#there is a really good thread I want to link on this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gyuswhore · 4 months ago

Text

Cherry Picker [1]

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

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

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out.

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

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

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

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

“Illegal truck, I guess.”

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

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

“Fine. Change.”

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

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

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, did you—”

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

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

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

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

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

“That means—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t afford getting rusty.”

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

“What?”

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

“Lorry!”

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai!”

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

“You’re impossible.”

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

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

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

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

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

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

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

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

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

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

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. Really.”

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

“Only a few months.”

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

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

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

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

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

Why did you bring me here?

Six weeks.

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

Six weeks.

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

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

Six weeks.

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

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

Six weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

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

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

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just play the track,” you grumble.

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

“Lorry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impossibly, your blood runs cold.

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

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

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason.

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

“I’m worse,” she states.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“8 point 5! Nice!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

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

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?”

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

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

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

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

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

“Good for him.”

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

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

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs.

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

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

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

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

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

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

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

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

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does that have to come from me too?”

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She leaves before you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ice is booked.”

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stops.

!HOT TOPIC!

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorry,” you sigh.

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

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

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

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

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

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I only came third.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi, stop fucking fighting.

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

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

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

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

“You’re temperament—”

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

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

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

“In most cases.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conditional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SVT, he reads on their jerseys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

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

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches as you take a small step back.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

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

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

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold.

“What?” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You followed him?”

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

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

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

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

And then worst of all.

Are they dating?

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And you said yes?”

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

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

“Fuck no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends with the coach?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sickening. Sickening.

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai.”

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark?

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes

foldingfittedsheets · 4 months ago

Text

Time for another ex-jewelry store worker PSA.

Don’t sleep with your jewelry on.

Really.

It’s so bad for most jewelry, but especially necklaces and rings with stones. Studs are more alright generally if they have a threaded back though it does still wear the back down, but honestly the wear and tear simply from sleeping on jewelry is insane. Solid rings are pretty much always fine but taking them off regularly is still a good practice. An alarming number of people get rings stuck on that need to be cut off.

Chain links stretch and with most chains once they start breaking from the cumulative wear there’s no fixing them because every link is gonna start giving out one after another.

Prongs used to set stones in rings literally wear down twice as fast when slept with and you lose stones more easily if fibers from your sheets catch on your prongs.

Earring backs loosen and clasps wear down.

As someone cleaning jewelry on the daily it was instantly apparent when it was slept on because it showed exponentially more wear and tear across the board than jewelry that got taken off.

If you’re like I used to be and worry that if you take it off you won’t remember to put it back on try to set up a bedtime routine at the place where you get ready for the day. It takes some getting used to. Sometimes I forget my ring. But it’s worth maintaining something I want to last me the rest of my life.

#ramblies #jewelry #gem talk #I guess #I don’t have a good jewelry tag yet

2K notes · View notes

fashion-runways · 7 months ago

Text

hiii new pinned post again because the last one was outdated, there are links to the previous ones in that one as well. unfortunately there are no real updates re: my dad's wrongful imprisonment. at this point, they might be waiting until the statutes of limitations happen and it's over, i don't know. he has a therapist who's kind of expensive but we have to pay for and he has to go weekly because of all the trauma he has left from being in jail and from losing his job/not being able to find a new one because of this. his health got worse in there, too, so there are a lot of different doctors he has to go to, medications, etc. he's doing better every day, though, but that takes a lot of money of course.

i used to have a redbubble account that helped me get afloat alongside this blog, but it got suspended without notice and never got reinstated no matter how many things i've tried, so... that's another source of income that we lost. i used to make around 30/40 dollars a month there, now i make like 1/2 dollars on teepublic monthly, that's a huge difference. argentina's economy was always bad but it has been an absolute disaster since the current president got elected. prices rise literally on a weekly basis for everything from basic groceries to public transportation, power, water, phone bills, etc. my laptop's keyboard broke at some point and i almost had to buy a new one with money i literally didn't have, just going into negative numbers, but i managed to find a guy who replaced it for as cheap as he could. it was still expensive, but it was better than having to buy a new laptop entirely. would love to get a stable job, but that's always been impossible in this country, even more so lately. for updates on argentina in english, this person on twitter makes very good informative threads if you're interested.

on top of that my dog passed from cancer a few weeks ago, that was really expensive for us too, meds and appointments and special foods and everything that we could do to keep her happy until it was her time to go, and she was. i also started therapy around the time she was diagnosed (thank god) but my therapist had to rise her rates because of the economy mess i already mentioned, so... yeah. everything is exhausting and everything is expensive, and this is literally my only source of income. it's also the thing that i love doing the most and the thing that keeps me sane in all of this mess, so hey, never leaving. in fact, if anything ever happens to this website, you can always find me under fashion_runways on twitter or probably anywhere else. some of you guys mentioned not seeing my posts lately too, so if you can/want to, you can turn notifications on!

anyway yeah, all that to say i love this blog, i love fashion, and i love showing you guys new cool things and giving you guys ideas for art, or writing, or your own style, or just interesting stuff to look at. so if you can donate any money, that would help me more than you think. even a single dollar can change what i can do with my day sometimes, i swear. as usual, my kofi link: https://ko-fi.com/fashionrunways and my teepublic link: https://www.teepublic.com/user/dinah-lance. thanks for being around and sharing and reblogging my posts, thanks for asking questions about fashion, and of course thanks for helping to the ones who can, and thanks to the ones who can't too, i know how that feels like, don't worry about it. i love you 💖

#text posts #pinned post

1K notes · View notes

crushmeeren · 1 year ago

Text

master list link

⋆ FEM READER ⋆

Men who live for the opportunity to fuck you from behind.

It isn’t because they don’t want to watch your pretty features twist in pleasure, or because they don’t want to see your eyes widen in surprise.

Not because they don’t want to see the base of your skull dig into the pillow when their cock hits it just right, or the way your tits bounce with each motion.

No, it’s because they’ve mastered fucking you in this position like a finely tuned skill. It is, after all, the best way to get your head in the clouds. Guaranteed to make your pussy love them, to drool for them.

However, they have to admit it soothes the deepest, most repressed and filthy urge to fuck you like a dog. They want your face shoved in the mattress, ass in the air on display. God, there’s nothing like it.

Their cocks throb and twitch when your spine curves so pretty for them. They lose their minds when your fingers fist the sheets and you start whimpering their name. Even hanging on by a thread they’ll hold out on cumming. There’s not a chance they’ll end it this fast, fuck no. They have to watch their cocks disappear inside you for as long as they are able to hang on.

They pay attention when one of your hands reaches between your legs to play with your clit. Rubbing fast circles until your pussy starts to clench tight, helping yourself cum because you want it so bad you could cry.

Right after this they really start fucking you, palms pressed against your lower back, threatening to snap your spine. They throw their weight into thrusting harder.

These men bully your g-spot. Make you cry out for them until your throats raw. Not stopping after you shove your overheated face into the sheets and beg them to. You have to brace a hand on the wall in front of you to keep from being concussed.

They keep at it till you’re both dripping with sweat and overstimulated. Then they force another orgasm out of you anyways.

Their voices go low and rough, panting to catch their breath between words.

“C’mon, give me one more, pretty girl. Just do as I fucking say and I’ll give your sweet little pussy a treat, promise. You want that, don’t ya?”

They make this last orgasm count, hell bent on seeing you squirt.

They wait until you tense up again, letting you enjoy the full force of your orgasm and then some before pulling out. They paint your ass white as you squirt all over the sheets, praising you for being such a good girl.

These men play your body like a fiddle, especially hitting it from behind. They leave you a satiated, sweaty, boneless heap on the bed. They fucking love it.

EREN, levi, BAKUGOU, kirishima, GOJO, zoro, hawks, SANEMI, KUROO, benimaru + any of your faves!

5K notes · View notes

777heavengirl · 8 months ago

Text

spill your guts

sirius black x reader one-shot ! warnings: miscommunication? (apparently, that’s all ik how to write), friends to lovers, mentions of injury, no war AU! word count: 6,730 masterlist a/n: sorry I've been MIA uni is BEATING my ass and i rewrote this like 35 times, enjoy!

“I have this dream that I am hitting my dad with my quidditch bat” Sirius's clammy skin and the breeze that flew in from the window you had slightly cracked open when he awoke hyperventilating, caused goosebumps to crawl up his skin. You stayed quiet at his confession, your eyes trained on his face but his burned holes into your baby blue duvet. “And all he does is scream and cry for help-“

He took a sharp breath, this was one of those rare times when everything rotting inside him tried spilling out. For many years it was just James and Remus, Peter occasionally, but now he found that he couldn’t help but want to spill his guts to you. You stayed quiet as he spoke, scared to say anything that would cause him to shut himself in again.

”And maybe halfway through, I realized that it has more to do with me killing him than it ever did protecting myself.” Sirius never spoke of his father. His mother usually plagued his nightmares and it was the abuse he was more inclined to share.

Not his father's.

”He was really pushing his luck-“ His dry laugh, seemed cruel, but you could see how his fingers fidgeted, playing with a small thread on the edge of his boxers. The need to light a cigarette flashed in his mind.

You knew the man was dead. You were with Sirius and the rest of the marauders the day he was buried. After everyone else had left the funeral, the brothers stared at the coffin on the altar of the mausoleum the rest of their family rested in. Regulus didn’t speak a word but gripped Sirius’s arm with white-hot knuckles. Sirius put his cigarette out on the shiny, polished wood, one last act of defiance. His brother nodded, almost as if in approval, but not quite, and apparated away with their family house elf soon after. Sirius linked his arm with yours. You didn’t ask how he died, nor did you ask about the brothers' relationship now that both of their abusers were dead and buried. Now that everything between them rotted away.

You never wanted to push the boundary more than he’d let you. Your relationship, if that’s what you could call it, was already precarious as it was.

Tonight had started like many others, Sirius knocking at your door. The flat you shared with Dorcas in front of the one he shared with Peter and Remus. And you answered, you always did.

“you look good tonight-“ You thought the way too small sleeping shorts were the reason he said so, it wasn’t the mismatched socks or the oversized muggle band tee you had stolen from their dorm fifth year. Definitely not the messy, bed-ridden hair. He had only seen your face, the glint in your eyes, and the pull of your smile. That had been enough for him to decide you were the most beautiful creature on the planet. “can I sleep in your bed?” You said yes.

You always said yes.

You didn’t have sex. But you slept together, his fingertips digging into the supple skin of your waist as he slept with his face buried in your neck. You often played with his hair, tracing spirals on his back until he snored softly. You wouldn’t have guessed that tonight would end up with him waking up, in a cold sweat and gasping for breaths, much less confessing his dreams of murdering his already deceased father.

You didn't hold that against him.

You took a hesitant hold of his trembling fingers, he seemed to welcome the touch as he intertwined his fingers with yours.

He pulled you close to him again after he laid back down. The window remained open with the nippy night breeze flowing in, but his skin eventually lost its goosebumps and his grip ultimately loosened, he was soft and warm and moldable now. He melted onto your side and you couldn't help but stare. At his perfect nose and perfect lips, the weight of the world that he held on his shoulders faded away when he slept, even if just for a few hours.

You reveled in the fact that it was your bed he felt this comfortable in.

You hoped it was only yours.

Even the mornings where he had crawled out of your bed and your flat, the ones where you awoke alone and cold, he stayed in your head. He had imprinted himself on your mind, he had made it his home. Sirius Black, the man you were not dating, but the man you shared your bed with, occasionally made breakfast with in between fits of laughter. The man who had declared very loudly, and very drunkenly, that you'd make the perfect girlfriend at a party four months ago, and yet continued to ignore any hint that there might be something else between the two of you. Your bed felt cold the rare nights he didn't knock at your door, at this point your entire apartment called for his presence. Dorcas joked that he was your third roommate.

