleek white sports car parked by the entrance. It was familiar, but there was something about it, something about the way it was parked so perfectly neat, that made Sunghoon pause. He glanced at it for a moment but didn’t think much of it. He shrugged it off. After all, there were so many cars in the parking lot. It was probably just another business associate’s vehicle.

“Come on,” his sister said, walking ahead toward the entrance. “Let’s go.”

They walked into the hotel, where the hustle of preparations for the event was already in full swing. His mother was already there, talking to a few staff members, discussing last-minute details. The sight of her being so composed and confident was a relief to Sunghoon. He always felt better around her.

“Mom!” he greeted, his mood lightening as he walked toward her. She smiled and greeted him in return before they moved toward the elevator.

“Top floor,” Sunghoon said, pressing the button for the penthouse suite, the family’s personal event space at the top of the building.

The elevator doors closed, and as it ascended, Sunghoon relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. He loved this space; it always gave him a sense of control. The casual chatter in the elevator with his mom helped ground him.

“Everything ready for the event?” he asked casually, watching the numbers on the elevator screen rise.

His mom smiled, nodding. “Almost. Just some last-minute touches, but I think we’ll be fine. You know how much I love to be thorough with everything.” She glanced at him, her smile softening. “How’s everything with you, Sunghoon? You seem a bit distracted today.”

Sunghoon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to smile more naturally. “I’m just tired, I guess. Been a long week.” He quickly glanced over at his sister, who had her nose buried in her phone. “You know how it is.”

“Of course,” his mom said with a knowing look. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, don’t you? Just don’t overwork yourself. You know you can talk to me about anything.”

Sunghoon appreciated the concern, but he wasn’t ready to share what was really on his mind. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

The elevator finally stopped, and they were greeted by the usual flurry of activity as staff members hurried around, making sure every last detail was in place. His mom led the way, greeting workers and supervisors with ease.

But Sunghoon’s attention was already elsewhere. His eyes instinctively swept over the scene, and that’s when he saw you.

You were standing near one of the event coordinators, looking effortlessly at ease, your posture graceful. Sunghoon froze. His heart skipped a beat as his gaze locked onto you.

Before he could process it further, his mom continued walking ahead, greeting a woman standing nearby. Sunghoon barely registered who she was until he saw her face, and the resemblance was unmistakable.

His breath caught. The woman was elegant, poised, with the same features that were reflected in your own face. He stood frozen, unsure of how to react. His eyes flicked back to you, now standing beside the woman, his mind struggling to catch up with the sudden connection.

Then, to his surprise, his mom stepped forward and pulled you into a warm, affectionate hug. The gesture caught the pureblooded Alpha off guard, leaving him momentarily speechless.

His sister, noticing the way Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on the scene, raised an eyebrow. She smirked, almost as if she had been waiting for this moment.

“So… it’s actually (Y/N), huh?” she said casually, her tone light but laced with a knowing edge. “Guess you really can’t avoid it, huh?”

Sunghoon’s chest tightened as he took a deep breath, trying to process everything at once. What were you doing here?

Sunghoon stood frozen, his thoughts racing as his mom pulled you into a warm embrace. The sight of your face, the familiar features—everything about you felt like it was making his world tilt. He was still processing it all when his mom’s voice broke through his daze.

“Sunghoon, come here, both of you,” his mom called, waving them over.

Sunghoon’s feet moved almost automatically, his sister walking ahead of him, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she noticed the subtle tension in his posture. When they reached his mom, she was still smiling warmly at you and the woman standing next to you.

“(Y/N), I’d like you to meet my children, Sunghoon and his younger sister. And this is (Y/N)’s mother, who I’ve been coordinating with for the event,” she added, beaming. "She’s in the same university as you two, actually.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered between you and your mother. So, it was your family they were working with. The realization hit him harder than expected, his chest tightening.

Sunghoon’s sister raised an eyebrow and gave you a knowing smile, but it was his mom who asked the next question, her curiosity piqued. “What are you involved in at school, (Y/N)? I’m sure you’ve been keeping busy with the student council, right?”

You smiled a little, still feeling a little nervous under Sunghoon’s gaze, but his mom’s friendly demeanor helped ease the tension. “Yeah, I’m part of the student council. I’ve been helping with the planning and coordination for the event today.”

His mom nodded approvingly. “That’s wonderful! It’s always nice to see young people so dedicated and involved. I bet you and Sunghoon are both quite busy with school.”

You nodded in agreement, a small smile tugging at your lips as you looked at Sunghoon. “We see each other around. We’re both pretty busy with different things on campus.”

Sunghoon’s sister teased, “You two are pretty close, though, aren’t you?”

Sunghoon barely met your eyes, his lips curling into a tight, controlled smile. You mirrored his smile but said nothing, feeling the tension between you both grow.

“Well, it’s great to see you both getting along!” his mom said, clearly happy with the easy atmosphere. “It’s nice to have a friendly face on campus.”

Before Sunghoon could respond, his sister pulled you away with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Come on, let’s go help with the flowers,” she said, nudging you gently. “We’ll let Sunghoon handle things for a bit.”

Sunghoon watched you both walk off, his gaze lingering on your retreating figure. His thoughts swirled, but before he could gather them, his mom caught his eye, giving him a knowing look. She didn’t comment, but her silence spoke volumes.

Sunghoon took a deep breath, his mind still racing. Whatever this was, it was far from over.

The evening settled in, casting a golden glow through the large windows of the hotel. The once-chaotic venue was finally coming together—round tables adorned with pristine tablecloths, floral arrangements meticulously placed, and staff scurrying around to finalize details.

You stood near a reception table, clipboard in hand, while Sunghoon’s sister leaned in beside you, skimming through the checklist.

“So, what’s left?” she asked, propping her chin on your shoulder.

You tapped the page with your pen. “Final seating adjustments, sound check, and we still need to confirm the catering schedule.”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “God, I don’t know how you keep up with all this.”

You smirked. “Maybe because I actually enjoy it?”

She gave you a teasing nudge. “Or maybe because you’re a perfectionist, Secretary Committee Girl.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. “I organize things. It’s literally my job in the council.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“You’re overcomplicating the seating chart.”

Your head snapped up, and there he was—Park Sunghoon, standing with his usual composed posture, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable. His mother had been talking to a coordinator nearby, but now, she glanced between the two of you, a small, knowing smile on her lips.

You exhaled through your nose. “We’re adjusting it, not overcomplicating it.”

Sunghoon gave you a flat look. “You moved the executive table again.”

“it needed to be closer to the main stage,” you argued.

“Which messes with the aisle clearance,” he countered.

You opened your mouth to respond, but his mother stepped in smoothly. “You two can argue about seating later. For now, go check on the banquet hall setup. The decorators should be almost done.”

Sunghoon sighed but nodded, while you grabbed your clipboard and turned to his sister. “You coming?”

She waved you off. “Nah, I’m staying here. You two have fun.”

You frowned at her mischievous tone, but the Alpha next to you didn’t give you time to dwell on it. With a tight-lipped expression, he gestured for you to walk ahead.

The large hall was buzzing with activity. Staff were setting up buffet tables, arranging cutlery, and making last-minute touches to the decorations. You and Sunghoon stood near the entrance, scanning the room.

“I’ll check on the centerpiece placements,” you said, glancing at your clipboard. “You can handle the catering status.”

He crossed his arms. “Why do I have to handle catering?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Because I don’t feel like arguing with the head chef.”

Sunghoon huffed but walked off toward the catering team while you made your way toward the floral arrangements. After a few minutes, you stood near the main table.

“They’re behind schedule,” Sunghoon reported, running a hand through his hair. “Something about delayed deliveries.”

You groaned. “Of course.”

You took out your phone, scrolling through your contact list. Sunghoon watched as you expertly navigated the crisis, calling the supplier and getting an update within minutes.

When you hung up, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re really in your element with this.”

You shrugged. “I have to be. The secretary committee basically runs everything behind the scenes.”

He scoffed. “So that’s why you always look stressed on campus.”

You shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “I see you in the student council room all the time, buried under paperwork. I just assumed it was self-inflicted suffering or Jake really hated your guts.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unlike some people, I actually like responsibility.”

Sunghoon just hummed, amused, before looking toward the exit. “Come on, we still have to check the ballroom.”

The ballroom, meant for the main program, was dimly lit as technicians adjusted the spotlights. You and Sunghoon walked toward the stage, where a staff member was testing the mic.

“You handle sound checks?” he asked, sounding mildly impressed.

You nodded. “Part of the job.”

Sunghoon leaned against a nearby pillar, watching as you exchanged instructions with the technicians. His eyes trailed over the way you moved—so effortlessly slipping into control, giving orders with ease, adjusting the smallest details without hesitation. You were in your element, and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was what he had been avoiding all along.

When you finally wrapped up, he glanced at you, voice quieter than before. “You’re really everywhere, huh?”

“That’s kind of the point,” you said, flipping through your notes.

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he looked away, clearing his throat. “So, what’s next?”

You skimmed the checklist. “We need to make sure the VIP section is set up properly.”

Sunghoon groaned. “Please don’t tell me we have to argue about chairs again.”

You smirked. “That depends. Are you going to accept that I’m always right?”

He gave you an unimpressed look but followed you anyway.

The two of you walked through the elegantly arranged VIP tables, double-checking details. At one point, you crouched down to fix a misplaced name card, only to feel Sunghoon standing way too close behind you.

“You’re hovering,” you muttered.

“I’m observing,” he corrected.

You turned your head slightly, only to realize just how close he was. His scent—coffee and leather—wrapped around you, warm and grounding. You swallowed, standing up quickly and brushing imaginary dust off your skirt.

His inner alpha stirred, "Weak. You’re running again."

He ignored it.

His gaze traced the slight parting of your lips, the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders as you exhaled. He let himself linger, just for a second, in the space between restraint and surrender. And that’s when the thought crept in, unbidden.

"Is this really what you’re afraid of? Her? Or the way she makes you forget everything else?"

His jaw tightened.

Because it wasn’t just the bond. It wasn’t just attraction. It was the fear of unraveling, of slipping so deep into something he couldn’t control that he’d abandon everything else, his duties, his carefully built walls, the life that was expected of him.

His alpha hummed in amusement. "She makes you weak, but you want her anyway."

Sunghoon swallowed hard, straightening his posture. The warmth in his eyes cooled, replaced by something unreadable.

You frowned slightly at the shift.

He smirked. “Nervous?” His voice was smooth, but there was a sudden distance in it.

You scoffed. “You wish.”

His gaze flickered to your lips for the briefest second before he took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets as if forcing the space between you.

"Coward."

“If you say so,” he hummed.

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted.

“Ah, there you two are.”

Sunghoon turned, shifting his expression into something neutral as his mother approached, clipboard in hand. You straightened up beside him, the moment from before slipping between your fingers like sand.

“I need you both to oversee the final checks while I discuss something with the event coordinators.” His mother’s tone left no room for argument. She gave Sunghoon a look, one that was equal parts expectation and knowing—before handing you the clipboard. “You know what to do.”

You nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Park.”

Sunghoon exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding along as well. It wasn’t like he could say no.

"Another thing you can't say no to, huh?" His alpha taunted.

He clenched his jaw, pushing down the irritation forming in his chest. It wasn’t at you, he knew that much. It was at himself, at the way he was still standing next to you despite everything.

You, however, had already moved on, scanning through the checklist before nudging his arm. “Come on, Park. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

His eyes flicked down to where you touched him, the warmth of your skin seeping through his sleeve. His inner alpha hummed in approval, but he ignored it, following you as you walked through the venue.

As you worked, your voice was steady as you went over the details. “Floral arrangements are set, table placements are final…” You trailed off as you examined the stage setup, flipping a page on the clipboard. “Lighting checks should be done soon. Could you talk to the technicians?”

He raised a brow. “You’re delegating to me now?”

You gave him a pointed look. “I can’t do everything myself.”

Sunghoon smirked despite himself, but there was something bitter about it. You weren’t even flustered around him anymore. When did you stop getting nervous?

His alpha scoffed. "You’re upset about that? Pathetic."

Still, he didn’t argue. He stepped away, scanning the ballroom for the lighting crew before walking off.

By the time he returned, you were deep in conversation with the floral team, gesturing toward one of the centerpieces. His gaze followed your movements—how easily you took control of the situation, how effortlessly you belonged in this environment.

"She’s everywhere. Always in the middle of things, always moving forward."

He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar tightness forming in his chest. Maybe that’s why he had avoided this for so long. Because standing here, watching you do what you did best, made him realize something.

It wasn’t just about you. It was about him.

The fear wasn’t of falling for you. It was of what that would mean, of what he’d have to let go of to have you.

“Earth to Sunghoon?”

He blinked, snapping back to reality. You were watching him, an amused expression on your face.

“Spacing out already?” you teased. “We’re not even done yet.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing important,” he muttered, voice clipped.

You frowned at the sudden change in his tone but didn’t push. “Right. Well, let me know if you're ready to go. We still have things to check.”

You walked past him, your scent—honey and lilac—lingering in the air, soft yet unmistakable. His Alpha bristled, pushing at his restraint.

"She’s slipping away. Your Omega is slipping away."

Sunghoon clenched his fists. No. You were right here. He just didn’t know what to do with that.

For now, he settled for following you.

The night air was crisp, carrying a faint chill that hinted at the changing seasons. You barely noticed, too preoccupied with checking off the last few items on your clipboard as you walked through the dimly lit parking lot with Sunghoon’s sister beside you.

“God, if one more person asks me about table placements, I’m quitting this whole thing,” she groaned, rubbing her temples.

You chuckled. “You say that, but you’ll still show up tomorrow looking like you run the place.”

She shot you a tired grin. “Shut up.”

A few steps behind, Sunghoon trailed silently. He wasn’t really listening to the conversation—at least, that’s what he told himself.

But his eyes betrayed him, flickering to you every so often, catching the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the way you absentmindedly tapped your pen against the clipboard, the way your scent of honey and lilacs felt like it was wrapping around him, daring him to step closer.

"She’s right there. Yours. Slipping away."

His inner Alpha’s voice was persistent, lingering in the back of his mind like an ache he refused to acknowledge.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Distance. Control. A clear line between what he felt and what he knew he had to do.

But then you stopped beside your car, unlocking it with a quiet beep. His sister slowed beside you, turning to Sunghoon with a slight frown.

“Hoon, you good?”

Your gaze flickered toward him at the question, eyes searching, like you were trying to figure out what was wrong.

And that was the problem. You always noticed.

The Alpha tensed, his walls slamming back up. His face smoothed over, his posture shifted; cold, detached, unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said flatly.

The change was almost unnoticeable, but you caught it.

Your grip on the clipboard tightened, as if debating whether to push, whether to call him out on it. But instead, you just nodded, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Alright,” you murmured.

His sister sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “You’re both so dramatic.” Then she turned to you, brightening up again. “Don’t overwork yourself, okay?”

You mustered a tired smile. “I won’t.”

Sunghoon stayed silent.

And this time, you didn’t bother looking at him before sliding into your car.

The moment your door shut, his Alpha growled in protest.

"Fix it."

He clenched his jaw, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

“No.”

Your engine rumbled to life, headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. He should’ve looked away, should’ve just walked off—but he didn’t. He watched as you drove off, the sound of your car fading into the night.

A quiet sigh escaped him. His mother.

She didn’t say anything earlier, didn’t scold or pry. She simply looked at him; knowing, like she already had a hint of what was happening.

And for some reason, that made his chest tighten.

So he exhaled, turned on his heel, and walked away.

The Park estate was quieter than usual, save for the faint rustling of leaves outside and the occasional laughter echoing from the living room. Sunghoon leaned back against the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as he scrolled mindlessly through his phone.

The guys had gathered there a few hours before the grand dinner, since it was closer to the venue, and the suits for the evening were going to be delivered directly to the estate. It was comfortable, familiar.

“Bro, do you even listen to yourself?” Sunoo snorted, throwing a cushion at Jungwon, who barely dodged. “You keep saying you care about her, but where are you, huh? If I were your mate, I’d leave your ass.”

