#void glide | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heesmiles · 8 days ago

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FROSTBITE p.sh

synopsis ⤑ Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader word count ⤑ 25k

warnings ⤑ smut, mentions of injury, grumpy x sunshine, ft. Ruka from baby monster, angst, probably more I'm missing...reader is heavily inspired by my yapping baby @beomiracles (serene).

crossing the line masterlist here.

Prologue.

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom.

The cold welcomed him. Not with open arms, but with teeth. It bit through the seams of his hoodie, gnawed at the edges of his breath, and curled around the ache in his knee like a reminder. The air here was always sharp, always clean, always brimming with the promise of speed and sweat and glory. But tonight, it only felt hollow. Like an echo of the past, stretched thin over the bones of now. His blades scraped against the ice with a sound that used to thrill him. Now it felt surgical, sterile, like a scalpel carving open the truth he couldn’t avoid.

He wasn’t on the team. Not really. Not anymore. Not while he recovered. And to Sunghoon, that meant the end of the world. Not playing hockey was his apocalypse. Jay said he needed time. Coach Bennett had nodded, voice clipped and clinical, masking the decision behind phrases like “risk mitigation” and “long-term recovery.” But Sunghoon knew what it meant: they didn’t trust his body, and maybe just maybe they didn’t trust him. What a load of bullshit. Sunghoon could play through the pain. He’s done it before. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little leg injury. Who cares, he’d push through. That’s what real pros did and Sunghoon would be a real pro one day.

He clenched his jaw as the thought burned through him. His knee twinged again, and he tried not to limp, tried to walk like it didn’t hurt, tried to be the player he used to be. Every movement felt like a performance for an audience that had already left the theater. And then he heard it. A laugh. Light and lilted, drifting through the rink like glitter in a snow globe. He didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.

The figure skaters were still here. Of course they were. Sunghoon let out a groan, loud enough to be heard, sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. She was the worst of them. Not in talent, but in spirit. Always smiling, always talking like life was some golden sunrise just waiting to be kissed. She had that annoying, relentless optimism, the kind that made Sunghoon’s blood itch. It wasn't just naive — it was offensive. Especially to someone like him, whose world had cracked open and swallowed him whole. How can someone look at the world and life and all that it offers and be happy about that? Life chewed you up and spit you out like old gum whenever it had the chance.

She was all light. He was the void that light avoided. Still, she twirled like the world had never wronged her. Every glide, every spin, every leap across the ice was effortless. She was a poem written in motion. And somehow, her presence made the silence of his isolation scream louder. He dragged a puck across the rink, his stick slicing through the quiet like a blade. The sound was dull, defeated. She didn’t leave. Of course not. She was too kind or too stubborn or too oblivious to understand that he didn’t want to share this place. Not with anyone. Especially not her. She skated past, the breeze of her motion catching his hoodie, lifting it for a fraction of a second. She left behind a sentence as light as her blades: “Pretty night, huh? Ice looks good.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. But figure skaters didn’t know what it was to fall and stay broken. They didn’t know what it was to wake every day and feel your identity splinter under your ribs. They didn’t know how it felt to sit in the stands while your teammates practiced without you. Laughed without you. Moved on without you.

He looked at her then, really looked. And for a moment, he thought of frostbite.

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful.

And by the time he noticed her, by the time he realized she was changing something in him, it was already too late.

After.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you again. Not when you moved like a falling star tracing soft-burning arcs in a frozen sky. Not when your laughter spilled into the rafters, bright as windchimes caught in a spring storm. Not even when you passed close enough for your perfume, warm citrus and something he couldn’t name to slip beneath his guard and settle in his lungs like memory. He focused instead on his own rhythm. On fury and fire, on the merciless repetition of sprints. Forward, brake. Backward, pivot. Turn. Drive. His blades carved the ice with the same fury that burned behind his eyes, every motion a prayer to reclaim what he’d lost.

Jay said he wasn’t ready. Coach Bennett nodded like a verdict had been passed, and just like that, his kingdom of ice and glory had crumbled beneath him. Now, he ran drills alone in the shadow-hours, a ghost trying to resurrect himself one sharp breath at a time. This was supposed to be penance. Precision. Control. But then there was you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not like that. Not with your reckless grace and your endless optimism. You spun where he sprinted. You leapt where he lunged. And you smiled like life hadn’t carved a hole in your chest and left you breathless in the wreckage. You were a contradiction. Light in a place he’d turned dark on purpose.

Still, he moved around you. Like a storm steering around a cathedral. Like a soldier tiptoeing through a garden he didn’t believe in. Until you skated into his path. He didn’t see you at first, he was locked in the repetition, the heartbeat-thunder of his blades slicing the world into before and after. But then, there you were, gliding in without hesitation, your body all poetry and provocation.

Sunghoon veered, instinct sharp and immediate. His edge caught. Balance tipped. His world lurched and for one heart-clenching second, he was weightless and helpless and human. He caught himself on the boards with a sharp breath, pain flashing down his leg like a warning flare. Behind him, your voice rose, bright, amused, infuriating.

“That was a triple lutz of fury. You okay, Mr. Thundercloud?” He turned slowly, every muscle tight with the effort not to snap.

“This is a hockey rink,” he bit out, eyes dark, voice heavy with disdain. “Not a ballerina recital.”

You just grinned, like you hadn’t heard the venom — or worse, didn’t care. “It’s called figure skating,” you replied, the words wrapped in sunlight and sarcasm. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” He stared at you for a beat too long. You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Then he scoffed under his breath, muttered something bitter and small, and pushed off again away from your voice, your grin, your golden defiance. But your laughter followed him across the ice, light as snowfall, impossible to ignore. He skated harder. Faster. Angry at the sound. Angrier at the way it stayed. You were the flame he never meant to touch. But you’d already left blisters behind.

The house loomed before him, golden-lit and quiet in the blue hush of evening. Sunghoon stepped across the threshold like a soldier returning from war, though the battlefield had only been frozen water and a girl who laughed like she belonged to the light. He limped. Not dramatically he would never allow that but enough that each step sent sparks of fire through his knee. His leg was screaming, a symphony of torn sinew and stubborn pride. He didn’t slow. Wouldn’t. Not for pain. Not for anyone.

The frat house was unusually still for a Friday night. No bass shaking the walls. No shouted dares or the sound of someone racing through the halls with a fire extinguisher again. Just a soft, echoing quiet that pressed against the walls like an old quilt — threadbare, familiar. Heeseung was probably with his girlfriend, tangled up in the kind of love that softened even his sharpest sarcasm. And Jake, well, Jake had been quieter lately too. Ever since his girlfriend’s due date began casting long shadows across his smile. The house had learned to tiptoe around anticipation, around the hush of something sacred arriving.

Sometimes Jay played his guitar in the evenings, those bittersweet chords bleeding down the stairs like spilled wine. But tonight, there was no music. Only the faint crackle of something cooking and the rhythmic clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Sunghoon followed the scent to the kitchen, where Jay stood at the stove in a hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stirring something that smelled warm and nostalgic, tomato sauce, maybe. Garlic. Something close to comfort.

Jay glanced up, eyes flicking to the limp before Sunghoon could hide it. “You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “You’re pushing too hard again. You need to slow down.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. The words hit like cold water, shocking, unwelcome. He dropped his stick against the wall with a dull thunk, the sound far too final. “I don’t need your concern,” he snapped, voice low, bitter. “And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who kicked me off the team.”

Jay’s stirring paused. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. “You weren’t kicked off,” Jay said carefully, like choosing the wrong word might light a fuse. “It’s a recovery period. You know that. It’s just protocol—”

“Protocol?” Sunghoon echoed, a scoff splitting the word in two. “You think I care what the official term is? You benched me, Jay. You and Coach. And now you want to play big brother?” Jay turned fully now, eyes steady but tired. “It’s not about playing anything. I care, Sunghoon. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re not ready yet.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Someone has to.”

There it was. The truth, bare and blunt. And it cracked something in Sunghoon, something already splintered beneath the surface. He stepped back, breath short, throat tight with all the things he didn’t want to admit: that the rink didn’t feel the same, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever skate like he used to, that you haunted the corners of his mind like a flame that refused to go out. He turned on his heel, ignoring the flare of pain that shot up his leg. “Whatever. Just—keep your advice to yourself.”

And then he was out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs two at a time like he could leave the conversation behind if he moved fast enough. The pain chased him anyway. At the top of the landing, he paused, one hand on the railing, the other clenched into a fist. The house was silent again. Jay hadn’t followed. The scent of sauce still lingered, but it no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like a life that was continuing without him.

He exhaled shakily. And behind his eyes, he saw the rink. Saw you. Spinning like the world was made of light. Smiling like you’d never been broken. He hated that it stayed with him. Hated it more that he wanted it to.

Your dorm room was warm in the way a lived-in space should be. Golden light pooled against the far wall like honey, slanting through the blinds in stripes, soft and sleepy. The hum of a quiet Friday night filtered in through the window, distant laughter, footsteps echoing down the hall, the occasional door creak or hallway chatter swallowed by plaster walls.

Ruka was where she always was at this hour, curled up at her desk like a monk in silent study, her headphones draped loosely around her neck, textbooks spread like sacred offerings across the surface. She barely glanced up when you opened the door, nose buried in something with a terrifying title, highlighter held like a dagger mid-stroke. You didn’t mind.

The two of you weren’t close, not in the way girls braided hair and whispered secrets into pillows at three in the morning. But there was a quiet kind of companionship in coexisting. She listened. You filled the air. She was younger than you, ran with a different crowd.

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. You flopped onto your bed and kicked off your shoes, legs hanging over the side like punctuation. “I swear the rink was cursed today. I could feel it in the air — like the ghosts of last season were judging me. And someone — won’t name names — almost ran me over. Again. Do I have a sign on my back that says ‘human speed bump’? Honestly, it’s impressive how fast he moves for someone with a busted knee. Like, hello? Take a nap, eat a granola bar, embrace mortality or something—”

You paused to take a breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “Anyway,” you continued, flopping dramatically onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “I survived. Mostly. Though Park Sunghoon nearly gave me frostbite with just a look. I swear, I’ve never seen someone skate like they’re mad at God.” That was when Ruka looked up.

It was subtle — a tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity beneath her steady gaze. But you caught it. The way her highlighter froze mid-air. The way one perfectly arched brow quirked in delicate, deliberate motion. “Wait,” she said slowly, voice soft but edged with intrigue. “Park Sunghoon?”

You blinked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?”

“The hockey player?”

You nodded, slower this time, as if each motion unlocked some hidden meaning. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, so rare and quiet it felt like catching a butterfly mid-flight. “He’s really cute,” she said simply. “I kind of have a crush on him.” And just like that, the air shifted.

Not drastically, no thunderclap, no sudden gust, but in the way a still lake ripples when someone tosses a stone. The world tilted a few degrees. You stared at her. Not out of disbelief, but in the strange, dissonant surprise that came from hearing someone else say his name with softness instead of frustration. Because you had only ever spoken of Sunghoon with fire in your voice. Sharp-edged. Wry. Annoyed, mostly.

But Ruka’s words were wrapped in ribbon. Gentle. Blushing. You laughed, more to yourself than at her. “Well, that makes one of us.”

She looked at you then, really looked, head tilted, eyes curious. “You don’t think he’s cute?” You hesitated. The thing was… you didn’t know. Not really. He was all sharp lines and silent storms, the kind of boy who walked like he didn’t belong to the earth. Beautiful, maybe, but in the way wolves were, wild, cold, untouchable.

“I think,” you said finally, drawing each word like a thread between your fingers, “he’s complicated.”

Ruka smiled again, turning back to her textbook with a knowing kind of grace. “Those usually are.” And just like that, the moment passed. She was back to her quiet, and you were left staring at the ceiling again, wondering when his name had started tasting different in your mouth. Like something that might linger. Like something that might matter.

Monday morning clung to the world like a yawn that never quite finished. The sky was that dreamy kind of blue, the color of notebook margins and sleepy eyes, and you were already two sips into your iced coffee, pretending it had magical properties. Your lecture hall buzzed softly with life, pages flipping, keyboards clacking, the distant groan of someone remembering they had a quiz. You sank into your seat and opened your laptop, but your fingers hovered above the keys like dancers unsure of the next step. Your mind? Miles away. Lost somewhere between calculus and chaos.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, drawing shapes in the condensation on your cup. “Finals are coming. Sure. Death approaches in a syllabus-shaped cloak. But we’re gonna be fine. We’ve survived worse. Like that chem lab last semester. Or the time you accidentally locked yourself in the practice rink because you thought the red button opened the door. That was fun.” You laughed a little to yourself, a soft musical thing, then added quietly, “Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.”

You told yourself this because optimism was your armor. Because the world was already heavy enough, and if you didn’t keep spinning, you feared you’d sink. And besides, you liked spinning. You liked believing that everything, in its own way, would bloom eventually. Your fingers tapped absent-mindedly on your notebook. You were mid-thought — something about figuring out a study schedule, maybe, with your chin resting in your hand, your eyes soft and unfocused, when the air in the room shifted.

Louder voices broke through the usual murmur like a crack of thunder across calm skies. You blinked, sat up straighter. At the back of the lecture hall, four silhouettes gathered in a tight circle. You recognized them instantly. Jay’s dark hair, Jake’s easy posture, Heeseung’s lazy slouch. And Sunghoon, standing like a blade half-drawn from its sheath, tension coiled in every muscle. Their voices weren’t loud loud, but they carried.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sunghoon bit out, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re treating me like I’ve lost a leg.” Jay said something quieter — calmer — but you couldn’t make out the words. Sunghoon shook his head, jaw clenched.

“I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I could be out there with you. But instead? I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” The words hit like a slap. No warning. No mercy. You blinked once. Twice. You looked down at your notebook, at the spirals you’d been doodling that suddenly looked like a fall. Like something unraveling.

You weren’t surprised, not really. Not when you’d seen the anger in his shoulders, the way he moved like something had been carved out of him. Grief in motion. Frustration dressed in skates and scowls. Still, hearing it out loud… hurt. Just a little. Like biting into something sweet and finding the bitter underneath.

You forced a smile. Told yourself, He’s just mad. Just hurting. And people in pain say things they don’t mean. You knew that. You’d always known that. So you tucked the ache somewhere deep, beneath the layers of warmth you wrapped around your heart every day. You held your chin a little higher. Kept the sunshine burning in your chest even when the clouds gathered.

Because that’s what you did. You stayed soft. You stayed bright. Even when the world gave you every reason not to. You glanced back at them one more time, just long enough to catch the storm still brewing in his eyes. Then you turned away. And smiled again. Even though this one didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The late afternoon folded over the campus like a well-worn quilt, stitched in gold and quiet. Shadows stretched long and slow across the sidewalks, and the sky blushed softly, unsure whether it wanted to be day or night. You walked back to your dorm with your headphones on but no music playing, just the hush of your own thoughts echoing in the space between footsteps and fading sunlight.

The building was its usual self: scuffed floors, sleepy corridors, the scent of someone's attempt at instant noodles clinging to the stairwell air. You climbed the steps like you always did, counting them beneath your breath like charms.

One, two, three, four—everything will be fine.

Five, six, seven—you're stronger than this.

Eight, nine—just lace your skates and keep moving.

Your key clicked into the lock, the door creaked open, and — Silence. Stillness, not unfamiliar, but… different. Ruka’s side of the room sat in its usual state of meticulous calm. Bed made like a hotel sheet ad, her books aligned like soldiers on her desk. But the chair was empty. Her headphones were gone. Her little desk lamp, usually the only star in your shared little galaxy was off. Your brows furrowed. She wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. She was quiet, sure. Steady as a heartbeat. But dependable as gravity. On Saturdays, she studied. With her color-coded notes and an herbal tea steaming gently beside her elbow. A ritual. A rhythm.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and stood for a moment, frozen between thoughts. The silence was thick, pressing at your ears like water, and you almost called out her name, just to hear a sound bounce back. But you didn’t. You let it go. People have lives. Maybe she went out. Maybe someone swept her into a spontaneous adventure, a brief rebellion against her usual constellations. Maybe she just needed to breathe outside these four walls. You told yourself all of this, gently, while pulling open your bottom drawer.

Inside, your skates gleamed dully in the late-day light, blades catching the edge of dusk. You ran your fingers over the laces, the leather warm from where your dreams lived inside them. Then you pulled out your duffel, began packing with practiced hands, pads, gloves, that ridiculous fleece-lined jacket you never actually wore but always brought just in case. Each item folded like a promise. Each zipper, a punctuation mark. Each movement, a ritual. This is how we prepare. This is how we carry on.

You glanced again at Ruka’s desk as you slung the bag over your shoulder, something quiet fluttering in your chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing. Just the awareness that something familiar had gone just a little bit strange.

You left the dorm with that feeling trailing behind you like a thread, caught in the breeze of your footsteps. Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Time to skate. Time to shine.

Even if someone else’s words still echoed like bruises in the back of your mind.

The rink was a cathedral of echoes when you arrived, cold light spilling from the overheads like moonlight dragged down to earth. You stepped through the side door with your duffel swinging low and your breath fogging in the air, a silent offering to the frozen gods of routine. The chill kissed your cheeks the moment you entered, familiar and unbothered by your presence. The ice welcomed you without question unlike the boy skating circles at the far end of the rink, cutting lines through frost like he was angry at the surface itself.

Park Sunghoon.

You saw him the moment you stepped through the arch of metal and fluorescent glow. Sharp lines of movement, precise but edged with frustration, like a dancer trying to turn fury into choreography. He didn’t look up. Of course, he didn’t. You might as well have been a ghost to him, a passing flicker in his periphery. And still… his words from this morning clung to you like fog to a mirror. “I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.”

You could’ve held onto that. Let it curdle in your chest. But you didn’t. You’d already chosen to let it melt like frost under sunlight. Because that was how you survived people like him, people with cold hearts and stormy eyes. You stayed warm. You stayed soft. Gooey, like a cookie. Even if his silence sliced like wind over bare skin.

You moved toward the bench in the corner, began lacing your skates with steady fingers. A familiar rhythm. Loop. Pull. Loop. Pull. You took a deep breath. Told yourself that the ice was still yours. That joy could still be found here. And then you stepped onto it. The rink hummed beneath your blades. You skated a gentle warm-up, smooth glides and soft turns, tracing patterns in silence like a painter laying down the first strokes of something that might become beautiful. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him, like a shadow trailing just out of view.

He kept his distance. Good. Let him.

You spun into your routine, finding the quiet joy in motion again. Practicing your turns, letting momentum carry you like a whispered secret. And then, a voice loud and shrill broke the icy silence between you two. “WOO! GO, SUNGHOON!” Your skate caught slightly on the edge of your turn, not enough to fall, but enough to blink you out of your trance. You slowed to a glide, turning toward the source.

There, in the bleachers near the glass, waving like she was at a concert and not a cold, half-empty rink, was none other than Ruka. Your brows lifted before you could stop them. She had swapped her usual hoodie-and-headphones look for something more casual-cute. Perched on the edge of the seat like a cat in a sunbeam. And her eyes? They were locked onto Sunghoon like he was something out of a dream she’d once dared to whisper aloud.

“Come on, you look great out there!” she called, clapping. “That last sprint? Totally NHL-worthy!” You blinked. Slowly. Sunghoon, mid-stride, skidded slightly, his jaw ticking as he looked over at her. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just the sharp exhale of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His annoyance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the way he stared past her like she was fog on the glass, there but inconvenient.

Your heart tilted sideways in your chest. Not because of the awkwardness. Not because Ruka was cheering for the very boy who had called your world a joke in a voice laced with disdain. But because you saw him. You saw how he stiffened under her praise, how his skates moved sharper, faster, like he was trying to outskate her words. Like kindness grated on him more than silence. Like admiration was a language he didn’t know how to read.

You stayed still for a moment, one hand on your hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. You watched the way he avoided your gaze with deliberate precision. Like even eye contact might unravel him. Then you took a breath. Pushed off. Returned to your own practice.

Because the ice didn’t belong to him. And your light didn’t need permission to shine.

Still, as you skated, you felt something settle into your bones. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just… the sharp awareness that everyone wore masks. Even the ones who scowled at sunshine and rolled their eyes at laughter. Especially them.

The hours unfurled like ribbons across the ice, silver and slow. You and Sunghoon spun your separate galaxies across the same frozen sky, orbiting each other in careful silence. His skates tore into the rink with force, blades slicing like twin swords, while yours curved and dipped with the grace of moonlight slipping through branches. He was precision and thunder. You were rhythm and light.

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce.

The locker room door creaked as you stepped off the ice. And there he was, Sunghoon, perched on the bench like a statue carved from winter itself. He sat hunched over his skates, fingers tugging sharply at the laces, his jaw tight, sweat painting constellations at his temple. You watched him for a beat. The way his leg trembled slightly. The sharp inhale when he shifted. Pain. Not just ghost pain, not the phantom ache of healing. Real. Present.

Your eyes narrowed, and the words came out before you could swallow them. “You’re doing it wrong,” you said, stepping forward, breath curling in the cold.

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Doing what wrong?”

“Your stride,” you said, matter-of-fact but warm, like you were offering a cup of tea to a frostbitten soul. “That’s why your leg still hurts so bad. Your form’s all off.”

He finally glanced at you, those glacier eyes narrowing, irritation flickering just behind them like lightning beneath snowclouds. “I’m what?”