You always wondered if he had found some muggle girl to woo for the night, sleep in her foreign bed, and disappear in the morning. You wondered if he ever stayed 'til the morning in their beds, if he enjoyed them more than he enjoyed you. If your bed and your embrace weren't enough.

Until there was a knock at your door, the clock marked 1:27 am.

"A long time ago, my great-great-great-great-grandfather took something that did not belong to him," You wondered if this would also become ritual, him baring his heart naked. Baring his family's sins, his sins, to you. As if your divine acceptance would tip the scales, and that it would weigh his heart as pure. Your skin was the one riddled with goosebumps this time, as the cold that seeped through the window nipped at the thin material of your shirt and you duvet stayed discarded at the foot of the bed. You didn't mind it. He blew the smoke of his cig out the open window and turned to look at you again, unapologetically staring into your eyes. "And that is why I kind of look the way I do, 'm part Veela," you wondered if his confessions were a new level of intimacy you had gained access to.

"As if I couldn't tell," he gave you a crooked smirk, the type he gives you when he's about to make some obscene, dirty joke. He didn't this time though. You visibly saw his shoulders relax when you made a quick quip, ignoring the heavy atrocity of his ancestors. It wasn't him after all, why would you hold it against him? He hummed, reveling secretly in your compliment. Maybe you genuinely did think he was beautiful. Regardless of the tattoos that now littered his body, or the scars of abuse that would never leave him, or even the random bruises that sometimes stained his porcelain skin, from his bike, from Moony's transformations, from everything. Maybe you even saw past the commitment issues, and unspoken words, or the fact that he left you to wake up to an empty bed often.

Maybe, somehow, you were able to look past all of that. All of him.

Sirius knew it was wishful thinking.

“Don’t look at me like that Moony,” Sirius said with a groan as he stood at the door, still holding the handle from closing it. Remus glared at him from the top of his cup as he sipped his tea, Sirius really wanted to skip the whole lecture, you woke up early meaning he also had to, and had to make the treacherous journey across the hall. He glanced at the clock on the wall, it glanced 6:30 am back at him. Why was Remus even awake?

“you’re a prat Padfoot-“

”I needed some sleep, it's not like we're-“

“It doesn’t matter, what you’re doing to that poor girl is horrible, if you really can’t sleep drink some tea, go to a physician” Remus turned his back to Sirius, angrily cleaning his cup in the sink, although he couldn’t see him, Sirius knew Remus’s face was twisted into one of disappointment and anger. “you know she loves you, and you use it instead of telling her there will never be anything between you-“

”I love her”

”You’re not in love with her, are you?” He turned the water off, turning around with a glare as Sirius stayed quiet. “She is.”

Sirius didn’t know what he felt for you if he was honest. He loved you, though. He had always loved you. From the days you ran around with the four of them around Hogwarts, when you passed notes in class, when you accompanied him on secret trips to the kitchens, when you helped clean his wounds at Potter Manor the summer he ran away. Sirius has always loved you.

Remus might think that’s worse.

”Stop sleeping with her and having breakfast with her the morning after, Merlin-“ he took a deep breath, his fingers coming up to rub his temples in frustration and the Welsh accent seeped into his words, “What the hell are you thinking Sirius?”

Remus knew he was being tough, but he felt bad. He felt bad about the way your eyes always trailed after the boy, and how you always stared at Sirius’s closed bedroom door when you were over for tea. You needed to be able to move on with your life. It didn’t help you and Dorcas lived right in front of them.

”Alright Moony,”

“You’ll leave her alone?” Sirius refused to meet the taller boy's eyes.

”I’ll try”

Sirius did not listen to Remus.

He never did really, but he felt guilty now. He stared at you from your bed, you paced around stripping away the day, being a healer at St Mungo's was an arduous job most days. Some it was just kids with dragon pox and their mothers who came with worry stitched in their souls, doing rounds with residents that had been there longer than you, the older ladies always gave you candy. You didn't know where they were getting it from. Most nights you dragged yourself into your apartment late enough you might as well say it’s morning, and dropped, ruined and exhausted, on your bed. The worst days, it was back-to-back shifts of trying to heal curses, creature attacks, and mysterious maladies that left you drained and hopeless. Ones that made you fear the magical world that surrounded you. These nights you would've sought Sirius out, the way he did you, but you didn't need to. He was always there, somehow knowing and waiting outside your door. Sometimes, he was just exiting his apartment, going to knock on yours when you came up the stairs, other nights, like this one, he waited for you. He sat on the floor with his back against your door and his eyes closed until he heard your footsteps. He stood and greeted you silently with a kiss to your temple.

He trailed after you, into your room and onto your bed. So he sat, his back against the wall and the bottom parts of his legs hanging from the bed. He didn't say much, he observed as you sighed and sniffed, wiping your eyes as you muttered to yourself. He watched in awe as you took off the green healer robes they made you wear, your buttoned shirt coming off with it.

“I don’t understand how hard it is to keep your kid away from places like those, the kid was barely five and now he has all these welts-“ you huffed in frustration as you stripped off your pants and walked into the bathroom, the door open so you could continue to ramble “how does a five-year-old get cursed? I had to call the Ministry-“

Sirius didn’t think he could deny the fact that he reveled in these moments, he couldn't hide it for the life of him. The ones where you were so comfortable with him, walking around in your mismatched underwear angrily rambling about negligent mothers and how now you have to testify at the Ministry next week. It was laced with domesticity and a cloying sweetness that covered his skin. He wanted to stop you and kiss you silly. To sleep with you, in all your naked glory, and not care because you’d be together. He shook away the need to keep you for himself. He shuffled close to the edge of the bed, his feet finally touching the floor and he picked up a trinket on your nightstand. He bought it for you when he visited France last summer. He promised Regulus he'd gone to see him a few days. It went well, he realized. He also thought of the fact he didn't tell you that's what he went to do.

”Sirius?"

"Hm?" he finally focused back on your words, his eyes flickering back to you and the small smile that formed on your lips when you saw what he had in his hand.

"I said, what'd you reckon will happen to the kid?" your smile faded, and you picked nervously at your cuticles as you thought about him. Would they take him away? Would he be put in an orphanage? It was protocol you had no other choice but to call... and yet you couldn't stop thinking about it. You started moving around your room again, like a bee collecting pollen from flowers. Bees were cute, right? Sirius hoped you wouldn't think he was silly, Bees were cute, he decided. You grabbed a couple of items of clothing, collecting them in one arm as the other one massaged your scalp.

"I dunno," he remembered to answer now, "I had never thought about it,"

He could hear you turn on the shower, but you padded back into the room as the water warmed. You looked at him, still in your underwear, the eye bags underneath your eyes were visible, your makeup long faded by now.

"You never went because of your mum?" He shook his head, and you shuffled closer, the side of your leg pressed against the bed and your knee knocking with his as you looked down at him. Your hand went to caress his hair instinctively, his soft glossy curls sliding through your fingers easily. "I'm sorry no one noticed Sirius," this part was a whisper now, you feared overstepping a boundary you weren't aware of. He smiled at you, his hand coming up to pinch your naked side.

You yelped and batted his hand away with a laugh.

"She's good and dead now, I reckon it doesn't matter anymore-" He gave you a saddened smile, his nimble fingers grabbing a hold of your hand pulling you closer to him again. It was private moments like this, that confused you. The intimacy of it all, the way his lips pressed against the back of your hand and looked at you through half-lidded eyes. You were suddenly hyper-aware of how naked you actually were. You had been friends for the majority of your life, shame was long gone, but when you were so close you could feel his breath across the stretch of your tummy, it felt different.

"I reckon it does matter," You pressed a small kiss to his forehead and unpeeled yourself from him, "don't bury it all inside you, Mr Black"

You floated away now, in the sea of your anxiety over your actions, closing the bathroom door behind you.

Sirius had a lot of destructive behaviors, he knew that. The smoking since he was fifteen, the reckless way he rode his motorcycle around, the growing collection of tattoos on his body, the tumultuous relationship he had with his brother, Merlin definitely the excessiveness in which he drank, not to mention the way he showed up at the Potter's every once in a while seeking James's comfort and unconditional love, ignoring the fact that the man was a father and had a million things on his shoulders. Lily didn’t seem to mind. At least he was a decent godfather, took care of Harry to perfection, it took a few tries but he got it. Loved him with his entire heart. But you, Sirius, thought you might be the worst of it.

The worst thing he’s ever done to himself is allow for this domesticity between you.

You came back from your shower with your hair slightly damp and smelling of your signature body wash scent, sweet and enveloping. The oversized shirt that covered your torso was almost long enough to cover 'til your upper thighs. It made Sirius’s lips curl into a lopsided smile that he tried to repress.

He was lying down now, starfishing on your bed as he stared at the ceiling.

”Are you coming to bed?” The clock blinked 3 AM at you, and Sirius reached his hand out. You walked closer to him, a small smile playing on your lips. You sent the towel you had been using back to its spot with a swish of your hand. Basic handless magic was a difficult skill to gain but Merlin so gratifying.

“I forgot my pants silly,” he shook his head no, and reached for your hand with a bit more effort, grabbing a hold of it and pulling you down with him.

”Let’s just sleep, you don’t need those-“ He covered the two of you with your heavy duvet as you laughed, he leaned over you to turn off the lamp on your nightstand.

Yes, Sirius thought as he buried his face in the crook of your neck and threw one of his arms over your torso. You were the worst thing he had ever done to himself. He would never be able to let go, your hands stroking his hair until one of you fell asleep, the small ‘night that slipped past your lips just as your eyes fluttered shut. He'd never get enough of your saccharine scent that enveloped him like a blanket, comforting and warm. All-encompassing and suffocating, in each other’s arms every night, in the comfort of your room.

Sirius knew it deep in his heart, what he had been afraid of for so long. Maybe Remus had it all wrong, maybe he was in love with you.

Because what else could this feeling be?

You tried to ignore the ache in your heart when you woke up to an empty bed. You tried to forget the fact that you’d probably do it all again tonight, and the next night too, all to bear the fruit of nothing.

Dorcas shook her head and she pushed a cup of coffee towards you.

“Don’t look at me like that Dorcas -“

”I love Sirius as much as the next guy but-“ you picked up the coffee and sighed at its warmth “He’s being a prat honey-“

”It's not like we’ve been having sex, he just needs some sleep” You shook your head and looked away, afraid that your eyes would betray you, “hell I needed sleep too”

”It doesn’t matter, Y/N you’re a healer get him a stock of sleeping draught and yourself some too while you’re at it…” She furrowed her brows but you stayed quiet, not daring to meet her gaze “I know you love him, but I’m not so sure he sees you that way-“

” I’m not in love with him”

“I didn’t say you were in love,” Dorcas sighed now, placing her cup on the sink and walking towards the small chimney in your flat. “Promise me it won’t happen anymore, that you’ll try to break it off”

”I’ll try Dorcas,” she didn’t believe you much, you didn’t believe yourself either, the Floo Flames engulfed her body.

It was hard to, separate yourself from him that is. Sirius Black was addicting, simply from the way he moved. Just watching him is entrancing on its own. Speaking to him, with his suave words and low tone. Everything about him, everyone craved to have a simple conversation, have even an ounce of his attention. Sleeping in his arms though, heart to heart? Now that was in a league of its own.

You dragged yourself into your building, the day bearing down on you. You half hoped that Sirius would be waiting outside your door again, sitting waiting for you to lay in his arms. Disappointment added to the sack of bricks you felt like you were carrying when you turned to see the empty hallway. You sluggishly made your way up to your door, hoping to see Sirius's head pop out of his apartment door. Giggles came down your hall, as you fiddled with your keychain trying to find your key. The drunken whispers got louder and just as you grabbed a hold of your key you heard your name echo softly down the hall.

You dropped your keys in surprise as you took in the sight. Sirius stood rather close to a short woman, her bubbling laughter and her roaming hands didn't stop when he let his arm drop from her shoulders. All color drained from his face and his drunk, loose smile fell quickly from his lips. The girl that clung to him like gum to a shoe hadn’t noticed your presence nor how Sirius seemed to sober up at the sight of you.