Jungwon groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like I’m ignoring her on purpose, okay? I just—”

“Just what?” Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “Bro, you’re literally a pureblooded Alpha. Start acting like one.”

Jake snorted from his spot on the couch, shaking his head. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who barely figured out his own mating bond.”

“Hey, at least I figured it out,” Sunoo shot back. “Jungwon’s still treating his Omega like he's still courting her—he's walking on eggshells.”

Jungwon groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need this right now.” The younger Alpha huffed, slumping into the couch, ears turning a bit red.

Heeseung chuckled. “He’s right, you know. Just follow your instincts. Might help.”

Sunghoon tuned them out. His fingers tapped against his phone screen, his mind elsewhere. That was, until two familiar voices drifted in from the hallway.

“Oh yeah, follow that. Don't be like my brother—can’t relate to the whole instincts thing.”

His sister and Heeseung's mate.

Sunghoon barely registered her words, but the comment stung more than he expected. He tensed up, feeling his jaw clench involuntarily.

They didn’t even glance his way, walking past them straight to the kitchen.

For some reason, it made him feel smaller than he ever wanted to. He stayed quiet, his grip on his phone tightened, focusing on the lack of sound in the room.

Jungwon’s eyebrows lifted. “Uh… hello? You good?”

Ni-ki leaned forward, grinning. “Yeah, that was kinda weak, man. You always have something to say.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His thoughts were spiraling too fast, his Alpha stirring like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"They’re right. You’ve been avoiding this for too long."

His jaw clenched.

"Why? Because you’re scared? Because you think pushing her away makes you stronger? You already know the answer, don’t you?

Sunghoon snapped."

A low, warning growl left his throat, deep and sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

His scent soured, something bitter and tense.

The room fell silent.

Sunghoon immediately regretted it.

His friends weren’t scared, he knew that much—but they were surprised. He never let his emotions slip like that, never let his control falter.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Damn, man,” he muttered, clearly surprised. “You good?”

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb against his temple.

Jungwon, still startled, hesitated before speaking. “Hey, man, relax…”

And then, Jungwon added, almost absently—

“What’s got you all messed up? It’s like you—”

Sunghoon cut him off. “I met my mate.”

The words left his mouth before he even fully registered what he was saying.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sunoo was the first to recover. “What?”

Jungwon’s eyes widened as he processed what Sunghoon had said. “Wait—what?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. His heartbeat felt louder in his ears now, the weight of his own admission settling in. “I met my mate,” he repeated, this time with more certainty, but still unsure.

Jake let out a low whistle. “Well, shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think I’d hear that today.”

Jay was still staring at him like he had grown a second head. “You?”

Sunghoon shot him a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jay raised his hands in defense. “I mean, dude, it’s you. You’ve never even cared about that kind of stuff. I just—when? How?”

Sunghoon hesitated. He hadn’t planned on saying this out loud, let alone explaining it. The moment he said the words, it felt like he had given away the control he had spent years perfecting—it had just cracked at the edges.

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, and who?”

Ni-ki looked almost wary. “Wait, wait, hold up—are you sure?”

Sunghoon shot him a flat look. “You think I’d joke about this?”

“No, but you also don’t exactly seem sure,” Ni-ki pointed out.

That was fair.

Because the truth was, Sunghoon wasn’t sure, not fully. Or at least, he had spent the last few days convincing himself he wasn’t sure. Because if he admitted it, that meant things had to change.

And Sunghoon hated change.

Heeseung, who had been the quietest of them all, finally spoke up. His voice was calm. “Since when?”

Sunghoon pressed his lips together.

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung pushed, more insistent this time. “How long have you known?”

A muscle in Sunghoon’s jaw ticked. “…A while.”

Another silence stretched between them, heavier this time.

Sunoo groaned, running a hand down his face. “You knew and didn’t say anything?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer.

Jake scoffed, shaking his head. “Bro, what the hell?”

Ni-ki leaned forward, his expression sharper now. “You’re seriously fighting this?” His voice was wary, frustrated. Despite being the youngest, he thought it was stupid—this was instincts, this was nature.

The gods themselves had chosen fated mates with intention. Rejecting that was like rejecting the sky, the air, the pull of the ocean’s tide. It made no sense to him. “Why would you reject something that’s meant for you?”

Jungwon, usually the more level-headed one, actually agreed. “Ni-ki’s right,” he muttered. “You’re making this way harder than it has to be.”

Sunghoon snapped.

“You think I had a choice?” His voice came out sharper than he meant, louder. His scent flared again, dominance pouring out of him.

And that set them all off.

Because they weren’t just Alphas. They were pureblooded Alphas, born and bred into power, and when dominance was challenged, instinct demanded they answer.

Jake and Jay shot him a glare, their own scents spiking as an automatic reaction. Jungwon bared his teeth slightly, frustration and something close to disbelief flickering in his eyes. Sunoo looked like he wanted to hit him.

“Yeah, you had a choice,” Sunoo threw back. “And you blew it!”

Ni-ki’s glare sharpened. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Jake scoffed, shaking his head. “You think this is a fucking game? Do you know how many Alphas would kill to even find their mate?”

Sunghoon clenched his fists. “It’s not that simple.”

Jay barked out a short, humorless laugh. “No, you’re just making it complicated.”

Sunghoon had had enough.

He shot up from the couch, turned on his heel, and walked out, his footsteps heavy against the marble flooring, his scent still bitter, still unsettled. He didn’t care where he was going. He just needed to get out.

Sunoo and Heeseung exchanged glances before following after him.

The afternoon air was cooler than he expected. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, trying to breathe.

Sunoo was the first to break the silence. “Dude,” he muttered, “what the hell is going on with you?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately. He stared out at the sunlit garden, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

Heeseung leaned against the railing beside him. “Talk to us.” His voice was calm. “You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

Sunghoon let out a short, hollow laugh. “Feels like I do.”

Sunoo crossed his arms. “No, you’re just choosing to.”

Silence.

Sunghoon’s fingers twitched. He didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know how to make them understand.

“I…” He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back. “I don’t want this.”

Sunoo furrowed his brows. “Why?”

Sunghoon swallowed hard. “Because I don’t know how to be that person. A mate. A bond. A life that’s—” He shook his head. “I wasn’t made for that.”

heeseung sighed, rubbing his temple before stepping in. “sunghoon, listen to yourself. you’re treating this like it’s some kind of punishment.”

sunghoon let out a heavy breath, the weight in his chest pressing down harder. “it feels like one,” he admitted.

“because—” sunghoon continued, closing his eyes for a brief second before looking away. “because it means everything changes. i change.”

Sunoo scoffed, shaking his head. “And? What’s so bad about that?”

Sunghoon turned to him, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it.” Sunoo cut him off. “You’re not losing yourself, Sunghoon. You’re finding something—someone that was always meant to be yours.”

Heeseung nodded, stepping closer. “And having an Omega to call yours? That’s a responsibility in itself, one you were always meant to take on. You’re not abandoning anything—you’re taking something just as important.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with each sharp breath. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight back—but the truth was, deep down, he knew they were right.

The thought alone terrified him.

The event was already in full swing by the time Sunghoon arrived, the grand ballroom glowing with golden chandeliers and the murmur of polite conversation.

His polished shoes clicked against the marble floors as he stepped in alongside the others, all of them dressed in perfectly tailored suits, their hair styled to absolute precision. They looked every bit like the pureblooded Alphas they were raised to be: refined, dominant, untouchable.

But none of that mattered the second he spotted you.

You were standing near the center of the room, surrounded by a group of familiar faces—his sister, Jungwon’s mate, Heeseung’s mate, and other Omegas of high standing. A tight-knit circle of Omegas that radiated grace and effortless elegance, laughing softly amongst themselves, their delicate fingers wrapped around champagne flutes.

And then there was you.

Your gown hugged your frame in all the right places before cascading down in soft waves, your hair curled to perfection, makeup flawless, lips painted a shade he couldn’t quite name but suddenly wanted to memorize.

It pissed him off.

Not because you looked good—no, that was obvious. It was the fact that you had noticed him, just as he had noticed you, but chose to act like he wasn’t even there.

He saw it. The way your shoulders tensed when he stepped into your vision, how your fingers gripped your champagne glass just a little tighter. But you didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t even glance his way.

Like the past few days of him being distant meant nothing.

And that—that frustrated him more than anything.

A cough sounded beside him.

“Karma,” Sunoo smirked, enjoying every second of this.

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. Jungwon outright grinned. Even Heeseung—calm, composed Heeseung—gave him a knowing glance, like he had expected this from the start.

But the worst was Ni-ki.

The youngest in the group, ever observant, leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for them to hear.

“Damn,” Ni-ki mused, tilting his head. “That must hurt.”

Sunghoon clenched his jaw, ignoring the way the others tried to suppress their laughter.

His gaze flickered back to you.

Still not looking at him.

Sunghoon barely had a moment to collect himself before the inevitable happened.

People noticed them.

It was impossible not to.

A group of young, pureblooded Alpha heirs walking into a gathering like this, dressed to perfection, exuding confidence and power—of course, eyes turned their way.

The murmurs started almost instantly, subtle yet unmistakable. A few heads turned, quiet whispers rippling through the crowd as their names carried weight in these circles.

They barely had a chance to exchange glances before they were pulled into conversations, their group dispersing as they were greeted by family acquaintances, business partners, and distant relatives.

Sunghoon knew how this worked. He had been raised for it, trained to move through these events with effortless charm and perfect composure.

His feet carried him toward his parents, who were seated at a table near your group. His father, deep in conversation with a few business partners, barely glanced at him before greeting him with a firm pat on the shoulder. His mother, ever the composed woman, gave him a knowing look before murmuring, “You’re late.”

Sunghoon exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his suit. “Got caught up.”

His father chuckled, still half-distracted. “Ah, well. You made it.”

Before Sunghoon could take a step back, a familiar voice cut in.

“Well, if it isn’t Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon turned, and his expression barely shifted, though he immediately recognized the man.

An older Alpha, mid-forties, silver-streaked hair, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed. Someone deeply tied to their family’s business dealings—one of his father’s closest partners.

“It’s been a while since I saw you,” the man continued, raising his glass in greeting. His tone was casual. “You’ve grown into quite the spitting image of your father.”

Sunghoon offered a small, polite nod. “It’s good to see you again.”

The older Alpha chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Good to see you too, kid. I remember when you were still a runt, running around at these events like you had better places to be.”

Sunghoon let out a short, practiced laugh. “Not much has changed.”

That earned another chuckle. Then, with an amused tilt of his head, the older Alpha leaned back slightly in his chair.

“You must have Omegas swooning left and right,” he mused, swirling his glass lazily. “With that face of yours, I bet they’re lining up.”

Sunghoon let out a soft breath, shaking his head. “I don’t have time for that.”

It was an easy response. Dismissive, effortless. A throwaway comment.

Except his eyes betrayed him.

Because, without thinking, his gaze flickered right back to you.

And you heard him. Of course, you did.

Omegas had sharper senses than most. Your hearing was leagues above everyone else’s, and Sunghoon knew it.

He knew it the moment he saw your grip on the champagne glass tighten ever so slightly. The way your shoulders straightened just a little more.

But you didn’t react, not outwardly.

Instead, you let out a small, polite laugh, face perfectly neutral. Then, in the same smooth, composed tone you always used at events like this, you excused yourself.

Sunghoon stiffened.

But it wasn’t just you who reacted.

His sister’s gaze snapped to him almost immediately, a flicker of something unmistakable in her expression: disappointment.

She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. The look alone said everything.

And she wasn’t the only one.

His mother, ever observant, barely shifted in her seat, but the sharp glint in her eyes told him she had caught on too.

Sunghoon swallowed.

He shouldn’t follow you.

He should’ve let it go.

But before he even realized it, his feet were already moving.

The hall leading to the restrooms was dimly lit, the golden glow of the chandeliers fading the further you walked. The music and chatter from the ballroom dulled behind you, muffled and distant, as if the world was deliberately pulling away, leaving you alone with your thoughts, with the weight on your chest.

Your back hit the wall beside the restroom entrance, your breathing sharp and uneven.

Your inner Omega whimpered, "Not here. Not now."

You clenched your fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as you fought the sting behind your eyes.

You had known. You had always known how this would end.

And yet, standing there, shoulders stiff, throat tight, your pulse hammering against your skin, you hated that it still hurt.

You sucked in a breath, blinking up at the ceiling, forcing the tears back.

You would not cry.

Not in front of him.

And yet, the moment you sensed his presence, the moment his scent curled around you; thick, intoxicating, overwhelming, your body betrayed you.

Your fingers twitched.

Your breathing faltered.

You hated yourself for giving in so easily.

“What do you want, Sunghoon?” Your voice was cold, but the slight tremble at the end, barely there, almost unnoticeable, gave you away.

He stopped a few feet away, his hands flexing at his sides.

He was staring at you, his gaze dark, conflicted, like he didn’t know why he was here either.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I—”

“You what?” You cut him off, your voice sharp, edged with something dangerously close to heartbreak.

He exhaled, pressing his lips into a thin line.

You almost laughed. Of course.

“Nothing to say?” You scoffed, tilting your head. “Then why are you here?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly.

You hated the way your chest clenched at the sight.

Hated the way his tie had loosened slightly, the way a strand of hair had fallen over his forehead, the way he looked so frustratingly undone for the first time tonight.

“You push me away.” Your voice wavered, but you forced yourself to continue. “You act like I don’t exist. And now you’re here, acting like you—” You swallowed, shaking your head. “You don’t get to do this, Sunghoon.”

His lips parted slightly.

“You don’t get to act like I matter when you’ve made it very clear that I don’t.”

Something cracked in his gaze. And for the first time, he looked afraid.

“I never said that,” he muttered, his voice softer now.

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence.

A suffocating silence. Your throat burned. You couldn’t do this. You turned to leave, to push past him, to breathe—

But suddenly—

You couldn’t move, and before you could react, a strong, calloused hand wrapped around your wrist—firm, desperate.

Your breath hitched.

Sunghoon pulled you back—hard—and in the span of a heartbeat, you collided straight into his chest.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs.

His scent swallowed you whole.

You gasped sharply, your knees nearly giving out.

And then—

Warmth.

Overwhelming, all-consuming warmth, his arms were around you.

One wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The other cradled the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair—steady, like he was terrified of letting go.

Your chest heaved against his, hands fisting his suit jacket so tightly your knuckles ached.

But you didn’t care. You couldn’t care.

Not when his heart was hammering against yours, not when his grip on you was desperate, not when his entire body was trembling, like he was breaking just as much as you were.

Your breath came out shaky. “Let me go.”

He didn’t. He tightened his hold.

“Sunghoon.” Your voice cracked.

His head dipped lower, his breath fanning against your temple.

“I can’t.”

Your stomach flipped violently. Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and relentless.

“You—” You squeezed your eyes shut, your grip on his suit tightening. “You’re such a fucking coward.”

His body tensed. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t deny it.

Instead, his fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. And for the first time—Sunghoon let his instincts win.

Your hands gripped his suit tighter as your chest heaved, a strangled sob breaking free before you could stop it. The tears were now, falling fast and hot, no longer something you could hold back.

You pressed your face into his chest, the fabric of his suit absorbing the wetness, but it did nothing to soothe the ache inside you.

Sunghoon’s grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. He pulled you in closer, as if trying to protect you from everything.

The shaking of his hands on your back was evident, and the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths made your heart ache for him in ways you didn’t understand.

“Don't cry, Omega, please.” His voice was barely a whisper.

You shook your head, the words stuck in your throat. It felt like all the pain you’d buried, all the frustration, the confusion, the rejection—it was spilling out at once. You were drowning in it, and you didn’t know how to stop.

But his plea only made the sobs come harder, breaking free from your throat like you had been holding them in for years.

His arms tightened around you again, as if he could physically hold your pain together, as if he could stop you from shattering completely.

“I hate you.” The words barely made it past your lips, muffled against his chest, but he heard them.

You knew he heard them.

Because his entire body stiffened for a split second before his grip on you softened, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, the one behind your head shifting, his fingers threading into your hair with a gentleness that almost hurt.