“You’re playing wrong,” you repeated, standing tall despite your worn skates, your cheeks pink from the chill and adrenaline. “You’re putting too much pressure on the outer part of your knee when you push off. You’re compensating for the pain, which is making it worse.”

He scoffed. “And you’re what, a doctor now?”

“Nope.” You smiled, brightly, undeterred. “Just someone who’s fallen on her ass about a thousand times. Figure skaters crash constantly, but we know how to angle our bodies so the impact spreads. It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance. Control.” He looked back down at his skates, tugging harder now, the muscle in his forearm twitching.

“I can help you, if you want,” you offered, genuine, hopeful, stubborn. “Just with the angles. Not to overstep. Just to help you skate without pain.” He didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe — just maybe — he was considering it. That something in his storm-cloud gaze might soften. Then he snorted. “No thanks, Sunshine.”

The nickname was sharp, but not cruel. More like a brush-off wrapped in thin sarcasm, tossed over his shoulder like a towel. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and limped toward the exit, each step radiating quiet fury. You watched him go, your hands still resting on your hips, heart stung but not shattered. Because here’s the thing about sunshine. It doesn’t need permission to rise. It just does.

So you exhaled. Smiled again, just for yourself. And whispered under your breath like a promise: “Tomorrow, then.” Because you weren’t done. Not even close. The ice hadn’t melted between you yet.

You slipped through the dorm door with your skates still swinging from your shoulder, the scent of cold clinging to your hair like snowflakes that refused to melt. The hallway was dim, the kind of golden hush that only existed in the sliver of hours between late afternoon and true evening, and the air in your room felt just a degree warmer than the rink, barely but enough to sting your fingers with returning blood. And there she was.

Ruka. Curled cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, notebooks spread like wings around her. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, earbuds in, and she was scribbling something down with a pencil that had been chewed nearly to death. For a moment, you paused in the doorway. Something felt…off. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you knew people the way skaters knew their balance points — by instinct. You could feel when someone had shifted, even if they looked the same. She didn’t look up when you came in.

Still, you offered a bright little sigh, a soft smile breaking across your face like morning light spilling across your pillow. “Hey, you disappeared before I left the rink.” You tossed your bag gently onto the floor and began tugging off your coat, the fabric whispering across your skin. “Didn’t even hear you leave. Were you skating again?” You played dumb, of course.

Ruka blinked at her notebook, then slowly pulled an earbud free. Her eyes met yours. cool, calm, unreadable. “I wasn’t skating,” she said simply.

You tilted your head, fingers pausing mid-zip on your hoodie. “Oh. So… what were you doing there?”

it was a harmless question. Light as air. But her answer landed like a stone. “Just watching.” She turned back to her notes like punctuation, and you blinked. Something in her voice had been dipped in frost. Not biting, but distant. Measured. Not her usual soft-spoken stillness, the kind that let you chatter through silences without ever feeling unwelcome. No—this was different. This was cold. You stood there for a beat, hoodie half unzipped, heart tilting a little sideways.

“Right,” you said, voice laced in artificial warmth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were a fan of the rink.” Ruka didn’t reply.

You let out a little laugh, quiet, the kind that fills a space just to prove you still can. And then, still smiling, you crossed the room and sat on your bed, your bones aching from practice, your mind unraveling in quiet questions. You didn’t press. You didn’t pry. That wasn’t your way.

But you thought about the way she had cheered earlier, about how her voice had filled the cold air with warmth meant for someone else. You thought about Sunghoon, skating like he could outrun something, and the way her gaze had followed him like he was the sun she’d never dared look at before. You lay back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes, things shift before you see them coming. And sometimes, people surprise you in the quietest ways.

But still, you stayed kind. Stayed bright. Because even if the room was colder than you remembered, you refused to stop being the warmth.

The night had softened by the time Sunghoon made it back to the house, the sky bruised with the fading violet of dusk, and the air bit at his skin like it resented his stubbornness. His leg burned. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an old injury flaring, but the deep, heavy ache of something being pushed past its breaking point. Again.

The front door creaked open under his weight, and the warmth of the frat house spilled over him like syrup. thick and too sweet. Familiar voices tangled together just past the hallway. Laughter. The clink of plates. The low strum of Jay’s voice. He almost turned around. But pride is a chain wrapped around the ribs. And his wouldn’t let go. He stepped inside.

The living room glowed gold, lit by the low hum of lamplight and the occasional flicker of the muted TV. Jay was leaned back on the couch, an open water bottle in hand, while Jake sat beside his very pregnant girlfriend, who had her feet propped up on a pillow. Her belly rose like a gentle tide beneath her sweater, and her eyes shone with that ever-glowing light. soft, observant, and infinitely kind. Three heads turned as Sunghoon limped through the door, his hoodie half-zipped and damp with leftover sweat from practice.

“You’re limping worse than yesterday,” Jay said, always the captain, always the voice of reason.

Jake chimed in a beat later, his brows drawn in concern. “Why won’t you just rest, man? You’re not gonna heal if you keep pushing like this.” Sunghoon dropped his gear by the door with a heavy thud, his jaw tight, the pain crawling up his leg like a storm trying to find a place to land.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, not looking at them. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Jay sighed, the sound edged with exhaustion. “It’s not a lecture, Hoon. It’s basic logic. You’re tearing yourself up out there. You think Coach Bennett’ll let you back in if you break yourself completely?”

Sunghoon turned, irritation flashing sharp and raw in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘breaking’ if you hadn’t pulled me off the ice in the first place.”

“You’re not off the team,” Jay replied calmly, setting his bottle down. “You’re on a required recovery period.”

“The same thing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Don’t split hairs.”

A quiet cough cut through the tension, and Jake’s girlfriend — sweet as spring rain — shifted a little on the couch. “I think what they’re trying to say is… maybe listening to your body isn’t the worst idea,” she said gently, her voice like a balm. “I mean, sometimes we think we’re fine just because we want to be.”

It should’ve landed like comfort. But it struck like a match. “Mind your business,” Sunghoon said sharply, the words out before he could call them back. The room froze.

Jake’s head snapped around, his eyes flaring. “Hey. Don’t talk to my girl like that.” The silence that followed was molten. Sunghoon’s anger flickered, dimmed, and died out in a single breath. He stared at the floor, guilt pooling heavy in his chest like sleet.

“I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked, quieter now. “Sorry. That was—stupid. I’m sorry.” Jake’s girlfriend gave him a small, understanding smile. She always forgave too easily. That only made it worse.

Sunghoon grabbed his water bottle and turned away, shoulders stiff, shame clinging to him like another layer of sweat-soaked fabric. He climbed the stairs slowly, every step a needle driven into the muscle behind his knee. When he reached his room, he shut the door softly almost tenderly and stood there in the quiet, staring at nothing for a long moment. The pain was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. But deeper than that — beneath the bruised ego and the battered pride was something else.

Your voice, bright and persistent, kept echoing in his mind.

“You’re playing wrong.”“It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance.”“I can help you.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just a little. It had sounded ridiculous earlier. But now, with the pain sharp and unrelenting, and the silence of the room pressing in like a judgment, your offer didn’t seem so foolish. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it wasn’t an insult. Maybe you actually knew what you were talking about.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, leg stretched out in front of him like a broken line. The ice, the skates, the ache, the quiet praise you gave him even when he hadn’t earned it… it all blurred together. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to push the pain away. He let it sit beside him like a mirror. Maybe see you again tomorrow. And maybe… he’d listen this time.

The sky was the color of wet pearls as you made your way to the rink, the kind of soft gray that promised rain but never delivered. Your skates were slung over your shoulder, biting at your hip with every step, and your breath came out in visible puffs that floated like little ghosts of determination. You were a girl on a mission, fueled by blind optimism and an unyielding belief that even the most frozen things could melt if you were warm enough, loud enough, kind enough. And Sunghoon? He was a glacier. But even glaciers cracked under time and pressure.

The door to the rink groaned open and welcomed you with that familiar chill, that bite of air laced with the perfume of ice and steel. You stepped in like it was a cathedral, reverent in your own way, eyes scanning the space that had become your evening altar. He was there. Already. Park Sunghoon. Laced in shadow and silence.

He sat on the bench near the boards, bent over his skates, fingers threading laces with a quiet intensity, jaw set like it was carved from marble. His hair was damp at the edges, the kind of mess that spoke of someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but hadn’t quite let go of vanity either. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and for a moment you paused just a moment because something about him looked… different. He looked Less angry. Or maybe just tired of being angry. You couldn’t figure out which was which.

You marched up anyway, smile already blooming like a sunflower on your face, warmth radiating off of you in a way the ice couldn’t fight. “Okay,” you said, breathless not from the cold but from the flurry of thoughts bursting behind your eyes. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—”

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Sunghoon finally looked up. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, but not cruel. Not cold. Just quiet. “I said okay,” he repeated, voice low but clear. “Meet me here. Every weekday. 6:30 p.m. sharp.”

You stared at him, stunned into something dangerously close to speechless. “Wait. Wait, did you — did you say yes?”

“I did.”

“Well don’t deny me — wait. What.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there, almost imaginary curved at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me here on time, Sunshine.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief, the sound tumbling out of you like birds startled into flight. “Sunshine, huh? You really can’t help yourself with the nicknames.” He stood then, tall and limping slightly, but not so much that you missed the way his frame shifted lighter. Like saying yes had peeled off a layer of armor. Like hope, when it finally arrived, it didn't have to announce itself loudly; it just had to be there. “6:30,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”

You saluted with mock seriousness, grinning wide. “Sir, yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes and skated toward the ice, but this time… this time he didn’t avoid you. Not entirely. And just like that, a crack had opened in the glacier. Small. Fragile. But real. And you, all sun and stubbornness, were ready to shine straight through it.

The next day dawned with a sky stretched in pale watercolor, as if the heavens themselves were yawning awake. And you moved with purpose, energy stitched into your limbs like golden thread, skipping down the hallway with your skates in one hand and a banana in the other, mid-bite, mid-monologue about how today was going to be the day Sunghoon learned the art of surrender. Not to defeat — oh no but to gravity. To momentum. To pain that teaches rather than punishes.

The rink was quieter than usual when you arrived, its emptiness echoing with the soft hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice. The air was its usual crisp kiss, sharp enough to sting but not to bruise. Sunghoon was already there, of course, punctual and pouting. He sat on the bench with his skate half-laced and his hoodie still on, like a knight begrudgingly preparing for a battle he didn’t believe in. You practically twirled in, dropping your bag with theatrical flair. “Alright, Captain Crankypants,” you called out, voice bright and bell-clear, “today we begin with the basics. Lesson one: how to fall like a pro.”

He groaned, long and low, as if your very presence was the headache he couldn’t shake. “You want me to fall? On purpose?” His eyes flicked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, that sounds super smart.” You beamed at him, entirely unbothered. “Not just fall. Fall well. There’s an art to it, you know. A science. A rhythm. You can’t just slam into the ground like a dropped dumbbell, you’ll wreck yourself that way.”

He scoffed, standing slowly, testing his weight on that healing leg with guarded precision. “Pretty sure falling’s the last thing I should be doing if I want to get back on the ice with my team.”

“But that’s exactly why you should,” you replied, tilting your head, as if the answer was written in the frost forming along the glass. “Because falling isn’t the problem, Sunghoon. It’s how you fall. We don’t learn to stop gravity. We learn to meet it, roll with it, get back up without it stealing anything more than our breath.” His eyes narrowed, a storm cloud gathering, quiet but looming. “That’s figure skating stuff.”

“Exactly,” you chirped. “Which is why you’re lucky you’ve got me.”

He looked at you like you were speaking in tongues. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, laughing as you tugged on your gloves. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” With slow reluctance, like a stubborn mountain giving in to time, Sunghoon followed you onto the ice. His strides were careful, a ghost of his former fluidity trailing behind each push. You watched him move with a softness in your gaze, knowing he was fighting something far deeper than physical injury. He was mourning a version of himself that had been left behind in the locker room that day, when his knee gave out and the world fell with it. You stopped near center rink and turned to face him. “Okay. Watch me.”

You let yourself fall, dramatically and deliberately. A gentle twist of the hips, a tuck of the arms, a controlled slide that kissed the ice instead of collided with it. You rose just as quickly, nimble and unbothered. “See? Easy peasy, gravity is greedy but we’re smarter.”

He muttered something under his breath, something about this being ridiculous, but you caught the way his lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Just… conflict. And curiosity. “Try it,” you said, your voice dipped in sugar and sunshine. “Don’t think. Just fall. Trust that I’ll teach you how to land softer.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering across the rink like it might mock him, like it might remember how once, not long ago, it had hurt him. But finally, with a sigh that could have been mistaken for wind, he crouched a little, awkward and stiff, and let himself go. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He landed with a thud and a grunt, half-turned and slightly off balance. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t wince. And he didn’t stay down. You clapped, delighted. “Not bad! You’ve got the makings of a Bambi-on-ice!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was sitting up now, flexing his leg, and something in his face had shifted. A flicker of belief. A spark of possibility.

You offered your hand. He didn’t take it. But he stood on his own. And that, in your eyes, was progress painted in frost and stubborn hope. Practice ended in a flurry of silence and exhale, the kind that leaves your lungs aching and your limbs trembling from exhaustion masked as endurance. The rink had settled into a sleepy hush, the overhead lights casting silver puddles onto the ice like pools of moonlight spilled from a weary sky. Sunghoon had spent most of the hour gliding just beyond your reach, stoic and brooding, a storm cloud in a jersey, orbiting your sunshine in quiet, reluctant circles. But progress had been made. Not in leaps or bounds, but in small things: the twitch of a smile that he didn’t quite manage to kill, the way he didn’t protest when you told him his weight distribution was off. Tiny steps, quiet victories.

You both sat now on the bench that bordered the rink, his skates half-untied, yours dangling from your fingers as you caught your breath. His hoodie clung to him in damp creases, his hair plastered to his forehead, and yet he still managed to look like he’d stepped out of some tragic poem. A sonnet of scraped ice and stubbornness. “So…” you began, voice light as lace, “about Ruka.”

He didn’t look at you, only furrowed his brows deeper into the shadows of his lashes. “Who?”

You turned slightly, lacing one skate in slow loops as you stole a glance at his profile. “The girl who was here the other day. Cheering for you like it was the Olympics.” Realization flickered across his face like lightning fast, dismissive. “Oh. The cheerleader.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “She’s not a cheerleader, she’s my roommate. And she might have a tiny little crush on you.” Sunghoon groaned, tipping his head back as if the ceiling above might offer him divine rescue. “Great. Just what I need.”

“What, adoration?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Must be so hard.” He didn’t answer right away, his jaw working through something he didn’t say aloud. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t date.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,�� you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.”

He looked at you then, a long, lingering look, as if trying to decide whether your optimism was a costume or a calling. “I do love,” he said, softer this time. “I love the game. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“But maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” you offered, voice barely more than a breath. He let out a short laugh — dry, not cruel. “Sounds like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms you’d make me watch.”

You smiled, undeterred, pulling your coat tighter around you as the cold began to kiss at your skin. “You’d be surprised what stories can teach you.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He stood, the worn laces of his skates now untied completely, his posture tight, shoulders stiff with the ache he wouldn’t admit. He slung his bag over one arm and glanced at you, his expression unreadable under the dull glow of the rink’s overhead light.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, voice low.

“At 6:30,” you replied, standing too.

He nodded, already walking away, and you watched him disappear into the tunnel that led out of the rink, his shadow swallowed by silence. Still, even as the chill pressed into your bones and your breath misted in the air, you smiled. Because he hadn’t said no. And sometimes, that was the first word in a yes.

The frat house was pulsing, alive with sound and sweat and lights that flickered like epileptic stars. The bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, the kind that didn’t come from within you but pressed on your ribs from the outside, trying to break in. It was the kind of night made for forgetting, flashing cups, flushed cheeks, dizzy laughter. But Sunghoon had nothing he wanted to forget, only things he was trying to survive. His body was a map of ache, his knee a smoldering ember, his back tensed and twisted, his temples drumming a painful rhythm. He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve wrapped himself in the quiet and left the world to burn without him.

Instead, he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the limbs that bumped against his shoulders, the haze of perfume and cologne, the drunk declarations and loud, sloppy choruses of songs everyone pretended to know. The lights made everything look fake — skin too bright, eyes too glassy. He moved like a ghost among the living. The kitchen was a marginally calmer pocket of air, though even it buzzed with tension. Soobin stood near the counter, arms crossed, stoic in a way that looked practiced. Yunjin stood in front of him, animated, eyebrows tight and lips moving too fast, too sharp. Sunghoon didn’t catch the words, but the emotion slapped against the tile floor like broken glass. Love turned into a battlefield over cheap beer and pride.

Heeseung leaned against the fridge, sipping something bright and unholy from a red plastic cup, and Jay stood beside him, eyes flicking from Soobin and Yunjin to Sunghoon with a practiced detachment. “Rough night?” Heeseung asked, his tone too casual to be innocent.

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He glanced at the tension in the room, the cracked silence in Soobin’s stance, the hurt in Yunjin’s voice. “What’s their deal?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. Jay shrugged, reaching for a half-empty bag of chips. “Who knows. Been like that all week.”

“We try not to get involved,” Heeseung added, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Sunghoon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to grab a water bottle from the counter. The cold plastic stung his palm, grounded him for a second. The kitchen smelled like too many people and too many drinks, but it was better than the noise outside.

Jay leaned in slightly. “Hey, by the way — a girl was walking around asking for you earlier.”

At that, something in Sunghoon stuttered some quiet spark of thought, unspoken and unacknowledged. His mind flicked to you, impossibly bright and smiling, always halfway through a sentence, your words cotton candy and conviction. It was a fleeting hope, gone before he could even name it. Then Jay nodded toward the hallway, where Ruka stood, wearing confidence like perfume and eyeing the room like she owned it.

Sunghoon’s mouth twisted. The little spark of hope snuffed out before it could catch flame. “Of course,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for her to notice him. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, weaving back through the crowd, avoiding her gaze like it might pierce him. He wasn’t in the mood for polite smiles or coy compliments, not in the mood to be someone else’s fantasy when he couldn’t even bear being himself right now.

He was almost free, fingers brushing the door to his room, sanctuary just a heartbeat away when her voice cut through the noise behind him. “Sunghoon, wait.”

He froze. Not in obedience, but in dread the way a predator might freeze in the moment it realizes it’s been cornered. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, because if he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d vanish into the static of the party behind them. But Ruka didn’t vanish. She chased. Her heels clicked across the floor like punctuation in a sentence he didn’t want to read. Then her hand was on his arm — cloying, too warm, too familiar. He yanked away from her grasp like her touch burned. And maybe it did. Maybe everything burned lately.

She flinched at his reaction, then softened her voice into something apologetic and breathy, practiced like a song she’d sung too many times. “I’m sorry, okay? I just— I wanted to say something.” He said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stairwell. “She’s not who you think she is,” Ruka said then, her voice low but sharp, like a knife being slipped between the ribs. “That girl you’ve been skating with. All that sunshine and sparkle? It’s a show. She’s not that happy. She's actually really depressing.”

The words echoed strangely in the space between them, bouncing off the noise of the house and falling like lead at his feet. Sunghoon turned then, slowly, like something ancient and brimming with wrath. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes held storms. Not the kind that pass, but the kind that drown entire cities. “Mind your business,” he said, his voice cold enough to crack glass.

Ruka blinked, taken aback. Maybe she’d expected amusement. Maybe she thought he’d nod in agreement or laugh, or at the very least, care. But he didn’t laugh. And he did care and that infuriated him even more. He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and stormed back down the stairs, shoving past strangers with empty smiles and red plastic cups. The house felt suffocating, bloated with sound and people and things he didn’t have the patience for. His skin felt tight, his heart loud, his thoughts louder.

Why did it bother him? Why did her words sink under his skin like a splinter?

She didn’t know you. Not really. Not the way he’d started to. Not in the way you spoke about falling like it was an art form, not in the way you tried to fix him like he was something worth mending. He shoved out the front door, the cold air biting at his skin like it, too, had something to prove. His breath left in bursts of fog, pain pulsing behind his kneecap as if to remind him of every bruise he carried, every truth he refused to name.

He walked towards the diner that nearly everyone frequented on campus. Hoping and praying for some sense of solace.

The booth by the window smelled of syrup and coffee and the kind of late-night grease that clung to the bones of a day too long lived. The diner was warm in the way a memory is warm, buzzing neon lights humming above like lullabies, and the soft clink of forks on ceramic drifting through the air like wind chimes in a storm's lull. You sat alone, chin propped up in your palm, tracing swirls in the condensation of your water glass, legs still sore from practice but your spirit untouched, untouched the way a flame dances even after the wax is nearly gone. Your plate was half full, pancakes cut into clumsy quarters, syrup pooling in the valleys. You were halfway through recounting your own day in your head out loud, of course, because silence had never been your companion when the bell above the door rang.

You looked up. The words on your tongue stuttered into stillness. Sunghoon. It was Sunghoon.

Still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing at the rink, his hair damp with sweat or melted frost, eyes dark with something that stormed just beneath the surface. He paused when he saw you, shoulders sinking with theatrical dread. Of course, he thought. Of course you’d be here, light personified, smile too wide for the hour and heart too open for someone who’d barely gotten a thank you out of him.