You scrambled to pick up your keys as the blonde started whispering in his ear, starting to pull at him again. He called out your name one more time, moving towards you now, dragging the poor girl down the hallway with him.

“have a good night Sirius-“

You miraculously managed to get your key in the hole swiftly, turn it, open, and lock yourself inside just in time. Pressing your back against the door, your heart felt like it might leap out of your chest. You had always hoped that he wasn’t seeing other people, or meeting anyone else. And the absence of encounters just like this one had solidified that thought, you were properly convinced. Now though. You had just been lucky enough to not encounter them. You thought back, it was impossible not to feel like Sirius’s look had been one of guilt. Like he got caught. But the two of you weren’t anything.

You were painfully reminded of that fact tonight.

You hadn't noticed how fast or how hard your heart was beating. You felt like it was ready to break through your ribs, leaving you shattered and with a void in your chest. But it didn't do such a thing. No, you stayed perfectly intact, even as you felt the panic batter your chest and the notion that you were definitely not the only woman in his life torturing your heart.

"What's wrong?" Dorcas said in a whisper as she looked up, her large glasses sliding down her nose. The yellow lamps that decorated your apartment gave Dorcas's dark skin a low golden tone, like the type you'd see in paintings of candlelights and sultry lounges. Marlene was over today, her short, bleached blonde strands fanning over her face as she slept with her head on Dorcas's lap, her arms wrapped around the girl's waist. If it had been any other time you would've run for the muggle Polaroid camera Lily bought you, flashing a picture of the two of them.

"Sirius was just outside with some girl," Dorcas gasped now and shot up, dropping Marlene's head on the couch. The blonde groaned awake and asked what was wrong.

"Sirius brought home a girl" The blonde shot up as well and the girlfriends ran to the door, trying to look through the peephole. "Well this whole thing has gone arse over tit hasn't it?" Marlene pushed Dorcas off for her turn at the peephole.

"There's no 'thing' between us anyway"

"Well, shit" The blonde outside kept pawing at Sirius, trying to reach his face, to eat it Marlene guessed. He stared at the door, trying to hold the girl who stuck to him back. Marlene felt as if she was in a staring competition. She knew Sirius couldn’t see her but she still liked the thought that she’d win.

Dorcas was the first to peel herself off of the door and pull you into a tight embrace. Her hand rubbed circles on your back and Marlene followed, embracing the two of you. They smelled coconut-y and sweet, even the remainder of Marlene's stronger perfume wafted over you ever so slightly. It was grounding, really, to be hugged tightly by your closest friends, the smell of home, the comfort of knowing that you were loved, even if it wasn't by him.

"I'll hex him for you if you want" Marlene's suggestion, although serious, wasn't necessary. You shook your head sighing.

"He didn't do anything-" Dorcas flicked your head now, a frown forming on her face as the three of you parted.

"Like hell, he didn't-"

"He doesn't owe me anything 'Cas don't be harsh"

"He's been sleeping in your bed for the better part of six months I reckon he owes you a lot" Dorcas gave you a look of pity now, like you were a wounded abandoned animal.

"I say we set his motorbike on fire," Marlene suggested casually like she was talking about the weather. You slowly peeled your layers off, as you dragged your feet towards your room. You knew the girls felt bad for you, but it was your fault. Who in their right mind would let Sirius Black so into their hearts, knowing that no commitment would ever come from it?

You.

You would.

From his muscles softened under your touch, his warmth spreading to your body, to the way he mumbled in his sleep. It was something your soul craved to see, to feel, to hear. He had bewitched you, without you wanting him to, without meaning to allow him. You threw yourself on your bed, starfished and in your underwear, freshly showered. The water did not wash away the regret nor the hurt. They only made you think of coming back to Sirius in your bed, smiling and pulling you into his arms. Your sheets were cold, and tucked in neatly, very unlike the cozy mess Sirius usually made of it. So you stared, long and hard at the white of your ceiling. You prayed sleep would take you, you were exhausted. Like your body had been beaten, like your heart had split in two.

No such sleep would overtake you. Instead, you could hear frantic knocks on your front door, your muscles twitched but you didn't dare move, like if you breathed he'd know. You heard Dorcas rip the door open, the force of it reverberating through your small flat.

"You got some balls coming here," It was muffled, but you could still hear the venom in her voice. She didn't let him speak. "You're going to die cold, sad, and alone Black— don't you ever forget it" She threw the door closed now, the bang shaking your room again. It was jarring to hear that, especially from someone as sweet as Dorcas was, and she meant it. Hell, you felt like she would make sure of it, no matter the cost.

"Sweetheart-" Dorcas spoke through the door, her knuckles grazing the wood but not quite knocking. You didn't answer.

A muffled she must be asleep, and you felt like you could breathe again. You knew Sirius wouldn't end up alone. If he did romantically, the friendships in his life would fulfill that void anyway. He had a family. Most of your friends were his, and you knew, that you could never ask any of them to walk around the uncomfortable wall that seemed to form between you, or god forbid pick sides. It was stupid, you knew there was no reason you should be upset. You were not together. You weren't anything to him, and he wasn't supposed to be to you.

But oh he was. He was everything.

On nights like these, you thought you might reach your limit and have to be admitted into the psychiatric ward of St Mungo's yourself. You felt sweaty, and the stuffy healer robes didn't help to ease the heat that crawled up your skin. Your hair felt frizzy and out of place, and your buttoned-up shirt felt like it was choking you, but you couldn't stop. You couldn't afford to nor could the patients that kept coming in. The St Mungo's emergency room was nothing short of a battleground, it was vile and the worst turn to get. Especially during the overnight shift. These were the types of shifts that made you second guess your career choice, the ones that made you want to throw in the towel and drag yourself back into your apartment and never come out.

"Y/N come on, they're bringing in a flying vehicle accident-" you frowned as you let your turn partner drag you towards one of the newly entered patients. For the first time that shift, you felt dread crawl up your throat, your heart skipping a beat as you saw Sirius lying unconscious on the bed. For a second you thought you had forgotten how to breathe, your fingertips felt numb and your ears rang. His perfect nose was bloody, his perfect lip bruised and split. There were scrapes on his cheeks, and his jeans had been ripped and stained red. It wasn't noticeable at first, but the metallic smell and the caked-on blood on his black jacket became visible as you approached, it all made it clear, it had been bad.

You couldn't understand what your partner was telling you, the ringing in your ears too loud for you to make out the words, but as they moved Sirius onto a proper bed, it all came crashing down again. Repeated prayers of no's rang through your head along with pleas to a higher power to let this be a nightmare, one you'd wake up from cold and sweaty but knowing he's safe. No such relief came, and your fingertips buzzed with electricity once again, moving so fast it was like you moved at two times speed. You couldn't think of anything but prayers, to what? You didn't know, but you did so nevertheless. To the stars, and the heavens, or the magic that ran through your blood, through his. You didn't know. But you muttered words of hope and love, as you cleaned his wounds, hoping he'd hear you.

You busied yourself and basically assigned yourself to his care, after they moved him out of the ER, into one of the beds in the rows of other patients divided by sheets. You barely left his side, just to shower and change into the spare clothes Dorcas had brought you reluctantly, mildly upset you were taking care of Sirius. You ate next to him, talked to him, read your favorite poems, and hummed his favorite songs. He mumbled here and there, and his eyes would flutter sometimes which you took as a good sign but the tension didn't leave your shoulders, and your prayers never ended.

James, Remus, and Peter passed by, dropping some baked goods off and comforting you with teary hugs.

"I told him that bloody bike would kill him-" Remus said as he shook his head and sat next to Sirius for a bit, his hand on the boy's knee.

"How's he doing doc?" you rolled your eyes, amusement played in James's eyes at the pull of your lips. He had always secretly been a worrywart, but he played it off well as if his heart didn't almost beat out of his chest when he got the call.

"As long as he wakes up he'll be fine-" He smiled genuinely now, "Few broken bones," He hummed, looking at Remus and Peter huddled next to Sirius's bed.

"few broken bones hm? wouldn't be the first time." You talked for a while, each one of you ignoring the nagging feeling of worry. Sirius's boisterous laugh was poignantly missing from the conversation. But soon enough, James's father's duties called and he pressed a kiss on Sirius's forehead and one on yours very fatherlike and apparated away, Remus and Peter gathered themselves up as well not long after.

"Call if anything, okay doll?" Remus pulled you into a tight hug, his lips pressing against your temple as well. Peter gave you a small hug, his eyes trailing over Sirius's form sadly.

You were left alone again, the window panes that surrounded the hall letting some moonlight in. Time felt like a thick jelly, your eyes staring at the clock as you ran your hands through his hair, the exhaustion was quickly catching up to you. But the thought of another coffee made your stomach churn and your eyelids felt heavy like lead. So you gripped his hand tightly and laid your head against his arm.

If he woke up, you'd be there.

Sirius felt like he might be in heaven, the second his eyes fluttered open you were there. Your face pressed between his forearm and the bed, your hand tightly clutching his. He could feel the ghost of your lips on his skin and goosebumps threatened to crawl up his spine, his thoughts straying to your pout. Your closed eyes and your steady breathing made it clear you were sleeping, Sirius couldn't help but smile. He very rarely got to watch you like this, by some miracle he always fell asleep first and woke up second. You were so lovely, with your soft skin and the angelic glow from the light of the moon glaring against the curve of your face. If it wasn't for the stinging in his face or the way his ribs felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, Sirius would've sworn up and down he had died and gone to heaven.

He squeezed your hand, and the weight of the realization that you had been taking care of him fell on him. Guilt clawed at his throat, he had broken your heart and you still took care of him. He'll never forget the look on your face, the surprise, and the tears that threatened to fall. There was no other word to use besides heartbreak, and it had been his fault. He didn't know why he had brought her home, he didn't particularly fancy the girl, but the alcohol made his veins feel warm and she smiled at him and the impulsiveness and self-destruction within himself were a shoot-first ask-questions later duo that ruled his brain. He realized that you deserved more. More than him, more than the empty bed he left you with, or the avoidance of feelings. Sometimes Sirius wished you'd forget him. It would be better for you.

To forget his face, forget his name.

Your eyes began to pry open, and he couldn't help but spill his guts again.

"For so long I hoped I'd fall asleep at the wheel and crash my motorbike on the ride home-" Your heart jumped to your throat, your head shooting up at the realization he was awake. His words were raspy and as much as he tried they were barely a whisper. "But then you came back from your apprenticeship, and moved right in front and it felt like-" he looked away now, his fingers fidgeting with yours. "Like you were that light at the end of the tunnel." Your hand was still pressed against his.

"I stopped wanting to fall asleep on the bike, I just wanted to fall asleep with you"

"You are an idiot Sirius Black" The frustration gathered over the last two days flushed your system, tears threatening to fall over "you are so reckless and so utterly stupid-" tears flowed down your cheeks but you wouldn't let them fall, furiously wiping them away with your sleeve. He looked at you heartbroken.

"I know love"

"No," you shook your head now and stood up, his hand falling back to the bed "You don't know, all I do is worry and care, and you don't!" your laugh came out crueler than you meant but it came out nonetheless "You never care Sirius- Oh and imagine when I don't see or hear from you for days, and suddenly you're dragged in here looking like you're seconds away from dying-" you paced around as you went on, your hands running through your hair in frustration.

"I didn't think you wanted to see me" he stared at you now, hoping to catch your gaze. Hoping to see if you meant it, hoping to see, something. Something that would tell him what he so desperately wanted to know.

"I always want to see you" You locked eyes with his, his stupidly gorgeous stormy eyes. And he knew, from the pain in your eyes, from the way your pupils blew the second you looked at him, from the way you softened, anger dissipated when you looked at him. You didn't understand how anyone could look like that, how even scratched up he looked like he had been carved out of marble. "All I want is to see you," you were close enough for him to reach for your hand, even with pain shooting down his ribs, he did.