“I know,” he murmured, voice so quiet it was almost lost in the silence of the hallway.

Your body shook against his, another sob wracking through you, and he just held you.

Not saying anything.

Not pulling away.

Just letting you break in his arms the way you had never allowed yourself to before.

Minutes passed, or maybe seconds—it didn’t matter.

Time felt frozen between you, the weight of everything crashing down in the space between your heavy breaths. Your mascara had smudged against the fabric of his suit, staining it, but he didn’t seem to care. He just kept holding you, his scent wrapping around you, keeping you from completely falling apart.

And then, finally—finally—you found your voice.

“Why?"

A single word. Quiet. Shaky. But sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Sunghoon stilled.

“Why did you do it?" Your voice cracked, but you pushed forward, your hands gripping his suit even tighter. “Why did you act like I didn’t exist? Like I was nothing to you? Why did you pretend you didn’t care when you—when you—" Another sob clawed its way out of your throat, your fingers trembling where they clung to him. “When you do this? When you hold me like this, like you actually—"

Your voice faltered, and Sunghoon inhaled sharply. His grip on you loosened, just enough for him to pull back slightly, just enough for him to see your face. His fingers, still shaking, brushed against your cheek, tracing over the tear-stained skin, his thumb wiping away the wetness that refused to stop falling.

His hands paused for a second.

And then—so, so softly—he spoke.

“I was scared.”

Your breath hitched.

“Scared?" you muttered, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, swallowing hard, his jaw clenching like he was fighting something inside himself. His fingers brushed against your cheek again, hesitating, before cupping your face fully, his touch impossibly gentle.

“I didn’t know how to handle it," he admitted, voice soft, filled with something unrecognizable. “I didn’t know how to handle you."

Your brows furrowed, your heart pounding painfully against your ribs.

“Sunghoon—"

“Everything in my life has always been about responsibility," he cut in, his grip on your face tightening slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you were listening. “I was raised to be strong, to take over, to lead—to never let anything distract me from what I was meant to do."

His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and his gaze softened—just barely.

“And then there was you.”

The words came out barely above a whisper, but they sent a shiver down your spine.

Sunghoon let out a shaky breath, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. “You were never supposed to be a part of that plan.”

Pain flared in your chest, sharp and unrelenting.

“So what?" you whispered, voice trembling. “You thought ignoring me would make it easier?"

His eyes squeezed shut, his expression twisting into something almost pained. “I thought if I pretended you didn’t exist, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

A bitter laugh left your lips. “And did it?"

Sunghoon let out a slow breath, his hands stilling against your skin. His silence was the only answer you needed.

He was breaking, right in front of you.

And for the first time, you saw it. The fear in his eyes. The weight on his shoulders. The guilt, the regret, the want.

“You absolute coward," you whispered, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “You let your fear ruin everything. You let it destroy me."

Sunghoon inhaled sharply, his fingers pressing against your skin like he was afraid you would slip away.

“I know," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, his hands moved again, thumbs tracing over your cheeks, smudging the mascara-stained tears without a care that his fingers were getting stained too.

He was looking at you now. Really looking at you.

Even with tear-streaked cheeks, even with mascara smudged against your skin, he thought you were beautiful.

You always had been, and maybe that had been the scariest part of all.

He exhaled shakily, his forehead finally pressing against yours.

“I was so focused on all the responsibilities I had," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut, “that I forgot the most important one was right in front of me."

You. It had always been you.

And for the first time in forever, he stopped fighting it.

His hands trembled as he pulled you close again, wrapping you in his warmth, as if trying to make up for every second he had spent pretending you didn’t exist.

His heartbeat that was once steady, always controlled, was frantic against your cheek, like his body itself was betraying him, exposing everything he had kept hidden for so long.

“I’m sorry," he murmured against your hair, his voice soft, stripped bare of all the indifference he had once worn so easily.

Again.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

And again.

“I’m sorry."

Each word landed like a plea, an ache.

His hands clutched at the fabric of your dress, fingers curling against your back as he buried his face into your shoulder. His breaths were uneven, his hold desperate like he was afraid that if he let go, you��d slip through his fingers for good.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the feeling of his regret pressing against your chest like a force you weren’t sure you could withstand.

“I really hate you," you whispered, voice unsteady, and you felt the sharp inhale he took against your skin.

But you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

“I know," he murmured. He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to make excuses. He just held you.

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the lapels of his suit. “I understand you more than you think."

A breath passed between you, thick with everything unsaid.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving from your back to cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, wiping away the tear-streaked trails, smearing the black mascara that had run down your skin more than before.

His hands were shaking.

His fingers, stained with the remnants of your pain, trembled as they held you.

But he didn’t stop.

“You do?" His voice was so quiet, so uncertain, it almost broke you all over again.

You nodded. Because you did. You understood.

You had always known Sunghoon was never just the eldest son of his family, never just the heir, never just the perfect pureblooded Alpha everyone expected him to be. He carried burdens he never spoke of, expectations that weighed him down like chains.

And you understood now, you understood that loving you, wanting you, was the one thing he had never been taught how to handle.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, his forehead nearly knocking against yours as he leaned closer, the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words sent a violent shudder down your spine. Your breath caught, your heart twisting painfully in your chest.

Because this moment, this hesitation, this vulnerability in his voice—was not the Sunghoon everyone else knew.

This was the boy who had spent so long running. This was the boy who had finally stopped.

“It doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” you murmured, even as your fingers curled against his chest.

For the first time that night, Sunghoon laughed. Soft. Shaky. Breathless. But real.

“I know,” he whispered, and then, slowly, finally, he closed the distance.

His lips met yours, and the world stopped spinning.

The first press of his lips was soft, like he was still afraid, still unsure if he deserved this, deserved you.

But then you exhaled against his mouth, a shaky breath that tasted like surrender, and something inside him snapped. The hesitation was gone.

Sunghoon’s hands, still cupping your face, tilted your head just enough for him to deepen the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His body caged you in, pressing you against the cool wall behind you, but all you could feel was him—his warmth, his scent, his everything—surrounding you, consuming you.

His grip tightened. One hand slid down, fingers grazing your jaw, your throat, before curling around the small of your back and pulling you in.

Closer. Not close enough.

A small gasp escaped you, and Sunghoon swallowed it, exhaling a sharp breath against your mouth before chasing your lips again. His movements were rougher now, more frantic, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every regret, every missed moment into the kiss.

Like he was trying to prove something. That he was sorry. That he wanted you. That he needed you.

His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your face up further, deepening the kiss until you felt dizzy, breathless—like you were floating, like you were falling.

And god, maybe you were. Maybe you had been all this time.

Your fingers fisted his suit, clinging to him. His lips, now hot and insistent, barely gave you a second to breathe—like he was terrified that if he pulled away, even for a moment, you’d disappear.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You melted into him, letting yourself get lost in the moment, in the way his body trembled against yours, in the quiet, choked noise he made when your fingers finally, finally slid up to his hair.

It was intoxicating—the way he kissed you—like he was trying to make up for every second he had wasted, every touch he had denied himself, every moment he had spent pretending he didn’t want this.

Didn’t want you.

Your lungs burned, your heart pounded, and yet neither of you pulled away, unwilling to break whatever fragile, breathless thing had formed between you.

Sunghoon made a strangled noise against your lips before reluctantly—so reluctantly—he tore himself away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his lips red and swollen.

His eyes, dark and dazed, fluttered open to meet yours.

And then, barely above a whisper, voice wrecked, he murmured,

“Stay.”

A single word, but it held everything. A plea. A confession. A promise wrapped in desperation.

Your fingers tightened in his suit. “I’m not going anywhere, Sunghoon.” Your voice was steady, but thick with emotion. “Even when you push me away. Even when you try to pretend I don’t exist.”

His hands, still cupping your face, trembled. “Never again.” It came out like a vow. Like a prayer.

His thumbs brushed over your damp cheeks, smearing what remained of your ruined mascara. His grip on you didn’t loosen—if anything, he pressed his forehead against yours, inhaling deeply, as if he was making sure you were real.

The silence stretched between you, heavy, but not suffocating. Not anymore. Then, suddenly, he straightens—“We need to fix you up.”

You blinked. “What?”

Sunghoon pulled back slightly, scanning your face, your tear-streaked cheeks, the smudges of black under your eyes. Then, without another word, his fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the restrooms.

“The female restroom is that way,” you pointed out, confused.

“I know.”

Your steps faltered. “You’re not allowed in there.”

Sunghoon scoffed, barely sparing you a glance. “As if I’m letting you out of my sight again.”

Your heart flipped.

Before you could protest, he pushed open the door, dragging you inside with him. The moment it clicked shut, he turned to you. “Up.”

You blinked. “What?”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes before gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly, placing you onto the cool marble counter like you weighed nothing.

You gasped. “Sunghoon—”

But he was already turning to the faucet, pulling a Dior handkerchief from his pocket. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he ran it under the water, fingers tightening around the fine cloth.

And then, with the utmost care, he turned back to you.

Your knees brushed as he stepped between your legs, his touch impossibly gentle as he cupped your face, tilting it slightly. The wet fabric pressed against your cheek, cool against your overheated skin, and Sunghoon—god, Sunghoon—wiped at the tear stains, the smudged makeup, his fingers brushing over your skin like he was handling something fragile.

Something precious.

You couldn’t stop staring.

The way his brows furrowed in concentration. The way his jaw clenched whenever he came across a particularly stubborn stain. The way his lips pressed together—like he was trying to hold back words he wasn’t ready to say.

The way he touched you. Like you were his. Like you had always been his.

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

And when he finally, finally met your gaze again, his own eyes filled with something unreadable—something raw—you realized, with stunning clarity, that you had never really stood a chance against Park Sunghoon.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

A shaky exhale left your lips.

He was still staring at you, drinking in every detail, like he was memorizing the way you looked, the way your lashes trembled, the way your lips parted as if you had something to say but didn’t know how.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” His voice was quieter than usual, but the tease was still there, laced with something softer.

You blinked, startled, feeling heat creep up your cheeks. “What?”

His lips curled slightly, but there was something about his smirk—something less sharp, less guarded. Something that made your pulse stutter. “You were staring.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course, he would notice. Your first instinct was to scoff, to roll your eyes, to dismiss it like you always did—but before you could, you felt it. The shift.

Your scent spiked—not in distress, not in discomfort, but in something else. Something sweeter.

The scent of honey and lilacs curled around him, delicate yet intoxicating, a confession wrapped in something neither of you had the words to say.

Sunghoon inhaled. Slowly. Deliberately.

His lashes fluttered for the briefest second, his fingers tightening just slightly around yours, before his smirk faded entirely.

And then, wordlessly, he leaned in.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second-guess.

His lips found your forehead, pressing into your skin with the kind of tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat.

And he stayed there. Lingering. Savoring.

His breath was warm, brushing against your temple, the tip of his nose barely grazing your hairline.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. “Come on,” he murmured, voice still hoarse.

You barely had time to process it before he moved, guiding you off the counter with his hands firm at your waist, catching you when your balance faltered.

But he didn’t step away. Didn’t loosen his grip.

Instead, his fingers threaded through yours, locking them in place as if letting go was never an option. You blinked up at him, breath uneven.

“You ready?” His voice was quieter now, softer in a way that made your breath hitch.

You swallowed, throat tight. Then slowly, you nodded. And just like that, he pulled you with him. Hand in hand.

The warmth of his palm was steady against yours, fingers locked. It wasn’t just an absentminded touch, wasn’t something he would let go of the second someone looked too long.

No, this was different. This was him choosing you. Claiming you as his mate. And the second you stepped out, the change in the atmosphere was immediate.

Silence. Then whispers. A sea of murmurs spread through the ballroom like wildfire, voices hushed yet urgent, their curiosity thick enough to suffocate.

Heads turned, eyes widened, people stared.

Alphas. Betas. Omegas.

They looked, and looked, and looked. Their shock crackled through the air like static electricity, palpable in every held breath, every barely concealed gasp, every sharp glance exchanged between one another.

You could feel their questions hanging in the air, unspoken yet deafening. Was this real? When did this happen? How did this happen?

Their gazes burned into your skin—some filled with intrigue, others laced with disbelief, and a few even brimming with something close to envy.

Because this wasn’t just anyone walking out of a room hand in hand with Park Sunghoon. This was you. And Sunghoon? He didn’t even blink.

He didn’t falter under the weight of their stares, didn’t acknowledge the whispers that carried his name in hushed, scandalized tones.

No, he just walked.

Back straight, shoulders squared, head held high. As if this had been the plan all along. As if this was exactly where he was supposed to be. And with every step forward, the hushed murmurs only grew.

Some Alphas scoffed—exchanging skeptical glances—as if trying to convince themselves they weren’t impressed. Some Omegas straightened, eyes wide with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Others, Betas included, simply watched, unable to look away, their expressions unreadable.

But none of them mattered. Not to you. Not to him.

Sunghoon’s grip on you remained firm, and even as the weight of the room threatened to crush you—even as the world outside of this moment blurred into nothing but an afterthought—one thing became blindingly clear.

You weren’t walking behind him. You weren’t trailing after him, waiting for him to decide when to let go.

No, you were right there, beside him. Right where he wanted you to be. And for the first time in a long, long time, you weren’t afraid to be seen.

Sunghoon shot a smirk over his shoulder before tugging you even closer, his grip on your waist effortlessly firm. Your hands barely had time to react before his fingers slipped from yours—only to be replaced by the steady warmth of his palm pressing against the curve of your hip.

The moment you reached their designated table, all conversation died. The six boys stared, mouths slightly open, like they had collectively short-circuited.

“What the fuck?”

The words came from Sunoo, cutting through the silence. He blinked once. Twice. Then leaned back in his chair, hand over his chest like he had just witnessed a crime.

For a second, nobody spoke. Then, slowly, as if processing what he had just seen, Sunoo exhaled and shook his head in mock devastation.

“I feel like a proud dad,” he said, voice thick with fake emotion. “My boy finally grew a pair.”

Jake choked on his drink. Jay slapped the table. Ni-ki let out an actual wheeze, gripping his stomach like he physically couldn’t handle it.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon just sighed, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

“Shut up,” he muttered, shoving Sunoo’s chair with his foot.

“Oh no, no, no,” Sunoo replied, shaking his head. “You don’t get to shut me up after making us sit through weeks of your bullshit. You brooded for so long.”

“You were insufferable,” Heeseung chimed in, still recovering from his initial shock.

“Actually unbearable,” Jake added.

Ni-ki snickered, nudging Jungwon. “Tell me I’m lying.”

Jungwon exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, like he was physically restraining himself from joining in. Instead, he turned to you.

“I respect you so much,” he said seriously, nodding. “For putting up with this.”

You smiled awkwardly at first, not really sure what to say. But then you caught the way they all looked at you—not like a stranger, not even like someone new. No, they knew you. Maybe not personally, but definitely through him.

Sunghoon had been avoiding his feelings, but he hadn't been quiet about them, either.

“I wouldn’t say patient,” you admitted, finally finding your words. “I just… didn’t want to force anything.”

Jay clicked his tongue, shooting Sunghoon a look. “You’re lucky she even gave you that chance, man.”

Jake leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You do realize you can’t run forever, right?”

Sunghoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t running.”

“Bro, you practically had track shoes on,” Ni-ki deadpanned.

Heeseung smirked. “But at least you were smart enough to stop and follow.”

Just as Sunghoon was about to retort, a flurry of movement caught everyone’s attention.

Across the room, Sunghoon’s sister, along with Heeseung’s mate and Jungwon’s mate, almost ran over to you, practically shoving through the crowd. Sunghoon barely had time to react before his sister skidded to a stop in front of the table, eyes blown wide.

“When did this happen?!” she demanded, breathless.

You blinked. “Uh… a few minutes ago?”

A sharp gasp.

“Oh my god,” Heeseung’s mate clutched his arm, her face pale as if she might actually pass out.

Heeseung sighed and started fanning her with his hand. “Breathe, babe. Breathe. You knew this would happen eventually.”

“Did I? Did I really?” she shot back, eyes still locked on you and Sunghoon like she was watching the finale of a long-running drama.