“Sunghoon!” you beamed, like the sky had cracked open just to drop this moment into your lap. Your voice, effervescent as soda fizz, bounced toward him like a pebble skipping across water. He groaned. It was low, dramatic, and pulled from somewhere that wanted desperately to be annoyed, but didn’t quite make it. “Of course you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” you grinned, motioning to the seat across from you like you’d always meant it for him. “So… what brings you to this fine establishment at such a glamorous hour?”

“I was hungry,” he deadpanned, walking over with the kind of gait that whispered of pain. He didn’t explain the limp, didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Why else would someone come to a diner?” Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew.

“Touché,” you said, then leaned in with a twinkle in your eye. “Want to sit with me?”

He opened his mouth, likely to decline with something sarcastic and sharp-edged, but the words caught on the way out. Maybe it was your smile, or the glow of the booth light painting soft halos in your hair, or maybe — though he’d never admit it —i t was just that being near you quieted something in him, something he didn’t know needed quieting. “Sure,” he muttered.

He slid into the seat across from you, his movements slow, like each inch of space between pain and stillness had to be negotiated. You didn’t mention the way he winced as he sat. You just smiled again, folding your hands in front of you like this was a normal thing, the two of you, alone together in a corner of the night that didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Sunghoon didn’t tell you what Ruka had said. He didn’t tell you how it sat on his chest like a stone, how her voice echoed in his skull like wind through a cracked window. Because it wasn’t his to say. And because, deep down, he already knew it wasn’t true.

He saw you fall on the ice and rise again like it was a song your body knew by heart. He heard the way your laughter curved around your words and the way your voice filled silence with life, not noise. No — whatever Ruka thought she knew of you, it was only a fraction, and not the kind he cared to carry. Instead, he stared down at your plate, brows raised.

“Pancakes at midnight?” he asked.

You shrugged, delighted. “Midnight pancakes fix all problems. Haven’t you heard?”

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.”

“Well he sounds like a pretty smart guy.” You quirked, picking at your pancakes leisurely.

Sunghoon huffed a laugh — small but still there. “Sure.” For a while, the two of you sat in something not quite silence, not quite conversation, but alive and breathing all the same. And in the quiet hum of syrup-sticky booths and flickering neon signs, something invisible began to shift. The hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter had become a kind of lullaby, murmuring softly beneath the quiet chatter of the few remaining night owls nestled into booths and barstools. Across from you, Sunghoon picked at the edge of a sugar packet, his fingers deft and idle, not quite meeting your eyes, but listening in that particular way he always did, like he was preparing to argue but got caught up in your melody instead.

You sat across from him, legs tucked under you like a child curling into a story, your face glowing with the heat of possibility rather than the diner’s neon haze. And he watched you, not that he’d admit it. Not that he knew what to do with someone like you. “I’m going to make the podium this year,” you said, sudden and certain, stabbing a lone pancake piece with your fork like it was fate itself. “I don’t care what place. Bronze, silver, first runner-up to the crowd favorite. I just want to stand there, see the crowd, and know I didn’t fall flat.”

Sunghoon blinked at you. “Figure skating finals?”

You nodded, then grinned. “The big ones. My coach calls it the crown jewel. The end of the season, the whole year in a single performance. I tanked last time. fell on my opening jump and never recovered. My blade caught the edge, and it all spiraled. Couldn’t hear the music over the panic. I was supposed to shine and instead I… dulled.”

The words weren’t bitter, just honest. You spoke of failure with a sort of reverent gentleness, as if it were a bruise you had long since accepted. It surprised him how freely you gave that part of yourself away. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “And you’re trying again?”

“Of course.” Your voice was light, but sure. “I owe it to the version of me that cried backstage and promised to do better. I owe it to the dream that didn’t die just because I messed up once. Besides, we fall all the time in figure skating on ice, off ice. You just get up and do it again.” Something in him shifted at that. The ice in his chest cracked a little more, as if the warmth in your voice could thaw even the places he'd long buried under frost and fury.

You caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled, like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. You’re the one always brooding like the main character in a sports anime.” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge was gone. He stared at the last of his fries, then slowly pushed the plate aside. “You’re weird,” he muttered, almost like it was a compliment.

You beamed, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.” And just like that, between the flicker of fluorescent lights and the taste of melted syrup, the world felt a little less heavy. He didn’t tell you about Ruka. He didn’t mention the ache in his knee or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like lashing out or retreating. He just sat there, listening to you talk about your music selection and how you were planning to bedazzle your new competition costume yourself “with enough rhinestones to blind the front row” and something quiet inside him settled.

He didn’t believe in miracles. But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances. Especially the ones that came in the shape of bright eyes, chipped diner mugs, and a voice that refused to give up. Even on him.

The night air was a velvet hush wrapped around the world, stitched with distant traffic and the occasional hum of streetlamp flicker. The diner door swung shut behind you both with a bell's chime like the last note of a lullaby. Outside, the cold kissed your cheeks and painted your exhales into fleeting ghosts, trailing behind you like forgotten sentences. You walked beside him, your boots crunching gently over old salt and fractured pavement, the glow of the diner still soft behind you. He walked with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if he were always prepared for winter — even in spring.

But you, you carried warmth like it bloomed from your chest. You talked, because silence begged to be filled and your thoughts were too colorful to keep caged. "I always liked walking at night," you began, voice barely louder than the rustle of your jacket. "When I was little, my dad used to say the stars came out just to eavesdrop on our dreams. I used to whisper to them before bed. Tell them everything I was too scared to say out loud." Sunghoon said nothing, only shifted slightly, head tilted as though your words trailed behind his ears like music on low volume. His footsteps matched yours, deliberate, steady. Listening. Always listening.

You glanced up at the sky, where stars flickered shyly through the sprawl of city haze. “Some nights, when I’m scared before a competition, I still talk to them. Like, ‘Hey, I know I biffed the last triple loop but if you could just not let me crash this time, that’d be amazing.’” You laughed lightly. “They’re probably tired of hearing about my spiral sequences.” He almost smiled. Almost. You kept going, because silence in his company no longer felt daunting, only deep. A pool that welcomed your words, let them sink in, soak through. He didn’t need to speak. He just needed to be there, and somehow, he was.

“I don’t think people realize how lonely it is to try to be great,” you mused. “Everyone sees the sparkle, the applause, the medals. But they don’t see the bruised knees. The missed meals. The days where you cry on the cold rink floor because you can’t land a stupid jump you’ve done a thousand times. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” Still, no answer. Just his steady breath beside you, vapor blooming and vanishing. But his eyes had that quiet fire, the kind that flickered only for the things that mattered.

“I think… that’s why I don’t let myself stay down. Because even when it hurts, I still want it. Not the spotlight. Just the chance. To be better. To feel like I’m flying again, even if only for four minutes.” The street turned quieter, the neighborhood dipping into darker corners, sleepy houses pressing close together like secrets being kept warm. You stole a glance at him then, expecting — what? A laugh? A scoff?

But Sunghoon’s gaze was forward, brows drawn in thought. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk faster, either. He stayed at your side like a shadow that had chosen you. And then, after a silence long enough to count heartbeats, he said, low and rough, “What’s your program this year?”

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” He nodded once. Just once. And somehow, it felt like the biggest applause. You didn’t need him to say more. You didn’t need him to match your sunshine with light. He was the stillness where your words could echo and not be lost. And for that, you walked beside him in silence the rest of the way, the night folding around you both like a promise waiting to be made.

The night had mellowed into something hushed and golden, a quiet that settled over your shared footsteps like falling petals. The city exhaled slowly, as if sighing into sleep, and still you walked beside him, two shadows drawn in parallel ink, aligned but never touching. Then, out of the hush, his voice rose like a single note plucked from a cello string, low and sudden. “What’s your deal with Ruka?”

You blinked, startled by the sound, by the question, by the way his words cut through your stardust-thoughts like a falling star slicing the sky. You turned to him with raised brows, lips parted with a breath that hadn’t yet become a word. “Ruka?” you echoed, the name tasting foreign when it came from your mouth.

He didn’t look at you, just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, his jaw set like stone worn smooth by time. It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. But then again, nothing about Park Sunghoon ever felt idle. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because of the cold, but because something inside you had curled up, uncertain.

“Oh, um. We’re not really close,” you said, the words spilling like marbles rolling across a hardwood floor — easy, but a little scattered. “She’s my roommate this year, just this year. My last roommate, Sakura, graduated early. We were kind of inseparable.” You smiled faintly at the memory, soft and aching. “She used to help me with my hair before competitions. Always had a bobby pin in her pocket, even if we were just going to the store. I miss her.”

He said nothing, just nodded once. The moonlight caught his profile and painted it silver. “She’s really smart, Ruka,” you went on, feeling the silence ask for more even if he didn’t. “Always has her headphones in. Always studying. We talk sometimes, but mostly she just… lets me ramble. Which, you know, I tend to do.” You gave a light laugh, hoping the sound would cut the tension, soften the edges.

But he didn’t laugh with you. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded again, like your words were being filed away in some hidden drawer inside him. And for a moment — brief and bitter and fleeting you felt a twinge. A single pulse of something dark and unfamiliar. It settled beneath your ribs like a secret. Jealousy. You didn’t want to call it that. You didn’t want to name the way your throat tightened when he asked about her, or the way your heart gave a suspicious little stutter at the thought of her name brushing his interest.

Did he like her? The thought was ridiculous. Maybe. Maybe not. But it lodged in your chest like a thorn. And what surprised you most wasn’t the question. It was how much it mattered. You shook the feeling off with a practiced smile, the kind you wore in the mirror before competition, the one that told the world everything was okay, even if your knees were shaking.

“She’s alright,” you said, voice light, breezy, so casual it almost disguised the knot in your gut. “But I think she prefers silence. I talk too much for her taste.” Still, he said nothing.

And you wondered, as the two of you drifted past sleeping houses and rustling trees, if you could ever stop wanting to know what was running behind his quiet eyes. Maybe he’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But tonight, walking beside him through the tender hours of the dark, you wished he’d turn and say something that would loosen the twinge in your chest. Instead, he walked on. Still and silent. And you matched his pace, wondering if maybe that was enough. At least for now.

The dorm room welcomed you with the kind of stillness that felt staged, like a scene waiting for the actors to step into place. The air was warm, tinged faintly with lavender and printer ink, the signature scent of shared space and sleepless study. You slipped inside quietly, the door closing behind you with a hush instead of a click. For once, your voice didn’t follow you in.

You didn’t start with a story or a sigh, didn’t fill the silence with your usual cascade of chatter about a late-night craving or a skater’s cramp or how the moon had looked like a sugar cookie on the walk back. No, tonight you simply moved through the space like a ghost of yourself soft-footed, uncharacteristically quiet. Ruka was there, as always, hunched over her desk like a cathedral of discipline, shoulders drawn tight under the glow of her desk lamp. Her highlighter moved like a slow metronome across the page, precise and deliberate. But when you entered without a word, she paused.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too focused on your routine kicking off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door, tucking your food container into the small fridge like you were sealing away the last hour of your night. The remnants of warm laughter and cool night air still clung to your skin, even as the fluorescent light washed everything colorless. It was only when she turned, slow and deliberate that you met her gaze. “I went to see Sunghoon tonight,” she said, her voice smooth but wrapped in something slippery. Something rehearsed.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Oh?”

She nodded, looking back at her notes for a second like they might give her the courage to lie again. “Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” The words hung there like wet clothes on a line, dripping, sagging under the weight of their own fabrication. And you knew. You knew in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat still synced to the rhythm of footsteps beside Sunghoon’s. You knew because you had just walked home with him, the ache of his silence still pressed like thumbprints into your thoughts. But you said nothing.

You didn’t call her out or laugh or ask her why she thought you wouldn’t notice the lie curling like smoke between her syllables. You didn’t say, “Actually, I just walked home with him,” or, “That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.” No. Instead, you sat down at your desk, unzipping your jacket, fingers steady as you untied your shoes. You offered her a smile — small, polite, hollow in the middle and said, “That’s nice.”

Ruka turned back to her notes, and you turned to face the wall, blinking slowly as if you could paint over the moment with enough quiet. And though you didn’t say it out loud, a strange new feeling began to settle beneath your ribs, something like suspicion, something like sadness. Not because of the lie itself, but because you couldn’t understand why she’d told it. What purpose it served. What it meant. But more than that, what unsettled you the most was how your heart gave the tiniest tug at the idea that she wanted Sunghoon to herself. That maybe, just maybe, she knew you were starting to want him too. And you hated how that made you feel.

By the time Sunghoon returned to the frat house, the storm of music and voices had softened into something gentler like rain losing its temper. The halls no longer throbbed with bass, just pulsed quietly with leftover laughter, the clink of bottles, the occasional shriek from the living room where someone was trying to revive a dying game of beer pong. The air smelled like stale cologne, cheap beer, and exhaustion.

He pushed through the front door, body aching in ways he didn’t dare name, shoulders stiff with memory. The walk home had helped, a little. The diner even more so. Or maybe it wasn’t the diner, it was you. That smile. That damn voice of yours, all melody and motion, coloring every dull corner of his night until it looked like morning. He hadn’t even meant to go out. He just couldn’t stay there, not after the lies that curled out of Ruka’s mouth like perfume.

Heeseung was sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips, half-asleep and still wearing his shoes. Jay sat nearby, nursing a water bottle like it was whiskey, his guitar leaning against the side table, untouched. They looked up when Sunghoon walked in, both of them clocking the shift in him, the unbrushed hair, the frown lines that had softened just barely, like something had tried to loosen their hold. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?”

“Diner,” Sunghoon muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His muscles cried out as he moved, his knee barking like it wanted to collapse. “You missed the show,” Heeseung said through a yawn. “Your little fangirl was here. Again.”

Jay snorted. “Ruka. She was asking around for you. Whole place thought she’d get a kiss out of you before midnight.” Then came the question, as casual as it was crude, tossed out like a beer can into a bonfire.

“So?” Jay leaned back, grinning. “You tap that?”

The words hung in the room like fog, heavy and misplaced. Sunghoon didn’t even look up from the sink as he filled his glass. He stood still for a breath. Then another. “Hell no,” he said flatly. “I just went to the diner.”

it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even irritated. It was simply true delivered with the sharp edge of certainty. A line drawn clean in the dirt. Jay let out a low whistle. Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just sipped his water, jaw tense, eyes fixed on a spot on the counter like he was trying to smooth it out with sheer will.

Because what he didn’t say not to Jay, not to Heeseung, not even to himself was that he didn’t want Ruka. Had never wanted her. Not with her lipsticked lies and her eyes that always seemed to be searching for attention like it was currency. And yet, somehow, your voice kept echoing in his head like a melody he didn’t want to forget. “Falling is inevitable unless you can stop gravity.” He couldn’t stop gravity. Not on the ice. Not in his chest. And it was starting to terrify him.

Monday came with the bite of wind and the soft shiver of pre-dawn blue, the kind of chill that kissed your skin and whispered promises of something new. The rink sat like a cathedral of silence, your shared sanctuary of sweat and bruised ego, laughter and aching limbs. The boards were cold. The air was colder. But you… you were warm, incandescent, still grinning as you laced your skates with hope braided into every loop.

Sunghoon was already there, stretching his legs like the world had done him a personal disservice. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes those, wintry things, found you easily, like a compass that refused to point anywhere else. His movements were stiff, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t complain as you chirped about your new routine, about your bruised knee from the spin you biffed on Saturday, about how this week felt like the start of something. He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he skated. And fell. A lot.

You counted at least thirteen crashes before you stopped keeping score—some clumsy, some oddly graceful, all equally frustrating for him. Each time, he’d scowl, curse under his breath, and brush himself off like he was made of pride stitched too tight. But you never stopped encouraging him, your words a steady stream of sunlight spilling through his clouds.

“Better!”

“That fall was cleaner!”

“You angled your shoulder perfectly!”

He looked at you like you were ridiculous. Which, maybe, you were. But you were ridiculously happy to be here. With him. By the time the clock curled toward the last stretch of practice, he’d finally done it. Not a fall, but a landing. A descent that didn’t jar his bones, one where his body absorbed the impact like water receiving rain, smooth, natural, right. You gasped and your joy exploded out of you, bright and loud and uncontainable.

“You did it!” you cheered, skates clattering against the ice as you skidded over to him. “You actually did it, Sunghoon!”

He looked up from where he was still crouched slightly, his breath misting the air, eyes wide. And for the first time, the very first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t that half-tilted, cynical curl he used when he was being sarcastic or amused. It was real. Unburdened. And somehow, it made him look like a boy again, soft-edged, bright-eyed, touched by something other than pain or pressure. The moment lingered. Too long.

His smile stayed, your breath caught in your throat like a fluttering thing. The distance between you thinned until there was only the sound of the ice humming beneath your skates, and then, Then you kissed him. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan it. You just leaned forward, heart drumming in your chest like a war cry and a lullaby all at once, and kissed him — soft and sure, like the ice beneath your feet had whispered that you wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t kiss you back.

You pulled away instantly, horror creeping into your chest like cold water. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—I mean I wasn’t trying to—ugh—Sunghoon, I just got caught up in the—” And then he was kissing you. Fast. Sure. No warning, no wind-up, just his lips on yours like punctuation, like a sentence he’d been writing in his head for days but didn’t know how to say out loud. You blinked when he pulled back. He looked stunned, maybe a little dazed. You were definitely breathless. And then, as if nothing had happened, you both went back to skating. Circling each other like stars in orbit silent, spinning, on fire. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. But neither of you forgot it.

Outside the glow of the floodlights, just beyond the fragile safety of the rink’s boards, a shadow lingered silent and still like frost waiting to bloom. Ruka stood there, tucked in the hollow between concrete and glass, her presence cloaked by the buzz of overhead lamps and the trance of celebration that unfolded before her. She hadn’t meant to come. She had only wanted to stop by, to catch another glimpse of him, of Sunghoon in that candid, breathless space where his armor sometimes slipped. Maybe she would pretend it was a coincidence again. Maybe she’d bring him something warm, an excuse wrapped in a paper cup and a shy smile. But what she saw was not Sunghoon alone.

Through the gleaming haze of the ice, through the rhythm of blades carving truth into frozen ground, she saw you. Beaming. Radiant in your joy. And she saw Sunghoon — grinning back. Not his usual strained grimace or practiced smirk. No, this smile was something else. Real. Unearthed. Unearned, in her eyes. And then, the kiss. Her breath caught like a gasp in winter wind. She pressed her palm flat against the glass as if to steady herself, as if to break through the divide between her and what she saw, a moment that didn’t belong to her but felt like it should have. That soft, charged touch of lips in the heart of the rink burned like a betrayal, even if no promises had ever been made to her. It was a kiss that seemed to split the ice beneath her feet. And she hated how gentle it was, how true.

The rage came slowly, like an icicle forming drip by bitter drip. A seethe in her gut. A fire in her lungs. She had spent so much time watching, studying, calculating, positioning herself at just the right angle to catch his eye. She knew the timing of his strides, the way his brows furrowed when he was lost in thought. She had noticed him long before you had ever touched the same ice. And yet it was you — scatterbrained, sunny, ever-yapping you — that he kissed.

She backed away, breath coming out in little bursts of fog, eyes trained on the scene unfolding before her like a play she hadn’t auditioned for but still wanted a lead in. She didn’t care that he pulled away quickly. She didn’t care that you stammered your apology. All she could see was the connection, the tether stretching invisible and unbreakable between your smile and his rare, reluctant joy. She could feel the bitterness pool in her chest like ink in water, spreading fast and without mercy. You hadn’t seen her. Neither had he. You never noticed the fracture blooming quietly in the corner of the world you shared. But she did. And it stung, not because it was love lost, but because it never even had the chance to begin.

The walk back to the dorm felt like treading on the edge of a dream, your feet barely touching the ground, your breath catching on the remnants of laughter that still lingered like glitter in your chest. The night air was cool, brushing your cheeks like a secret, the kind that only stars overhead seemed to know. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets, smiled like a secret was blossoming behind your lips, and tilted your face skyward, as if asking the moon to keep your moment safe. You had kissed him. Or maybe the moment kissed you, soft and strange and suspended in time, like a snowflake caught mid-fall. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, or that he hesitated, or that nothing had been said after. What mattered was the way the world tilted after. The way his eyes had widened before he kissed you back like something inside him had cracked open. Like he’d been waiting all along but just didn’t know it. Something had changed, undeniably and irreversibly, and it made your limbs feel like cotton, your thoughts like honey.

There was a shift now. Subtle but seismic. You could feel it humming in the soles of your feet, echoing in the memory of the moment. You didn’t know what it meant yet, not exactly but something had softened between you two, and in that softness, you found a kind of quiet joy. When you reached your building, you entered with the reverence of someone carrying something precious. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, and your steps echoed gently down the corridor, a rhythm almost musical in its contentment. You reached your door and turned the knob, half-expecting to see Ruka with her usual mess of notebooks and headphones, wrapped in her silent storm of thoughts and solitude. But the room was empty.

The lights were off save for the sliver of streetlamp that painted silver lines through the blinds. The air was still, undisturbed. Ruka’s bed was neatly made, her chair tucked in, her world untouched. And for once, you were grateful. You slipped inside and let the door close behind you with a soft click, as if trying not to disturb the fragile bubble that wrapped around your joy. There was something beautiful in the quiet, something that gave you space to breathe, to process, to smile without anyone asking why. You moved slowly, deliberately, putting away your things, peeling off layers like petals until only your giddy little heart remained.