"I'm sorry,” you sat on the edge of his bed, closer than you had intended, as he spoke, looking at your intertwined hands. “and I’m sorry about the lass too-“

You scrunched up your nose, “I reckon that is none of my business” and he wondered how long you had to tell yourself that until you believed it.

”I sent her home, nothing happened-“

“you can go out with whoever you wish”

”I only want you”

You looked at him again, into his eyes, into his soul. Hoping to catch a flicker of truth. His eyes looked at you with hope and want, and you knew. Sirius would never lie to you, he might be a drunk, and emotionally unavailable, and Merlin knows that he’s a mess, but Sirius Black was not a liar, especially to you. He squeezed your hands, pulling them close to his chest, pressing them against his heart.

”I’m so in love with you, you drive me mad,” he said this last part with a laugh, pulling a teary giggle out of you. You couldn’t help yourself, the wetness of your eyes and cheeks coming without you meaning it to. He swiped a thumb under your eyes, a nervous laugh threatening to spill from his lips, a watery smile forming instead.

“I am regrettably, in love with you as well” You smiled now, looking away from his scoff. His lips curled into a full-fledged smile now, as did yours.

“Am I that awful?”

”I fear so Mr Black,“ you glanced at him teasingly, the glint in your eye he loved so much returning.

“I reckon you wouldn’t want to kiss a tosser like me then,” You couldn’t help but smile, as the both of you subconsciously leaned closer. His hands cupped your cheeks as your foreheads pressed together. “Can I—“

You didn’t let him finish, finally closing the distance between you. He kissed you shyly, a trait you didn’t know he possessed. You kiss him soft and open-mouthed, a small hum coming from his chest. His fingers hold on to your face, desperate to keep you close, and and you revel in the fact that his kiss turns hungry like he’d never get to kiss you again.

You part with a small satisfied sigh, foreheads pressed against one another and eyes fluttered shut. Sirius thought about the many times he wondered what this would feel like, to press his lips against yours. He had dreamt of this for months; when you walked around your room in your underwear ranting or every time you opened the door, he dreamt of kissing you in the mornings and late at night.

Sirius realized, as he pressed another kiss to your lips, he had dreamt of kissing you for years.

1K notes · View notes

puppiesareperfect · 4 months ago

Text

Book binding 101: Materials

I’ve decided to do a series of posts on how to book-bind since I talk about it a lot, and I think it’s a really fun process. This post will include various inexpensive alternatives to “professional” supplies, many of which you will have at home. Not everyone can afford a cricut and that’s ok! I will also be listing more expensive materials for people who want to invest a bit more into the craft, but they absolutely are not a must.

This first post will focus on a list of supplies you can use to make books, but will not yet get into the instructional part of it. That will come later!

Anyway…

Bookbinding Materials: Essentials

These are items you need to bind, but many you can find around your house!

Sewing thread: Any thread will work for bookbinding, though waxed threads can help reduce tangles. You can also double up thread as another way to prevent tangling if you so choose. Waxed thread is definitely more expensive, so it can be good to use what you have starting out. Here’s a link to the waxed thread I used for those that are interested. You can buy it in a lot of different colors! (White is good if want an “invisible” thread).

Sewing needle: A lot of people say to use a curved needle for binding, but I’ve never found it to be much different from using a regular needle. If you have one, I would recommend a larger needle, however, since it’s better for piercing through signatures (aka the stacks of pages you bind together). In other words: there’s no special needle you need to bind books.

Ruler: I’d recommend any metal ruler since it’s better to use as a straight edge for cutting. There’s a good chance you already have one. It’s just used for measuring and being a straight edge. Nothing fancy.

Paper: Any paper will work. What you wanna use depends on your project really: if you’re binding together a work of text you’ll want to use some kind of printer paper (of course). If you’re making a sketchbook, you can fold up some sketching paper. I like to get sketchbooks with perforated edges so I can tear them out easily if I want to use a blank page for bookbinding. You can also buy large sheets of paper made for any medium. For example, if you want a sheet of water color paper, just search “large watercolor paper sheet”.

Awl (or all alternative): An awl is a tool used to poke sewing holes. It’s nice because it’s sharp and ergonomic, but you can totally also use a pushpin or even a sewing needle.

Bone folder (or a bone folder alternative): A bone folder creates sharp creases when you fold your pages, making them lay flatter. It also helps define the hinge gap on finished books, making it open easier. You can use a ruler if you don’t have one.

PVA glue: PVA glue is what to look out for when it comes to binding glue. There are some designed specifically for bookbinding, which spread out a bit faster than ones that aren’t. You can also use tacky glue which IS a PVA glue.

Book board: Also sometimes called chip board, Davey board, or mat board. This is what you’ll use for hard cover books. It is important to use book board specially, as cardboard will warp. You can buy book board directly, or you can cut the covers off of old textbooks or binders, unwrap the paper/plastic around the board, and use that!

Box cutter or utility knife: for cutting the board

Decorative paper and book cloth: For wrapping around cover boards and for endpapers. Book cloth can also be used to cover boards. You can also draw your own designs on Bristol paper if you want (or any paper with a similar thickness/durability). When it comes to decorative paper I like to either get scrapbook paper or rolls of fancy handmade paper (you can get those on Etsy, through paper source, or through bookbinding websites).

Bookbinding materials: Optional (and not crazy expensive)

These are supplies that you don’t need for binding but that can make the process easier and/or help with the decorative elements of your books. I’d recommend these things for when you’ve been binding for a while and feel these things could be helpful!

Paper trimmer: can cut a few sheets of paper evenly—I find it really helpful for endpapers

Stencils: Super helpful if you want to add text on the covers

Stamps: Good for adding text and also great for adding illustrations if you’re not able to draw them on your own. You can buy ink pads for them or use markers by coloring over the stamp lightly and using the stamp immediately so it doesn’t dry (I’ve tested this with alcohol markers and it works very well)

Paint markers: great for drawing directly on the cover. Since they’re opaque they can imitate the look of vinyl. You can also get them super painterly if you want. The internet usually talks about poscas but there are tons of different brands. Do some research, figure out what you like & can afford.

Hot foil pen & heat transfer foil: Perfect if you want to add foil to your covers but don’t want to spend a ton of money on a cricut. A lot of binders uses the foil quill brand, but there are ones that cost less and work the same (I have both a cheaper one & an actual foil quill because I wanted some nib variation. As long as the pen has good reviews that aren’t from bots you should be good). Also remember: don’t use foil designed for going through laminators (I.e. decofoil) . It doesn’t work the same way.

Bookbinding Materials—Expensive

These are materials I’d recommend for people who have been bookbinding for a while & feel that it’s something they really want to invest in. To be fully transparent, I’m a college student and don’t own these and have little personal experience with them. However, I know a lot of binders who love them!

Cricut machine—Cricuts are cutting machines that can make precise cuts into paper, wood, bookboard, or vinyl. A lot of binders will cut designs out of vinyl and apply them to the covers using a heat press.

Book press—What it sounds like. The pressure helps the pages lay flat and stay even. That being said you can stack heavy books on top of your projects, it just may not have the same even pressure. I also know some people will DIY these, so if you’re skilled with power tools you can give it a go!

Paper guillotine—like a paper trimmer but bigger and can cut more sheets of paper at once. I believe really good ones can also be used to cut bookboard!

Those are all the materials I can think of! Hope this can work as a good starting point for those interested in the craft. I’ll definitely be posting more info about bookbinding for people who are interested :)

-Zoë💗

#bookbinding #book binding #fan binding #craftblr #information #tutorial #book binding resource #resource #book binding 101

871 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 3 months ago

Note

PLEASE IM BEGGING LIKE THE BIGGEST BEGGAR IN THE WORLD DO A DAN HENG LUCKY EGG FIC( Unless you don’t want to!)

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Dan Heng x Reader

You didn’t expect much when you got the egg. Sure, it looked a little different compared to normal eggs people got, but that was normal, right?

For the next three days, you never let it out of your sight. And then, the feeling of being watched started. At first, you thought it was your imagination. By the third day, your unease had turned into a quiet, gnawing dread.

That night, as you walked home with the egg cradled against your chest, a shadow moved.

Before you could react, a figure lunged from the darkness. A hand snatched at the egg.

"Hand it over!"

Instinctively, you held it tighter. "No."

"Then I'll just have to take it myself."

A flash of silver—a weapon.

You barely had time to flinch before-

Crack

A burst of blinding teal light exploded from the egg, knocking the intruder back. The warmth in your arms vanished as something took its place.

A young man now stood before you. Dark, messy hair, his expression calm but unreadable. He stepped in front of you, placing himself between you and the attacker.

"Step away from them."

The assailant cursed under their breath before lunging again.

With startling speed, the man deflected the strike, the enemy barely had time to react before he countered, sending them stumbling back. Realizing the fight was unwinnable, they vanished into the night.

You clutched the empty eggshell, heart hammering, struggling to process what just happened.

The young man turned, his gaze scanning you carefully.

“Are you hurt?”

You shook your head slowly.

“…Good.”

But before you could even think of a response, a sudden force yanked at your chest.

A sharp, invisible pull tightened between you and Dan Heng-his name suddenly came to you, an unnatural bond snapping into place. You weren’t the only one who felt it, Dan Heng’s hand clenched into a fist, his brows furrowing as if testing something unseen.

“…It seems we are bound together.”

“What?”

Dan Heng’s words settled heavily between you.

You stared at him. “What do you mean… bound?”

Dan Heng’s expression was unreadable as he lifted his hand, fingers flexing slightly—as if testing the invisible force between you.

“I can feel it” he murmured. “A connection.” His sharp eyes flickered to you. “And so can you.”

Now that he mentioned it…

There was something tugging at your chest. A strange, lingering warmth linking you to him, like a thin, invisible thread pulling taut whenever you moved too far away.

“What the hell is this?” You instinctively took a step back.

Dan Heng didn’t stop you—he didn’t need to. The moment you moved too far, a dull ache formed at your core, forcing you to halt.

Dan Heng’s eyes narrowed. “It won’t let us separate.”

You swallowed hard, fighting the unease creeping up your spine. “Is this… because of the egg?”

“Most likely.” Dan Heng let out a slow exhale, his voice calm despite the situation. “Something unnatural happened when I hatched.”

No kidding.

You clenched the broken remnants of the egg in your hands, staring at the glowing fragments. This wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.

Dan Heng studied you carefully. “Does it hurt?”

You shook your head. “Not really… Just weird.”

He nodded. “Then we should find out how to undo it.”

Right. That made sense.

You didn’t know Dan Heng, and he didn’t know you. Staying attached like this wasn’t ideal for either of you.

But before you could say anything else, that feeling of being watched returned.

Your body tensed. “They’re still here.”

Dan Heng was already looking past you. He was silent for a moment before speaking again, voice lower this time.

“Come with me.”

You barely had time to react before he grabbed your wrist and pulled you along. The two of you disappeared into the night.

The inn was quiet, tucked away in an alley far from prying eyes. It wasn’t the most luxurious place, but it would do for the night.

Dan Heng took a seat on the small wooden chair in the corner, silent as he assessed the room. You, on the other hand, dropped onto the bed, exhausted from the night’s chaos.

“…I’ll bathe first” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

Dan Heng nodded, offering no objections. He was still tense, likely on alert in case your pursuer returned.

Steam curled from the bathroom as you let the hot water wash away the tension in your body. By the time you emerged, towel-drying your hair, you noticed something was different.

That strange, invisible pull? Gone.

You tested it cautiously, taking a few steps away from Dan Heng. No resistance. No ache. Nothing.

Dan Heng must have felt it too. He lifted a brow. “It’s gone.”

You nodded, unsure whether to feel relieved or concerned. Why had it disappeared so suddenly?