Jungwon’s mate wasn’t any better. She was bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, excitement thrumming through her whole body. Jungwon, ever the responsible one, subtly reached over and stole her champagne glass before she could drop it.

“This is insane,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Like, historical. I need a moment.”

But while that mess was happening, Sunghoon’s sister was not celebrating the way the others were. No, she was glaring directly at Sunghoon, hands on her hips, looking like she was about to throw hands.

“You—” she started, voice rising.

Before she could even think about launching herself at her brother, Sunoo—who, unfortunately for Sunghoon, also happened to be her mate—stood up and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back.

“Alright, alright, let’s not start a scene, love,” he said smoothly, voice light but firm.

She squirmed against his hold. “I just want to talk to him—”

“Liar,” Sunoo deadpanned.

“Park Sunghoon, you forced the poor omega to accept you as your mate, didn’t you?” she accused, jabbing a finger in his direction.

Sunghoon blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah! You probably made (Y/N) feel like she had to accept you just because you’re all high and mighty—”

Sunoo sighed and pulled her back against his chest, locking both arms around her now. “Hoon, just let her get it out of her system. She’s been waiting for this day for too long.”

You stifled a laugh, shaking your head. “I actually said yes willingly, if that helps.”

Sunghoon’s sister froze. “You did? Like… willingly-willingly?”

“Willingly-willingly,” you confirmed, amused.

She blinked. Then sighed dramatically, leaning into Sunoo’s hold. “Well… okay. But if he screws this up, I will come for him.”

“Noted,” Sunghoon muttered.

Sunoo patted her head like she was an over-excited puppy. “There, there. You’ll survive this.”

Sunoo shot Sunghoon a smirk over her shoulder. “But man, you’re never living this down.”

Sunghoon groaned. “I hate all of you.”

Jay grinned, raising his glass. “Love you too, man.”

Sunghoon let out another sigh, but despite his grumbling, his hold on you was steady as he guided you toward an empty seat.

With ease, he pulled the chair out for you and waited until you sat down before moving to adjust the trail of your gown, making sure it was neatly tucked away so no one—especially him—would step on it.

The entire table had fallen eerily quiet.

It wasn’t an awkward silence. It was the kind of silence that felt like everyone was holding their breath, watching something unfold before them in real time, something they never thought they’d actually witness.

Even as Sunghoon straightened up, his focus remained on you. His eyes scanned your face with the same attention he always gave to important things, searching for anything he might’ve missed.

Apparently, he had missed something.

Without a word, he reached out, the pad of his thumb brushing against the edge of your eye, carefully swiping away the faintest smudge of mascara that had escaped his first attempt.

Your breath hitched.

But the Alpha wasn’t done.

Satisfied with his work, his fingers barely hesitated before they moved to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, letting his knuckles graze your cheek ever so slightly. The touch was brief, but it was enough to send a wave of heat rushing to your face.

You swallowed, pulse slightly unsteady, but managed to send him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Sunghoon hummed in acknowledgment, seemingly unaffected by the entire exchange as he finally settled into his own seat.

He exhaled, relaxed for the first time that night, before slinging an arm around the back of your chair—or maybe it was your waist, you weren’t even sure anymore. His fingers brushed against your side absentmindedly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And yet, the silence remained.

It was as if the group wanted to soak it in, to relish what they had just witnessed before fully reacting.

“I know they’re fated mates and all that,” Ni-ki mumbled, voice tinged with disbelief. “But this is shocking.”

“Right?” Jay breathed out.

“I never thought I’d live to see Sunghoon be so…” Jake trailed off, gesturing vaguely in Sunghoon’s direction.

“Domestic?” Heeseung guessed.

“Whipped,” Sunoo corrected.

Sunghoon let out a long, suffering sigh, tilting his head back against his chair. “Can you all just shut up?”

“Fuck no,” Sunoo said, smirking. “We’re never shutting up about this.”

Jake lifted his glass in mock toast. “To Sunghoon, for finally pulling his head out of his ass.”

Ni-ki followed suit, raising his drink with a grin. “To (Y/N) for somehow handling his brooding for weeks and still willingly agreeing to be his mate.”

Sunghoon groaned, muttering curses under his breath, but his arm around you didn't move.

As the evening stretched on, your table of eleven had finally started to settle. The once chaotic energy mellowed into something softer—comfortable, easy.

Some of the boys were a little tipsy, their words slurring as they tried to argue over something completely irrelevant. Others remained to themselves, quietly nursing their drinks, letting the night wind down at its own pace.

But Sunghoon? Sunghoon was right beside you.

His arm had never left your waist, fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of your gown as if he needed the reminder that this was real. His other hand was laced with yours, his grip firm.

He held you like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon. And the scent—his scent, coffee and leather tinged with a lingering warmth—wrapped around you, mixing with your own like they belonged together.

You let yourself relax, melting into his hold as the voices around you became distant background noise. Sunghoon exhaled softly, shifting just a bit so he could rest his chin against the side of your head. It wasn’t something anyone else would really notice, but you did. You noticed the way his thumb brushed against your knuckles, the way his heartbeat was steady and slow against your back.

The rest of the table was lost in their own little worlds, some caught in their own quiet moments with their mates, others too caught up in conversation to pay attention.

Heeseung sat comfortably with his mate curled up against him, her head resting against his shoulder as he absentmindedly played with her fingers, their hands intertwined.

Jungwon was just as affectionate, his mate tucked against his side as he nursed a drink in his free hand. Unlike Heeseung, whose touches were slow and casual, Jungwon was openly doting, reaching up every so often to tuck a stray hair behind her ear or brush a kiss against her temple.

Sunoo, of course, was a little more dramatic with his affection. His mate—Sunghoon’s sister—had been sulking in his arms for the past several hours, still processing the events of the night. He cradled her easily, stroking a soothing hand over her hair as she grumbled into his chest.

“I just wasn’t prepared, okay?” she whined, her voice muffled. “This all happened so fast.”

Sunoo hummed, ever patient.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do, though.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss against the top of her head. “Fine, you win. I don’t.”

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was watching everything unfold like it was his own personal drama series. His eyes darted between all the couples, mouth slightly open in exaggerated disbelief. “Damn couples,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Jake, who only chuckled.

Sunghoon straightened, rolling his eyes. “Can I have a moment?”

“No,” Sunoo deadpanned, still holding Sunghoon’s sister against his chest. “You wasted weeks brooding. This is our moment too.”

Jake let out a loud laugh. “Yeah, man, we had to sit through so much.”

“I still have secondhand trauma,” Heeseung added.

Jungwon stole the champagne glass from his mate’s hand as he nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, you just buried your face in your free hand, overwhelmed but undeniably warm inside. But before you could even fully process it, you felt his eyes on you, watching the way you tried to hide your flustered expression.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and before you could react, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just for you. “You better get used to this,” he murmured, “because you’re gonna hear a lot more of this for a very long time.”

A very long time.

Forever felt like such a long time, but maybe it was worth it when you finally had your Alpha within arm’s reach.

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© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[heliosunny]

I'm thinking a lot about vampire yandere dan Heng.

Instead of a dragon why not a vampire? Imagine when the reader joins the crew of the express and dan Heng never had any trouble with his hunger for blood until reader appears.. he goes mad and HAD to lure reader to his room to have a sip of her blood.. you can make this a fic if your comfortable i don't really mind I had to share this with someone.

🦐

Yan!Vampire!Dan Heng x Fem!Reader

>>First week on the Astral Express<<

The Astral Express wasn’t what you expected.

You thought it’d be all grand adventures and cosmic wonders, instead, it was mostly Pom-Pom yelling at you for leaving oil stains on the floor.

Well, as a mechanic trainee and an inventor, you supposed you will get used to things soon.

Welt would pass by sometimes, nod sagely, and then drop some cryptic line like "Back in my day, blablablabla..." before vanishing down the hall.

And then there was Dan Heng.

At first glance, he was exactly what you’d expect from the brooding, mysterious type—quiet, like he was mentally cataloging every possible way you might die. But then you noticed the little things.

Like how he’d linger near the engine room when you were working, keeping an eye on you. Or how, when you sliced your hand open on a busted pipe, he wordlessly handed you a clean cloth and then walked away like he hadn’t just saved you from bleeding all over Pom-Pom’s freshly polished floors.

Life was almost… nice.

The Express had been humming along peacefully when suddenly—

SCREEEEEEE—

The entire train lurched like it had been kicked. Alarms shrieked. Somewhere, a pipe burst, spraying steam everywhere.

Pom-Pom’s voice crackled over the intercom, somehow both panicked and exasperated: "EMERGENCY STOP! PROPULSION CORE FAILURE!!"

You skidded into the front cabin just in time to see the planet looming in the viewport.

It was gold. Not metaphorically. Literally. 

"Chrona-Vallis." Welt said, rubbing his temples like he already regretted this. "You four head to the city. Try not to touch anything."

March grinned. "No promises."

The descent was rough. A massive, gleaming clockwork world, its surface covered in rotating towers.

The city was nothing like you’d imagined.

Brass bridges arched overhead like spiderwebs. Glass streets showed gears turning beneath your feet. Gondolas zipped between towers, and everywhere, there were clocks. All ticking.

"This place is… weirdly empty." March said, snapping pictures.

Dan Heng’s voice was low. "Too quiet."

You walked, footsteps echoing. Then there. A skittering noise, like metal claws on metal. You froze. So did Dan Heng.

"You hear that?" you whispered.

His hand moved toward his weapon. "Something’s in the gears."

March laughed nervously. "Maybe it’s just how this place runs?"

But the look on Dan Heng’s face said otherwise. "We should hurry."

You quickened your pace, the sound of ticking all around, and for the first time, you realized that none of the clocks here ever struck a chime.

The streets were too empty.

You walked under arches shaped like clock hands, past market stalls full of goods no one had touched. The whole place felt like a stage set—perfectly arranged, waiting for actors who hadn’t shown up yet.

The only sign of life was a hotel.

The Ticker’s Respite, its neon sign hummed, perched on a platform that turned slowly, like the hour hand of some giant clock. Inside, the air smelled like oil and old wood. A thin man with a bright smile and a gleaming monocle greeted you.

"Visitors! And in the daylight, too." he said, like this was surprising. "You'll want rooms before the city wakes up."

You glanced at the others. March raised an eyebrow.

"People here work at night." the man explained, spinning a ledger on a gear-driven mechanism. His fingers were long. "The metal gets temperamental in the sun. Too much heat, and the clockwork starts sticking. So we sleep now. When the moons rise, that’s when everything starts moving."

March leaned in. "So it’s like… a ghost town, but backwards?"

The man’s smile didn’t waver. "Exactly."

Rooms were assigned, you with Dan Heng, March with Stelle. As night fell, deep bells rang somewhere in the city’s heart, slow and steady. Then, one by one, lights flickered on. And the people came out.

March clapped her hands. "Alright! Stelle and I will take the west side. I have to see that gear-fountain thing."

You didn’t doubt she’d get distracted.

Dan Heng shifted beside you. "We’ll go east."

The shop was cramped, shelves rotating on tracks, packed with gears and springs and things you didn’t have names for. The clerk barely glanced up. "Take what you need." he muttered. "Just don’t touch the hammer."

You reached for a cog and the moment your fingers brushed it, pain licked up your fingertip.

"Ow—!" You jerked back, instinctively sticking the cut in your mouth.

Dan Heng was there in an instant.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just… stopped. Went very still. His eyes darkened, jaw tightening like he was holding his breath.

You pulled your finger away, embarrassed. "Sorry. I’ll bandage it."

He didn’t respond. Instead, his head turned sharply, gaze locking onto the window.

"...We’re not alone."

You followed his stare.

There, just for a second, a shadow flickered past the glass. Too fast to be a person. Then again, in the reflection of a polished gear display.

Dan Heng’s hand settled on his spear. "It’s fast."

The thing didn’t stay. It slipped between alleyways, vanished into the turning mechanisms underfoot. But the feeling of being watched didn’t leave. You hurried through the rest of the list, grabbing what you could, but half the parts were missing.

"Let’s go." Dan Heng said.

Outside, the city had shifted. You walked close to Dan Heng, the bag of parts clinking softly at your side.

"Was that thing… hunting us?" you asked quietly.

He took a moment to answer.

"I don't know." he said at last, "But we should head back to the hotel."

You gripped the bag strap tighter. Suddenly, the missing parts didn’t seem so important.

The hotel room hummed with the quiet rhythm of the city, gears turning somewhere deep in the walls. You sat on the edge of your bed, carefully wrapping your injured finger with fresh bandages. The cut stung, but it was shallow.

Dan Heng stood by the window, silhouetted against the glow of the night-lit city.

"...Sorry" you said, breaking the silence. "For the mess. And, uh. Sharing a room like this. I didn’t know if it’d be inconvenient."

He didn't turn. "It’s fine. You should be more careful with sharp components, though. Especially around me."

You tried to laugh it off, but his words hung in the air, heavier than you expected.

After checking in with Himeko (who promised to research any reports of shadow creatures), exhaustion finally pulled you under. The last thing you remembered was the steady ticking of the city's heartbeat, lulling you to sleep.

Dan Heng didn't sleep.

He sat against the far wall, watching the play of lantern light across the ceiling. The scent still lingered, tempting. He could hear your heartbeat even now, steady and slow in sleep.

He shouldn't. He knew better.

But the hunger was a living thing tonight, coiled tight in his chest.

Just a little closer.

He moved silently, drawn to your sleeping form like a compass needle finding north. The curtains fluttered as he leaned over you, close enough to feel the warmth of your breath. His fangs ached.

His lips brushed your skin, just once, barely a touch.

Then he was across the room again, back against the wall, fists clenched. The hunger retreated, sated for now.

By morning, he was gone.

You woke to an empty room and a strange tenderness at your neck.

"...Huh?"

The bathroom mirror showed a faint bruise, small, barely noticeable unless you looked closely. You poked at it, frowning. Had you bumped into something in your sleep?

You received a text from Dan Heng:

"Gone to secure remaining parts. Regroup at noon."

Typical.

Downstairs, March accosted you the moment you entered the hotel's dining area, her mouth full of some kind of gear-shaped pastry. "Sleep well? You look like you fought a clockwork monster!"

Stelle sipped her coffee. "Where's Dan Heng?"

"He left early," you said, adjusting your scarf. "Said he'd get the last two parts."

March gasped. "Without us? Rude!" She leaned in, whispering dramatically, "Do you think he's hiding a secret clockwork girlfriend?"

You choked on your tea.

Stelle smirked. "More likely he just didn't want to deal with March's 'efficient shopping methods.'"

But as their bickering continued, your fingers strayed to your neck again.

The silence stretched too long. Three messages sent, no reply. Not even when March bombarded him with those ridiculous Pom-Pom stickers - the angry ones with the little conductor hat.

You all stood in the hotel lobby.

Stelle didn’t waste words. “Something’s wrong.” She pulled up the list Dan Heng had been working through, the map glowing faintly on her screen. “He should’ve checked these shops by now. Maybe the junction factory next.”

March wasn’t laughing anymore. “If he was just busy, he’d at least send something.”

You didn’t argue. Your stomach had been sinking since you woke up to an empty room.

The streets were too quiet. You followed the signs: a scuffed door latch here, deep scratches in the brass plating there. Something had dragged its way through these alleys.

A sharp ping!

March’s ice arrow shot past your shoulder and struck something dark moving behind you. The shadow screeched before freezing solid and shattering on the ground.

You stared at the glittering shards. “What was that?”

Stelle’s sword was already out, her eyes scanning the shifting darkness. “Doesn’t matter. There’s more.”

Your phone buzzed.

Himeko’s message glowed on the screen:

Metallovores. Metal-eating predators. Shadow form at night, most active during daylight. Do NOT engage alone.

“He didn’t know,” you whispered. “He thought day was safer, but it's the opposite.”

The factory looked like a carcass picked clean.

Rusted gears jutted from broken walls. The air smelled like burnt oil and something sour. Everywhere—scratches, dents, shattered equipment.

Then March pointed. “There!”