And then, standing there in the low light, you allowed yourself to relive the glide of your skates, the crispness of the air, the look on his face just before he closed the distance. You pressed your fingers gently to your lips, almost to confirm they still tingled. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. Not yet. It mattered that it happened. It mattered that, for the first time in a long time, your heart felt like it had been seen. And for that, you let yourself float just a little longer on the dream of it all.

The walk home was quiet, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy. Sunghoon’s limbs ached as usual, the kind of ache that seeped into marrow and muscle and made itself at home but tonight, it was quieter. Like even the pain had decided to take a breath, loosen its grip on his body and allow him a moment of peace. There was a strange calm moving through him, something light and unfamiliar. His mind replayed that kiss, not obsessively, but gently, like turning over a smooth stone in his pocket. The softness of your lips. The way you smiled before it happened. The burst of something warm and startling that bloomed in his chest when you leaned in, and even more so when he kissed you back. Like an ember flickering to life in a long-cold hearth. He didn’t want to overthink it, and yet, it sat with him now — steady, glowing, undeniable. But as the frat house came into view, that flickering warmth began to dim. She was there.

Perched like a stormcloud on the stone steps, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face streaked with tears that glistened under the porch light. Ruka. Her presence felt like a sudden cold front, a sharp drop in temperature, a wind that bit instead of kissed. Sunghoon paused at the edge of the sidewalk, every instinct screaming at him to turn around and disappear into the dark. But she looked up. And she saw him.

He kept walking. Slow, steady, bracing himself. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he stopped in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and laced with quiet exhaustion.

Ruka sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her too-expensive cardigan. “I saw you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of accusation. “I saw you guys… kissing.”

Sunghoon blinked at her, unimpressed. “Okay?” he answered flatly, as if that alone should be the end of it. But of course, it wasn’t. “She’s a fraud,” Ruka spat, sitting up straighter now, her voice rising with that familiar, jealous tension. “That whole sunshine act? It’s fake. She’s just pretending to be all sweet and happy. But it’s all a show. She’s actually, she’s miserable. She’s depressing. She’s not what you think she is.”

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a sound so far removed from the bitter drama at his feet. Sunghoon exhaled, slow and sharp like a blade pulled from a sheath. “You know what?” he said, voice like ice over steel. “Maybe you could stand to be a little more like her.” Ruka’s mouth parted in shock, but he didn’t give her time to respond.

“She’s kind,” he went on. “She shows up for people. She cares even when she doesn’t have to. She’s loud and ridiculous and warm, and yeah, maybe that annoys the shit out of me sometimes, but at least she’s not hiding behind fake tears and whispering poison about other people to make herself feel better.” Her expression crumpled, her mouth trembling.

“You don’t know her,” she whispered. “Neither do you,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who she is because she threatens your tiny little world.”

Ruka’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “If you really want to know who she is, look her up,” she hissed, the venom returning. “Look up last year’s figure skating finals. Her name. Go ahead. See it for yourself.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Fuck off, Ruka,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was calm. Steady. Done. He pushed past her without another glance, the door slamming shut behind him like the end of a chapter. The warmth inside him didn’t dim this time. Not completely. In fact, it burned brighter now not in spite of her words, but because of the fact that he’d chosen to ignore them. That he’d defended you, and meant every syllable. He didn’t need to search your name. He didn’t care about the past you carried like quiet luggage. Because when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who got back up. Again and again. And that, more than anything, was real.

Upstairs, behind the closed door of his room where the noise of the party below had faded to a dull, insignificant hum, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed like the silence itself had weight. It pooled in the corners of the room, settled on his shoulders, curled around his ankles. The warm echo of your kiss still lingered, on his lips, in his chest but so did Ruka’s voice. Sharp, needling. Insistent. “Look it up. Last year’s figure skating finals. Her name.”

He didn’t want to. He knew better. He should have let it die on the doorstep where it belonged. But curiosity was a sly little creature. It nudged at him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window, whispering just look until he caved. So he did.

With stiff fingers and an unsteady breath, he typed your name into the search bar, letting muscle memory carry him when intention hesitated. The first result glowed like a ghost: “Skater Meltdown at Regionals – Full Clip.” A thumbnail of you frozen mid-fall, your face blurred by motion, your body crumpling like something once fluid and graceful now shattered. He clicked play.

The screen lit up with harsh white ice and the sound of polite applause. There you were, twirling onto the rink, arms extended, posture poised, the embodiment of elegance. And then it happened. A stumble, a miscalculation. The slip. The crash. You hit the ice with a sound that wasn't picked up by the microphones, but he could feel it all the same, sharp and echoing in his bones. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst came after. The camera didn’t cut away. It kept rolling as you stood up, only to fall again. And again. And again. Until your hands were shaking and your breathing was uneven and your eyes — oh, your eyes — were wild with disbelief, glazed with tears that refused to fall quietly.

You broke. On camera. In front of judges and coaches and strangers and teammates and the faceless audience of the internet. You wept, not just from pain, but from something deeper, something raw and human and jagged with betrayal. You shouted through your tears, voice cracking like thawing ice, about how people only came to see the crash. How they clapped louder for the break than the recovery. How they waited for failure like it was a performance. Sunghoon felt something crawl into his throat and settle there — tight and aching. Not pity. Not embarrassment. But fury.

Fury at Ruka, for daring to use this as a weapon. Because what he saw wasn’t weakness. What he saw was someone who got back up. Someone who, even in the middle of a storm that stole her breath and shattered her pride, still stood. Still tried. Still gave the world her tears because hiding them would’ve meant giving up entirely. He didn’t want to close the video. But he did. And then, with that same fire that lived in his limbs when he skated, he opened his phone and typed fast, not giving himself the chance to rethink it.

Sunghoon [11:43 PM]: Meet me at the rink. Please.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plan. It was an instinct, pulled from somewhere honest and immediate. Because he needed to see you, not just the practiced, cheery version of you that lit up rinks and rooms, but you, unfiltered, unguarded, as real as you’d been in that video. He needed you to know that it didn’t scare him. That it didn’t change anything. No. If anything, it only made him want to fall with you. And this time, not get back up alone.

The rink was dark when you arrived, the overhead lights low like the stars were keeping secrets. The air was biting, laced with the cold whisper of ice and memory. Your breath puffed in clouds before you, and your heart thundered a frantic beat in your chest. You’d gotten Sunghoon’s message and hadn’t hesitated, you didn’t even change out of your practice clothes, just threw on a coat and sprinted across campus as if your soul had sensed something fragile waiting on the other end. The moment you stepped inside, your voice echoed in the stillness. “Sunghoon?”

No response. The silence felt unfamiliar, too thick, too full of unsaid things. You found him in the locker room, perched on one of the benches, still in his practice gear, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The second you saw him, panic flickered behind your eyes. Was he hurt? Was something wrong? “Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, did something happen?” you rambled as you rushed to him, your hands fluttering over his arms, down to his knees, then back to his shoulders like you were checking for breaks or bruises. “Why did you call me? Are you hurt? Did you fall again? Why didn’t you just text what happened, Sunghoon, seriously, what is going—?”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss.

When he pulled back, your fingers lingered near his jaw, your gaze flickering with confusion. “Sunghoon… what’s going on?” He looked at you like he was still catching up to his own heartbeat, his voice quiet but steady. “Ruka showed up at the house. Told me to look you up. Last year’s finals.”

The words dropped like ice in your stomach. You stepped back, just slightly, and your body stiffened before you could stop it. “Oh.” Sunghoon saw it immediately, the way your shoulders curled inward, how your eyes shimmered with tears you didn’t want to spill. Your lips parted like you wanted to defend yourself, but no argument came, only the truth, raw and trembling. “I had a breakdown,” you whispered. “A really bad one. I’d been practicing that routine for weeks, getting up at dawn, going to bed at two, skipping meals, skipping sleep. I thought… if I could just nail that trick, I’d prove I was more than just the bubbly girl with the pretty smile. I was exhausted and wired and terrified. And when I fell… it was like the world collapsed with me.”

You paused, voice cracking. “But I got back up. I always do. Even when it hurt. Even when the crowd didn’t cheer.” Sunghoon stood, eyes never leaving yours, and took your hands in his — warm, calloused, steady. “I know,” he said simply. “I watched the whole thing. And you — you — were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips quivered. “But I broke down. I was angry and ugly and scared and—”

“And you got back up,” he said, firmer now. “You didn’t stay on the ice. You didn’t let it define you. I—” he exhaled, voice softening, “—I was going to quit. When I got hurt, when it felt like everything I’d worked for just vanished, I wanted to give up. I didn’t see the point.” He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “But then I met you,” he continued. “And you reminded me that even when it hurts, we keep skating. That it’s not the fall that defines us, it’s the moment after.”

A silence stretched between you, delicate and profound. And in that stillness, you smiled. Not the bright, performative kind you wore in hallways and crowded rooms, but something quieter. Realer. “Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to reply. The way his fingers laced with yours said everything. The space between you fizzled like ice cracking under a sudden flame. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes, an instinct, perhaps, to hold back but it crumbled under the heat of the moment. Your hands were still curled inside his, trembling slightly, not from fear but from the rawness of being seen.

Then you kissed him. No hesitancy this time. No uncertainty. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a quiet kind of desperation, the kind that had been building for weeks, hidden behind teasing words and soft glances, behind shared practices and unspoken understandings. His lips met yours like a dam finally breaking, and suddenly you were both lost to it.

Sunghoon responded with a heat that startled even him. His hands slid from your waist to your back, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, clutching at the fabric like it could anchor you to something real, something burning and alive. There was nothing cautious about it now, the kiss deepened, mouths parting with breathless urgency, tongues tangling, exhales catching like thunder on the edge of a storm. You gasped softly against his mouth when he walked you backward, your spine brushing the cool lockers behind you. The contrast only made you shiver more, and he kissed you again to chase it away. His hands were in your hair now, cradling the nape of your neck like you were something precious. And you were, he kissed you like you were rare, like you were the first warmth he’d felt after winter.

Your body curved into his as if you’d always belonged there. You could feel the way he was holding back, restrained despite the tension humming through every inch of him. And maybe that’s what made it even more electric, knowing how tightly he was wound, how carefully he moved against you even as his breath quickened and his hands lingered. “Sunghoon…” you murmured against his lips, dizzy from the intensity.

He didn’t answer, not in words. But the way he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled where they clutched at his chest was its own kind of vow. The air between you felt heady, thick with longing, the room humming with the pulse of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the glow of the locker room light, locked together in something fierce and tender and brand new.

But when you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full of everything still waiting to be said, still waiting to be felt. And neither of you ran from it. No, you welcomed it like an incoming tide washing over your heart and your entire being. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the space between like steam curling from a fresh cup of tea. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin, like maybe touching you was the only way to make sense of the storm inside him.

You whispered his name again, barely a breath, and that was all it took. He kissed you once more, slower this time, deeper. There was a reverence in it, a kind of awe like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and kissing him back. His hands slid down from your face to your waist again, and he pulled you in until there was nothing between you but heat and air. Your fingers wove into the dark strands of his hair, curling just slightly at the ends, tugging him closer in the most delicate, desperate way.

The kiss grew from soft to smoldering, like fire catching slowly at first, then flaring brighter when the wind shifts. His lips moved against yours with more certainty now, more hunger, and yours responded in kind. It was dizzying, this exchange of breath and want, of emotion too big to name. Every brush of his mouth against yours made your knees weak, every sigh from his throat made your heart race like a drum in a thunderstorm. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, not to take it off, but just to feel the warmth of him under your hands, the dip of his back, the rise of his spine, the solidness of muscle beneath skin. He shivered under your touch and kissed you like he was unraveling.

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.”

You laughed softly into the kiss, breathless and glowing. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

He kissed you again instead of answering, and the answer was everything. For a long, lingering moment, the rink, the cold, the ice, the noise of the world, all of it faded away. There was only the warmth between you, only the taste of each other’s names on your tongues, only the ache of something new blooming fast and bright like spring breaking through the frost.

With your back still pressed against the cold metal of the lockers you allowed yourself the luxury of tracing your hands up and down Sunghoon’s broad chest, feeling every contour, every muscle beneath your palms. Filthy thoughts filled your head as Sunghoon’s lips trailed down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. A gasp fell from your lips as he sucked on the skin where your neck met your collarbone.

“Oh!” You squeaked, running your hands through his hair fisting the tufts in your nimble hands like your life depended on it. “Sunghoon…” Your voice trailed with heat laced in the words, want. “I want you.”

“You want me?” He hummed, continuing his exploration of your neck. “How badly do you want me?” He was toying with you, playing with your need for him — your want.

“So bad.” Your voice was airy — needy almost. His smirk said he loved it, the way you were willing to beg for him and willing you were. You don’t even remember the last time you’ve been touched so intimately, with someone you cared for so fiercely. The pure lust and adrenaline coursing through your veins had left you feeling like you were ablaze.

“Beg for it.” His voice was sharp — stern. It was so so hot. The way lips let your body, the way his eyes searched your traveling down your body drinking you in. The way your chest rose and fell as red hot searing need coursed through you. You do anything he asks of you at this moment, anything.

“Please” You whimpered, hands grabbing at his hoodie. “Please, fuck me.” Your voice was sweet and light your eyes wide as you stared up at him. “I need it so bad.”

“Fuckkkk” He groaned and next thing you knew his hands were under your thighs lifting you in his arms in one fail swoop. “I can’t resist you, Sunshine.”

“I don’t want you to.” You pant as his hands find your skirt lifting it enough to show your panties. It was going to be quick, dirty. And that's exactly how you needed him.

“Take me out.” He hissed at you. Your hands reach for his sweatpants pulling them down just enough to release him from his boxers. He was hard, of course. The tip red and angry with need. Your hand made a fist around his shaft pumping up and down.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his forehead falling forward to meet yours. “Touch yourself before i fuck you.”

You listened carefully, moving your other hand down, pulling your white cotton panties to the side and rubbing at your sensitive nub with your fingers. “Oh my god.” You whined out. “Please Sunghoon, please”

“Just a little bit more, baby.” He cooed, “You’re almost ready for me.”

“I’m ready now.” You couldn’t contain the whimper that threatened to fall from your lips. “I need you, so bad.”

“Okay, Sunshine.” He nodded, taking his length in his own hand all the whilst holding you up against the lockers. “I got you.”

Sunghoon’s gazed fell from your face to where the two of you met, his tip slapping against your entrance like a knock. A gasp leaving your lips the instant he pushed into you — creating a beautiful stretch you felt through your entire body.

Sunghoon started with a slow pace, allowing hips to tap against yours lightly. It was almost romantic the way his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanning your face with short pants. You were in love with this feeling — in love with this moment and how it consumes you whole.

“Faster.” You whined, hands gripping Sunghoon’s shoulders with white knuckles. You were trying to ground yourself, the pleasure taking you to a whole other planet entirely. “Faster please Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon said nothing, his only response was the quick motion of his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping filling the silence of the locker room like a melody, it was a tune you’d grow to love if given the chance. “Oh– my god.” You chanted. “Oh my god.”

“You close?” Sunghoon grunts, his voice gritty and harsh. “Take it.”

“Yes.” Your head was weightless as it bobbled up and down in tune with Sunghoon’s harsh thrusts. “I’m so close.”

“Gooood girl..” He cooed in your ear. “Cum for me.”

Your end splashed into you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in an overbearing pleasure you’d never felt before. Your thighs trembled in Sunghoon’s hands as you rode out your high. Sunghoon falling suit, moaning your name like a mantra. You had never felt more connected to someone then you did in this moment. Tied together a web of emotion and something that felt so close to love.

You were falling in love. It was fast and blinding and scary but it was true. You were falling in love. And you hoped and prayed Sunghoon was too.

By the time you situated yourself it was almost too late into the night to try and sneak back into your dorm room. Plus the thought of seeing Ruka right now with the knowledge of what she had done had been sickening. Sunghoon offered for you to stay at his place and you were in no position to turn the offer down. You allowed him to take you home. You allowed him to worship your body until all hours of the night. And most importantly you allowed yourself to fall in love deeper and deeper as the clock ticked on.

The morning sun trickled through the blinds in gentle stripes, painting golden bars across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air was still tinged with last night’s sweetness, a lull of warmth that lingered between your skin and his, and the scent of cold air and something distinctly him like mint and pine and a little bit of wild. You stirred slowly, your limbs heavy but content, the kind of ache that whispered of a night where nothing was said aloud but everything was understood in touches, in sighs, in the soft tremble of lips pressed together in quiet devotion.

Sunghoon was already up, standing near the edge of the room, half-dressed and slipping his hoodie over his head. The light hit his face just right, catching the soft curve of his cheek and the tired determination in his eyes. He looked like someone ready to face something, and for once, not run from it. You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist like the soft folds of a curtain falling back. “You’re up early,” you murmured, voice still raspy with sleep and something sweeter.

He glanced at you, and there was a flicker in his gaze, that rare smile he barely gave anyone, small, crooked, a secret stitched between two hearts. “I’m going to talk to Jay,” he said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “I want to ask him… to let me play again.” For a second, it felt like everything stopped. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d seen it coming, inching closer each time he took a fall and got up again, each time he looked at the ice with something softer than hate but because this was a moment of return. A full circle. A boy broken now choosing not to stay shattered.

You smiled, and it was bright enough to make the room feel warmer. “You should,” you said, voice thick with pride. “You’re ready.” He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you, quick and soft, like a promise sealed in the hush of morning. It wasn’t heated like the night before, but it burned all the same, quiet fire beneath skin.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a song, leaving you alone with tangled sheets, sunlit silence, and a chest full of warmth. You fell back into the pillows with a sigh, fingers brushing your lips. Something had shifted. And you knew, with a certainty that reached down to your bones, that things were only just beginning.

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. The air smelled of ice and rubber and worn leather, a scent that once haunted him, now stirring something in him that almost felt like peace. Almost. He walked toward the rink, skates slung over his shoulder, confidence stitched into the rhythm of his steps. The moment he stepped past the glass, heads turned. Jake was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting in surprise, his helmet tucked under one arm. Heeseung followed, stopping mid-lace with a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Jay’s brows drew together in disbelief, and even Soobin looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. Coach Bennett, stoic as always, stood at the edge of the rink with his clipboard like it was a shield.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jay muttered, not unkindly, but wary.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “I’m here to show you I’m ready.” The words settled into the air like frost, and no one moved for a moment. Coach’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon said, voice sharp as skates on fresh ice. “I’ve been training, I’ve been pushing myself. I’m not here to sit on the bench and clap for everyone else. I want to play.” There was a silence, heavy and cautious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Heeseung, who gave him nothing but a tight nod. “You’ve been through a lot,” Soobin offered gently. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about being cleared.”

“I am cleared,” Sunghoon snapped, the warmth from earlier that morning slipping through his fingers like melting snow. “I’m cleared, I’m stronger, I’ve been working every goddamn day. But every time I come back here, you all look at me like I’m broken glass.” Coach Bennett looked down at his clipboard, unreadable. “It’s not about doubt, it’s about safety.”

“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered. His jaw tensed, breath fogging in front of him. “You think I’d put myself back on this ice if I wasn’t ready?” Still, they didn’t move, didn’t soften. And something in him snapped, not the injury, not the tendon, but something deeper. A flare of frustration bloomed in his chest, blooming red hot. Heeseung, trying to defuse the crackle in the air, said, “Maybe just keep training with the figure skater—”

Sunghoon’s head snapped up, and without meaning to, without even thinking, the words spilled out sharp and cruel. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” It felt like the words echoed, like even the boards flinched from them. A sting curled behind his ribs the moment it left his mouth, regret instantaneous, but pride, wounded and loud, kept him from pulling it back. “I want to come back to the real game,” he added, voice quieter, but iron-edged. “I’m done sitting out while you all pretend like I don’t exist.”

A thick pause. Coach Bennett looked at him long and hard, then said slowly, “You can skate at next week’s practice. We’ll see then.” And just like that, it was done. But the victory tasted hollow on his tongue, and when Sunghoon sat to lace up his skates, the chill of the words he’d thrown, not at them, but at you, clung to him like frostbite.

In the dim hush of the arena’s far bleachers, behind a column of shadow where the sun dared not reach, Ruka sat like a ghost in waiting, silent, calculating, and out of place. The buzz of the overhead lights hummed above her, flickering faintly, illuminating the sharp gleam in her eyes as she angled her phone just so. Her hand was steady. Patient. She shouldn’t have been there, wasn't allowed, wasn’t invited but Ruka had learned long ago that the world didn’t bend for those who asked politely. It bowed for the ones who took what they wanted. And right now, what she wanted was to unravel the ribbon of warmth that had started to thread its way between you and Sunghoon, to cut it with precision, to remind the world of who belonged in the spotlight and who didn’t.

Her phone was already recording when Sunghoon stormed in, voice clear and edged with fire. She leaned forward, breath caught, her ears tuned sharply to every syllable. And then, there it was. The perfect storm. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” it hit the air like a slap, reverberating across the rink, and Ruka’s mouth curved into something that might have been mistaken for a smile if it weren’t so cold. Her thumb paused just long enough to ensure it had been captured, every inch of his exasperation, the tension in his voice, the pride bleeding into his posture. She tucked the phone into her coat pocket like a prize, one she’d deliver when the time was right, when the sting would land deepest.