Dan Heng stood, “I’ll bathe next.”

You collapsed onto the bed. The momentary separation felt… odd. But you brushed it aside.

When Dan Heng returned, hair damp and sleeves rolled up as he towel-dried it, you caught sight of a faint scratch on his forearm.

“Did you get that earlier?” you asked.

He followed your gaze, barely sparing it a glance. “It’s nothing.”

“Still.” You grabbed a small first-aid kit from the bedside drawer. “Let me see.”

Dan Heng didn’t move, but he didn’t stop you either.

You carefully cleaned the scratch, applying a light bandage. “There. Should be fine now.”

Dan Heng watched your hands for a second before meeting your eyes. “…Thank you.”

You blinked. He was so stoic most of the time that the simple gratitude caught you off guard.

“Yeah, well.” You leaned back. “It’d be a pain if you got sick over something so small.”

Dan Heng huffed lightly, almost amused.

The atmosphere felt… more comfortable now.

For the first time since this night started, you didn’t feel like strangers.

The inn had only one bed. You figured Dan Heng wouldn’t mind sharing—after all, he had just saved your life.

But as expected, the moment you suggested it, he refused.

“I’ll sleep on the floor” he said simply, already grabbing a spare pillow.

You rolled your eyes. “You just fought someone, ran through half a forest, and got scratched up in the process. You need the bed.”

With an exasperated sigh, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him in.

Dan Heng stiffened at the sudden touch, but you didn’t let go. “Just sleep. I don’t mind.”

Ultimately, he relented, slipping under the blanket beside you—though he kept a noticeable distance.

You didn’t push it. Exhaustion weighed on you like a stone, and before you knew it, sleep took over.

A faint creak of the floor. The softest rustle of fabric.

Dan Heng’s eyes snapped open.

Intruders.

Before he could react, a hand clamped over his mouth, and a sharp pressure point strike numbed his limbs.

His vision blurred for a split second, but his focus remained sharp. They had waited until you were deep in sleep, ensuring you wouldn’t wake no matter what.

Dan Heng struggled, but his body refused to cooperate. He was lifted and carried away, the door closing behind them without a sound.

And you?

Still asleep, blissfully unaware.

You woke up to emptiness. The bed beside you was cold. The blanket was untouched, and Dan Heng was gone.

You knew something was wrong. You could feel it—not just instinctively, but physically. A sharp pull, like an invisible string tugging at your very core. It yanked you forward, as if guiding you somewhere.

Without hesitation, you threw on your shoes and bolted out of the inn.

Your feet led you through winding streets, across empty alleyways, and towards an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The closer you got, the more intense the feeling became.

When you reached the entrance, muffled voices reached your ears.

“…We know you came from the egg.”

Then, a sharp sound—a syringe being pressed into skin.

Dan Heng let out a strained breath. His usual composed presence was cracking. You peered through a small opening. He was tied to a chair, his head lowered, his breath uneven. His body trembled, muscles twitching unnaturally. Whatever they had injected him with, it was forcing a reaction out of him.

One of the men stepped closer. "If you won't talk, we'll just—"

With the element of surprise on your side, you grabbed the nearest metal rod and slammed it into the first guy’s head. He crumpled instantly. The second turned, but you had already kicked him square in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. You twisted the third man's arm back and sent him crashing into the interrogation table.

Three down.

Your chest heaved, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Then, you turned to Dan Heng.

His head was still lowered, his fingers curled tightly into fists. His breathing had grown heavier—not from exhaustion, but from something else.

You approached carefully. “Dan Heng…?”

A tremor ran through his body. Slowly, he lifted his head.

And his eyes— Not the calm, reserved gaze you knew.

The moment your eyes met, you knew this wasn’t Dan Heng.

His usually composed expression was gone, replaced by something feral. His chest heaved, his muscles tensed, and the eerie glow of his newly-formed horns cast an unnatural light against the dim room.

Then, he lunged. You barely managed to dodge in time. His fingers grazed your shoulder, sharp nails cutting through fabric. He wasn’t holding back.

"Dan Heng, snap out of it!" you shouted, ducking under his next strike.

But there was no response.

His attacks were relentless, each blow precise, deadly.

Your back hit the wall.

His hand shot out, aiming straight for your throat.

And in that moment, his body gave out.

Dan Heng collapsed right in front of you.

The tension in the air vanished. His breath came in sharp gasps, his body still trembling from whatever those men had done to him.

You didn’t waste time.

You dragged him home.

A day passed.

You sat beside his unconscious form, watching for any sign of change. The bond between you had flickered—then disappeared entirely.

And his body…

His features were different now.

His ears— sharper, more elongated. His horns— translucent green, curling back in the shape of a dragon’s. Whoever those men were, they must have known. They were after Dan Heng’s power.

When he finally woke up, his body tensed immediately. His gaze landed on you, and for a moment, you feared he’d attack again.

Then, slowly, his breathing steadied.

“…You are alive.” His voice was hoarse.

“Of course I did.” You frowned. “Though you almost killed me, you know that?”

“…I know.” His fingers curled into the sheets. “And yet, you didn’t leave.”

“You can explain later.”

You reached out carefully, brushing his bangs back to check for a fever. His new horns brushed against your wrist.

For now, you’d both deal with the consequences together.

Dan Heng sat on the edge of the bed, fingers lightly brushing against one of his newly-formed horns. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders was clear.

You crossed your arms, staring at him. "Why did you turn into...that?"

He glanced up at you, his sharp blue-green eyes filled with uncertainty. "I don’t know."

Most of his human form had returned, but some of the dragon-like features remained. His elongated ears, his translucent green horns… they were all still there.

He looked down at his own hands. "I shouldn’t have changed in the first place. I was… altered."

"Well, you came from the egg I got, so that makes you my responsibility."

"You say that so easily."

"Because it’s the truth," you shot back. "You’re new to life here, right? You don’t even know how things work. If I leave you alone, you might get kidnapped again."

He couldn’t argue with that.

"Come on. You need to learn how to live like a normal person."

“…You’re seriously taking this upon yourself?"

"Obviously. If I don’t, who will?" You raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather run around in the open and get captured again?"

“…Very well. I’ll leave myself in your care.”

For now, you’d carry on.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

Dan Heng adjusted quickly to life here, following your instructions without complaint. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he listened, observed, and adapted well.

And then… you started noticing something strange.

One morning, as he sat at the small dining table, sipping the tea you made, you caught something in your peripheral vision—his horns were fading.

You blinked. Was it a trick of the light?

But then later that day, after you dragged him to the market (much to his dismay), his horns reappeared. His sharp ears elongated again, and—most alarming of all—he briefly grew a tail.

You nearly choked on air when you saw it.

Luckily, it vanished quickly, but you had seen it.

"Dan Heng" you called, suspicious.

He looked at you, unfazed. "What?"

You squinted. "…Are you aware that you’re…changing?"

He froze for a fraction of a second, but that was enough confirmation.

You crossed your arms. "Your horns. Your ears. A tail, Dan Heng. What’s causing it?"

His eyes flickered downward. A thoughtful silence stretched between you before he finally admitted, "I don't know. But…" his gaze met yours again, "It only seems to happen when I feel… displeased."

You stared at him. "So you're telling me… the more annoyed you get, the more dragon-like you become?"

He nodded.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "Great. So I just have to keep you happy or else you’ll start sprouting more parts?"

Dan Heng didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his expression shifted—just slightly. His usual calm mask gave way to something more… pleased.

And in that moment, his horns… faded.

Wait a damn minute.

Your eyes narrowed. "…You like hearing that, don’t you?"

Dan Heng tilted his head, feigning innocence

You had a feeling this was going to be a huge problem.

You weren’t one to leave things unexplored—especially not something this bizarre.

So naturally, you had to test it out.

Test #1: Jealousy

Dan Heng rarely reacted strongly to anything. He was composed, observant, and rarely raised his voice. But you needed to see if strong emotions—specifically negative ones—would bring his features back.

So, you made him jealous.

It was subtle at first. A passing remark about someone at the market being “pretty nice.” An offhand comment about how they “seemed dependable.”

Dan Heng didn’t react outwardly.

But when you jokingly mentioned that someone offered to “show you around sometime,” his sharp ears reappeared.

You almost dropped what you were holding.

Dan Heng noticed too. He frowned, touching his ear. “That’s—”

Gotcha.

“Relax," you waved a hand, feigning innocence. "I was just talking."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. But after a long, assessing look, his ears faded again.

Test #2: Comfort

Later that evening, after he bathed, you casually offered, "Want me to dry your hair?"

"That’s unnecessary—"

"Sit!" you ordered, grabbing a towel.

Dan Heng hesitated but complied.

You gently ruffled the towel through his damp hair, fingers lightly brushing his scalp. You expected him to tense—but to your surprise, he relaxed almost instantly.

And then, in real time, his horns disappeared.

"Something wrong?" he murmured, his voice oddly softer than usual.

You exhaled. "…No."

But internally, you were screaming.

Test #3: Annoyance

The next day, he accidentally broke your favorite dish.

It wasn’t his fault—it slipped from the counter. But you sighed dramatically and gave him a look of disappointment.

Dan Heng immediately grew a tail.

The absolute panic on his face made you bite back laughter. He glared at you, realizing what was happening.

"You’re doing this on purpose" he accused.

"Me?" You blinked innocently. "Never."

He narrowed his eyes. But his tail disappeared soon after.

Final Test: Sleeping Together

One night, as you prepared for bed, you hesitated before asking, “Is it okay if I hug you to sleep?”

Dan Heng didn’t answer right away. But after a long moment, he nodded.

You took it as permission and settled beside him, arms loosely wrapping around his waist. His body was warm—steady. For once, he wasn’t tense.

And then—

His dragon features faded entirely.

Dan Heng noticed immediately. “What?”

You pulled back slightly, staring at him. "You're… normal again."

His breath hitched slightly. He glanced down at himself—his hands, his reflection in the dim window. His horns, ears, tail—all gone.

Silence filled the room.

Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “…So I need you close to stay like this?”

That might be a problem. But you are still testing it out.

----

You’d caught Dan Heng using his water manipulation abilities more than once.

At first, it was small things—drying dishes without a towel, cooling his tea without ice, sneaking a splash into his bath without touching the faucet.

But then, he started abusing it.

One evening, you walked into the living room only to see the floor miraculously cleaning itself. A thin layer of water swept across the wooden panels, neatly gathering dust into a single puddle before disappearing entirely.

Dan Heng stood nearby, looking completely indifferent—as if he hadn’t just commanded the water like a personal cleaning tool.

You folded your arms. “Really?”

He didn’t even flinch. “It’s efficient.”

You squinted. “It’s lazy.”

He turned his head slightly, not denying it.

After that, he got sneakier. Whenever you weren’t looking, something would conveniently be cleaned, cooled, or wiped away.

You caught him again a few days later. This time, he vanished the evidence before you could properly scold him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” he said flatly, even as the faintest ripple of water shimmered at his fingertips.

----

One day, you brought two friends home.

Caiyu—a friendly, outgoing woman with a sharp tongue, and Ren—a male friend who was, in your opinion, just a little too clingy.

Dan Heng immediately did not like him.

At first, he was quiet. Watching from the side. But every time Ren leaned in—too close, too casual—Dan Heng’s brows furrowed just a little deeper.

Then, one moment, Ren reached out, casually touching your shoulder. Not anything inappropriate—just a familiar gesture.

A chill ran through the air. Your tea, which had been warm seconds ago, suddenly turned ice cold.

You paused, frowning at the cup. “Huh…?”

Caiyu looked between you and Dan Heng, her eyes narrowing.

Ren, completely oblivious, continued talking.

Dan Heng didn’t say a word. But the next time Ren got too close, the humidity in the room mysteriously spiked.

Ren tugged at his collar. “Why is it so stuffy in here all of a sudden…?”

Caiyu, still watching, slowly smirked. “Oh, I think I know why.”