Up on the mezzanine, Dan Heng lay slumped against the wall, half-hidden behind a broken gear. His coat was torn, his sleeve nearly ripped off. Blood soaked through the fabric at his shoulder, and a nasty gash ran across his ribs. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

Stelle got him back to the hotel. You admitted she was strong.

You were at his side in seconds, digging through your first aid kit. You worked fast, ignoring the way your pulse hammered in your ears.

“Stable,” you muttered finally, sitting back. “But barely.”

March fidgeted nearby. For once, she had nothing to say.

Then, abruptly, she forced a smile. “Hey, uh—Stelle and I are gonna grab food. You hungry? We’ll bring back something hot.”

“...Yeah. Thanks.”

They left quickly.

And just before the door shut, you saw them exchange a look.

They knew something.

And whatever it was, it had to do with Dan Heng.

You sat by Dan Heng's bedside, your fingers still aching from stitching his wounds. The others had gone to scavenge supplies, leaving you to keep watch.

Dan Heng's hand twitched. You leaned forward just as his eyes flew open—but something was wrong.

"Dan Heng—?"

His hand shot out faster than you could react. One sharp tug, and you were pulled down, your shoulder hitting the mattress beside him. His breath was hot against your neck.

"Wait—!"

The pain came sharp and sudden.

You gasped as his fangs pierced your skin, your hands flying up to clutch at his arms. But he didn't seem to hear you. His body trembling as he drank, and as he did, the worst of his wounds began to knit back together before your eyes.

You felt the tension drain from him all at once. He pulled back, his eyes wide with dawning horror. Blood stained his lips.

"...No. I wasn't—"

But the room was already spinning. The last thing you heard was the door slamming open and March's shocked cry.

You woke to the smell of soup and the weight of a blanket over your shoulders. Your neck ached, but the pain was dull now.

Three faces watched you as you stirred.

March, guilt written plainly in her expression. Stelle, her usual calm replaced with something uneasy. And Dan Heng—his head bowed, his shoulders stiff, like a man awaiting judgment.

"...You bit me." you croaked.

His fingers tightened around his knees. "I did."

March fidgeted. "We should've told you. About... him."

Stelle cut to the chase. "Dan Heng's a vampire. It's usually under control."

“It is under control,” Dan Heng muttered bitterly. “Unless I’m dying.”

You let that sink in.

"So I was the only one who didn't know?"

March winced. "It's not that we didn't trust you! It's just... he doesn't like people being afraid of him."

Stelle nodded. "He's not a monster."

You met Dan Heng's eyes.

"...I know."

He looked up, surprised.

You sat up slowly, wincing as the blanket slid off your shoulders. "But next time," you said, rubbing your sore neck, "ask."

March let out a weak laugh and pushed a bowl of soup into your hands. "Eat. You lost a lot of blood."

Later, as you all huddled around a makeshift table, you brought up the creature again.

"It turns to shadow at night. But it's solid during the day."

Stelle tapped her fingers against the table. "We could trap it."

You pulled out your sketchpad. "I was thinking electromagnetic coils. Mimic the Express's energy signature, lure it into a choke point, then hit it with quick-freeze gel."

March grinned. "Bait and snap. I like it."

Dan Heng finally spoke. "I'll be bait."

You frowned. "No."

He held your gaze. "I can smell them before they strike. I'll keep us ahead of them."

You sighed.

"...Deal."

You texted Himeko the plan. Her reply came fast: Understood. Be safe.

You looked at the others, a spark of determination in your chest.

"Alright. Let's catch some monsters."

You and Dan Heng worked side by side. The scent of hot metal and ozone filled the air as you adjusted the last copper coil, its surface still warm from the energy pulsing through it. Around you, the city's gears turned steadily, a comforting reminder that time hadn't stopped.

At first, the citizens had watched from a distance, their brass goggles glinting in the lamplight. But when March, ever the showman, declared you all "monster-hunting engineers of legendary skill." something changed.

An old woman with grease-stained gloves brought reinforced plating.

Children carefully carried armfuls of glowing crystals.

A welder offered his prized arc igniter.

Their fear melted into something warmer, brighter. Hope.

By midnight, the first trap snapped shut.

By dawn, four creatures lay frozen and shattered at your feet.

As the last Metallovore dissolved into glittering fragments, the plaza erupted in cheers. A small boy, no older than six, with oil-smudged cheeks, pressed a handmade medal into your palm.

"For saving us." he whispered, beaming.

You knelt to accept it.

Dan Heng stood nearby, silent as ever. But when the crowd surged forward to celebrate, you caught his gaze lingering. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, as if stopping himself from reaching out.

The next morning, the city's leaders came bearing gifts.

Crates of polished parts gleamed in the sunlight, far more than you'd asked for. Pom-Pom nearly collapsed at the sight, tiny paws clutching at their conductor's hat.

"Free?! FREE?! Finally, someone who understands the value of good craftsmanship!"

You laughed, wiping grease from your hands. The repairs went smoother than expected, the Express humming contentedly as new components settled into place.

That evening found you in the engine room, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking to your forehead with sweat. Welt stood nearby, nodding approvingly as you ran the final diagnostics.

"Good work." he said, adjusting his glasses. "The integration is seamless."

You rubbed your tired eyes. "Just making sure we don't have another emergency stop anytime soon."

Welt chuckled. "Caution suits you."

Neither of you noticed the figure in the doorway.

Dan Heng had meant to go straight to his room. But when Pom-Pom mentioned you were still working... something pulled him here instead.

He leaned against the frame, watching you. The way your brows furrowed in concentration. The stubborn set of your jaw as you fought off exhaustion.

You turned suddenly, spotting him. "Dan Heng? Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I was going to," he admitted. "But I didn't like the thought of you working alone."

Welt cleared his throat. "I'll... check the control panel." He slipped out with a knowing smile.

You shook your head, turning back to the open panel. "If you're here to scold me for overworking—"

"No." Dan Heng stepped closer, kneeling beside you. "I just... wanted to be here."

A comfortable silence settled between you as you worked.

After a while, you set down your tools. "Alright. I'm done."

Dan Heng nodded.

The repairs were done. You had collapsed into bed exhausted but satisfied, sinking into the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only comes after hard-won victories.

Until you stretched and winced.

Your fingers brushed your neck.

"...Oh, you did not."

You bolted upright, scrambling to the bathroom mirror. And there it was, another faint bruise, just slightly offset from the first.

"Dan Heng," you hissed, already storming out of your room. "You promised-"

Himeko sat in the parlor car, sipping her morning tea with the grace of someone who had already predicted this exact scenario.

"Good morning," she said, smiling into her cup. "You look... well-rested."

You pointed accusingly at your neck. "He did it again."

Himeko's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh dear. And here I thought vampires were supposed to be subtle about their affections."

"I'm going to strangle him."

"Mm. I'm sure that'll go well." She took another sip, hiding her grin.

You groaned into your hands.

The Archives were quiet, the soft glow of data screens casting pale light across your face as you scrolled through profiles. Penacony's most famous siblings—Robin, the songstress whose voice could mend broken hearts, and Sunday, her enigmatic brother who seemed to exist mostly in footnotes and rumors.

A shadow fell across your screen.

"You've been researching them quite a bit."

You turned, raising an eyebrow. "Jealous? I was just prepping for Penacony—"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

"I bit you twice." he said softly. "Once when I was dying, once when you were asleep. And both times, you scolded me."

You crossed your arms. "Thrice."

Dan Heng's gaze flicked to the screen, to Sunday's polished smile. "And yet one mysterious man with a charming reputation appears, and suddenly you're fascinated."

You couldn't help it, you laughed.

Then he turned and walked away, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him.

The Astral Express hummed softly as it cut through hyperspace, the stars outside streaking into glowing ribbons of light.

Pom-Pom trotted over, ears perked. "Incoming transmission! A nearby shuttle requests boarding. Civilian clearance approved."

Himeko glanced up. "Let's greet our guest, shall we?"

The man who stepped aboard carried himself with effortless grace. He smiled warmly.

"Good evening. I'm Albert. It seems we're bound for the same destination."

Your breath caught.

It wasn't just his poise. There was something familiar in the curve of his smile, the intelligent glint in his gaze. You'd seen those features before—in countless research papers and holographic lectures.

"You..." The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "You look like Aiden. From the Genius Society."

Albert chuckled, clearly accustomed to the comparison. "So I've been told. Though I'm afraid I can't claim his brilliance."

"But his work—" You caught yourself, cheeks warming. "Sorry. I've just... studied all his theories."

Albert's expression softened with genuine interest. "Have you applied his principles to warp core stabilization?"

The conversation flowed easily after that. He listened with patient amusement as you talked shop, asking thoughtful questions in that calm, mentor-like tone. It was rare to find someone who understood your passion so effortlessly.

Someone else, however, wasn't sharing your enthusiasm.

Dan Heng stood apart. His usual composed demeanor had sharpened into something watchful—every smile you gave Albert, every eager gesture, tracked with unsettling focus.

He said nothing during dinner. Didn't react when Welt teased about your "new academic crush." But when you volunteered to bring tea to the lounge later, he followed.

You were pouring hot water when you felt him—warmth at your back, arms caging you against the counter.

"Dan Heng—?"

"You act like you've known him forever."

"I told you. He reminds me of—"

You pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath.

"Stop." you said firmly.

"I.. Sorry."

Then he was gone before you could reply, leaving you standing there with a cooling teapot.

Dan Heng had perfected the art of subtle sulking.

No dramatic sighs. Just an ever-present shadow lingering just a little too close whenever Albert was near, his expression carefully blank while his fingers tapped restless rhythms against his spear.

You tried to be patient.

But when he claimed he was "just ensuring passenger safety" for the third time that day, you lost it.

"Oh, please," you snapped, "You've been hovering like a kicked puppy since he boarded."

"I'm not—"

"You are." You poked his chest. "And it's ridiculous. Albert's just a passenger."

"He looks at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve."

You groaned. "And you literally bite me. I think we're past the point of—"

A shriek cut you off.

Pom-Pom came barreling into the room, fur standing on end. "There's a thing in the cargo hold! It's eating the wiring!"

The creature was hideous, a six-legged horror with a carapace that gleamed like oil, mandibles dripping luminescent fluid. The moment it spotted you, it sprayed a mist that burned your nose with its cloying, spicy stench.

Dan Heng moved first.

Or tried to.

The second the mist hit him, he staggered. His pupils blew wide, and then he was on you, pinning you to the ground with terrifying strength.

His bite was desperate, his teeth sinking into your wrist with a force that left you gasping. When he pulled back, his lips were stained red.

Then he collapsed.

You almost failed killing the bug, Welt did the rest of the job.

The symbol on your wrist pulsed faintly as you dragged Dan Heng to his room, Pom-Pom fluttering anxiously beside you.

"A binding mark?!" the conductor squeaked, pressing a cold cloth to Dan Heng's forehead. "Those are illegal!"

You stared at the intricate pattern now etched into your skin. "How do I get rid of it?"

Pom-Pom hesitated. "You... don't. Not unless he breaks it."

When Dan Heng woke, his horror was palpable. "…What happened?"

"You… don’t remember biting me?"

He blinked, and then went still. His gaze dropped to your hand, to the pattern. His expression turned grim.

"Fix it." you said quietly.

He nodded. "I'll try."

---

You shouldn't have gone to his room.

But the mark ached. The scent of him filled your lungs the moment you stepped inside.

Dan Heng was waiting.

He looked up from where he knelt on the floor, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "You came."

He didn't seem like his usual self. So did you.

He reached out, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn't, his fingers brushed your cheek.

"I don't want to..." he whispered. "But I can't stand the thought of losing you either."

The mark flared.

"I know I promised to help you get rid of it."

Your knees buckled.

He caught you, his arms wrapping around you. His lips pressed to your forehead.

"Maybe I'll keep this mark a little longer." he murmured.

[oh-wiw]

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 2 ✦

A lost composer

You woke up with a gasp, body filled with sweat. You got hit. You know you did, but now you're surrounded by grass and trees. The plants seemed to be illuminated a blue hue, with the night sky. 

You immediately stand up and wondering where exactly you are, only to be met with the night sky.

You were expecting the usual void. The ink-black dome that has always stretched overhead like a ceiling smeared with charcoal. No shimmer. No depth. Just emptiness.

But tonight the sky is alive.

✧✧✧✧✧

At first, it's almost overwhelming, then you feel awe and then grief. It was slow and haunting, settling in your chest as if it was its home.

That dull throb of missing, of mourning, of remembering. But you don’t let it rise. Not tonight.

You push it down.

You ignore the feeling and focus on your present. As you walk through the strange, beautiful world, eyes forward, steps steady. There’s so much to see, so much to do than tto mourn whatever you are.

You begin to walk, and as you take in your surroundings. The sight of Fatui agents and hilichurls scattered in the distance. Then it finally clicks: you’ve somehow ended up inside the very game you used to play.

Driven by caution, you sneak around and manage to swipe a few things: just a cicin mage’s mask, some mora and just enough rations to get by. Later, you stumble across an abandoned kimono and a worn farmer’s hat. They're not much, but they'll help you blend in.

You walked until you stumbled upon a small village. With the mora you had taken, you bought a cheap bamboo flute. While it's mostly something children use, you know how to play a tune expertly. The villagers toss you a coin or two when you perform, and you end up staying in Konda village for a while. Eventually, you manage to catch a ride on a carriage heading to Inazuma City.

Arriving at the city the carriage rolled to a stop, guards eyeing every newcomer with practiced suspicion. You stepped down quietly, keeping your head low beneath the frayed brim of your hat, clutching your pack tightly, the weight of your stolen and modest goods. Hoping the guards wouldn't know.

The streets of Inazuma City is buzzed with activity: Merchants calling out their wares, patrons going on their business, children playing around and guards patrolling.

Finding a quiet corner near a bustling market square, you slipped underneath the shade of a cherry blossom tree and took out the cheap bamboo flute to play a tune. It was nothing of note, just a cover from an anime you watched. Yet it was clear enough to draw glances from passersby and some even giving a spare coin or two.

You do this for weeks, returning each day to the same quiet corner beneath the cherry blossom tree, its petals drifting gently around you. With your bamboo flute in hand, you play different tunes each day but most of them are covers from themes of a game or from shows you watch.

At first, it’s just curious villagers and children who stop to listen, tossing a few mora your way before moving on. But over time, you manage to grow a crowd. A merchant pauses longer than usual. A shrine maiden lingers on her way back to the Grand Narukami Shrine. Even a Tenryou Commission officer, in full armor, stops once, arms crossed, saying nothing, only listening.

It wasn't until the familiar faces of Inazuma began to approach you that you realized your quiet routine had stirred more than passing interest: 

One warm afternoon, as you finished a song beneath the cherry blossom tree, a cheerful voice called out. Thoma, smiling warmly. "Hey there," he said, crouching slightly to your level, "You’ve got quite the gift. How about joining me for some tea at the Komore Teahouse sometime? My treat." You blinked, caught off guard, but his invitation was genuine.

Days later you spot an eccentric fireworker, once you finished playing your tune. "Wow! That was amazing!" You look up to see Yoimiya beaming at you, her bright eyes practically sparkling. “Your music has such a warm feeling to it! The kids in the village would love it. You should come play for them sometime! What do you say?”

And recently, Arataki Itto himself stomped up, arms crossed and wearing his trademark grin. “Yo! Bamboo-flute traveler! We’ve been hearing about your tunes everywhere. But I bet you’ve never played TCG before, huh?” he declared proudly, holding up a new deck of Genius Invokation TCG cards. “Come chill with us! Loser gets to buy lunch!” He said handing you the deck.

You won, easily.

You spend your weeks beneath the cherry blossom tree, flute in hand, playing each day for whatever mora the townsfolk spare. It’s not a grand living, but it’s enough. Enough to buy the essentials and eventually, a small hand drum. You begin weaving it into your performances, adding rhythm to melody.

The mora trickles in bit by bit, but with time and persistence, you eventually gather enough to afford a ferry ride all the way to Mondstadt. You don’t need an encore to leave Inazuma with your flute and drum packed away, you set sail toward Mondstadt. 

Onto your next performance.