She didn’t care if Sunghoon hadn’t meant it. She didn’t care that he might already regret it. She wasn’t after truth, she was after control, and perception was always stronger than honesty in the court of whispered judgment. As the team fell into uneasy silence, she slipped out like a wisp of smoke, unnoticed and unseen, her heels light on the concrete floor, her breath misting in the chilled air. The doors of the arena sighed open and closed behind her with a hush. Outside, the sky stretched pale and gray, the wind carrying a sharpness that mirrored her resolve.

Ruka wasn’t stupid she’d seen the way you looked at him, the way your smile bloomed for him like the first flower of spring. And more than that, she’d seen the way he looked back, that faint, unguarded flicker that once might have belonged to her but now seemed to burn only for you. So fine, she thought. If fire was what it took to make him see, then she’d set the whole thing ablaze. Let the ballerina dance on thin ice. She’d make sure the cracks came quick.

The front door creaked open with a burst of wind and sunlight, and Sunghoon stepped inside, shoulders high and heart thundering like blades against ice. His cheeks were flushed, not from the cold but from the triumph still coursing through him like static. The house was quiet, a rare lull between chaos, there you were. Sprawled across the living room floor in one of his oversized sweatshirts, your legs curled beneath you, your eyes bright as twin stars as they landed on him. The moment you saw his face, your own lit up like the sky on New Year’s Eve.

"Did they say yes? What did they say? Oh my god, are you back? When do you start? What did Jay say? Wait, did Heeseung—" Your words spilled out like a melody, fast and tumbling and effervescent, each one building on the last in that way only you could manage. It was a deluge of sunshine, and Sunghoon didn’t answer — not with words, not yet. Instead, with one smooth movement and a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he crossed the room in three long strides, swept you up with one arm around your waist, and kissed you. Firm, grounded, and breath-stealing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows it’s home.

You let out a delighted squeal, half-laughter against his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders as your feet dangled above the floor. “I take it they said yes,” you murmured when you pulled back, breathless, the corners of your mouth lifting in that way that always made his chest ache a little in the best way. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his voice held so much more than just agreement. It was relief and victory and hope. “Practice starts next week.”

You beamed like you had swallowed the moon whole, eyes soft and full of a pride that wasn’t loud, but deep and unwavering. “I knew they’d say yes,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You were born for the ice.” He kissed you again, this time slower, with a touch more reverence, as if he was grounding himself in you. As if your faith in him was the thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

He set you gently down, but your arms remained looped around his neck, unwilling to let go just yet. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes for a beat. “I’m so happy for you, Hoon.” His name on your lips still made something in him tremble. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I got to watch you do it anyway.” Outside, the wind whispered promises against the windows, and inside, in the soft glow of late afternoon, Sunghoon realized that somewhere between all the broken things, the injuries, the pressure, the pain he had found something whole. You.

That night, the frat house was glowing, music vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, the scent of cheap beer and cologne wrapping around the porch in a familiar haze. When Sunghoon leaned against your doorframe earlier, looking all casual with his hands shoved in his pockets and a soft smile threatening the edge of his mouth, asking you to come with him to the party, your yes had come quicker than your breath. There was no way you’d miss it not after the week the two of you had. So now, walking in beside him, hand ghosting near his like some secret tether, you tried not to look too amazed at the wild warmth of it all. Lights strung from the ceiling blinked like dying stars, red cups swirled in every hand, and voices collided like waves. It was chaos, but it was the good kind, the kind where possibility clung to the air like perfume.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. He kept his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, and then he said it, just loud enough for the group clustered near the kitchen island to hear. “This is my girl.” It took you a second to process the words. Your heart leapt to your throat, and your smile tried to hide behind the cup in your hand, but you felt it. The gravity of it. How he said it so simply, like it wasn’t anything new, like it had been true for ages and he was just now stating a fact everyone should already know.

His friends turned toward you all at once, a mix of grins and raised brows. Jay was first to reach out, pulling you into a quick, one-armed hug. “So you’re the figure skater.”

You laughed. “Guilty.”

“I’m Jake,” said the one with dimples, his voice warm and curious, like he’d been waiting to meet you. “You’re way too happy to be hanging out with Sunghoon.”

You giggled and nudged your shoulder into Sunghoon’s. “I think I balance him out.”

“Or drive him insane,” Soobin added dryly from the couch. His arm was loosely slung around a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She was beautiful, no doubt, sleek and poised, but her smile was more of a formality than anything real. That had to be Yunjin. She gave you a quick nod. “You’re very…bubbly.”

“Is that code for loud?” you asked, grinning wide. “It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Soobin cracked a half-smile, and even Yunjin let out the tiniest huff that could’ve been a laugh if you squinted. Still, there was tension between them, an invisible thread pulled too tight. They stood close but didn’t seem to touch, not really. Their words skipped past each other like stones across water, and you wondered what storm brewed quietly behind their silence. Heeseung leaned in then, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “She’s the opposite of you, man. Like…completely.”

Sunghoon only shrugged, sipping his drink with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I know.” And the way he looked at you when he said it like it wasn’t a flaw, like it was the best thing about you, made your chest bloom with something warm and wild. You reached for his hand, and this time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled into yours like they belonged there, like maybe they always had. The music shifted into something slower, the kind of beat that made everything else fade, and the crowd swayed around you like the sea. You weren’t quite sure how the night would end, but for now, wrapped in the golden hum of laughter and light, with Sunghoon by your side and your name spoken like something precious between strangers who might become friends you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The night had curled itself into comfort, like a candle-lit secret shared between strangers now growing familiar. You stood with Sunghoon and his friends in the corner of the room where the music wasn’t too loud, where voices could still dance freely. You were mid-laugh, something Jake had said, your face lit with that easy, golden joy you wore like a second skin. Sunghoon stood close to you, his arm brushing yours every so often, eyes softer than anyone had seen them in weeks. You didn’t know it, but he’d been watching you like you were a lighthouse in the storm, something to steer by. And then the room chilled.

It was subtle at first, just a shift in air, the way conversation dulled, footsteps falling heavy behind the group. You turned before Sunghoon did, and there she was. Ruka. Her presence bled tension into the moment, a sharpness that made smiles go stiff and gazes flick downward. She stood with her arms crossed, dressed like she belonged and yet looking so out of place. You smiled at her anyway, your voice honeyed and warm.

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t.

Instead, her lip curled, and her voice dropped low, sharp enough to wound. “Drop the act.” The words sliced through the air like glass breaking. The laughter stopped, your own breath hitching slightly as confusion passed across your face. “What?” you asked, softly, not in disbelief, but in the kind of gentle hope that maybe you’d misheard her.

“I said,” Ruka stepped closer now, venom twisting in her pretty mouth, “drop the fucking act. The bubbly sunshine girl thing? It's fake. And everyone here’s falling for it, but it’s pathetic.” A heavy silence fell. Jake blinked, Soobin muttered something under his breath. Yunjin folded her arms tightly. And beside you, you felt Sunghoon stiffen, like his muscles remembered rage before his mind caught up.

“Back off,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. But Ruka only laughed, a cold, humorless thing that curled at the edges like smoke. “Really? You’re defending her?” She looked at him, eyes glinting with something twisted and triumphant. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said he was wasting his time with the ‘ballerina on ice.’”

You froze. The words hung between you like frost. You turned, your head tilting slightly toward Sunghoon, expression unreadable. But he was already shaking his head, already stepping forward. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice rising, urgent. “I was pissed, I was trying to prove I was ready to play again, and I said something stupid—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ruka said smoothly. “They can hear it for themselves.” She pulled out her phone, unlocking it with the ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The recording played loud and clear, his voice unmistakable: “I’m just wasting time with the ballerina on ice. I want to come back to the real game.”

The words hit like a slap. Your chest ached, something invisible curling tight around your lungs. You stood still, perfectly still, like movement might make it worse. The others glanced between you both, some awkward, some stunned. Heeseung winced. Jay looked furious. Jake muttered, “Dude,” under his breath. Sunghoon reached for you then, eyes wide, desperate. “I didn’t mean it—” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. But your smile, your radiant, effortless smile — wavered. Only a flicker, barely there, like a candle in the wind.

The music faded. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it still pulsed behind you, still thudded with the bass of cheap speakers and louder laughter, but in your ears it was gone. Replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat — wild and feral, pounding like fists against a closed door. Your cheeks flushed hot, but your hands had gone cold, and everything in the room blurred with the sting of unshed tears. Your eyes found Sunghoon’s, but it wasn’t safety you felt.

It was betrayal. And shame. Shame so sudden it roared up your throat and turned the warmth in your chest to something molten and broken. “Wait—” he whispered, stepping toward you. You pulled back.

He looked like he’d been struck, like the reach of his hand had meant everything. Maybe it had. But you were already moving, weaving between people, ignoring the murmurs and awkward stares, the way the group parted like water around you. Your heels scraped the floor. Someone said your name, maybe Jake, maybe Heeseung, but you didn’t turn back. You pushed through the door and into the yard where the cold night air hit your face like glass. You breathed it in too fast, too hard, hoping it would drown out the heat of humiliation clawing at your throat. The stars blurred above you, cruel and glinting. Behind you — footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You tried to keep your voice strong, but it wavered at the edges, shivering like frost under sunlight. “Don’t act like I didn’t hear it. Everyone heard it, Sunghoon.”

“I was angry,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me play, I—I said something I didn’t mean because I was desperate. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“You called me a waste of time,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “You said I wasn’t the real game.” His expression collapsed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something that bad?” You laughed, but it came out brittle and sharp. “To work every night until your legs give out? To fall and fall and fall and keep getting up? I gave everything to this. To the ice. To you.” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you hated how fast they came, how they betrayed the tremor in your heart.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to kiss me. I didn’t ask to be anything more than the annoying figure skater who shares your rink time.”

“You’re not—don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. But you stepped back.

“I should’ve known better,” you said, voice low now, shaking. “You were always going to go back to them. To the game. And I was just practice. Just something to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re more than that. You mean—fuck, you mean everything.” And then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words cracked the night in two. You stared at him, eyes wide, breath stolen clean from your lungs. But it was too late. You shook your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving. “Don’t say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why did you say that?” The question hung between you like a blade. And he had no answer. Or maybe he did, but not one that could stitch the wound he’d just made. So you turned. You turned before he could see the way your whole body broke in half. Before he could see the shiver in your spine and the way your hands curled into your coat like it could somehow hold you together. You walked. Past the yard, down the sidewalk, away from the party that once felt like light. Sunghoon didn’t follow this time. And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days pass like shadows beneath your skates, faint and fleeting, yet always there. Each morning you wake with a hollow echo in your chest, a silence that’s grown too familiar. You lace up your skates like armor, wear your routines like battle hymns. You skate harder now, faster, carving the ice like it wronged you. Blades slicing through your thoughts, breath fogging in the cold as you spin through everything you can’t say. You haven’t spoken to Sunghoon since that night. You’ve seen him in passing, walking across campus, laughing with Heeseung outside the rink, nodding at Coach Bennett with that quiet intensity in his eyes, but you never linger. You turn corners when he comes close. Pretend not to hear when his voice drifts from down the hallway. You are your own silence, sharp and unyielding.

The dorm is no better. Ruka has become a ghost, and you let her be. You don’t look at her, don’t respond to her passive remarks or the way she sighs when you walk in. She’s tried to speak, maybe once, maybe twice, but you shut her out with the same coldness she once offered you. You spend more time out of the room than in it. Your application to switch dorms is in the system now, a silent wish sent to the stars. All you can do is wait. But the nights… the nights are the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. Your mind replays everything, his voice, his kiss, the look on his face when you turned away. You wonder if he’s been practicing. You wonder if he hates himself for what he said. You wonder if he meant it.

That night, the silence in your room presses in too tightly, the hum of your mini-fridge too loud, the shadows too long. You grab your skates and your coat. The rink calls to you not just as an escape, but as something close to home. Familiar. Honest. The moment you step inside, the air hits you like memory. Cold. Quiet. Unforgiving. You walk past the front lobby, past the empty locker rooms, and step onto the bleachers with the intention of warming up slowly, maybe skating alone under the low light until the sun peeks over the horizon.

But you stop short. Because he’s already there. Sunghoon. Alone. On the ice. He’s skating, not perfectly, not as fluid as you’ve seen before, but he’s trying. Focused. Determined. His brows are drawn together, the sweat at his temples shining under the low rink lights. He doesn’t see you at first. Doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. You don’t move. You watch him glide forward, stumble slightly, then correct. He exhales, pushes again. Again. And again. He’s practicing. Your chest tightens.

At first, you want to run. The moment you see him standing there beneath the pale glow of the rink lights, alone, waiting, searching the dark for something like hope, your body tells you to turn around. To vanish into the quiet of night and not look back. You’ve been skating circles around your own heart for days now, tightening the laces of your silence so securely that the thought of unraveling them in front of him makes you tremble. But it’s too late. His eyes catch yours, and you freeze like a deer in the frost. The tension between you snaps taut.

“Wait,” he says, voice catching, breathless. “Please—don’t go.” You don’t speak. He steps closer, every movement slow, like he’s approaching something delicate, something sacred. His eyes are wide and shining in the cold, like he’s on the edge of something, begging not to fall.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Please. I—I need to say something.” You don’t know what compels you to stay. Maybe it’s the quiver in his voice or the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Maybe it’s the days of silence, heavy as snowfall, finally breaking. But you nod. You sit. And you listen. “I’m sorry,” he says first, and the words drop between you like stones sinking into a still lake. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t look at him yet. You’re afraid to. Afraid that if you do, your heart will unravel right there on the ice. He keeps going. “When you first asked me if I believed in love, I told you I didn’t. That it wasn’t real. That it was for other people, not me. And you, you just smiled like you knew something I didn’t. You said I just hadn’t found the right person yet.” You lift your eyes to meet his. He’s closer now. Kneeling in front of you, his palms flat against the boards, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I found her,” he whispers. “I found you.” The words hit you like a gust of wind, unexpected, sharp, and tender. You blink, and the tears finally come, soft and shimmering, gliding down your cheeks like melting snow. His gaze flickers, worried, but you raise a hand, just one, and rest it over his.

“What you said that night…” you begin, voice cracking like a brittle branch. “It hurt, Sunghoon. God, it hurt. But I don’t think it was the words, not really. It was the moment. The humiliation. Being exposed in front of everyone. Like I was something to be mocked.” He looks like he might cry too.

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whisper.

“I mean every word,” he breathes. “I love you.”

Your lips tremble. And before either of you can speak again, you kiss him. It’s not the fiery kiss of confession or the desperate press of need. It’s gentle. Forgiving. It’s two broken pieces finding a way to fit again, not quite perfect, but perfectly trying. His arms circle your waist, pulling you in close, grounding you as your fingers brush his jaw, his neck, his hair. The kiss deepens with every second. Not in heat, but in heart. Like a vow passed between mouths too tired for words.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”

“I promise,” he replies, voice raw. “No more.” And in that quiet, ice-slicked space between apology and absolution, you feel it, that something between you hasn’t shattered. It’s only just begun to bloom.

Epilogue.

The arena hums like a living thing, buzzing nerves and echoing chants, the chill of the ice rising into the rafters like ghosts of old games, old dreams. You sit somewhere in the middle of it all, wrapped in a scarf and a soft coat, heart thudding so loud it’s almost a drumline. Your fingers are clasped tight in your lap, your breath fogs in little puffs before your lips, and your eyes are locked on the rink like the story of your whole life might unfold across its frozen face. It’s his first game back.

Sunghoon. And you can’t remember the last time you were this full of feeling, pride, nerves, joy, a fragile ribbon of fear, but most of all, love. Love so big and bright and burning it feels like a comet carved into your chest. The lights above dim slightly, just a flicker, and then the team is called out one by one. The crowd roars like a wave, cresting and crashing with every name announced, jerseys flashing, skates hissing against the ice as the players appear. And then, there he is. Sunghoon skates out like he’s flying, his form clean and sharp and easy, like every moment he ever doubted himself has been burned away. The crowd cheers louder, not because they know the whole story, but because they can feel it. The comeback. The storm stilled. The boy who refused to give in.

You feel breathless watching him. And then, mid-glide, he turns his head. Finds you in the crowd like a compass always knows where north is. His eyes catch yours and in that moment, the noise fades. The arena, the lights, the cheers — all of it vanishes, melting away like frost under the sun. There’s just him. And you. He points at you — simple, easy, certain. And then his mouth moves, slow and deliberate.

“I love you.” Three words mouthed without a sound, but somehow louder than thunder. Your chest caves in, and a laugh breaks from your throat, trembling and tearful all at once. You nod, hand over your heart, mouthing it back: I love you too. And in that charged quiet between you, across ice and lights and distance, the ache of the past slips into something softer. Something holy. The game begins but you're not really watching the puck.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying.

reg taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon smut #park sunghoon #angst #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #k pop imagines #k pop #kpop imagines

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lilreidgirl · 5 months ago

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For the very first time

Summary: You and your college boyfriend, Spencer Reid, have both of your first times together

Warnings: MDNI(18+), fem!reader, smut, protected sex, fingering, virgin!Spencer, virgin!reader, first time (both), swearing, I think that`s about it but if there`s more; let me know!!, English is not my first language

WC: ~3.3k

A/N: This is my first fully smut fanfic and my first one quite this long, so... keep that in mind and enjoy? (NOT PROOF READ, SORRY!!)

“Can we pleeeeeeeease take a break?” You plead, making your eyes endure the best puppy eyes you could conjure up even though Spencer isn’t even looking at your face, his eyes firmly planted on the book on his lap.

“C’mon, 5 more minutes, princess?" He said, his head finally turning to look at you. His slender hand, that wasn’t holding up his Chemistry book, rubbed your shin that was thrown over his thighs.

You sounded a long “mm…,” feigning a deep-in-thought expression before perking up and exclaiming in a joyful voice, “Nope!”

Spencer`s face made an unimpressed look but you could clearly see him fighting his smile muscles.

You pushed the book off his legs, making sure not to close it as to make him lose the page he was on. With the help of his hands on each side of your thighs, you climbed onto where the book once had been lying and straddled his lap.

His hands travelled up from the skin of your legs to your waist, along your chest, all the way up to your neck to finally settle on the sides of your face. His large palms rested on your cheeks while his fingers splayed out on your hair, threading through a few of the strands.

A small smirk played on his face as he pulled you towards him, connecting your lips. He moved his mouth gently against yours, but as impatient and honestly, downright needy you were, you quickly force the kiss into a heated state. A little gasp escapes his parted lips as you intensify the moment, though he moulded into the new rhythm at a fast pace.

His hands roamed all over your body, willowy fingers gliding over the skin of your face as it heated up before not even a nanosecond later finding home on your thighs.

A surge of boldness wept through Spencer in the haze of affection, pushing him to grip the muscle of your upper leg, right where your ass begun, and move you down onto him in a rough staggered movement. The sound that left you as a reaction to his sudden forceful manoeuvre was a mix of a surprised gasp and a moan you tried to supress. Your eyes, looking as undomesticated as ever, met Spencer`s as your hot breaths mingled between your touching lips.

“Sorry…,” he murmured, regret plaguing his voice but the lust and need also present in it was about the only thing you truly process through your foggy brain.

“No, no, don’t apologise,” you rushed out. “It`s- it`s fine… I… liked it…,” you continued in a lower register, slight embarrassment staining your flushed face.

A small moment went by where neither of you moved, the surrounding world seeming to follow you two in the silent state you found yourselves. Then, just when you had decided you needed to blurt something out to fill the void of soundlessness, Spencer grasped onto your jaw and smacked his lips against yours.

Unbearable warmth rose in both of your bodies, your insides tingled and your skin was tainted with rosy blushes.

Spencer`s touch found itself on the hem of your shirt now, gently slipping it up a bit.

“Can I take this off?” Well that’s definitely a way to deal with the uncomfortable temperature.

“Yes,” you responded immediately before helping him pull your shirt off and throwing it on the floor.

He took in your bare torso, only clad in the midnight blue bra that surrounded your chest. His hazel eyes, sparkling in the light filtering in from the open window, travelled all over your heaving upper body as sweat trickled down your neck and onto your unclothed breasts, glistening in the sunset`s rays of sunshine.

“God, you`re gorgeous,” he exhaled heavily. His gaze was directed intently at your boobs, one would think he was talking to them and not you.

“Thanks,” you giggled out your thank you, leaning in a bit closer to his body as you did.

With a tantalizingly small distance to your skin, his fingertips made their way up your back, resting on the clasp of your bra.

“Can I?” he asked, looking up at you and taking in your lightly dishevelled appearance.

“I don’t know, can you?” you teased, a wide grin adorning it`s self on your features.

His soft but wry chuckle filled the air for a moment before he stated firmly, “May I?”

Predictably you nodded your head, your teeth dragging into your bottom lip as you conveyed your eagerness and acceptance of his pleading question.

As a result he moved his other hand behind you as well and unhitched the little metal and steel hooks, the cups on your breasts immediately loosening after the action.

Spencer moved his hands towards himself again, unsure of what to do with them, he awkwardly placed them on either side of him on the white sheets of your bed.