You, still oblivious, just nodded. “Yeah, weird weather today.”

Dan Heng, standing nearby, simply took a sip of his still-hot tea.

After Caiyu and Ren left, you finally turned your attention back to Dan Heng—only to pause.

The horns were back.

Sharp, translucent green, curling from his head like some majestic beast of legend. His ears had sharpened too, and there was something… tense about his posture.

“…You good?”

Dan Heng didn’t answer immediately.

“Do you always let others cling to you like that?”

“…Huh?”

“Ren.”

“What about him?”

Dan Heng exhaled slowly, as if holding something back.

You, still completely clueless, smirked. “What, are you jealous?”

That was meant to be a joke. But the way Dan Heng didn’t immediately deny it made your smirk waver.

…Wait.

Before you could press the topic further, a sudden movement caught your eye.

A cockroach.

Right there. On the floor. Near your foot.

“—GAH?!”

Panic shot through you instantly. Without thinking, you jumped onto Dan Heng, clinging to him with zero shame.

“GET RID OF IT!!!!!!” you yelped, burying your face into his shoulder.

You didn’t notice his reaction, too busy clutching onto him like your life depended on it. “Dan Heng, I swear to everything, if you let that thing crawl near me—”

He finally spoke. “…I will. On one condition.”

Your head snapped up. “What? What condition?”

Dan Heng’s gaze was unreadable, but his horns shimmered slightly under the light. His fingers ghosted over your back before settling at your waist.

“Stay like this a little longer.”

“…Excuse me?”

Dan Heng’s hold on you was firm but not forceful, his fingers pressing lightly at your waist like he was testing something. Meanwhile, the cockroach was still there.

“You heard me.” His voice was impossibly calm, but there was something else in it—something almost amused. “I’ll get rid of it. But you stay like this a little longer.”

You were about to argue, to call him out for using a life-threatening situation to his advantage—

Then the cockroach moved.

“…Fine.” You clung onto him harder, burying your face into his shoulder with zero dignity. “Just get rid of it already.”

Dan Heng exhaled, the sound low and satisfied. Then, with a simple flick of his fingers, a small stream of water shot toward the cockroach—blasting it out of sight.

You peeked out. “Did you drown it?”

“Something like that.”

“…Good enough.”

Now that the danger was gone, you relaxed—but for some reason, you didn’t pull away.

Dan Heng seemed to notice. “You’re still holding onto me.”

“…Shut up. I’m recovering.”

His chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle.

And that was when you finally realized the horns were gone. His dragon features had completely disappeared.

“…Wait.” You leaned back slightly, inspecting his now normal face. “Did they—disappear because of this?”

“Maybe.”

Something told you… he wouldn’t mind testing it out again.

---

The search for answers had been fruitless.

You had dragged Dan Heng to healers, scholars, and even underground doctors—yet not one of them could determine what that liquid was or why his dragon features kept appearing whenever he was displeased.

And so, when you heard whispers of a secret bidding event known to deal in rare, illicit goods, you knew it was your best shot.

Disguised in ordinary robes and masks, you and Dan Heng snuck into the venue—a dimly lit hall, buzzing with the low murmur of eager bidders. Items were displayed one by one on a grand stage, and men in luxurious garments raised their hands with absurdly high offers.

It was a strange, unsettling place.

And then—

You saw it. On the display, contained within a reinforced glass case, was a small vial. The liquid inside gleamed with an eerily familiar glow.

“That’s it!” you muttered. “That has to be what they injected into you.”

Dan Heng's gaze was locked onto the vial, his jaw tightening. You knew he recognized it too.

The auctioneer’s voice boomed through the hall.

"A special concoction from an unknown source. Its properties? A mystery! But I assure you, its effects are... fascinating. Let’s start the bidding!"

The first bid came instantly.

“300,000 credits!”

Your stomach dropped.

That was way too much.

Dan Heng turned to you, voice low. “How do you want to handle this?”

You already knew the answer.

You weren’t leaving without that vial.

There was no way you could win a bidding war against the wealthy elites here. The price was already skyrocketing, and you didn’t have that kind of money.

You turned to Dan Heng. “We’re stealing it.”

He nodded without hesitation. “I figured.”

The auction continued, the price climbing higher and higher, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. Instead, you were scanning the room, noting the positions of guards, escape routes, and blind spots.

One of you would create a distraction. The other would take the vial.

“Let me handle the distraction” Dan Heng murmured. “I can draw them away without getting caught.”

You weren’t sure about that.

He was strong, yes. But the whole reason you were here was to fix his condition—not make it worse.

“No” you decided. “I’ll do it. You grab the vial.”

Dan Heng’s brows furrowed, but before he could argue, the auctioneer slammed his gavel down.

“Sold for 850,000 credits!”

You inhaled sharply. It was time.

The moment the winner stepped forward to claim the vial, you moved. With a quick motion, you reached into your sleeve and tossed a smoke bomb onto the stage—

People shouted, some scrambling away while others drew their weapons. The guards rushed in, pushing through the panicked crowd

And in the cover of the smoke, Dan Heng struck.

By the time the haze began to clear, he was already at your side, the vial secured in his grip.

“We need to go.” He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the nearest exit.

Guards were closing in.

But you weren’t worried.

You had what you came for.

Now, you just had to get out alive.

---

Pain.

That was the first thing you felt when consciousness returned.

Your entire body ached, and every breath felt like it scraped against raw wounds. You groaned, trying to move—

Only to feel a strong grip on your wrist.

Dan Heng was at your bedside, his expression eerily blank. But his eyes—his eyes told another story.

Shock. Relief. Unfiltered rage.

For the first time, you saw green scales creeping across his face. They shimmered under the dim light, spreading like cracks in a fragile mask. His normally sharp features were even sharper, his dragon-like horns fully visible.

“I thought you were dead.”

You blinked, still disoriented. “How long was I out?”

“Five days.”

Something had happened while you were unconscious.

Your surroundings were unfamiliar, but the faint smell of blood and burnt metal lingered in the air. Your wounds were bandaged, but you could tell the medical supplies used were not from a standard clinic.

“…Dan Heng. What did you do?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers tightened around your wrist, as if reassuring himself that you were still there.

“I lost control.”

You knew what that meant.

The people from the auction house—the guards, the bidders—none of them stood a chance.

You had seen glimpses of his power before. But this?

This was different.

You reached up, your fingers grazing the scales on his cheek. He stiffened under your touch, but didn’t pull away.

“…I’m still here” you said softly.

“I thought I lost you. You don’t understand—I would’ve destroyed everything. I would’ve—”

You pressed a hand over his, grounding him.

“You didn’t.”

Dan Heng’s grip loosened slightly. His features, still twisted with emotions, slowly softened.

For a long moment, he simply stared at you. Then, as if needing further confirmation that you were alive, he pulled you into his arms.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his body trembling ever so slightly.

“…Don’t scare me like that again.”

“I won’t.”

You shifted slightly in his embrace, trying to adjust to the strange sensation against your skin. His scales pressed against your cheek as he held you even tighter.

"Dan Heng" you muttered, half-jokingly, "your scales are poking me."

To your surprise, he tightened his grip. His arms caged you in, his warm breath fanning against your neck.

“…Then endure it.”

His voice was quiet, almost sulky.

You sighed, but didn't protest. And soon enough—the sensation disappeared.

You pulled back slightly, noticing his features softening. His scales had faded away, his horns receding as if they’d never been there.

You blinked. So it really was connected to his emotions.

Still, you needed answers.

Later that day, you took a small sample of his scales—without him noticing—and sent it to a trusted friend in the field of alchemy and medicine.

The response came quickly: an antidote was possible.

But when you brought it up to Dan Heng—

"I don’t want it."

"You don’t even know what it does."

His gaze was steady. "It doesn’t matter. Everything as it is… is fine."

You felt the weight in his words. He wasn’t just talking about the scales—he was talking about you, about this, about the bond you both shared.

And as if the universe had heard him, the bond reappeared.

A faint glow flickered between you both—unseen by your eyes, but deeply felt.

Dan Heng dragged you into the kitchen, his grip firm yet careful.

“You need a proper meal” he said, his voice carrying no room for argument.

You sighed but let him. Things were tricky now—you couldn't stray too far from each other. If you did, the bond would start pulling you back, an invisible force tethering you together.

---

A group of strangers approached you outside, eyes filled with intentions you didn’t like. Dan Heng acted before you could, sending them flying with a single strike.

And just like that—the bond disappeared again.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but Dan Heng did.

That night, when you were fast asleep, he moved silently.

In his hand was a small vial—one he had secretly extracted from himself. With quiet precision, he used it on you.

Would you become like him? Would you be changed as he was?

He needed to know.

Nothing happened.

At least, not immediately.

Dan Heng watched you carefully the next day, but you looked fine. No horns, no scales, no tail. You were just... you.

Maybe it was different because of his origin. Maybe his bloodline couldn’t fully transfer to you. Or maybe it needed more time.

But one thing did change. You recovered unnaturally fast. The injuries that should’ve taken weeks to heal were already fading. And there was a downside—your temper.

You found yourself easily irritated, snapping at things you wouldn’t normally care about. The effect wore off soon, but Dan Heng took note of it.

Then, you felt it.

The slightest change.

Your ears—it was faint, but they weren’t the same. They twitched, sharper than before, more sensitive to sound.

No horns, no scales, but... you were just like him now.

And, of course—you would never know it was his doing.

Dan Heng watched as you slept, your breathing steady, your body finally adjusting.

It had taken time. More than he expected. The first dose had only changed your ears, but that wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

So he spent weeks—studying, gathering, experimenting.

And finally, he succeeded.

The last vial, carefully prepared, had worked exactly as he intended.

Your body had accepted it. Your features had shifted—not just the ears this time.

Under the moonlight, faint scales shimmered on your skin. Not as prominent as his, but there. A part of you now.

And with that change, the bond solidified.

No longer a fragile link. No longer something that could fade.

It was permanent.

Dan Heng exhaled, letting the weight of it settle in his chest. This was what he wanted. For you to be the same.

For you to never be able to leave.

And when your eyes fluttered open, you felt it too.

The connection. Stronger than ever. Binding you to him in ways you couldn’t yet understand.

Dan Heng offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his sharp, knowing gaze.

“Good morning.” he murmured.

You are his now.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #dan heng #hsr dan heng #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng x y/n

476 notes · View notes

sweaterkittensahoy · 2 months ago

Text

A quick resource round up if you need yarn and shopped at Joann

I don't remember all of Joann's brands, so forgive me if I miss one, but here's everything I can think of that either will help you buy stuff you've used or give you a new place to look for yarn.

Yarnspirations will have everything for Red Heart, Caron, Patons, Lily Sugar 'n' Cream, Bernat, Aunt Lydia's, and Coats & Clark. (I made a post about this yesterday but don't want to skip it.)

Lion Brand's website will have any Lion Brand you need.

Plymouth yarn is one of those companies that shows you what they have but then you have to look at their shop list to find it.

Yarn.com is a huge yarn selling company with a lot of options, including Plymouth.

Creative Yarn Source is a website where you can get Omega-brand threads and yarns. I don't know if Hobby Lobby still carries Omega, but they did 15 years ago (I made a terrible vest [my fault; not the yarn] right before we moved to PDX). Lots of thread sizes and colors.

Knitpicks has size 10 and size 3 thread in a bunch of colors. It's called Curio. It's under laceweight. For a good acrylic worsted, I recommend their Brava. I also prefer their Dishie to Sugar 'N' Cream just because I like how it softens up a bit more.

We Crochet is actually just Knitpicks but aimed at primarily crocheters rather than knitters. They don't one-to-one on yarn options, which bothers me, but I'm sure it's based on what crocheters buy most often vs. what knitters buy most often. That site also has some extra brands on it, too.

If you need to sub a yarn, yarnsub.com is literally just that. They have a whole rating system. I've used it several times to source similar or replacement yarns.