✧✧✧✧✧ 

Somewhere, both distant and intimately near, the Archons sat at a long white marble table. Five gods in silence, listening to the soft, wistful ballad played by the Wind Archon himself. In the center, slouched and indifferent, sat a figure who bore your face.

The Creator.

It had been centuries since the Creator last played a note, their silence explained away with soft explanations of “art block” and the absence of inspiration. The other Archons accepted it without question,each finding their own quiet way to offer encouragement or devotion. Hoping to spark something. Anything. That might lift the Creator’s hand to play again.

They wove festivals, built temples, composed songs and hymns in their honor, all in quiet reverence for the one who once shaped the world with sound. Yet it was only Barbatos who remained closest, never tiring in his effort.

Playing tune after tune, it was a burden he bore with a smile and a song, though weariness tugged at his soul. Still, he played for the chance, however slim, to hear the Creator’s music once more.

Until one evening in a tavern where Venti sat with a drink in hand, a small respite since the Creator is visiting the nation of dendro. He heard a melody, a melody he never heard before. Even with all his power knowing every piece of the past and future, he never once heard this kind of melody the wind sent him.

It didn’t have any lyrics but Venti hoped it was their Grace finally playing. Although curious enough, the melody was at Inazuma, not Sumeru. It made Venti question his sobriety. Was the wind playing a trick on him? Or something else?

But then came the next day. And the one after. Each time, a new melody danced through the breeze. No ordinary mortal could compose such sound, not with that quiet depth, that gentle command of emotion. It had to be them. Their Grace. Who else could stir the wind to stillness, make the world pause and listen? Only the Creator had ever held such power—to calm gods, to soothe storms, to make even silence sing.

Venti could no longer ignore it. Day after day, the melodies drifted in on the breeze—gentle, unassuming, but threaded with a power only he could recognize. Each note tugged at something ancient within him, something sacred. It had to be Their Grace. It must be. No bard, no scholar, no wandering soul could compose music that resonated with Teyavat itself.

It seems it's time to visit the land of electro.

✧✧✧✧✧ 

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 2 ✦

a/n : Inspired by this song and mostly other sagau writings about the reader being a musician. I feel like I should do the ideas one idea at a time, but this is just something quick, no planning or whatever.

[owlespresso]

a gentler shade of green. jing yuan tags. a/b/o, spice beneath the cut, fluffy, jing yuan getting a little jealous for the lovely @lorelune, who also writes many delightful things that you should check out!

Mid-afternoon sunlight suffuses the Luofu with lush springtime warmth. The pleasant weather brought the citizenry out in droves, the air riddled with a myriad of different scents. An overwhelming amount especially when combined with the riotous chattering of the crowd. As unfortunate as it is to have to cut your daily market trip short, you can come home safe in the knowledge that Jing Yuan will be there to receive you.

You like to swing buy the markets and grab yourself a little treat, before visiting his offices. He never asks, but you always make sure to bring some of his favorite sweets, a courtesy that makes him melt every time, makes him beg you to settle on his lap. Offers you have to, unfortunately, decline lest you scandalize his poor employees. 

He’s taken a rare day off. And a day off typically entails lounging in bed until late morning or early afternoon, clinging to you like a child clings to their favorite plush toy. Extricating yourself from his grapple hadn’t been easy, a feat only managed after petting him for five straight minutes and assuring him you would be back within the hour. 

You snake back onto the property through the side entrance. A narrow pathway slides along the western edge of the estate, leading out unto the gardens. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom. Chrysanthemums and azaleas and an array of colorful tulips line the paths, swaying in the delicate breeze. The urge to lay and roll around in the veritable field of flora is nearly crushing. You willfully resist the temptation, slipping into his bedroom through the glass sliding door beyond the wooden deck. 

It’s exactly as you left it. One nightstand on each side of the bed. A lacquered vanity. A small seating area with two, comfortable chairs. An extravagant overhead chandelier that’s typically ignored in favor of a standing lamp in the corner. And one Jing Yuan, who manifests as a lump beneath the duvet. 

Said lump shifts the moment the door clicks shut behind you. His head pokes out from the thick covers, shaggy bangs thrown over his eyes. His glossy mane of snow white is frazzled from being pressed into the sheets–one side noticeably more so than the other. 

“You’re back,” he says, voice nice and rumbly with sleep. The scent of him is thickest, here. Your shoulders slump with an instinctual sort of relief, as though your body realizes it is home. His lips part with a yawn and his arms stretch above his head. The rippling muscle of his torso emerges from the sea of silks, his pecs fatty and arms thick. His nipples pebble in the comparably chilly air of the open bedroom. A mottling of bluish-purple spans across part of his right shoulder, and you nearly flush. Had you really bit him that hard, yesterday?

“How was the market?” he asks, looking at you through low-lidded eyes. Glowing amber peers out from beneath frayed hoarfrost lashes. The smile that pulls at the corners of his lips is sleepy and content.

“Crowded,” you huff, gently placing your bag of tasty goods on the nightstand. 

“Hm. I can tell,” Jing Yuan says, and does not elaborate when you send him a questioning glance. You turn away to peek into the bag, searching for his favorites. You typically keep a firm policy of no food on the bed, because the idea of getting crumbs on those expensive sheets is blasphemy to you… but a single chocolate-covered strawberry couldn’t hurt. 

Jing Yuan, ever the master strategist, spots the opening and exploits it wholly. His broad arms wrap around your midsection and tug you backwards. It’s not just a pull. He brings you straight off your feet, dropping backwards onto the mattress. The undignified sound that leaves you is better left uncatalogued for the sake of your pride. You both collapse in a heap with your back to his front.

“Jing Yuan!” you hiss, giving his forearm a harmless little smack. He laughs quietly in your ear, a brush of warm air caressing your sun-warmed skin. His iron-clad grip breaks apart, one large palm setting on your hip. The other lands atop your stomach, hot and calloused.

“My apologies,” he says, amused and very much not sorry. “In my defense, you afforded me a very considerate opening.” As he spoke, he moved one of his thick thighs to settle in between your legs, raising it by bending his knee. 

The entire, hot length of him presses up against your back. The position very quickly becomes more obscene than you expected–his throbbing cock pressed tight to your bottom. The hand on your tummy slips beneath your blouse to pet your warming skin. The scent of him is thickest here, in his bed, blankets all rucked up and pillows unevenly spread across the mattress. “Did anyone bother you, while you were out?” Jing Yuan inquires, and makes it very difficult to answer by kissing you behind the ear. You exhale. That familiar, tingling sort of warmth begins to settle between your thighs. He wraps you in his pheromones. The dense shroud of his scent renders you hazy when paired with the unmistakable, yet understated possessiveness of his touch. Every possible qualm is brushed away by the smooth baritone of his voice. 

Jing Yuan does not ask if other alphas touched you. He does not demand to know who you were with, doesn’t stake his claim with the immediate urgency a younger, less experienced alpha might. He coaxed and nudged, knowing you will come to him on your own terms, eager to find solace in your alpha’s protective embrace. 

“No,” you say, after a long moment. 

“That took awhile. Are you sure?” he hummed. A low sound kicked up in his chest, a syrupy purr that reverberates beneath your skin, settling your overwrought nerves. The hand on your stomach makes the journey south. His big fingers dive beneath your waistband, past the soft hairs of your to seek your (admittedly quite wet) cunt. 

He fingers you open with an unbearable amount of patience. More playing with your sodden folds than actually attempting to do anything. The meat of his palm slides against your clit and suddenly–the space between your bodies feels so much hotter. Your head lolls back onto his shoulders, breath escaping you in small pants. Your hips grind into the thick digits, hands skimming over the sheets in desperate search of something to grab.

And then he stops. The abruptness of it makes you whimper, hips continuing to grind even as he withdraws his hand. 

“I didn’t hear an answer,” he teases. Evil, evil man. Devious felon. It feels like a betrayal, almost. You trusted him with your pleasure and he ruthlessly has stolen it away. 

You would love to tell him as much, but then he lifts his hand to his mouth and you can hear the rasping of his tongue as he swipes your juices off each finger. The sheer obscenity of it makes the hairs along the back of your neck raise. 

“Jing Yuan,” you say–plead, despairingly. Much to your embarrassment, you sound like you’re about to cry. You throw your arm across your eyes. Is it not enough to have you trembling in his arms? Must he torment you so? You can hardly recall the initial question, fogged with pleasure and overly-warm. 

He laughs, sun-bright and charming enough to make you forgive him. He rocks his thigh against your cunt, and you arch your hips, mindlessly chasing the friction. 

“You’re alright,” he coos, slipping his fingers back into your trousers to tease your sopping cunt. Two slip inside, embarrassingly easy. He resumes his steady pace, palm grinding against your clit with every pass. 

The pads of his fingers press against the soft, upper wall of your cunt. He adds a third–and curls them–and that’s what makes the coil snap. You break into your first orgasm with a broken little whimper. Your toes curl and your eyes shut tight. You keep rolling your hips, each grind sparking another wave of liquid hot pleasure. His fingers remain sheathed inside of you, just to feel the way your walls spasm.

He pulls out when your whining turns to the pained side of overstimulated. The room settles into a contented quiet, only disrupted by the soft sound of your panting. Your eyes flutter shut, legs fallen open around his thighs. His cock, rock-hard and throbbing, presses to the small of your back. But he doesn’t make any move to alleviate the strain. Instead, he presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you deep. His touch returns to your stomach, clean hand petting at your hips, your stomach. 

The myriad of scents which clung to you upon your return have been dissipated, banished like wispy, loathsome spirits. Is that why…? You begin to wonder, but quickly and contentedly decide it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re sated, and warm, and resting limply in his arms.

[tradgedyinwaves]

Touch - Ch. 2

Poly!141 x chunky!reader tw: little creepy at the end, stalking vibes

By the time the other three members of Task Force 141 made the drive to Ghost’s hometown, he had already determined where you were living by following you from the market and was back in his own flat, swirling a glass of whiskey. The team sat down to make a game plan, almost treating you as if you were one of their missions while sitting around Ghost’s beat up old dining table. You’d be theirs, one way or another. 

A Week Later, Saturday. 

Bleary weather had plagued Manchester for the last few days, gray clouds hovering overhead while you attempted to find your motivation for your job. It wasn’t helpful that you’d received news from your mom that your cousin and Kit would be getting married soon. A brick settled in your stomach at the news, ending the call with your mom quickly as you forced down the tears you refused to keep crying over him. 

In an effort to cheer yourself up, you headed out of your flat and down the street to the sweet little flower shop you’d found your first week in Manchester. The owner, Magda, was a kind, gentle old lady who essentially took you under her wing when you had trouble finding your footing in the new country. She’d been a boon to you, telling you the best shops for everything from groceries to clothes. You’d helped her find her cat when the mangy thing had slipped out the back door to fight the stray living behind a neighboring shop.

The bell chimed above your head, banging against the worn wood. You were immediately greeted by the scent of the most beautiful flowers and Magda’s voice talking a man through the best choices for an apology bouquet. You caught her eye over his shoulder and waved, a soft smile on your face as your eyes drifted to the back of the man’s head.

He easily stood a foot and a half taller than the elderly owner, cropped mohawk adding to the already egregious height difference. His shoulders were broad, though not quite as broad as your masked man back in New York. Why were you thinking about him all of sudden? You shook your head, clearing your mind like an etch-a-sketch and headed straight to the hyacinths and lilacs, wanting the sweet scent of your favorite flowers to brighten up your flat and completely missing him turning to take you in.

“Pretty flowers. Almost as pretty as you.” A low voice startled you out of your reverie, spinning on your heel to face the man Magda had been helping previously. Now, you could see that his eyes were a shocking blue and the lopsided smile he provided you made your heart stutter against your ribcage. But the size of him was what intrigued you. 

You’d accepted that this was the way you were now. Despite doing months of working out and eating well, your body hadn’t changed much from when you’d left the States. The cleaner food of England helped you feel better though, breathing a little life back into you after everything you’d dealt with. But that also meant that men weren’t as courageous in approaching you, their bravado faltering in the face of society's expectations. So when an attractive man approached you, blatantly flirting, your first response was to think it was a joke, snort and walk away, effectively blowing him off.

A gentle hand on your shoulder a few minutes later had you whipping around to ask what the guy's problem was, but was greeted by Magda instead. Immediately, you looked around for the mohawk guy, but he was nowhere to be found and you could have sworn the bell hadn’t dinged against the door. Weird. Bringing your gaze back to the elderly woman, you raised a brow at the scrap of paper in her hands. “That sweet young man paid for your flowers and left this as well,” Magda handed you the piece of paper with a number and a messy name scrawled at the bottom. 

Johnny. 

You’d gone home with your overly expensive bouquet and the scrap of paper after, staring down at it as if it would burst into flames at any moment. You took a deep breath, telling yourself “Why the hell not?” as you punched the number into a new message chain. 🪻: Uh, hi. Is this Johnny?

🧼: Ay, it is, Petal.

🪻: Petal? 

🧼: Well, I don’t know your name, do I?

He made a good point, making you sigh as you released your own name to him in spite of your reservations. But maybe, just maybe, you could manage to make a few friends if he ended up not being interested in you.

The next few days were spent lounging around your flat, going to work, and texting Johnny. What you didn’t know, though, was that he was reporting everything back to his boys. It had only taken Simon’s word and the one picture to have each of them wagging their tongues and readying their arms to protect what they now saw as theirs.

By the time you were winding down on Wednesday night and brewing tea that Johnny had insisted you know how to make, you were smiling at your phone that lit up every few minutes with his messages. The two of you had discussed everything from your favorite color and food to what had brought you to England. When he’d heard the details of that night, sans your interaction with Ghost, and paired it with Simon’s recollection, he’d been furious. His fingers tightened around the phone to the point that Price had taken it from him in an effort to not have to buy another replacement.

Simon had been in the same boat as Johnny, opting for stomping out of the flat to walk off his rage and guilt, feeling it gnaw at him for not stepping up before and then abandoning you after. His feet carried him to your building, watching from the ground as you paced around your space. When your pacing brought you in front of the window, you paused and looked through the glass, heart hammering as you saw a dark shape of a man standing on the sidewalk. But the light of the lamp posts made one thing stand out very clearly,

the white skull painted on his mask. 

I didn't want to offend any Scots with trying to type out Johnny's accent. I have a feeling this is going to turn into some long winded fic, so buckle in if you're ready for that.

Thank you so much for your support!

[buckysleftbicep]

no sudden moves 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, mutual desperation, mentions of tight spaces (tw: claustrophobia)

summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! 💓

The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.

Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire. 

The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.

Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility. 

The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.

Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.

You sprinted.

Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison. 

Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your side—a sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.

Shit.

Bucky was just ahead of you—a dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.

He didn’t glance back, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodies—a constant pull. 

He moved with you in mind. Always.

The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didn’t recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.

"Comm’s dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.

"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled bursts—center mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulder—pain flared.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter. 

Old ghosts. Easy target.

But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.

The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waiting—armed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.

Another shadow lunged from the smoke—Bucky didn’t hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

“We need cover. Now.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick ground—a slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.

Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. “You with me?”

You nodded, panting. “Still standing.”

He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic. 

Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.

The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.

“They’re trying to bury this place,” you breathed.

“No—” he said, grim. “They’re trying to bury us.”

His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldier’s mind. A killer’s instinct. 

Then it landed—sharp, immediate.

“There.”

To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.

Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.

Just wide enough for two bodies, that’s if they didn’t mind pressing close.

Too close.

“In.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.

You stared at it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. “There’s no way we both fit in there.”

“Then I’ll go first,” he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. “But you’re coming with me.”

He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. “We don’t have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. We’re outgunned. Comms are dead. And you’re fucking hit.” His tone dropped lower. Rougher. “Get the fuck in.”

It wasn’t the words that made you move. It was the voice.

Commanding, steady and final.

You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.

Then he came in after you.

His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.

You could feel every inch of him.

His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.

His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.

“Don’t move.”

And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.

The darkness swallowed you whole.

It wasn’t just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.

A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.

You weren’t alone in it.

You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears. 

The space wasn’t built for hiding. It wasn’t built for people. It was a maintenance shaft,  narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.

Now, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin. 

His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.

You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.

No space. No choice.