Reluctantly you swiped the thin straps of material down your shoulders, revealing your chest to him. His eyes stared aimfully at your bare tits, mouth falling open to a slack one as his eyes blinked in awe of the sight before him.

“Fuck, baby, you`re gorgeous,” he groaned, his gaze shortly meeting yours before flicking his eye sight back down to your bosom.

You chortled at his comment, your hands nervously fiddling with the bra that now lay, unused, between your two bodies. “You already said that,” you tittered as you smiled at his astonished face.

He gave no response to that. Instead he lifted his right hand from the mattress and attentively rested it on your waist.

The look in his eyes and the sudden repositioning of his hand told you exactly what he wanted. Good thing, you wanted it too.

Ploddingly you levied your hand onto his, guiding it up as you made eye contact with Spencer.

“Is this okay?” you asked, scared you might be going further than he had initially wanted.

“Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, very,” he stammered out as soon as he realised you were in doubt about whether you were doing the right thing.

You carefully laid his hand on your right tit, squeezing your hand over his. Precipitately he continued to grope your breast, watching the reactive twitches of your facial muscles. With a tedious stride of his hand, he connected his fingertips to your left nipple. He tweaked the sensitive bud, making your neck throw your head back because of the pleasure that shook through your lithe figure.

“Is- is this correct?” he queried. “Mm-hmm. Yeah, you`re doing great, baby,” you encouraged sweetly as you inadvertently rolled your hips down onto his own.

His hands fell from your chest to your hips, squeezing the apex of your thighs. His lips gingerly found the sweet spot on your neck, gently sucking on it before pressing small kisses around the area. Your fingers dropped to Spencer’s crotch, pressing down on the bulge that strained in his pants.

“Shit.” He hissed. “You- you sure?” he asked as he studied your face intently.

“Yes.” You answered certainly. Before you could ask him the same question he had already started to unbuckle his belt, already giving you the answer.

You moved off of his lap, daftly unbuttoning and pulling off your own pants as Spencer did the same.

Once you were both only situated in your underwear, Spencer yanked his body over yours, hovering above you.

“We can stop at any time, okay? Just say the word.” He prompted. “I know. Same goes for you.”

He gave a curt nod before leaning down and leaving kisses along the column of your throat, his nimble fingers holding your slightly shaky figure in place.

Your eyes followed the path his hands made to reach your hips and then they observed how they fidgeted with the flimsy material of your underwear.

Spencer lifted his head, looking at you as he worded his question in a caring tone, “Am I allowed to take this off?” In response, you gave a small nod, chewing on the gummy flesh of your mouth. “I need more than that, princess,” Spencer probed on.

“Yes,” you uttered out in a hushed tone, your nerves running wild with nervousness and excitement.

Slowly, very very slowly, he pulled the black cotton down your thighs and out from around your feet, throwing it to land on the edge of the bed. The cold air of the evening hit your now unclothed core in a sudden rush, a small gasp escaping you at the feeling.

“You okay?” Spencer asked, his gaze directed at you.

“Yeah. I`m fine,” you offered him a slight upturn of your lips.

The smile you expressed made a smile of its own appear on Spencer`s face before it ducked down and lay a kiss on your shoulder.

“Tell me if I`m doing it wrong, okay?” he murmured onto your collarbone as he rested his head under your chin.

After you agreed, the sight of his hair gliding down your trembling body towards your core was to be seen. He massaged your thighs and by the looks of it, was trying to hype himself up to start.

“Hey,” you spoke up, “it`ll be okay.”

With a new found of bravery from your reassuring words, he mindfully brought his fingers close to where you longed him to be.

While concentrating completely on the matter, he hesitantly touched your sensitive clit, causing a jolt to ripple through your body and force a moan out of what felt like the deepest part of your stomach. Dubiously he started drawing squiggly circles on your swollen bundle of nerves.

“Mm…” you mewled, multiple high-pitched bleats leaving you as you grabbed at the headboard with one hand and fisted the pearly sheets with the other.

Taking in your positive reaction to his touch, Spencer took the chance of making his other hand useful, hovering it over your entrance nervously.

When you looked at him with your lust-clouded eyes, it pushed him to finally take the plunge in. Literally.

He inserted his index finger with as much slowness and care as he could, groans escaping the both of you at the sensation. Just a moment later he dragged his finger out again, leaving only the length of his fingernail in before pushing back into your warmth.

The emptying feeling of the soft shapes he was rubbing to your clit and the fact that he was filling you up with his finger quickly brought your orgasm upon you. You screamed as the dense feeling in your lower abdomen loosened and a haze of post-pleasure took over your body.

“Holy shit, baby, that was… amazing,” you praised as your droopy eyes opened to see Spencer hovering above you again.

“It was,” he reiterated with a small crow.

“Do you want to stop? If you don’t want to continue, that’s completely-“, Spencer starts to ramble a symphony of assuring phrases. “No, Spence, I want to. Unless… you don’t?” You said conspicuously.

“No, no, I want to as well. But… just to be sure, you mean…”

“Sex,” you finished his sentence when he had dragged on the “n” for too long.

“Right, right, yeah…,” he postulated shortly.

After a moment of both of your heavy breathing being the only sound in the room, you awkwardly reached your hands up to his boxers.

He lets out a hum of approval before squeezing his eyes shut, preparing for his last piece of clothing to be stripped off. You took them off in a timely manner, letting him take over and kick them off when they were out of your reach. Your eyes widen as they land on his length. Shamelessly you studied it, tilting your head as you took in the sight. Long, but not too girthy, the tip blushing one shade pinker than your cheeks and glistening with pre-cum.

Now with a bit of shame added to your expression when you realised how long you`d been staring, you looked up nervously.

Spencer had grown a small smirk on his face during the time you gawked at his hard-on.

“Do you have a condom with you?” You said suddenly, comprehending that you wouldn’t be able to do it without.

“Oh. Yeah, I- I think so.” He climbed off of you and grabbed his bag from the place where he dropped it when he came into your dorm almost 3 hours ago.

“Yeah?” You pushed yourself up on your elbows, looking at him with a condescendingly sweet grin manifesting your features.

“Well, it- it was just in case, you know, I…” his words died down and he continued searching through his black backpack.

“Oh sure, sure,” you teased.

“Hey, just be thankful that I have one, okay?” he said with a small firmness to his voice as he held up the same square packet.

“I am thankful. Trust me,” you prompted. “Plus if I’m not, I sure will be soon,” you murmured, the whispered comment making Spencer chuckle enthusiastically as he crawled his way back on top of you. His skilful fingers ripped open the packaging before they rolled the condom on.

“Woah. You really paid attention in sex Ed. class, huh?” you giggled when he managed to put the rubber on in one go with no hesitance and no stumbling.

“Well, I am a genius, princess,” he remarked smugly before pecking your lips.

After the kiss, a solemn silence fell over the room, the wind breezing by the two of you as you both deeply inhaled and exhaled.

“Are you ready?” Spencer’s soft, familiar voice broke the domestic moment.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice sure of what it was stating. Because you truly were sure, not about what you were about to perdure and what you would have to do, no, you were sure that it was Spencer you wanted to be perduring it with and doing it with.

He guided his length to your entrance, taking one last low breath before slowly entering you. Your hands flew up to his shoulders, squeezing them just as fast as you squeezed your eyes shut and just as tight as you clenched around Spencer as soon as he penetrated you.

“Oh. My. God.” He spoke between panted breaths.

A few moments flew by before the feeling of him staying still became uncomfortable.

“You can move,” you urged on.

That seemed to be enough for him as not even 5 seconds later he was slowly dragging himself out of your tight walls before snapping right back in again. A rugged moan escaped his throat as you squeaked, the sounds meshing together to perfectly fit the unruly scene of the two of you.

He repeated the movement over and over again his hips moving more and more erratically and less and less of a distance each time.

The brutal pace coaxed a series of whines and cries out of you, the sounds bringing Spencer`s hips to a slow stop.

“Are- are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he stammered eccentrically.

“I`m fine, I’m fine. Just calm down, okay, Spence?” You cupped his face bringing it to rest on your bare shoulder.

“`M sorry,” he croaked out.

“There’s no reason to be sorry. You got carried away its fine,” you reassured him, stroking his messy and sweat ridden nest of hair.

“Can… can you be on top?” he asked shyly. “It`s just that I- I don’t want to hurt you again and… um…”

“Don’t worry, Spencer, you didn’t hurt me. But if that’s what you want then of course.” You petted the back of his neck, threading through his baby hairs.

“You sure? I just don`t want to ruin this, I- it’s our first time.” He bashfully closed his eyes.

“You can`t ruin it. You know why? Because we`re doing it together,” you say matter-of-factly.

“God, you`re so corny,” he laughed. “Yeah, and you love it,” you joined in on the laughing.

When you both had calmed down he slowly pulled out, the feeling unsettling you both. He rolled off to the side, coming to rest on his back before he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you on top of him.

Your shins dug into the bed as you situated yourself, positioning your entrance over Spencer’s angry looking tip with a bit of a helping hand from him.

“Ready?”

“I was born ready.”

With a light feeling in your stomach at his words, you start to ease yourself down onto his length, immediately enveloping him with your sopping walls.

He whimpered and gripped your hips tightly. His head flew back at just the right moment as, as soon as you reached the maximum amount of him you could take. You immediately fell forward, crashing onto his pale chest. Your body moulded into his, feeling every inch of his skin clad on yours, feeling his deep inside of you.

“You okay?” Spencer’s face contorted into a worried cowering frown.

“Yeah, I am.” You kissed him softly, melding your lips together as you bring your arms up to either side of his head and grip his messy locks in between your fingers.

With the leverage that your grasp on his hair gave you and the help of Spencer’s hands on your ass and thighs, you started to desperately move your hips against his, snapping away before sinking back down on his length.

The kiss you were sharing became sloppy as you started moving faster, letting your hands roam over his torso.

Spencer frantically snapped his hips up into yours when he felt you stuttered your motion and his hands gripped the back of your head, making out with you like he never has before.

His index and middle finger knowingly found your clit, circling the sensitive bud.

It wasn’t long before you reached your high, being thrown into a realm of bliss as you lay motionless on top of Spencer who came with you just a second later.

Your stomach felt warm and full, that feeling leaving you when Spencer swiftly pulled out, pulling you closer and onto his chest. His lean arms wrapped around your slightly quivering body, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you,” he whispered into your boisterous hair. “I love you too,” you spoke in a soft, hushed voice.

You fortified your chin on his chest, gaping up at his beautiful face.

In the wake of the silence and euphoria that subsequently followed, Spencer spoke up, “We should probably shower.”

An ornery frown graced itself on your tired face, a small grumble leaving you as you cuddled close to him, “5 more minutes, pleeeeeeeease?”

“Okay, fine, 5 more minutes,” he gave in instantly, still in the aftershock of experiencing that striking event.

You spent the next 20 minutes basking in the afterglow and each other`s love, every once in a while placing little kisses here and there.

When Spencer knew he couldn’t ignore the fact that you two needed to shower, he smoothly tapped your hip. “Come on, princess, time to clean up and you still need to pee.”

Begrudgingly you clambered off of him, pulling him out of bed with you. You brushed some desolate tresses from his forehead, smiling a shit eating grin before turning around and heading for the bathroom.

Spencer watched with a beam, his heart filling with complete and total delight. His eyes fell to his Chemistry book splayed out on the carpet floor, grateful that he didn’t push to continue reading about things that seemed so damn unimportant now.

“Coming, Spence?” you called as you started the shower, the sound of water hitting the fiberglass of the shower pan filled the dorm.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping over the unimportant Chemistry book.

@emma-e-a

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid one shot #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x you #virgin!spencer reid #virgin!reader

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jupitercl0uds · 2 years ago

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oh god crap piss i have to wait a week before i can post my work doodles here

#spouting to the void #they were really fun #they had a gliding biro and i couldnt resist #its a little sketchier than usual but i dont think you guys mind

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lurker-lurking · 2 years ago

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huh...

for the dragon gifs post you reblogged, could you elaborate on your tags? as someone who loves speculative/fictional biology, id be interested in hearing how actual gliding wings would work for dragons, if youre okay with talking about it of course :]

Gosh, basically.... the whole wing shape is wrong for gliding

Firstly, a majority of the dragons' wings do not have any base to them. base being the membrane that should go down their side

By far the worst offender seems to be arrax here, but like. all of the dragons have NO membrane going from their arms down their sides, the only one who appears to have more normal wings is syrax

It's got more base to the wings so this gif looks slightly more natural to me but not by much

NOW,, my disclaimer. I am not an expert in aerodynamics. So I am just going off what I know personally

First off, the wing shape in most of these dragons is elliptical (like in sparrows) which is good for powered flight (flapping), and when they ARE flapping, it does look very good!! Very powerful strokes etc.

However, because they are missing that base at the wing, a lot of the energy of the downstroke would simply just escape. Wings in general work by "trapping" wind underneath them, by making the air on top roll by at a different speed than the air underneath and generate lift that way, but if there's nothing TO lift... then it won't work

Animals who actually glide all have very specialized wings for it.

Eagles, vultures, condors, etc: all of them have IMMENSE wings, and they almost cannot do powered flight (at least not on the same level that sparrows can), they rely a lot on updrafts

Their wings are all very wide, but very rectangular!! the base of their wings is basically the same width as the rest of the wing, generally

This is true as well for SEABIRDS which are all gliding experts. Seabirds have VERY not wide wings, but they make up for that in length, and this very specialized shape they have allows them to glide for literal WEEKS without needing to land

Basically, I suppose it's something of a tradeoff? Even in these birds the base is incredibly proportionate to the shape of their wings and body, and they depend on wind currents over the ocean specifically. They've evolved for that

alithographica has this VERY GOOD little chart of what different functions wings can perform depending on their shape

I personally think the got dragon's wings are incredibly disproportionate, looking at wings on any other animal it immediately stands out that a whole chunk of wing is simply... gone. For no good reason other than aesthetic I think

And besides the anatomical error, they don't have a clear purpose to their shape, they kinda do everything all the time and its jarring to see on otherwise incredibly designed creatures and its also an immense shame. It would have been so cool to see different dragons have different flying techniques (the only different one we get is caraxes with his wing legs, but from what ive seen)

#ooc tags:#Fun fact: i did actualy base lurker's wings for gliding #they are long and thin compared to the body #that combined with thier ability to basically shapeshift (funky HC void stuff)#allows them to glide for a VERY long time despite how heavy they are

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heeluvv · 23 days ago

Text

PERSONAL TRAINING.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ personal trainer! jay x client! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ mirror sex, fingering, oral (m), rough sex, etc.

word countᝰ.ᐟ 12.174k

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ request, mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (not proofread)

you could feel it—every fiber of your body beginning to tremble beneath the pressure, your legs threatening to give out as your thighs burned from the strain. your breath came in short, shallow pants, each exhale slipping past your lips with a soft whimper you didn’t mean to let out. sweat rolled down the back of your neck, your arms shaking as you tried to keep your posture locked in place, just like he taught you.

“jay… please…” your voice cracked slightly, breathless and small. “how much longer?”

you tilted your head just enough to look up at him, expecting… something. maybe reassurance. maybe a hint of mercy. instead, you were met with that same unreadable expression. cold. composed. his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable beneath the harsh gym lights—no softness, no pity. he didn’t even blink.

when you signed up for a personal trainer, you thought it’d be simple. someone professional. polite. encouraging in a kind of motivational-poster way. maybe a little strict, sure—but nothing you couldn’t handle. you figured it would be manageable. maybe even boring.

but you were wrong. so wrong.

jay was something else entirely.

he didn’t coddle you. he didn’t give in when you begged, didn’t crack a smile when you stumbled through his grueling routines. he didn’t just push you past your limits—he watched you there, waiting in silence, drinking in the way you squirmed and shook under his command. and it wasn’t just the workouts. it was everything. the way his voice dipped lower when you whined. the way his hands lingered too long on your hips when he corrected your form

“you’ve been doing it for just fifteen minutes. you still have thirty minutes to go.”

his voice cuts through the silence like a blade—sharp, controlled, and utterly void of sympathy. there’s no softness to it, no hint of concern for the way your thighs are shaking or your arms are beginning to tremble beneath the weight of the position he placed you in. the words are a command, not a comfort, and they make your heart pound harder than any rep ever could. you swallow thickly, sweat clinging to the back of your neck, your body trembling with every second that drags by, your legs threatening to give out as the burn in your muscles deepens.

you hear his footsteps before you feel him. heavy, steady, unfaltering. each one thuds softly against the mat-covered floor as he circles behind you again like a predator stalking his prey. you can sense the shift in the air, the sudden warmth of his presence settling behind you before his hands even touch you. and when they do—when his fingers curl around your waist with that same rough precision he always uses—it’s like your entire body locks into place. he adjusts you without asking, without warning, gripping your hips tightly as he guides them into the position he wants. your back straightens under his firm control, the curve of your spine aligning perfectly with the angle he prefers. it’s not just correction. it’s ownership.

his touch lingers longer than it needs to. you feel his palms drift upward, gliding over your sides with slow, deliberate motion. it isn’t the professional, detached touch you expected when you signed up for personal training—it’s slower. warmer. almost indulgent. his fingertips press into your ribs, not hard, but enough to make your breath stutter. they slide higher until his hands settle on your shoulders, the heat of his skin bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt. your muscles are tense, overworked, and tight, but his thumbs move carefully, deliberately, massaging soft circles into the knots building beneath your skin. it’s meant to relax you—but it only makes your pulse race faster.

“you have to relax,” he murmurs finally, his voice low and smooth, thick with something you can’t quite name. he’s closer now. too close. his chest brushes your back with every inhale, his breath ghosting over your cheek in a way that makes your skin burn. you can hear every word he says like it’s being spoken right into your bloodstream, vibrating through you in waves.

you try to breathe, but it’s impossible with the way he’s looking at you. your gaze shifts up to the mirror in front of you and there he is—towering behind you, eyes dark and locked on your reflection. he’s watching you watch him, his face calm but focused, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when your eyes meet. and he doesn’t break it. doesn’t look away. doesn’t even blink.

“i’m going easy on you,” he says, and his voice dips even lower, like it’s meant just for you. “and you’re already complaining?”

your throat goes dry. you can’t answer—not with how close he is, not with his hands still gripping your body, not with his breath so hot against your skin. it’s overwhelming. the tension. the heat. the way he doesn’t even need to raise his voice to make your legs tremble more than the exercise ever could. he knows what he’s doing. every movement, every word, every glance—it’s all intentional. calculated.

his hand squeezes your hip, just a little harder this time. not rough, but firm. a warning. and then he leans in, his lips barely brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, slow and deliberate, “keep your form… or i’ll hold you there myself.”

he stays behind you as you move—up, then down, over and over again, your body falling into the rhythm you’ve been repeating for what feels like forever. your muscles ache, your legs feel heavy, and sweat clings to the curve of your lower back, but none of that is what’s clouding your mind now. it isn’t the time or the repetition that’s making your thoughts blur into heat—it’s him. it’s the way he’s standing so damn close, the way every squat presses your ass just barely against the front of his body.

at first, you thought it was an accident. maybe just proximity, maybe just poor spacing. but now… now you’re not so sure. the contact is subtle, almost ghostlike. just the faintest brush of fabric against fabric, friction that makes your breath catch in your throat and your heart stutter mid-beat. it isn’t enough to be obvious—but it’s enough to make you throb.

you try to shift, just slightly. a soft, awkward attempt to create space. your feet adjust, your hips angle differently, a small, almost embarrassed squirm. but he doesn’t let you go far. his hand comes around your waist, firm but gentle, pulling you back into place without a word of protest—like it’s second nature to handle you like that. his fingers spread across your lower stomach, steadying you, guiding you back to the exact spot he wants you in. you can feel his grip through the thin material of your clothes, warm and deliberate.

“just like that, y/n,” he says, low and measured.

his voice is close again, too close, practically dripping into your ear like syrup. your name rolls off his tongue like it tastes good there, like he enjoys saying it this way—watching you flinch at the sound, at the implication. you catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror, gaze locked onto your reflection, and it sends another wave of heat crawling up your spine.

his eyes are everywhere. tracking the way your thighs quiver, the way your back arches just slightly more with each rep, the way your body presses back into him no matter how hard you try not to. he isn’t pretending to be professional anymore. he’s drinking it in. the strain. the tension. the subtle, desperate edge of discomfort in your expression as you try to hold it together under his watch.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, an unconscious response to the pressure, the heat, the thick silence that’s wrapped around the two of you like a noose. you pretend it’s focus. you pretend it’s effort. but your thighs are clenching for a different reason now—and you know he can tell.

just as your body rises again, thighs trembling with effort and sweat sliding down your spine, he stops you. not with words—just a single, sudden movement. his hand presses lightly against your lower back, not forceful, but enough to make you freeze mid-motion, your breath hitching in your throat. you don’t know why he’s stopping you. your form was right. your balance was stable. but then you see it—his eyes catching yours in the mirror.

they’re locked. steady. dark.

for a long second, he doesn’t say anything. he just stares, expression unreadable, his gaze pinning you in place like a weight heavier than anything you’ve lifted. it sends a jolt straight through your chest, your stomach twisting as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong—something forbidden. and then, just as quickly, he looks away. his hand lifts. the warmth of him vanishes from your skin, and the space between you fills with something colder, emptier.

he steps back.

you can hear the shift in his breathing, the rustle of his movements as he begins to gather his things. no softness. no goodbye. just a quiet command wrapped in routine.