Hobbii has always been a great resource for me, but if you are looking for an exact yarn, it's not going to be what you need. It's a Danish company, so shipping takes a little time, but every yarn I've gotten from them I've really liked. Their "Friends" line has stuff I would definitely consider workhorse sort of options.

Wool and the Gang has a website where you can buy directly from them.

Big Twist yarns has a website, but it just sends you to Amazon to buy, so here's the link to the page of it from Craftz brand. You can use this same link to get the Easy Peasy yarn for Woobles.

Premier Yarns has a website where you can buy directly from them.

Herrschners carries a bunch of different yarns, and if you like kits, that's a lot of their business.

#joann #yarn resources #i'm sure i missed a couple brands in there #but that'll get you started

585 notes · View notes

iraot · 3 months ago

Text

Word Count: 5,247 Warnings: anxiety, overthinking, worrying, talks of infertility, self worth worries, zayne being literally the most perfect man to walk the planet AO3 Link

"If my wife is an overthinker, then I'll be an over-explainer; I have no problem putting her mind at ease."

The first time Zayne realized she was an overthinker, they were sitting in his car, parked outside her apartment building. The rain had come in early that evening, drumming against the windshield in a steady rhythm. It was the kind of rain that blurred street lights into soft halos and made the world feel smaller, quieter.

She had been staring out the window for the past three minutes, her fingers idly tracing patterns into the condensation forming on the glass.

“You’re thinking too hard about something,” Zayne said, his voice cutting through the hush of the car’s interior.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening slightly. “I—what?”

He turned in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “You get quiet when you’re overthinking. And you do this thing with your fingers.” He gestured vaguely to the absentminded movement of her hand against the window.

She glanced down, like she hadn’t even realized she was doing it. A small, embarrassed smile flitted across her lips before she sighed. “It’s nothing.”

He waited.

She sighed again. “Okay, fine. It’s just... I had a really nice time tonight.”

Zayne frowned slightly. “That’s what you’re overthinking?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “You’re overthinking something good?”

She huffed, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, curling into herself. “Because what if this doesn’t work? What if I like you more than you like me? What if I say something stupid and ruin everything? Or what if I’m not what you actually want, and you just haven’t realized it yet?”

There it was. The spiraling. The way her thoughts tangled into each other like threads pulled too tight.

Zayne inhaled slowly. He could have told her not to worry. That she was being ridiculous. That none of those things would happen. But he already knew that wouldn’t help. She wasn’t the kind of person who needed vague reassurances. She needed facts. Proof. A detailed breakdown of exactly why her fears were unfounded.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel once before turning to her fully. “Alright. Let’s go over the variables, then.”

She blinked. “The variables?”

“Yes. First, you said you had a nice time tonight.”

“I did.”

“Well, so did I. That cancels out the first worry—this isn’t one-sided.” He tilted his head slightly. “And the second one, about saying something stupid? Statistically speaking, everyone says something dumb at some point in a relationship. I myself have said incredibly stupid things before.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Like what?”

He exhaled through his nose, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. “When I was in med school, I was so sleep-deprived that I once called my professor ‘Dad’ in the middle of a lecture.”

Her lips parted, and then, despite herself, she snorted.

Zayne grinned. “Exactly. Embarrassment is inevitable. If you say something stupid, I guarantee it won’t be worse than that.”

She let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. But then her shoulders tensed again, the deeper worry still sitting in the back of her mind. “And the last part?”

“That you’re not what I actually want?” He shifted slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make her really hear him. “I don’t go on dates for fun. My job is too demanding, my time too valuable, to waste it on something I don’t care about.” He held her gaze, steady and sure. “If I didn’t want this—didn’t want you—I wouldn’t be here.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft patter of rain against the windshield.

She inhaled, her fingers still wrapped in the sleeves of her sweater. “You really have no problem over-explaining things, do you?”

Zayne’s lips twitched, his hazel-green eyes warm despite the dim lighting. “Not if it helps.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, and he could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her expression, finally unwinding.

Later, when she climbed out of the car and lingered at the door for just a second longer than necessary, he rolled down the window and called out, “By the way.”

She turned.

“I’m going to kiss you next time,” he said. “Just so you don’t overthink it when it happens.”

Her breath hitched, but this time, it wasn’t worry in her eyes. It was something softer, something lighter.

And when she smiled before slipping inside, Zayne knew—this would not be the last time he had to explain things to her.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

It started with a text message.

She had sent it while he was finishing up rounds at the hospital—just a simple, Hey, are you free later?

Zayne had responded a few minutes later, something casual, something easy. Yeah, want me to pick you up after my shift?

But by the time he pulled up outside her place, she was already pacing the sidewalk, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

He could see it before she even got in the car—the slight crease between her brows, the way she kept worrying at the inside of her cheek with her teeth. He knew that expression now. Knew the way her body language shifted when she was spiraling, thoughts looping over themselves in an endless, tangled mess.

She climbed in, shutting the door a little too carefully, like she was afraid of making too much noise.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at her as he pulled away from the curb. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated, fingers tightening in the fabric of her skirt. “It’s stupid.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t mind stupid.”

She huffed, a tiny, almost-there laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. For a few moments, she just stared out the windshield, like she was trying to put her thoughts in order.

Finally, she murmured, “I think I annoyed you today.”

His brows lifted slightly, glancing at her again. “When?”

“This morning. When you were at work. I texted you first, and I don’t know, you just took longer to respond than usual, and your reply seemed kind of... short?” She bit her lip, looking away. “And I know you were busy, I know that, but my brain just kept thinking, what if I was being annoying? What if I’m one of those people who doesn’t realize they’re texting too much, and I—”

Zayne took one hand off the wheel and reached over, slipping his fingers beneath hers and prying them loose from where she was gripping the hem of her skirt. He laced their fingers together, squeezing just enough to make her pause.

“You weren’t annoying me,” he said, voice steady, certain. “I was in the middle of rounds when you texted. I answered as soon as I had a second.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know that, but—”

“But your brain still decided to worry about it anyway,” he finished for her.

She let out a breath, tilting her head against the seat. “Yeah.”

He turned onto a quieter street, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. “Okay, let’s analyze this. If I was annoyed, what do you think I would’ve done?”

She swallowed. “Maybe not respond at all.”

“Right. But I did respond. And even if I was annoyed, what would the logical next step be?”

She blinked. “Um... you’d probably talk to me about it?”

“Exactly.” He brought her hand up briefly, pressing a kiss to the back of it without taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t do passive-aggressive things. I don’t do silent treatments. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to guess.”

She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening in his.

Zayne glanced at her again, taking in the way her shoulders had dropped, just a little. It was always like this—her worries curling tight around her like vines, and him untangling them one by one.

A beat of silence passed, then she muttered, “I really need to rewire my brain.”

Zayne’s lips quirked. “Or you could just keep me around. I don’t mind doing the rewiring for you.”

This time, she actually laughed, a quiet, breathy thing, but real.

And when he finally pulled into the parking lot of the little café they liked, he didn’t let go of her hand, even after he put the car in park.

He turned to her fully, thumb stroking slow circles over her knuckles. “I’m not going to disappear just because you send me a text,” he said. “Or because you overthink. That’s not how this works.”

Her gaze softened. “No?”

“No,” he said, firm, final. Then, because he knew her, because he knew the way her mind worked, he added, “And if you ever actually are annoying, I’ll let you know in excruciating detail.”

She let out a startled, half-exasperated laugh, shoving his arm lightly. “God, you really don’t shut up, do you?”

His lips twitched. “Not when it comes to you.”

And later, when they sat across from each other at the café, her foot nudging his beneath the table, he could see it—the way she breathed easier, the way the storm in her mind had finally stilled.

And that was enough.

Zayne found her sitting on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by half-filled moving boxes, staring at an empty suitcase like it had personally wronged her.

She didn’t even look up when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. He could see it—her mind running laps around itself, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweatpants, the way she chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“You’re overthinking,” he said, because he had long since stopped bothering with preambles.

She sighed. “I know.”

Zayne pushed off the door frame, stepping over a pile of bubble wrap as he crouched beside her. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go through it.”

She groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “God, I hate that you know me this well.”

His lips quirked. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He nudged her knee with his own. “Talk to me.”

She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to the half-packed boxes around them. “What if this is a mistake?”

His brows lifted. “You think moving in with me is a mistake?”

“No! I mean—yes? Ugh.” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “I want to live with you. I love being with you. But what if it changes things? What if I get on your nerves? What if I do something weird and you realize you actually hate the way I load the dishwasher or fold my clothes or—I don’t know, breathe too loud at night?”

Zayne blinked. “I already know you breathe too loud at night.”

Her hands dropped from her face. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve fallen asleep next to you plenty of times. Sometimes, you make this little noise when you exhale, like a tiny sigh.” He smirked. “It’s actually kind of cute.”

She gaped at him, horrified. “I do not.”

He shrugged. “You do. But see? I already know. And I still want you to move in.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then huffed. “That’s not the point.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly. “Then what is the point?”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweatshirt. “I guess... I just keep thinking, what if I ruin it? We’re good right now. What if living together messes everything up?”

Zayne let the silence stretch between them for a moment, studying the way her breath had gone shallow, the way her knee bounced like she was trying to shake off the thoughts clinging to her.

Then he reached for her hand, unfolding her fingers from where they were gripping her clothes, lacing them with his. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s analyze this.”

She groaned again. “You and your analyzing—”

“Shh. I’m working.”

Despite herself, she let out a breath of laughter, small but real.

Zayne continued. “So, let’s start with facts. You love me.”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

“And I love you.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And we already spend most of our time together anyway.”

She hesitated. “Well... yeah.”

“And I already know about all your little quirks.” His voice softened. “I know you keep the spoons separate from the forks in the dishwasher because it ‘just feels right.’ I know you have to have a blanket on you even when it’s hot. I know you like your coffee way too sweet, and I know that when you’re tired, you forget to drink it entirely and then complain when it gets cold.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face.

“I know you,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier. “And you know me. This isn’t a risk, it’s a next step. And if something comes up, we’ll handle it. Together.”

She inhaled slowly, like she was trying to let the words sink in, like she was testing their weight in her mind.

Zayne squeezed her hand. “And for the record?”

She blinked at him.

“I want to live with you,” he said simply. “Not just because it’s convenient, not because it’s ‘the next step,’ but because when I come home after a 12-hour shift, I’d rather collapse into bed with you than spend the night wishing you were there.”

Her breath hitched, and for a second, he thought she might cry. But instead, she surged forward, pressing her forehead against his, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

“You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she murmured.

He smirked. “Of course. That’s my job.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting her head so her nose brushed his. “I love you.”

Zayne’s smirk softened into something smaller, something real. “I know.”

She groaned, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still want to live with me,” he said, smug.

She rolled her eyes, but when she sat back, the crease in her brow was gone, the tension in her shoulders finally unwound. She looked around at the boxes again, and this time, her expression wasn’t one of panic, but quiet determination.

Zayne stood, brushing dust off his knees before offering her a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s finish packing.”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a second before slipping hers into it, letting him pull her up.

And later, when they were surrounded by the last of the packed boxes, when she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping her too-sweet coffee while he flicked through the TV channels, she leaned against him and whispered, “I can’t believe I almost let my brain talk me out of this.”

Zayne hummed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Good thing I never shut up, huh?”

She smiled against his shoulder, and he could feel it—the moment she finally, finally let herself believe.

Her hands were shaking.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, too caught up in the chaos of the wedding preparations—her mother fussing over last-minute details, the makeup artist dusting powder over her cheekbones, the soft hum of music floating in from the reception hall. But now, standing in the bridal suite with her veil pooled over her lap, fingers clenched in the fabric, she realized—she was trembling.

Because Zayne wasn’t here.

And he was never late.

She kept staring at her phone, at the last message he had sent over an hour ago: On my way. Can’t wait to marry you.