And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you weren’t sagging into him completely.

You didn’t dare move.

Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.

But still, your body noticed.

It always had.

The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.

Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.

“I am quiet,” you hissed back, lips barely moving.

“I can hear your heartbeat, princess.”

The nickname landed like a sin—sharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.

Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.

The enemy was still close.

You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.

You stopped breathing.

Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Don’t move.

And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.

You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.

You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.

The light passed.

The soldiers didn’t.

But neither of you dared relax.

Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skin—the worse it got.

The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.

Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didn’t care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights. 

That you hated the man pinning you in place.

Because this tension? It wasn’t new.

It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. “Try not to kill each other,” she’d said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t already been written in the way you’d looked at each other.

You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs. 

You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirted—especially when it wasn’t with him.

And yet, in combat, you were perfect.

Seamless. Lethal.

He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.

Like muscle memory.

And maybe that was why this—now—felt so inevitable.

But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.

The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.

You blinked, heart stuttering. You didn’t dare look down. You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.

Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.

Like he was pretending his cock wasn’t pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.

Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.

Not fear.

His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasn’t.

You swallowed hard.

“Still think this was a good idea?” you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.

He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. “Would you rather be riddled with bullets right now?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Would hurt less.”

His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.

Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.

And you wanted him to move.

His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.

Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.

“You need to stop that,” you whispered. Barely audible.

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.

Too calm. Too close.

You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.

He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.

“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.

“You’re the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,” you hissed back.

Then—another voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.

You both froze.

The moment stretched. Tightened.

Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.

Silence.

Your eyes found his in the dark. 

Neither of you breathed. Neither of you blinked.

“I hate you,” you whispered, and it wasn’t convincing.

“Sure you do,” he whispered back.

His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.

And he didn’t move away.

It started small.

A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.

And you felt it everywhere.

His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.

But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasn’t hesitating, he wasn’t testing, he was deciding. 

His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.

His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.

Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.

“Bucky.” You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.

It should’ve been harmless.

But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.

Like gravity had shifted.

The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else — something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges — half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasn’t sure he wanted you to take.

“Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.

Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.

Because your body was already leaning in.

Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cock—hard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.

And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.

Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.

It was already too late.

His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.

Then his hand moved lower.

Over the waistband.

Past it.

Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.

He didn’t hesitate.

He found your heat instantly.

Skin on skin.

And groaned, low, guttural, like he’d found salvation.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. “Fuck.”

The sound of it—his voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didn’t even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.

You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didn’t recognise coming from your own throat.

He hadn’t even moved yet.

Just touched.

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?” he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him. 

“You think I haven’t felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far I’ll let it go?”

You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.

But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.

“Oh, fuck—” The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.

He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.

And then he added another.

“Don’t be loud,” he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. “You want them to hear you?”

You shook your head, frantic, flushed.

Another finger joined the first.

The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.

It was too much.

Too hot. Too deep.

He was wrecking you with just his hand.

Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.

His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didn’t kiss.

He breathed.

Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.

“You gonna come for me while they’re right outside?” he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. “Gonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?”

You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.

He could feel it.

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. “Don’t want them hearing how bad you need it.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.

The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.

You didn’t care.

You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it. 

Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.

He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.

You whimpered. He felt you tighten.

“Come for me,” he rasped.

And you did.

The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.

You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.

You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.

And he wasn’t done.

You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.

Frantic. Desperate.

Your hand closed around him—thick, hot, leaking and you gasped.

“Jesus christ,” he hissed, teeth clenched.

Then he moved.

He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.

One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.

“This what you want?” he growled. “Here? Now?”

You nodded—wild, frantic, voiceless.

And then he pushed in.

You gasped, sharp and silent.

The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.

He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned against your shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.

Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

He fucked you.

Hard.

Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldn’t catch your breath—every thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.

His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.

He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.

“Gonna come for me again,” he growled. “Gonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.”

You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.

Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldn’t form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.

And then you broke.

It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.

You damn near collapsed.

Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.

That’s when he came, too.

A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.

His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.

You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.

His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where he’d been.

Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.

Then slowly, he pulled out.

You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where he’d just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.

He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now. Just… gentle.

You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple. 

His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadn’t yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering. 

He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement. 

“Next time,” you panted, shooting him a look, “maybe don’t pick the smallest shaft on the planet.”

He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth. 

“You complaining?” he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. 

“Define complaining.” His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for you—his hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently. “Before the rest start wondering where we went.”

You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking. 

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts 💌

[helloitstsyu]

Love in the Dark | Tom Cruise

Fantasize Series Chapter 11 | Previous Part | Fantasize Series Masterlist

The hiding doesn't stop. If anything, it sharpens into a razor's edge.

After Utah, going home feels impossible. As if part of your soul was left buried in that mountain range—left clinging to the edge of that cliff where he kissed and hold you with trembling hands and too much restraint. There's an ache now. A soft, private sorrow every time you wake up without him next to you. A longing stitched into your bones that refuses to quiet.

Meeting in L.A. is harder. Not because you feel any less—but because the city watches everything.

Hollywood doesn't blink.

Every sidewalk, every elevator, every alley holds a camera. Even behind closed doors, the walls might whisper.

So you retreat into the shadows. You disappear into excuses.

Late-night FaceTime calls with whispered voices inside your bedroom. Sneaking out of marketing meetings early, claiming headaches or family matters emergencies. All only to end up tangled in his sheets, his name a desperate prayer under your breath.

In those quiet hours, when it's just you and him and the dark, you speak truths that daylight would never allow.

You tell him you're scared.

You tell him he feels like gravity.

You tell him it's hard to breathe when he looks at you like that.

And still, somehow, you don't realize how far you've fallen.

Not until it all catches up to you.

—

The house is quiet—too quiet, like the kind of quiet that hums before a storm.

The overhead lights are warm and golden in the kitchen, soft against the polished concrete floor. You're barefoot in shorts and one of his crewneck—comically oversized, sleeves bunched around your wrists. The marble counter is cluttered with half-sliced mango, a small block of cheese, and a few mismatched mugs. It smells like burnt toast and nostalgia.

Tom stands next to you, sleeves rolled up, pretending to read over a printed shooting schedule like it's the most fascinating script of his career.

He taps a fake note with the back of a spoon. "So... rescheduling the action unit from the 12th to the 14th means less time on set but more time here in L.A.," he says, voice perfectly casual, too loud to be real.

You blink at him, biting back a smile. "Yes, and the mango budget will also double."

His grin flickers, that sharp crooked smirk you've seen behind closed doors. He leans just a little closer, murmuring low, "Is that my sweater?"

You swat at him gently, nodding toward the hall. "Shut up. My dad is in the living room."

As if on cue, you both glance that way.

Through the open archway, you catch a glimpse of your father—sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, phone pressed to his ear. His posture is rigid, like he's holding himself together with force.

His jaw clenches as he hangs up the phone and look at the screen. His fingers curl tighter around the phone. A vein throbs at his temple. You suddenly realize he hasn't blinked in a while.

A long pause.

Then—he stands up. Slowly. Purposefully. You recognize the way his shoulders square. Something's not right.

"Dad?" you call gently, wiping mango juice from your fingers on a napkin. "What’s wrong—?"

His eyes snap to yours across the room. And something in them makes your stomach turn.

"You—" he growls, voice already climbing. "YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

The words hit before the fist does.

You don't even process it in time—there's no space between the words and the blow.

CRACK

Your scream shatters through the air, too late to stop it.

His fist lands across Tom's jaw, sickeningly loud. The force of it knocks him sideways into the counter.

The plate in your hand drops—ceramic and glass exploding on the tile like your chest just did.

Tom staggers. Doesn't hit back. Doesn't even raise his hands.

He just takes it.

Like he knew it was coming.

You throw yourself between them, trembling. "Dad, what the hell are you—?!"

"You think you can crawl into my house—into her life—and think I wouldn't find out?!"

Your father's face is flushed, spit flying from his mouth. Rage, panic, fear—it all burns behind his eyes.

"YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!" your father roars, his voice trembling with rage, his fists clenched, ready to strike again.

Tom push himself to stand back on his feet, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, he's wiping it with the back of his hand. His voice is low, steady, unwavering. "I can't." He breathlessly said.

Your father lunges again, but you shove him back, harder this time, your chest heaving with panic. "Dad, STOP!"

"LOOK!" He shoves his phone in your face, the screen burning your eyes.

You grab it on instinct.

The screen flashes bright in your face.

A headline.

A photo.

Your face and his.

On gossip page. The bold headline sears itself into your brain:

"TOM CRUISE'S MYSTERY GIRL: LATE NIGHT PDA"

Beneath it, a grainy photo—Tom kissing you in a dark alley behind a restaurant you went to a few nights ago. The image is blurry, but the emotions in it are anything but. You were so carefree in that moment, so happy. But now, it feels like a violation. A violation of everything you had thought was sacred between you.

You remember that kiss. You remember laughing afterward, breathless, saying "thank God no one saw us."

Someone did.

Your stomach turns.

But what makes your blood run cold isn't the photo. It's Tom's silence.

Your breath hitches as you look to Tom.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look surprised. And he looks at you with that guilty kind of look. As if he knows—as if he already knew. And somehow, that hurts the most.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Y/N?!" your father barks, his voice rising, panic and fury mixing. "He's twice your age!"

"Dad, I—" You reach for him, desperate to make him understand, but it's too late.

"He promised me to look after you! Not feel you!" Your father’s voice thick with disgust.

"It's not like that," Tom interjects, his voice strained but firm, desperate to explain.

CRACK—Your father lands another punch.

"DAD!" you scream, the rawness of your voice shattering your chest as you force him back again, your hands trembling. "Please, stop!—stop..." You're sobbing now, pleading as you hold him off with everything you have.

But your father's fury is unstoppable. He won't look at you.

"Dad, look at me..." your voice drowns in the sob. "Dad!"

At last, his gaze drops to yours, cold and unfeeling, and you see the finality in it—the way he's already gone. The disappointment in his eyes. And he looks at you like you're a stranger under his roof.

"Dad please..." you whisper, your voice breaking, tears slipping uncontrollably down your face. "Let me explain."

"No." His voice is flat, lifeless. He pushes your hand away from him. "I can't even look at you right now."

"Dad—please!" you beg, your chest tightening as you reach for him, but he's already storming out, ignoring your cries, the door slamming behind him with a finality that leaves you hollow inside.

You turn back to Tom, but it feels like everything has shattered in that moment. He stands there, breathless, bloodied—and broken in a different way. His shoulders are hunched, his eyes empty, and something deep in his gaze tells you he's losing the battle to keep himself together.

"Y/N—" His voice cracks, almost pleading.

You step back, the words already choking you. You've already been in too deep to turn back now, but this... this cuts deeper than anything.

"You knew?" Your voice trembles as you try to keep the tears at bay, but the hurt pours out anyway.

Tom doesn't lie. He doesn't deny it. He nods slowly.

"How...?" you whisper, your heart breaking even more.

"My publicist told me two days ago," he admits, his voice strained, like it physically hurts to speak. "As soon as I found out, I swear... I asked my team to get it handled. I thought—"

"Handled?!" you choke out, your voice breaking. "You mean tip off TMZ to delete the rumor because I'm just another secret affair that'll ruin your reputation?"

"Y/N, no—" He shakes his head, his voice desperate. "Don't ever say that, please—Y/N, I was trying to protect you—“

"You were protecting yourself." You cut him quickly.

He stills.

"You don't get to frame this as care. You left me alone in the fire while you negotiated the damage."

He reaches for you, but you backpedal, the distance between you feeling like an ocean now. A bitter laugh escape you, thin and sharp like broken glass. "God. I walked around thinking we were safe because we were private. Because we wanted it that way. But the truth is, you were just ashamed."

"I'm not ashamed of you—"

"Then why did you erase me?" you snap. "You didn't warn me. You didn't tell me. You just decided behind my back that I should disappear."

He stills. Tears falling from his eyes.

You take a breath, trying to steady the ache tearing through your chest. But it's no use.

"I told you what it's been like. Being second. My whole life I was just a shadow behind a man's name. My father's daughter. An accessory. A quiet, obedient extension of someone else's image."

Your voice breaks slightly—but you keep going.

"And for a moment... with you... I really thought that changed."

His face falls.

"I thought you saw me," you whisper. "Not who I could be next to you. Not what I represented. Me."

The pain rushes in your throat like a wave. You swallow hard.

"But you made a choice. You chose your name. Your legacy. Your reputation."

His eyes are full of glass now. "Y/N... I love you."

You pause.

Then you shake your head slowly, a humorless, broken smile curling on your lips.

"No. You don't."

He blinks, wounded.

"You didn't fight for me." Your voice is soft. Deadly. "You fought to keep things quiet."

He starts to speak, but you won't let him.

"All I ever wanted—was to be loved out loud. Not hidden. Not handled."

You meet his eyes. Yours are raw. Ruined.

"God," you choke. "I'm so stupid... so fucking stupid. I believed that you were different."

You almost want to punch yourself in the face. Because how can you be so stupid to fall for him? Actually believing that he'd be different.

Stupid. Fucking stupid.

The tears come harder now, no longer held back.

"Guess I finally woke up from my fantasy." You continue.

"Y/N..." He whispers, his voice barely audible. "Please. Please—Let me fix this."

You close your eyes, your chest tight with the unbearable weight of it all.

You take a shaky breath, pulling away from him, from everything you thought was real.

"Then tell your team," you say, each word falling like a stone. Tears slip down your cheeks uncontrollably, but your voice remains steady. "They don't have to worry anymore."

You step back, the finality of your words crushing you.

"Because we're done,"

———

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[lirotation]

Astarion in Cyberpunk AU

POV: How you met him in Night City =P

You’re just another low-tier merc in Night City's meat grinder, same as any other. Sure, you smoke, you chug whatever synthalcohol gets your synapses sparking, maybe pop a little Black Lace now and then for kicks. But one thing you don’t do? Pick up joytoys from Jig-Jig. Nah, choom. Not your scene.

Until tonight's clusterfuck.

You were on a gig, dressed to fool the corpo crowd—chrome hidden under slick, expensive synth-leather. Playing at being one of Night City's untouchables. Then your optics lock onto him.

A joytoy, but not just any joytoy. Lux-grade. The kind of beauty that made your targeting systems glitch and your tits perk up. Picking him up wasn’t the plan—never the plan—but here you are, trying to blend in, figuring if all these suits are doing it, maybe you should too.

Preem bastard had a silver tongue worth more than his chrome, smooth like pre-War whiskey. He leaned in close, casually dropped the very intel you need - an exclusive corpo mixer, one hosting Kong Tao mid-level procurement officer - your target - fresh from Guangzhou. The two of you hit it off, chatting over overpriced drinks at the bar, and one thing led to another. His place.

Then you wake up.

Your choom on the other end of the link, screaming. Your brain feels like it’s been through a shredder. You’re sprawled out on some piss-stained mattress, butt naked, weapons gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You’ve been played. Conned. During a job, no less. Just your fucking luck.

Gotta escape before they rip you open, gotta figure out where the hell you are. But one thing’s for sure—you’re gonna find that pretty bastard, and when you do, he’s got a world of hurt coming his way. _______

Your head’s pounding, but you’ve been in tighter spots before. You force a reboot, running a quick scan. Typical corpo blacksite flophouse—The stink of blood, sweat, and bad decisions clings to the walls.

You find a rusted shard of metal and grip it tight. Better than nothing. You rigged the lock and slipped out of the room, the sound of your bare feet drowned out by the buzz of cheap fluorescents overhead.

The hall’s empty. Nobody watching the cams—amateurs. You find a storage room with your gear dumped in a corner like garbage. Your Militech pistol? Check. punknife? Check. Even your boots. Slipping them on feels like hugging an old friend.

Now clothed and armed, you should be bailing, cutting your losses. But the faint sound of muffled screams crawls under your skin, pulling you back into the fray.

You creep closer, the door half-open. Inside, him.

The joytoy. Astarion.

Strapped down like a Maelstrom test subject, neural wires spiderwebbing from his temples into some black-market brain-dance rig. The machine's whining like a dying cat, each pulse making him scream. Some chrome-headed ganger's working the controls, grinning like he's watching prime-time BD entertainment.