“that’s all for today, y/n,” he says, his tone even, clipped, like nothing just happened—like he hadn’t been pressed up against you minutes ago, eyes burning into your reflection. “make sure you come back tomorrow. same time.”

you turn slowly, still catching your breath, your body buzzing with leftover heat that has nothing to do with the workout. he’s already slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, muscles flexing beneath his black shirt as he moves. he doesn’t look rushed. if anything, he looks calm. collected. like he’s completely unaffected by the tension he left simmering between you.

but then, right before he turns away, his eyes trail down your body.

not fast. not polite. slow and deliberate—starting at your face, sliding over your chest, dipping lower, lingering at your waist, your thighs, the parts of you still pulsing from where his hands had been. there’s no smirk, no word of praise. just the weight of his gaze as if he’s memorizing it. branding it.

and then he’s gone, leaving you standing there breathless, burning, and already aching.

your mind is a mess. completely clouded, overrun, pulled apart by the memory of him. jay—his voice, his touch, the way his body pressed into yours under the guise of correcting your form. and worst of all, the way he walked away like none of it had meant anything. like he didn’t feel the heat, the tension, the pulse in the silence between you. like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

it only made everything worse.

now you’re home, steam rising thick in the bathroom, the hot water cascading over your skin like it’s trying to wash the memory off of you. but it clings—thick and electric—no matter how hard you scrub. you drag the loofah across your skin with slow, distracted movements, cleaning the sweat from your arms, your chest, your stomach. the ache in your thighs is still there, but it’s not just from the squats. it’s from something deeper. something hotter. something he left behind.

your free hand moves without thinking.

it slides up, fingers gliding over the slick warmth of your skin until it reaches your breast. your thumb brushes over your nipple—lightly at first, just a test, a flick of sensation—and you gasp. the water is still running hot, but the way your nipple hardens under your touch has nothing to do with temperature. you rub again, slower this time, then roll the sensitive bud between your fingers. a soft, breathy sound escapes your lips—half-formed, barely-there, but heavy with need.

your eyes flutter shut as the image forms in your mind, uninvited but welcome. his body behind yours. his voice in your ear. the feel of his crotch pressing into your ass, over and over again with every rep, every movement. it hadn’t been subtle. you felt it. the heat. the size. the slow drag of it against you like he was trying to brand the shape of it into your skin. and god—he had. because now, even under the spray of your shower, you can still feel it. still ache for it.

your fingers move lower. your hand keeps going. and your breath catches as your thighs instinctively press together, desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything to satisfy the ache that thought alone is stirring inside you.

the second your fingers make contact with your clit, your breath shatters into a loud, broken moan. it escapes your throat before you can stop it, echoing off the walls of the shower, swallowed up by the sound of the water pouring down your back. your body jolts at the sensation—your legs tightening, your knees threatening to buckle as you start to rub slow, tight circles against the sensitive bud. the pressure sends sparks through your core, but it’s not just the physical touch—it’s the images unraveling in your mind that do it. the way your body remembers his presence, the way your imagination fills in all the blanks he left behind.

you can see it now—so vividly it almost feels real. jay kneeling behind you on the yoga mat, his large hands gripping your hips like you were made to be handled by him. he spreads you open, not gently, not sweetly, but like he’s entitled to it. like your body was always meant to be laid out for him. your skin prickles at the thought of his fingers tracing over the curve of your ass, slow at first, teasing, only to dip lower. you imagine the way he’d drag his fingertips between your thighs, trailing along your slit with a low groan when he finds how wet you are. soaked and dripping—just from thinking about him.

his voice would be so cocky. low and rough with control, smug with the knowledge that you’re falling apart from the slightest touch.

“so wet for me already?” he’d murmur, leaning in close to your ear, his tone dark and taunting.

your breath hitches as you press harder against your clit, circling faster now, chasing the feeling his voice alone could give you. you picture the way he’d touch you—no hesitation, no gentleness—just confident, deliberate strokes. you can practically feel the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit furiously, matching the exact rhythm you’re giving yourself now, only faster, rougher, with more purpose. like he wants to make you come fast, just so he can do it again.

“who knew you were such a slut, hm?” he’d whisper, lips brushing against your neck as you writhe beneath him. “look at you—already falling apart and i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

the words echo through your mind like they’ve been said out loud, and your body responds instantly. a moan slips from your mouth, louder this time, shameless, as your back arches into the pressure of your own hand. your thighs tremble, your body burning from the inside out as the image of jay behind you only sharpens, becomes dirtier, more possessive. and even as your fingers work your clit faster, your mind craves more. his weight. his voice. his cock. him.

your head tips back against the cool tile, mouth parting in a broken gasp as your fingers slip lower, slower, needier. and then you're imagining it again—not just his voice, not just the weight of his body behind yours—but his fingers. those strong, rough, calloused fingers that you know would stretch you open just right. your hand trembles as you mimic the thought of him, plunging two fingers inside with a gasp, curling them upward the way you think he would—like he knows exactly where to touch you, like he’s mapped out every inch of you before you ever gave him permission.

you whimper the moment your fingertips find that soft spot inside, the one that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. in your mind, it’s jay doing it. jay, with his lips curled into a smirk, voice low and taunting as he pushes his fingers deep and pumps them fast, relentless, merciless. you match the pace he’d set—sharp, purposeful thrusts—curling your wrist and fucking yourself on your own hand with desperate, messy need.

loud moans spill from your mouth, one after another, unrestrained, raw. the kind that feel like they’ve been buried inside you all day, waiting to come loose. each sound bounces off the walls, swallowed up by the steam, mixing with the sharp, slick rhythm of your fingers working inside you. the wet, obscene slush of it fills the space around you, loud and needy, and it only makes the coil in your stomach wind tighter, hotter.

you clench around your fingers, vision going hazy, your body squeezing down like it’s reacting to him and not you. and in your mind, it is. it’s jay kneeling between your thighs, watching you fall apart with a satisfied glint in his eye. it’s his breath against your inner thigh, his low chuckle vibrating against your skin as you writhe beneath him. “good girl,” he’d murmur, pushing deeper, harder, fucking you open with nothing but his fingers until you’re crying out for more.

your muscles go tight, your stomach coils, and your moans rise in volume and pitch as you start fucking yourself harder—matching the rhythm he’d use if he were here. he’d be watching you fall apart. he’d make you look at him while he worked his fingers inside you. maybe he’d press his lips to your ear, whispering filth while you writhe beneath him. “gonna cum already, sweetheart? barely touched you and you’re already shaking?”

your head drops back as the pressure snaps.

your orgasm hits you all at once, hard and hot and overwhelming. it punches the air out of your lungs in a guttural, shaking moan. your fingers stay buried inside as your walls clench down around them, fluttering, desperate, squeezing so tightly it nearly hurts. your knees threaten to give out. your thighs tremble uncontrollably. you ride it out with your mouth open, panting his name into the steam, breathless and ruined and soaked in every way.

even as the pleasure pulses through you, wave after wave, your hips keep rolling forward like you’re trying to chase more—greedy for every last drop of it. and when your fingers finally slow, slipping free from your dripping cunt, the mess you’ve made glistens across your knuckles and thighs. your whole body twitches. you’re left breathless, braced against the tiled wall, skin flushed and still pulsing with heat. it’s overwhelming—but not enough. not even close.

because even in the silence that follows, even as you struggle to breathe again, he’s still there. not physically—but in your head. on your skin. in the way your body aches for him now. it wasn’t just a fantasy. it was something real, something that clung to you the second he touched you, something that’s going to live in your skin until he finally does what you’re both pretending not to want.

the air in the private gym is thick with heat and the scent of your own sweat, but there’s something else in it too—something heavier. something you can’t name. you’re bent over the padded edge of the workout bench, palms gripping the sides, your knees slightly bent, back arched at an angle that forces your ass to stick out as you try to steady yourself. your breath comes in short, controlled bursts, chest rising and falling as you focus on the pull in your arms and shoulders. you're doing bent-over rows, or at least trying to, but it’s hard to concentrate when you feel him behind you.

jay.

he’s been there the entire session, watching, adjusting, correcting—always so close it makes your skin prickle. he doesn’t say much. just the occasional murmur of your name, the soft clink of weights, the sound of his breath too close to your ear. and now, as you lower yourself again and pull the weights back with a slight tremble in your arms, you feel him shift behind you. you don’t have to look. you feel him. the heat of his body, the shadow he casts over yours, the way his hand comes to hover just above your lower back—not touching, not yet.

“core tight,” he says, voice smooth and dark like melted honey. “back straighter.”

his palm finally makes contact, pressing down between your shoulder blades, guiding your spine into a deeper arch. you swallow hard. you feel the way his fingers spread slightly, resting there for just a second longer than necessary, his breath brushing over the nape of your neck like static. your body responds before your brain can stop it—hips pushing back slightly, ass brushing up against the space behind you. and then you feel it.

you feel him.

the hard shape of his cock, thick and unforgiving, nestled against your ass through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. your lips part, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. your fingers twitch around the edges of the bench. you don't move. neither does he.

he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t retreat. instead, his fingers flex where they rest on your back, sliding lower, tracing the dip of your spine until his palm cups the curve of your ass. he squeezes once—firm, deliberate, like he’s been waiting to do it all day.

“just like that,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

you can barely breathe. your mind is foggy, your body hotter than it should be. but you nod. not because you meant to—because your body betrays you. you nod like you’re begging for it.

his touch becomes greedier then, both hands sliding over your hips, gripping them tight as he pulls you back into him. you feel every inch of him now, thick and heavy and so, so hard. it makes your knees weak, your arms shaky as you try to hold yourself up. your pussy pulses between your legs, wetness spreading and soaking into the thin fabric of your leggings.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice husky. “you feel that? this what you wanted, baby?”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. your voice is caught in your throat. you can only nod again, hips rolling back into him, seeking more friction. his fingers slide around your waist, dipping between your thighs as his chest presses against your back.

“let’s see how ready you really are,” he says, and then he’s peeling your leggings down slowly—agonizingly slow. they drag over your ass, cling to your thighs, and fall in a soft puddle at your knees. cool air hits your skin, but you barely notice it—too consumed by the burn of his gaze as he steps back for just a moment to take you in.

he groans, low and raw. “fuck. look at you.”

his fingers return, sliding between your legs, spreading you open from behind. he hisses at how wet you are, his touch gliding through the slick pooling there. he doesn’t even need to prep you—your body’s already begging. he circles your clit once, then twice, and your whole body jumps, back arching, a soft cry slipping from your lips.

“you’re dripping,” he growls. “just from this? from me pressing my cock against you?”

you nod, dizzy with need. it’s humiliating how easy it is for him to reduce you to this—how quickly he has you melting under his fingers. you try to say something, but all that comes out is a moan, guttural and broken, as he slides one thick finger inside you.

he pumps it slowly, then adds a second, stretching you open with expert precision. your walls flutter around him, greedy and pulsing, as he scissors you wide. he curves his fingers up just right and your legs almost give out. a whimper rips from your throat, loud and helpless.

“that’s it,” he breathes, fucking you with his hand now, rhythm fast and steady. “so tight around my fingers. you’d take my cock so well, wouldn’t you?”

you don’t even hesitate. “yes—yes, jay—please—”

his other hand returns to your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that match the motion of his fingers inside you. your hips jerk, trying to keep up with him, trying to match the rhythm, but it’s overwhelming. every nerve is on fire. every touch feels like it’s dragging you closer to the edge.

“you’re gonna cum for me just like this,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “so fucking desperate. didn’t even need my cock. just needed me.”

your body responds before your brain can. you’re gasping, moaning, choking on his name as your orgasm crashes into you. your thighs shake, knees buckling as you cry out, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing with wave after wave of pleasure. you can’t stop shaking. your vision blurs. you’re soaked—dripping down your legs, onto his hands, the bench beneath you stained with your arousal.

he groans behind you, breath hot and labored.

“fuck, baby,” he says, dragging his soaked fingers down the inside of your thigh. “look what you did. made such a mess for me.”

you can barely think. your body is limp, trembling, twitching with aftershocks. you feel his lips press to your lower back, soft and slow. grounding. almost sweet.

“next time,” he whispers, voice deep and dark and promising, “i’ll make you cum on my cock instead.”

you let out a soft, broken noise in response. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. your body is weightless. your skin hums.

but then—

you gasp.

your eyes fly open.

your chest is heaving. the air in your room is cool and dry, completely still. your sheets are damp and tangled around your legs, clinging to your thighs. your heart is pounding in your ears, and your core is throbbing—still clenching around nothing, still dripping from a climax that didn’t really happen. your breath catches in your throat as you look around, as you realize—

you’re alone.

no jay. no weights. no fingers inside you.

just your own body, aching and trembling in the dark.

it was a dream. just a dream.

and yet—your panties are soaked through. your thighs still stick when you move. your clit still throbs from where phantom fingers once were. it all felt so real. so raw.

your hands drag sluggishly across your face, palms rubbing at your bleary, unfocused eyes as you blink against the soft morning light bleeding in through your curtains. your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by the aftermath of last night’s orgasm and the sleep that barely touched you. there’s a faint ache in your thighs and a dull throb low in your belly—remnants of the way you touched yourself, the way you thought about him. about jay. and it’s almost comforting, that slow, sinful burn still lingering under your skin.

you reach lazily for your phone on the nightstand, fingers fumbling against the cool surface until you finally wrap your hand around it. the screen lights up, glowing too bright against your tired eyes, and you squint at the notifications that fill the display. your heart skips when you see them.

five messages.

from jay.

your brows knit together in a sleepy confusion, thumb hovering over the screen before you swipe to read them. your mind is still sluggish, the words not fully registering until you glance at the time in the corner—and then your stomach drops. the haze of sleep evaporates instantly.

you’re an hour late.

your breath stutters in your throat as panic rushes through your chest, sharp and electric. your eyes widen, your body jolting upright as the realization fully sinks in. you were supposed to be at the gym. you were supposed to be with him. right now. and instead, you’re still tangled in your sheets, hair a mess, skin flushed from sleep and the shameful thoughts you let yourself drown in the night before.

“fuck,” you whisper under your breath, voice hoarse as you throw the covers off and scramble out of bed.

your movements are frantic—hands tugging your shirt over your head, fingers yanking your panties down in one harsh motion. they stick to your skin, damp from more than just sweat, and the feeling makes your stomach twist with something guilty and hot. you toss the fabric aside without a second thought, rushing into the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the cool tile.

you don’t even let the water fully heat before you step under the stream, the temperature stinging at first but quickly fading into a scalding comfort. it slides down your skin, washing away the traces of sleep and the filth clinging to your thoughts. you scrub yourself in a frenzy, fingers dragging the loofah over your skin in quick, shaky motions. there’s no time to savor anything, no time to enjoy the warmth or the way the steam curls around your shoulders. all you can think about is jay. his unread messages. the way his face might look when you walk in late. disappointed. unreadable. maybe pissed.

your heart races faster at the thought.

you work shampoo through your hair with trembling fingers, scrubbing hard at your scalp like it’ll clear the fog in your mind. your chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shaky as your pulse pounds in your ears. what if he’s mad? you rinse, let the water beat down on your face, and close your eyes just for a second—only to see his again. the way they stared at you in the mirror. sharp. hungry. like he already knew what you’d do the second you got home.

and fuck, he was right.

you finish the fastest shower of your life, stepping out onto the bath mat with water still dripping down your legs. you barely towel off—just enough to get your skin dry enough to slide into your clothes. your black sports bra clings tight against your damp skin, molding to the curve of your breasts as you hook it behind your back. the biker shorts come next, stretched up over your hips in one swift motion, hugging your body snugly, your cunt still faintly sore underneath them from the way you came against your fingers just hours before.

you grab your socks, your shoes, your gym bag all in one chaotic breath, flinging the strap over your shoulder and nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the door. keys in one hand, phone in the other, heart slamming against your ribs with every passing second.

you don’t even look in the mirror before you leave.

don’t check your hair, don’t fix your flushed cheeks, don’t try to calm your nerves. you’re already too far gone, already imagining what you’ll say when you see him. if you say anything. because really—what do you even say to the man you moaned for in the shower? to the man whose name spilled out of your mouth as you came all over your own fingers?

the car ride is a blur. red lights, honking horns, the buzz of your phone vibrating again with one last message you don’t have the courage to open.

and when the gym finally comes into view—cold and familiar under the morning light—you feel your throat tighten. your thighs clench instinctively.

you walk in quickly, your shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor, the cold air of the gym brushing against your skin and doing nothing to soothe the way your body’s already burning up with nerves. your breath is still uneven from the rush, your pulse racing from the inside out. your hair’s ruined—messy from the fastest shower of your life, tangled and still slightly damp, clinging to your temples and the back of your neck. strands fall across your face with every step, and you don’t even try to push them back.

because the moment your eyes meet his, you forget how to move.

jay is standing a few feet away, tall and silent, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting. and not patiently. his entire body is stiff, still, as if he’s holding something back—something sharp. his jaw is tense, mouth set in a firm line, and it’s not the same look he wore yesterday. there’s no teasing in his expression now. no smirk, no curiosity, no lingering softness beneath the surface. just a hard, cold stare that lands on you and doesn’t move.

your feet stop like they’ve been nailed to the floor.

you suck in a shaky breath, chest rising with the effort, but your lungs feel too tight. your stomach coils on itself, heat flushing down your neck as the weight of his gaze settles heavy on your shoulders. it’s like he’s reading you—picking you apart with just a glance, like he can see every reason you were late, every shameful thought that kept you in bed a little too long, every mark your own fingers left behind.

your hands fumble to unclip your gym bag, fingers unsteady as you drop it onto the bench beside you. the zipper snags a little. you don’t even bother fixing it. everything feels off. too quiet. too tense. and still, jay doesn’t say a word.

you take a careful step closer, trying to find your voice, even though your throat is dry, your tongue heavy, like it’s stuck to the roof of your mouth. you wet your lips without thinking, your eyes flicking up to his once more, searching for something—anything—beneath that unreadable mask he’s wearing.

“jay, i—”

your voice cracks. it’s soft, small, far too fragile. you’re not even sure what you were going to say. maybe an apology. maybe an excuse. maybe a desperate plea for him to just look at you the way he did yesterday—like he wanted to tear you open and crawl inside. but you never get the chance.

“save it.”

his voice cuts through you like a blade. low. calm. controlled. and somehow, that’s worse than if he’d shouted.

your mouth shuts immediately, your breath catching as his words hang heavy in the air. you nod before you even think to, the motion instinctive—submissive. your heart pounds in your ears, and your body responds without permission, feet shuffling into motion as you try not to crumble under the weight of everything you want to say but can’t.

he doesn’t move toward you. doesn’t give you even the smallest indication of what he’s thinking. but his eyes—fuck, his eyes—they stay locked on you, following your every step like he’s measuring how far he can push you before you break. he doesn’t look curious. he looks sure. like he already knows.

he tilts his head slightly toward the mat in front of him, chin angled down, gaze sharp.

“get ready to do sit-ups, y/n.”

your name on his tongue sounds clipped. colder than before. professional, almost. but not quite. not when it’s him. not when you’re still reeling from the memory of his voice whispering filth into your ear in your dreams.

you nod again, smaller this time. your legs feel stiff as you walk toward the mat, your breathing still uneven, the air thick and strange. it’s all wrong. this isn’t how things usually go. jay always greets you with at least something. a word. a look. sometimes a smirk. sometimes that condescending little tilt of his head that made your knees wobble more than the workouts ever did.

but today? nothing.

not a single sound passes your lips as you nod once and move toward the mat, your movements quiet and rushed, careful not to make any more mistakes than you already have. your body feels stiff, your heart beating uncomfortably loud in your ears, each thump echoing the shame still curling in your stomach. you drop to your knees before lying back, your spine pressing flat to the floor, cool against your skin even through your clothes.

you know this routine. your muscles remember the order—the placement of your arms, the bend in your knees, the strain in your core—but today it all feels different. heavier. tighter. like you’re performing under a spotlight with no applause at the end. your hands rise to rest near your temples, elbows angled wide as you settle into position. your knees are bent just right, feet planted firmly into the mat, and yet nothing feels stable. not with him so close. not with that unreadable tension still radiating off of him like a silent warning.

you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. slow. measured. unhurried. jay stops at the top of your mat, standing tall above your bent legs. he doesn’t kneel. doesn’t crouch. doesn’t even look like he’s planning to move anytime soon. he’s positioned right in front of your knees, arms still crossed over his chest, gaze heavy as it lingers down your body like he’s sizing you up, but not in the way he used to. not in that lingering, teasing, near-predatory way that made your insides twist with anticipation.

this look is colder. clinical. distant.