No updates. No follow-ups. Just silence.

And her mind was already sprinting ahead, forming theories, catastrophizing, twisting his absence into something bigger than it was.

What if he had changed his mind?

What if he had gotten cold feet and didn’t know how to tell her?

What if she had missed the signs, what if he had only thought he wanted this but now, on the way to the altar, had realized—

Her phone buzzed.

She jolted so hard she nearly dropped it.

Zayne.

She fumbled to answer, pressing it against her ear so fast she barely registered her own breathless, “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” came his voice—calm, steady, warm. Familiar. “I need you to do something for me.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Zayne, where are you?”

“First, I need you to breathe,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, grounding cadence that always managed to cut through the noise in her head. “Deep breath in for me, okay?”

She swallowed, gripping the phone tighter. “Zayne—”

“Baby,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Her throat tightened. But she did it. Inhale, slow and shaking. Exhale, a little steadier.

“Good,” he said. She could hear the faint hum of his car’s engine through the receiver, the occasional honk in the distance. “Now, I’m going to explain what’s happening, and you will not assume the worst until I’m finished. Deal?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay.”

“There was a pile-up on the highway. No one’s hurt, but it backed up traffic for miles. I’ve been inching forward for the last forty-five minutes, and I’m about ten minutes from getting through the worst of it. I’m going to be late, but I am coming. I will be there. I am marrying you today.”

She blinked rapidly, staring at the floor. The knot in her chest loosened, but the panic hadn’t fully left. “But what if—”

“Nope,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “No what ifs. No spiraling. Tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”

She let out a shaky breath, pressing her fingers to her temple. “What if—what if this is a sign? That something’s off?”

Zayne exhaled through the receiver. Not exasperated, not frustrated—just knowing. Like he had already predicted this exact worry before she even spoke. “Alright. Let’s break that down. What would this be a sign of? That the universe doesn’t want us to be together?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, soft and unwavering, “the universe has thrown a lot worse at us, and we’re still here.”

Her breath hitched.

“Think about it,” he continued. “We survived me being in med school while you worked full-time. We survived the long shifts, the exhaustion, the nights where I fell asleep mid-conversation and you just laughed and pulled a blanket over me. We survived you almost backing out of moving in together, and me annoying the hell out of you by explaining, in painful detail, why you were overthinking it.”

That startled a breathy, half-laugh out of her. “You did do that.”

“And I was right,” he reminded her smugly. “And I’m right now, too. This isn’t a sign of anything except that traffic is shit, and I need to leave earlier next time.”

She sniffled, pressing her palm to her eyes.

His voice softened. “You still with me?”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he said, relief threading through his tone. “Now, tell me the truth—are you standing there in your dress, looking stupidly beautiful, worrying about the one thing you don’t have to worry about?”

She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Her dress fit perfectly, the veil draped like something out of a dream, the delicate lace covering her shoulders. And yet, none of it mattered. Not if he wasn’t here.

“I just—” Her throat went tight again. “I just want you here.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And I will be. But in the meantime, I need you to do something for me.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“Find my mom,” he said. “Tell her what’s happening, so she can keep everyone calm. Then, go to the mirror, look at yourself, and remind yourself that I am coming. Because this isn’t your worst fear coming true. It’s just a logistical nightmare.”

She exhaled, her heartbeat finally slowing from a frantic sprint to something steadier.

“And while you’re at it,” Zayne continued, a smirk creeping into his voice, “consider how dramatic of an entrance I’m about to make. Pretty sure me rushing in, still half in my suit, to marry you is going to be some next-level rom-com shit.”

She let out a choked laugh, rubbing her temple. “God, I hate that you’re making me laugh right now.”

“You love that I’m making you laugh right now.”

She sniffled again, but this time, she smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good. Now go find my mom,” he said. “And keep breathing. Because the next time you hear from me, I’ll be at the altar, waiting for you.”

And for the first time since she had realized he was late, she believed him.

She sat on the edge of their bed, hands clenched into the fabric of her pajama pants, staring at the single pink line on the test.

Another negative.

She had known it before she even took it—had felt it in the hollow ache of her body, in the familiar weight of disappointment pressing against her ribs. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The bathroom light was still on, its glow bleeding into the dim bedroom, casting long shadows along the walls. The clock on the nightstand read 2:13 AM, the kind of time that existed only for insomniacs and worriers.

She was both.

The floor creaked, and she barely registered the quiet rustle of blankets before Zayne’s voice, heavy with sleep, cut through the thick silence.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough-edged with exhaustion.

She didn’t answer.

The bed shifted as he sat up, and a moment later, she felt the warmth of him—his presence wrapping around her before he even touched her. A second passed, then another, and then his fingers brushed against her knee, tentative at first. Testing. Feeling out the weight of her silence.

Finally, he asked, “Another one?”

Her throat tightened. She nodded.

Zayne let out a slow breath, the kind that said I know. I know what this means to you. I know how much it hurts.

She clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her pants. “Two years.” The words felt heavy, bitter in her mouth. “Two years of tracking cycles, vitamins, doctor visits, stupid fertility teas—two years of getting my hopes up just to end up right back here.” She let out a short, sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only exhaustion. Only anger. “I think it’s time to admit it, Zayne. I might not be able to get pregnant.”

She felt his hand shift, fingers trailing slowly up her thigh before settling over hers, prying them loose from the fabric she had been clutching like a lifeline. He held her hand in both of his, running his thumbs over her knuckles in slow, methodical strokes.

“Okay,” he said. Just that. A quiet, steady acknowledgment.

Her breath hitched. “That’s all you have to say?”

“No.” His grip on her hand tightened, gentle but firm. “But I need you to tell me exactly what you’re afraid of before I tell you why you’re wrong.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. “I’m afraid that I’ll never give you a child,” she whispered. “That I’ll never be able to give us the family we wanted.”

Zayne exhaled slowly, then shifted forward, his presence overwhelming in the best way—warm, solid, here. He reached for her, guiding her between his legs so that she was sitting against his chest, her back pressed into the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, one hand slipping beneath her shirt to press against the bare skin of her stomach.

“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let’s break this down.”

She let out a half-sob, half-laugh. “God, you and your breaking things down—”

“Shh,” he hummed, kissing the side of her head. “I’m working.”

She sniffled, but she didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced slow, soothing circles over her stomach. “Fact number one: The ability to get pregnant does not determine your worth. It does not determine whether you are enough for me. You are enough. Always have been. Always will be.”

Her throat closed up.

“Fact number two,” he continued, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. There are options—treatments, specialists, other ways to have the family we want. And I say we because this isn’t your burden to carry alone. It’s ours.”

Her breath stuttered.

His arms tightened around her, his voice softening, dropping into that low, reassuring timbre that always made her feel safe. “Fact number three,” he whispered. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a baby. I married you because I wanted you.”

A sound broke from her throat, something fragile and small.

Zayne pressed his lips against the side of her neck, lingering. “A child would be a gift, but you—you’re the dream, sweetheart. You are my family.”

And that—that—was what shattered her.

The tears came fast, hot and silent, spilling over before she could stop them. She turned in his arms, pressing her face into his neck, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Zayne just held her, one hand in her hair, the other still pressed to her stomach, as if anchoring her to the reality he was trying so desperately to make her see.

They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, in the heavy stillness of a truth she hadn’t let herself believe until now.

And when she finally found her voice again, it was small, hoarse. “You always know what to say.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his lips still against her temple. “Of course. That’s my job.”

And for the first time in two years, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—they were going to be okay.

The car ride home was silent, but not the kind of silence that came with comfort.

It was the too still, too fragile, afraid-to-breathe kind of quiet.

She sat in the back seat, her body turned slightly toward the impossibly tiny person strapped into the car seat beside her. One hand hovered over their daughter’s chest, not quite touching, as if she was trying to convince herself that the gentle rise and fall of breath was real.

Zayne kept glancing in the rearview mirror, catching the way she barely blinked, the way her fingers twitched like she was fighting the urge to undo the buckle and pull their daughter into her arms.

“She’s okay,” he murmured, his voice breaking through the hush of the car.

Her gaze flicked to him, wide and uncertain. “What if she’s not?”

Zayne exhaled through his nose, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Then, statistically speaking, you will know before the car even stops.”

That earned him a glare, sharp but not real. He could see it—the way she wanted to be irritated, wanted to snap back that this is different, but she was too exhausted, too overwhelmed.

Still, she pressed her fingers gently to their daughter’s tiny chest, feeling the rhythmic little breaths beneath her palm.

The driveway appeared sooner than he expected.

It felt different, pulling up to the house with her in the car.

For years, it had been just them. Two people in a house that had once felt too big, too empty. And now, suddenly, it was as if the space had shrunk, like the walls had shifted to accommodate this new, impossibly small presence.

Zayne parked the car, then turned to look at her fully. “You ready?”

She swallowed. “No.”

His smile softened. “That’s okay. We’re doing it anyway.”

She let out a shaky breath, nodding.

He climbed out first, moving around to open her door while she unbuckled the car seat with careful, practiced motions that still felt foreign. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate as she lifted their daughter into her arms.

And then she just... froze.

Zayne didn’t rush her.

He watched as she stared down at the tiny bundle against her chest, eyes tracing every delicate feature like she was memorizing her for the hundredth time. Her fingers hovered over the soft down of their daughter’s hair, brushing lightly, reverently, as if the moment she pressed too hard, she would disappear.

“She’s ours,” she whispered.

Zayne stepped closer, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She is.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

And then, finally, she tore her gaze away, looking up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper, something heavier.

“What if we’re not good at this?” she whispered.

Zayne didn’t answer right away. He reached out, his fingers settling over hers, pressing against their daughter’s impossibly small back. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of her words settle before he finally spoke.

“Well,” he said, voice low and warm, “if we’re bad at it, she’s got no frame of reference, so she’ll never know.”

She let out a half-sob, half-laugh, and he took the car seat from her hands before she could collapse completely.

Inside, the house felt... different.

The air was heavier, charged with something new. The walls that had once held only the quiet sounds of two people learning how to love each other now had to stretch, make room for the soft, uncertain presence of someone else.

She stood in the middle of the living room, their daughter still tucked against her chest, staring at nothing.

Zayne set down the car seat and moved toward her. “Sweetheart.”

She didn’t respond.

He touched her elbow, and she blinked, startled, like she had been somewhere else entirely.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t—she’s here, and I don’t know what to do.”

Zayne let out a slow breath, reaching out, slipping his arms around both of them. He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice soft and steady. “Okay. Let’s go over what we do know.”

She closed her eyes, her breath hitching. “Zayne—”

“Shh,” he murmured. “Fact number one: She’s here. She’s real. We did it.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt.

“Fact number two: She’s warm, she’s breathing, and despite all your worrying, she seems to be a very content baby.”

She let out a shaky laugh, barely more than an exhale.

“And fact number three?” He reached down, gently brushing his knuckles against their daughter’s tiny cheek. “We love her. And that’s the biggest thing, sweetheart. That’s the thing that matters most.”

She let out a small, broken sound, pressing her face into his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

Zayne held her tighter, cradling both of them, anchoring them in the moment.

And later, when their daughter was finally asleep in her crib, when the house was still and quiet again, she curled into him in bed, her fingers tracing absent shapes against his chest.

She let out a breath. “We’re really parents now.”

Zayne pressed a kiss into her hair. “Yeah.”

A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t uncertain.

It was warm. Steady. Full.

And then, quietly, she whispered, “What if she doesn’t love us?”

Zayne exhaled a quiet laugh, pulling her closer. “She will.”

“But what if—”

“She will,” he said again, pressing another kiss to her forehead, lingering there. “Because we love her. And because she’s got the most overthinking, stubborn, impossibly wonderful mother in the world.”

She smiled against his skin.

#zayne x reader #zayne x f!reader #love and deepspace zayne #zayne lads fanfiction

433 notes · View notes