“Picked yourself a zero, didn't ya? No creds, no dirt—just a fucking merc with nothin’ to give. You are lucky boss is not in town.” the ganger sneers, twisting a dial, “What good’s a pretty face if it doesn’t deliver?”

Astarion convulses, tears streaking his otherwise flawless face, “I—tried,” he whispers.  "Please, give me another chance.”

Something snaps in your gut. You’ve seen people broken, but this guy? He’s built to endure. Still, this is next-level fucked.

Your blade whispers through the air, clean and silent. The ganger drops, and you catch the falling remote and cut the power to the rig.

Astarion slumps, breathing shallow. You free him, pulling the wires from his skin. He flinches but doesn’t resist.

“Can you walk?” you ask, dragging him to his feet.

He groans but nods. “I’ve had worse.”

The two of you fight your way out, bullets and curses flying. By the time you hit the street, you’re out of breath and out of ammo, but alive. Barely.

You lean against a wall, wiping blood off your hands. “I should fucking gut you for this,” you say, leveling him with a glare.

Astarion chuckles, though it’s more pained than amused. “I’m flattered. But I was under orders, if that softens the blow.”

“Doesn’t,” you snap.

Still, you don’t hurt him. Just turn to leave, figuring he’ll disappear back into whatever pit he crawled out of. But when you glance back, he’s trailing behind you.

“What are you doing?” you snap again, tired and still on edge.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says softly, eyes downcast, his voice a quiet plea.

“Not my problem,” you grumble, turning to keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls out, stepping closer. When you face him again, the vulnerability in his posture is tinged with a familiar, deliberate charm. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I could… make it up to you.  I’m quite skilled at certain things”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That so? You think I’m just gonna take you in because you bat your lashes?”

“Not just because of that,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch the faint light. “I can be useful. I wasn't lying before, you know? the mixer? I can get you in.”

You pause, damn it he is beautiful. He shifts closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “Let me stay, just for a while. I’ll keep out of your way. Or,” he adds, his smile sharpening ever so slightly, “if you’d rather, I could be very in your way. Whatever you prefer.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Fine. One screw-up, though, and you’re out. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” he purrs, bowing his head slightly. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

As he falls into step beside you, you mutter under your breath. “Already regretting it.”

His soft chuckle is barely audible, but it lingers all the way home.

[lumitoiile]

neuvillette : [waltz.]

summary : fluff, reverse comfort. dancing in the rain with a stressed dragon. gn! reader (no pronouns.) ╱ word count : 867.

the rain has been relentless. 

while such weather is not particularly unusual in fontaine, the excessive downpour has persisted for almost a week now. day after day, clouds hang low, casting a somber haze over everything. you can't recall ever seeing the city this gloomy in all the time you've kept residency here. 

a cascade of water drums against your umbrella as you stroll through the streets and markets of the city, head turning at the sound of nearby laughter. you spot a group of children splashing through puddles, running around a water fountain with their voices ringing out loudly above the patter of rain. in unison, they chant together, "hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry!"

you pause, watching them curiously. that's right—it is said that whenever it rains in fontaine, the hydro dragon weeps. an interesting thought. you wonder what dread could possibly be troubling that poor dragon so intensely, causing such heavy rain to carry on for so long.

the dreary weather can't help but remind you of your beloved, your neuvillette. the solemn look he's held lately, the tired sighs he lets slip when he thinks you're not watching. you're aware he's always been a busy man, but this feels different. you can sense a heaviness in him, a silent struggle he won't share.

the iudex of fontaine, chief justice, always composed and reliable...and yet so distant, so dismal.

tonight, he lays at your side, resting in your embrace as you press soft kisses to his temple. even as the heavy rain raps against the windows of your home, it's steady rhythm seems to ease—it's morphed into a soothing lullaby, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

though when you wake hours later, you find his side of the bed cold and empty.

"neuvillette...?" you call weakly, voice raspy with sleep. but no answer comes. a spike of worry prickles your heart and you don't think twice before slipping out of bed, bare feet padding through the quiet halls as you search for him.

it's not long before you find him outside, standing alone with his figure framed against the downpour. he's gazing out into the night, face unreadable and silver hair dampened by the rain.

"neuvillette," you say softly as you approach.

he looks over at the sound of your voice, eyes wide in surprise. "you should be asleep," he says, frowning. "it's late...and far too cold for you to be out here in your sleepwear."

"yet here you are, out in the rain by yourself." you step closer, touching his arm. there's a crease in his eyebrows, and conflict in his eyes. "what's going on, love? don't think i haven't noticed this change in you. whatever it is...i hope you know you don't have to carry it alone."

he looks down to the ground, gaze flickering with unspoken truth before he slowly shakes his head. "it’s nothing you need to worry about," he says quietly. but his hand trembles ever so slightly as he reaches to brush his thumb over your cheek, wiping away a stray drop of water.

"then, if you won't tell me..." you take his hand, offering him a tender smile. "will you dance with me instead?"

"...in the rain?" he asks hesitantly, clearly taken aback as he raises an eyebrow. "surely, you'll catch a cold."

"let me worry about that." you don't give him a chance to refuse, tugging him close into an easy, swaying dance. and with a reluctant smile, he finally relents, letting you lead him into an elegant waltz.

the world around you seems to fade into the background, focusing on him with only the rain as music to guide you. the storm overhead starts to gradually ease, now reduced to a light drizzle.

you murmur softly to yourself as you move together, voice a whisper against the gentle rain. "hydro dragon, hydro dragon... don't cry."

neuvillette stiffens, his steps faltering as he stares down at you. "where did you hear that...?"

another smile finds its way to your lips and you rest your head against his chest, his heartbeat thudding rhythmically against your ear. "some children were chanting it in the market today," you explain. "they say it's been raining so hard because the hydro dragon has been unhappy. i don't know what might be troubling that poor sovereign, but i do hope he finds peace soon..."

his expression softens as he stares down at you. words go unsaid as his voice gets caught in his throat. instead, he tightens his hold on you, pulling you closer as you sway together in silence.

the rain slows, almost as if it’s listening, each drop gentler than the last. he rests his cheek against your head, eyes closing as he melts into your embrace. "thank you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.

you draw a little closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before returning to your shared dance. when you pull apart, he looks up at the sky with a newfound calm in his eyes. the clouds begin to shift, parting slightly as the rain comes to an end.

"look," he says, nodding his head to the clear sky. "perhaps he heard you."

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, or edit my work.

[rcvcgers]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 - prologue

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18+ minors DNI

pairing ; sylus x reader

synopsis ; a teenage boy turns his life around when he steals from the wrong person.

word count ; 2.1k words

my god daughters ♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ @velaenam , @flamedancer13 @blcknebula , @peachesandcremes , @rxelarailuj

Behind every great fortune, there is a crime. A crime that comes with a price, a sacrifice that someone is willing to make for the betterment of themselves and their family, their allies in the cruel world of the N109 Zone.

Those who live here know the law of the land. They know who is in charge and who puppets the crooked politicians and police force. They know not to disobey them, to not disrupt the peace that they have built among the families. Everyone who lives here knows their place in the pecking order and those who wish to move up in the world, to change their fortune and future, are met with the firepower of men who will forever remain loyal to the Don above them, a man who sits above everyone else and is willing to protect the peace of his kingdom.

Only a few are successful. Most cases end with bloodbaths, the ending of an entire family for the chance to usurp their spot under the Don’s wing. These attempts are always made by a group, never a single person, so imagine Vito’s — the current Don of Onychinus, the most powerful family in the N109 Zone — surprise when a lone fifteen year old tried to get the best of him.

The Don and his right hand man and Consigliere, Angelo, also known as “Alibi”, were casually walking through one of the N109 Zone’s markets. It was outside and the blood moon hung low in the sky, the smog from the buildings floating overhead. The Don and Angelo took their time, inspecting the goods that the working class of the city had to offer.

Imported fruits, spices, weapons, drugs, and stolen goods were lined up along tables. Women and men stand behind them, calling out at passerby’s, egging them on to get a sale for the day, the money needed to survive another day in the N109 Zone. The Don is generous, having bought plenty of fruit and imported goods such as olives from Aridum, a desert city that Onychinus has a base in, and even handmade jewelry that holds the finest of jewels inside of the metal casings that hold it together.

“What do you think of this? Do you think she’d like it?” Vito holds up a pearl bracelet, the iridescent coloring catching under the warm light of the vendor’s stall.

Vito, the Don of Onychinus, is a tall and burly man. He’s on the older side, yes, just barely in his forties as he runs the biggest and most powerful family in the N109 Zone. He has the heart of a lion, never gives up, and remains strong in times of need or when someone decides that they want to have a try with attempting to take down the faction. He exudes dominance and is a man to be feared. He knows exactly what to do and never strikes twice, the first blow forever fatal and devastating.

“She’ll love it, sir,” Angelo responds with a small smile, his hands folded behind his back. 

Angelo is much shorter compared to Vito. He still has muscles underneath his perfectly pressed suits. His hairline is receding by the day, though, and he ops to wear a hat whenever he can to hide the brown and gray locks from the world. His body is covered in tattoos while Vito’s remains blank.

“She will, won’t she?” Vito smiles, his heart always soft when it comes to his precious daughter, his only child.

A head of white hair passes behind the booth, red eyes trained on the pearl bracelet. He remains in the shadows and watches from afar, not taking the time to notice who it is he is about to steal from. He sneaks from around the booth and watches as Angelo passes off a couple of bills to the woman behind the stall, giving her a tip of his hat before following the burly man.

The teenager remains silent, pulling his balaclava halfway up his face, a black hat now covering his white locks of hair. He weaves through the crowd. He takes note of the guards who get distracted by baked goods, leaving Vito and Angelo as they turn down an alleyway.

The boy follows, quick on his feet, his steps light and airy, neither of the mafia men able to pick up on the gentle sound of rubber bouncing against the asphalt. His piercing red eyes remain on the velvet bag in Vito’s hand, the pearl bracelet inside, waiting to be snatched up by the teenager.

Right when Vito and Angelo approach the car, the teenager makes his move. He bursts out into a run, hand outstretched and ready to snatch the velvet bag. The car door swings open and the teenager is forced to jump to the side, sliding across the top of the closed dumpster beside the two men. The teenager plucks the velvet bag from the Don’s hand, pushing off of the large metal can, which reeks of spoiled food, and lands on his feet, barely stumbling before he takes off into a sprint.

“What are you standing here for?! Get him!” Vito screams at Angelo, who nods with a huff and takes after the teenager.

The white haired boy smirks to himself and blends into the crowd, slipping the hat onto another boy’s head and ripping the balaclava off of his face. He remains close to bigger groups and fits in with the crowd. He shrugs his jacket off and turns it inside out, furthering cloaking itself from Vito’s guards. He slips the piece of pearl jewelry from the velvet bag, inspecting it under the warm light, knowing that he’ll be able to eat for a week with the money he’ll get from this.

Life is hard for those who are not born into wealth in the N109 Zone. If someone is like the teenager, they are forced to steal to survive. They live off of scraps and the generosity of those who give them whatever they can spare. It is a ruthless way to live. One never knows when they’re going to eat next or if they’ll be the next casualty in a mob war that they never wished to be a part of, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a hit.

The teenager moves the pearl bracelet back into the velvet bag. He looks around, seeing the chaos of Vito’s guards happening in the opposite direction as him. He lets out a huff of air, a breathy chuckle. The teenage boy takes a turn down the street and pushes open the door of a pawnshop.

The teenager gasps when he is pulled back by the collar. He is slammed into the wall of the pawnshop, cheek smushed against the cracked plaster. The man who captured him leans in, his voice dangerously low and rough, “You don’t know who you just messed with, boy.”

The teenager glances to the side, catching a quick glance of the man’s tattooed knuckles, the cross catching his attention. Fear settles into his stomach, his body going cold and numb, as the man peels him off of the wall, keeping his hold on the back of his collar, pulling him along.

The fabric of his shirt cuts into his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply as he is dragged down the street. His hands immediately move to the collar, trying to release himself. He is pulled down the streets he just came from, people looking terrified as the boy is helpless in setting himself free.

He claws at the man’s hands, struggling to escape. The man does not move, he does not flinch. He continues on his way back to the alley where the Don sits, waiting inside the car with all doors open.

The teenager is thrown onto the wet asphalt. He hands on his hands and knees in an attempt to catch himself. He looks up, his red eyes meeting Don Vito’s menacing glare. Brass knuckles sit on his fingers, the metal scuffed and worn from his fights throughout the years.

The boy holds back his whimpers and the tears that threaten to flood his eyes. He stares at the brass knuckles and hardens his expression, brows slightly knitting together as he straightens his posture. Angelo stands behind him, his eyes burning into the back of the boy’s head.

“Where is it?” Vito asks with a sharp glare.

The teenager remains silent. The Don lets out a huff of air and turns to Angelo, waving his hand. Suddenly, the boy is brought to his feet. They round the car and Angelo slams the teenager onto the hood, his face connecting with the smooth, black metal. Vito gets out of the car, standing on the side that the teenager is forced to look at.

“I’m going to ask one last time,” he lowers his voice, eyes darkening, “where is the bracelet?”

“Pocket,” the boy immediately answers, swallowing the lump that forms in his throat. He continues to hide his fear, refusing to let the Don of Onychinus know that he is afraid.

Angelo keeps one hand on the back of the boy’s neck while he pats down his body. He reaches into the pocket and takes back the velvet bag, passing it off to the Don. He takes it and keeps his eyes on the teenager.

It is silent except for the sounds of car horns and the chaos Vito’s men are causing. The Don pockets the velvet bag and crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head at the teenage boy.

“It’s my daughter’s birthday today. You stole her gift. I hope you can understand why I had to get it back,” Vito’s voice is authoritative yet there is a gentleness behind it when he mentions his daughter. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” the teenage boy responds.

“Just a kid,” the Don shakes his head, swiping his tongue over his teeth. “My daughter turns ten today. She loves pearls.”

Silence befalls the trio. Vito looks to Angelo and nods his head. The man’s grip on the boy is released. He takes a step back, hands folded in front of his abdomen, and he keeps a close eye on the white haired teenager. The teen gets off of the hood of the car, fixing his posture as he stares at the Don. He cracks his knuckles and takes one quick look around the alley, trying to see if there is a way out.

“I’m in a good mood, so I’ll make you an offer,” Vito steps forward. “I don’t like killing kids. Never have. But you seem like a brought young man who can…excel in my world. I’ll let my friend here take care of you. You can learn all you can and when the time comes, you can choose to leave or stay.”

The Don Vito takes another step forward. He extends his hand to the boy, brass knuckles still wrapped around his fingers, and smiles. His canine tooth is gold, the metal catching the light, reflecting into the boy’s eyes.

“What do you say?”

The teenager stares at the Don’s hand. He takes a quick glance to Angelo, locking eyes with the shorter yet surprisingly strong man. He turns back around and gnaws at the inside of his cheek.

This is a way out of his shitty life. He can have a roof over his head and will be guaranteed protection from those who wish to hurt him. His belly will be full of food and he’ll never have to beg for scraps ever again. The risk is high if he joined Onychinus, especially under the Consigliere’s watchful eye. It is a risk that he is willing to take.

Anything to get out of the slums of the N109 Zone.

He steps froward and takes the Don’s hand, firmly shaking it. The man’s smile grows some more. One they release hands, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar, Angelo stepping to his side and lighting it for him. He takes a few quick puffs, blowing the smoke out and into the teen’s face.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks, looking down at the kid. The teen opens his mouth to respond but is quickly stopped when Vito holds up a hand. “You only get one name. You can leave your old one behind and change it to something new. Choose wisely.”

The teenager remains silent. His eyes flit between Vito and Angelo, taking in their slick smiles, inhaling the dry smoke from the cigar.

He has never had a name before, having been abandoned by his parents. Any names he has heard have come from movies and books, lives that he will never be able to live despite dreaming about them. One name in particular, though, itches the back of his brain.

“Sylus. My name is Sylus,” the teenager speaks, his name and answer definitive.

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