“you’re going to do twenty,” he says finally, his tone stripped of emotion, every word firm and clipped like a checklist item. “i want them to be precise.”

you nod again, barely managing to breathe past the knot forming in your throat.

you start your first rep. your body moves instinctively, muscles activating as your core tightens, your shoulders lifting off the mat. you curl up slowly, chest rising until it presses lightly against your thighs. your elbows stay wide, your hands by your face. your breath comes out in soft, controlled exhales. it’s not difficult—not yet—but your body is tense in a different way. not from effort. from him. from the silence. from the way you feel his eyes follow you the entire time, burning into your skin like he’s waiting for you to fail.

when you reach the top of the sit-up, you pause briefly—just long enough to look up at him. your eyes search his face for something. encouragement, maybe. a nod. a sliver of softness. some sign that he doesn’t hate you right now.

but all you’re met with is a blank stare.

his eyes meet yours, but they don’t offer anything. no warmth, no recognition, not even that smug little glint that used to drive you crazy. his expression is unreadable—his jaw tense, his features locked in place like stone. you don’t even know if he’s breathing.

your stomach twists painfully.

you drop back down, your shoulders hitting the mat, and you rise again. a second sit-up. same motion. same ache. and yet, everything about it feels harder now. not because your body can’t handle it—but because his silence is heavier than any weight you’ve ever lifted.

you reach the top again. your chest grazes your thighs. your eyes flick up.

still nothing.

no nod. no flicker of approval. no soft good. no teasing keep going.

he just stares.

you keep going. the reps start to blur together. three. four. five. your breath comes harder, your abs starting to burn slightly, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through your chest. you don’t know why it hurts so much, why the absence of his usual taunts feels worse than anything he could’ve said. it’s the way he keeps watching you without reacting. like he’s above responding. like you don’t even deserve the words.

and maybe you don’t. not after what you did. not after showing up late, flushed and guilty, with the memory of his voice still echoing in your head while your panties stuck to your skin.

you lose count for a moment, mind spinning as you go back down, then lift again, pushing through the tension in your core, your arms still beside your face. every time you come up, you’re right there—face to face with his stare. every time, you search for something. and every time, he gives you nothing.

the silence stretches on.

the tension tightens.

you try to keep going, but your body is no longer cooperating the way it should.

your movements start to falter, your breath quickening in short, desperate bursts as your core burns from the effort. each sit-up becomes harder to complete—your elbows trembling, your back aching slightly with strain—but you don’t stop. you can’t. because even though you reached the twentieth rep—the number he told you to hit—he didn’t say you were finished. he didn’t give you that nod, that small flicker of approval, that quiet good job he sometimes throws your way like a crumb.

no, he just stood there. unmoving. unreadable.

so you push into twenty-one. twenty-two. twenty-three. every time you rise, the burn intensifies, and the sweat collecting at your brow slides down your temple, curling under your jaw. your hair is sticking to your cheeks now, your breathing growing more ragged with every rep, and the fire in your abdomen only twists tighter as you fight to keep your form clean, sharp, controlled.

but it isn’t the physical effort that’s making you tremble now. it’s him.

jay hasn’t looked away once. his arms remain crossed over his chest, his stance still stiff and locked in place, but his eyes—god, his eyes—they never leave your body. they trail after every lift of your chest, every twitch of your arms, every slip in your form. they’re cold, hard, unreadable—but you can feel the storm brewing behind them. something simmering just beneath the surface, like he’s holding back more than just his voice.

he’s angry. you can feel it in the silence. in the way he hasn’t spoken a word since the command he gave you. in the way he’s letting you exhaust yourself, letting you burn, sweat, struggle—just to make a point.

you made him wait. you didn’t show up on time. and now he’s showing you what that costs.

your movements start to stutter more, your knees shifting slightly, your back beginning to curve as the fatigue hits deeper than your muscles. you try to fix it on your own, but it’s too late. he sees it.

and then he finally moves.

his steps are slow, deliberate. you don’t even see him kneel—you just feel him. one second, he’s standing over you like a judgment you can’t escape, and the next, his hands are on you. large, warm, unforgiving. his fingers press into your sides as he adjusts your hips, nudging you back into the position he wants. his touch is firm but not rough—controlled. precise. like he’s sculpting you into the version he prefers.

but he doesn’t stop once the correction is made. not this time.

his hands stay.

his fingers glide slowly along your waist, brushing just under the edge of your sports bra. the touch is barely there—ghostlike, more warmth than pressure—but it lights a fire under your skin. you suck in a sharp breath, body freezing for a second beneath the soft sweep of his fingertips. they trail lower, passing over the curve of your hip, lingering at the edge of your shorts like they might dip inside if you just moved wrong enough.

you gasp—quiet and instinctive. it slips from your lips before you can stop it, and the sound lingers in the air like a confession.

jay hears it. he always does.

his fingers pause, just for a moment, like he’s letting the sound register. then, slowly, he leans forward, his face close enough that his breath ghosts along the side of your cheek. your eyes flutter open to meet his, and the weight of his gaze pins you flat to the mat.

“how many times do i have to correct you?”

his voice is low—soft, almost—but there’s no gentleness in it. it’s cold. calculated. the words slip out like a reprimand and a threat all at once. they don’t rise above a murmur, and yet they feel louder than anything else in the room. his eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of his stare makes your throat tighten, your lips parting around a shaky breath.

you try to answer, but nothing comes out. your brain is too fogged, your body too hypersensitive, your skin still tingling from where he touched you. and he sees it. he watches the way your mouth opens slightly, how your lashes flutter, how your legs press just a little tighter together even though you’re supposed to be focused on your form.

you think you can hide behind innocence. but you can’t.

not when your body gives you away so easily.

he sees the way your chest rises with every breath, how your gasps get softer, more airy, more needy when he leans too close. he sees the tremble in your thighs, the quiver in your lip, the way you glance away and then right back, like you want to be scolded. want to be touched again.

you sit up fast, body still buzzing, limbs weak beneath you as your shaky hands push against the mat to help you stand. your legs don’t feel steady. your thighs tremble faintly as you move, and your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven bursts that you can’t quite control. you barely make it to the bench before collapsing onto it, breath spilling out in soft pants as your hand comes up to wipe the sweat clinging to your bare shoulder with the back of your wrist.

your body feels overheated. flushed and overwhelmed. your skin burns everywhere—where his hands touched, where his hips pressed into yours, where his voice dropped too close to your throat. and now, with him still standing there, still watching, it’s like your whole body is on fire.

you try to play it off. to catch your breath, to cool yourself down.

“l-let’s just… take a break,” you mumble, voice unsteady, a little too thin.

you lift your hand in a weak attempt to fan yourself, the motion useless, more of a distraction than anything else. your eyes flick upward, trying to meet his, but they only land on his chest—broad and still rising subtly with each of his slow breaths. then lower, without thinking, and your stomach turns.

he’s still hard.

still tenting his sweats, his cock clearly pressing against the thin fabric like he hasn’t even tried to hide what just happened. your mouth goes dry. your gaze lingers too long before you catch yourself, eyes darting back up to his face, only to find him already watching you.

his expression changes.

just for a second, his mouth twitches—tightening into something sharp, something cold. his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s about to say something you won’t like, and your heart skips. but it disappears just as fast. smoothed over. replaced by that same neutral mask you’ve seen so many times before.

he steps forward.

it’s slow. unhurried. and you feel the air change around you as he closes the distance, his body blocking out the light, casting a shadow over your lap as he stops right in front of where you sit. your eyes trail up to his again—slow, reluctant—and you realize you’re holding your breath.

“you come late,” he says, voice even but firm. “and now you’re needing a break?”

you tense. his tone isn’t angry, but it cuts through you anyway, sharp with disappointment, as if your body betraying you is somehow an inconvenience to him. you want to argue. to snap back. but the way he looks down at you—like you’re something small, like you’ve given him exactly what he expected—keeps your lips pressed tightly together.

his stare remains blank. unreadable. not cold anymore, not exactly. just... calculated. like he’s measuring your reaction, watching you squirm under the weight of his presence. and it’s starting to get under your skin. it always does.

you’ve never been able to crack him. not once.

not when he’s like this. not when he decides to shut you out completely, bury everything under that perfect blankness. it frustrates you. confuses you. especially after what just happened—after the way his hips rolled into yours like he wanted to fuck you through the mat. how could he just shift back into this version of himself like he wasn’t grinding against your soaked core moments ago?

but then your eyes drop again. you can’t help it.

his cock still strains against the fabric of his sweats—thick, hard, unmistakable. it’s there, evidence that whatever he’s pretending doesn’t exist between you? it does. and it has a pulse.

before you can think too hard, a sound breaks the silence.

a soft chuckle.

low. deep. lazy. it rolls from his throat like a slow exhale, not loud, but sharp enough to slice straight through your thoughts. it sends a chill down your spine. not because it’s cruel. but because it’s the first thing he’s given you that feels real.

your head lifts sharply, eyes locking on his face again. and this time, for just a split second, you swear there’s something there. a flicker of amusement. hunger. maybe even pride.

you’re still breathing hard when he steps forward, and even though he’s not touching you, it feels like he might as well be. the space between you evaporates with every inch he closes, and you feel your pulse spike in your throat the moment he casts his shadow over your lap. he towers above you, quiet and controlled, while you sit on the edge of the bench like something wound too tight—flushed, trembling, your inner thighs already sticky with proof of what you’ve let happen.

his expression doesn’t change, not visibly. he still wears that unreadable mask, calm and perfectly in control, but there’s something sharp hiding just beneath the surface. something in the slight tilt of his head, the measured stillness of his breath, the way his eyes trail over you without softening. and you know—without a doubt—that he’s waiting for you to say something. to admit something. to give in.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your chest is rising and falling too fast, your hands pressing into the bench beneath you like you're grounding yourself, trying to keep from shaking apart. your lips part again with a breathy start of a word you don’t have the courage to finish, and that’s when he speaks—quiet, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you.

“you keep acting like i did something to you,” he murmurs, voice low and infuriatingly calm, like the truth he’s about to drop won’t leave you completely destroyed. “like i touched you first. like i crossed a line.”

your heart jumps in your chest. your fingers curl tight against the edge of the bench. your eyes lift to his face just in time to see the glint in his eyes—subtle, dangerous, the kind of satisfaction that only comes from knowing he has you exactly where he wants you.

“but we both know who started it,” he continues, stepping just a little closer now, his tone dropping lower, quieter, every syllable drawing out like he’s savoring it. “you remember, don’t you?”

you freeze. your breath catches painfully in your throat. you already know what he’s about to say, but hearing it in his voice—hearing him take it and twist it, throw it back at you—makes your skin burn with something hotter than shame.

“you were the one backing into me,” he says, and there’s a weight behind his words now, a slow pressure like a hand curling tight around your neck. “grinding your ass on my cock during squats like you wanted it there. like you needed it there.”

your whole body tenses, and the heat between your legs only grows worse. you can’t hide it. you don’t even try. his voice is too much—rough and steady, threaded with dark amusement and something far more dangerous. your eyes drop on instinct, landing low—right where he knows they’ll go—and there it is. the outline of his cock, thick and hard through his sweats, no longer something you can pretend not to notice.

“you kept going,” he says. “pushing back on every rep. not pulling away. not saying a word. just letting me feel how turned on you were.”

you inhale sharply, and it’s humiliating how shaky it sounds. your knees try to press together, but it’s too little too late. he’s already seen it. he’s seen everything. your soaked thighs, your trembling hands, the way your eyes keep flicking down to his bulge like it’s gravity pulling them there.

his voice drops lower. darker. quieter.

“and then you let me touch you.”

your lips part, but you can’t form a response. your tongue feels thick, useless, your thoughts spinning out of control as he steps in even closer—still not touching, but close enough now that you feel his body heat bleed into your skin.

“you let me correct your posture. touch your waist. slide my hands over your hips. rub your shoulders like i owned them. and you didn’t stop me. you didn’t even blink.”

he leans down now, just slightly, just enough that his mouth hovers near your ear, and the air in your lungs goes still.

“you fucking wanted it,” he whispers. “and now you’re sitting here acting like you’re tired? like you didn’t spend the last fifteen minutes soaked and desperate for more?”

you shiver beneath his words. your whole body clenches, thighs twitching, breath locked up in your chest as you try and fail to form a single coherent thought. you want to argue. deny it. fight back. but everything in your body betrays you.

before you can even act—before your breath settles, before your mind catches up to your body—he’s already moving.

jay doesn’t give you the chance to speak. doesn’t give you time to change your mind. his hands are at the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs hooking into the band of his boxers, and he drags both of them down in one fluid motion. the fabric slides low on his hips, past the muscle of his thighs, and then his cock springs free—thick, flushed, hard. it bounces slightly against his abdomen as it’s released, the head glistening wet with precum.

he exhales a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat, not loud, but full of tension. his hand wraps around the base without hesitation, fingers curling around his length like it’s a habit, like he’s been waiting for this all day. his other hand reaches for you, slipping into your hair, threading through the strands with fingers that are both steady and possessive.

he pulls your head closer—not rough, not forceful yet, but enough to make your lips part instinctively as you look up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“why don’t you be a good girl for once,” he murmurs, voice heavy with heat, “and show me what you’ve been wanting?”

you barely have time to register the words before the head of his cock taps against your mouth, sticky with precum, smearing it across your lips like he’s marking you. he doesn’t wait for permission. doesn’t wait for consent that’s already written all over your face, in the way you moan softly, lips falling open without hesitation, tongue flicking out just slightly to taste him.

the moment you do, he groans again. rougher this time.

you wrap your lips around the tip, soft and slow, your mouth warm and wet as you suck him in. the taste of him hits your tongue first—salty and bitter, thick with heat—and the reaction it pulls from him is immediate. his hips jerk just slightly, his hand tightens in your hair, and a low “fuck…” slips past his lips like he’s trying to hold it back and failing.

you take him deeper, inch by inch, your mouth stretching to accommodate him. your jaw aches almost instantly, but you push through it, needing more. your tongue slides along the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs the length of him, and the sound he makes above you nearly makes your thighs squeeze together.

you get halfway—maybe a little more—but it’s not enough for him.

not even close.

his hand flexes in your hair again, and suddenly he’s pushing forward, guiding your head down slowly but firmly until the tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. your nose brushes against the hard plane of his abdomen, your eyes watering instantly from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer size of him filling your mouth so completely.

you gag softly, throat tightening around him as your fingers curl against his thighs, and the reaction it pulls from him is pure filth. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, biting down hard as his brows furrow, hips twitching with restraint. he’s breathing heavier now—slow and deliberate—like he’s savoring the way your mouth feels around him, like he’s never going to forget the image of you on your knees, lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed out with effort as you choke on his cock.

his voice is barely a whisper when it comes.

“fuck… just like that.”

your mouth is stretched wide, your lips swollen and slick, and jay is buried so deep down your throat you can barely breathe. but you don’t want to pull away. you don’t even think about stopping. your knees are starting to ache, your jaw sore from the strain, tears already brimming along your lashes—but none of it matters. not with the way he’s looking down at you like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever seen.

he starts slow. his hips rock forward just enough to feel the pressure, just enough to make your throat constrict around him with every push. your gag reflex twitches but you breathe through it, fingers curling tight around his thighs for stability, for something to hold on to. your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, the thick vein pulsing against the back of your tongue with every lazy thrust. your spit coats him already, warm and slippery, and every time he pulls back, it strings between your lips and the flushed tip of his cock.

jay groans low in his chest, one hand still threaded in your hair while the other braces at his side. his jaw is clenched, his breath heavy, but his face stays trained on you—on the way your cheeks hollow when you suck him in, the way your throat tightens and trembles as you take more of him, deeper, sloppier, hungrier with every stroke.

and then, without warning, he shifts. his fingers flex, his grip in your hair tightens, and he pulls your head forward again—not rough, not violent, but firm, like he knows exactly what you can take and exactly how to give it to you. his hips meet the motion, pushing deeper. suddenly his cock is shoved farther down your throat, nudging the tightest part, and your body flinches. your eyes snap open, watering instantly, your nails digging into his thighs.

he doesn’t stop.

his hips begin to move in earnest now. slow, deep thrusts at first, then faster, more rhythm to it. more weight. each time he pushes in, your throat strains around him, your gag reflex fluttering again and again as your spit spills from the corners of your mouth. you’re choking softly with every breath, but fuck—you want to. you want the mess. you want the ache. you want the way he moans your name under his breath like he’s never heard anything sweeter.

“fuck,” he groans, low and rough, eyes dark with lust as he watches your lips stretch around him. “you were made for this—look at you.”

you’re not even sure you hear him at first, not through the thick haze of wet sounds and breathless need, but it lands somewhere deep in your chest. it makes your core clench, makes your thighs press together, makes your entire body react to the filthy praise as he keeps fucking your mouth like it belongs to him.

you gag around him again, this time harder, and the sound makes him groan louder, his hips stuttering just slightly. he pulls back—not all the way, just enough to let you breathe for a second—and his cock glistens with your spit, twitching as another drop of precum beads at the tip and smears across your lip.

you gasp, drawing in air like it’s the first you’ve had in hours, your mouth still open, still ready, tongue peeking out like you’re starving for him.

he hisses, his grip on your hair tightening again as he pushes forward.

“don’t stop now,” he mutters, breath ragged. “not when you’re doing so fucking good.”

and then he’s moving again—faster, harder, thrusting into your mouth with less restraint now, letting the wet slap of skin and the messy, desperate rhythm fill the room. his cock pounds the back of your throat, and you can’t help the whimper that bubbles up from deep inside your chest. spit drips down your chin, thick and glossy, soaking into the collar of your shirt. your eyes blur. your legs tremble. you’re falling apart on your knees, and all he’s doing is watching.

he looks wrecked. sweat beading at his temple, brows furrowed, lips parted as he fucks into your mouth like he’s not going to last much longer.

“shit,” he breathes, voice shaking. “fuck, your throat—feels so good—squeezing me—god, baby, i’m not gonna—”

his hips stutter. his cock twitches. your throat tightens one more time around the weight of him, and he groans, loud and broken and raw as he grabs the back of your head with both hands, holding you there as he buries himself deep.

you gag softly around him, tears spilling over your cheeks as his cock pulses against your tongue.

and then he cums.

hot and thick, the first spurt hits the back of your throat without warning. then another. and another. he grunts low as he holds your head still, forcing you to take it all, his breath shaking, body shuddering with every wave of release. you swallow as best you can, but it’s messy—some of it dripping past your lips, sliding down your chin as you choke softly on the heat of it.

he finally pulls back, just barely, and you suck in air through your nose, blinking through the tears as his cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop. you’re wrecked—drool and cum on your lips, your chest heaving, your throat raw.

jay looks down at you.

and even through the mess, the ruin, the flushed haze of satisfaction on his face—there’s still hunger in his eyes.

you barely have time to catch your breath. your throat’s raw, lips slick with spit and his cum, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven pants. you glance up at him through wet lashes, dazed, thinking maybe—just maybe—he’ll pull back, give you a break, let you recover. but he doesn’t. not even for a second.

his hand grips your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek like he's wiping his cum from the corner of your mouth, and before you can say a word, he’s grabbing your wrist and yanking you up. your legs barely hold you—unsteady, weak, trembling—but he’s already pulling you forward with him, your body moving on instinct as he drops down onto the bench and tugs you into his lap. his grip on your hips is bruising, his breath heavy with restraint, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—his cock, already hard again, pressed thick and hot between your thighs.

“get on,” he growls, voice deep and wrecked. “you want it? then ride it.”

your mouth parts with a gasp, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it. “j-jay…”

your voice trembles, soft and needy, and the second it leaves you, he twitches beneath you. his eyes snap up to yours, his expression shifting—something sharp and dark curling in the corners of his mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging your soaked shorts down with both hands, baring your cunt in one smooth, practiced motion. “you’re already moaning my name again, huh? didn’t even get my cock inside you yet.”

you shiver, your hands bracing against his shoulders, your pussy slick and throbbing as he lines himself up with your entrance. the swollen tip of his cock slides against your folds, and the sound that slips out of you is pure need—raw, breathless, aching.

“jay, please,” you whimper, your voice cracking as you try to lower yourself onto him, your thighs shaking from the effort.

“yeah?” he taunts, his grip tightening on your hips. “go ahead, sweetheart. take it.”

you do.

you sink down, slow at first, the thick stretch of him forcing a cry from your throat as your cunt swallows inch after inch. the fullness makes your head drop back, your fingers digging into his arms as he groans low against your skin, the sound guttural, almost feral.

“fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, voice right at your ear. “feel how tight you are around me?”

“yes,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper, your walls fluttering as you bottom out, the tip of his cock buried so deep inside you it feels like you can’t take it. “fuck, jay—feels so good…”

his hands slide up your sides, then back down to your ass, gripping you hard as he starts to move. he thrusts up into you with no patience, setting a rough, unforgiving pace that forces your body to bounce in his lap with every snap of his hips. it’s fast. aggressive. deliberate. like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs, like he’s trying to fuck his name into the pit of your stomach.

you cry out, loud and messy, your hands scrabbling for something to hold onto as he slams into you again, again, again. each thrust forces a gasp of his name from your lips, your moans dissolving into broken syllables that don’t even sound human.

“jay—fuck—jay, please, i—”

he laughs. dark. breathless.

“god, you sound so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, eyes locked on your mouth. “moaning my name like you need it just to breathe.”

your head tips forward, your forehead pressing to his as your voice trembles, full of everything you can’t hide anymore. “i do—fuck, i do, jay—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

“i’m not fucking stopping,” he growls, fucking up into you harder, faster, his grip bruising now. “not until you scream it. not until you cum all over my cock and say my name like you fuckin’ mean it.”

and when your eyes crack open—wet, wide, desperate—and you meet his in the mirror across the room, what you see undoes you completely.

your mouth is parted, your body bouncing in his lap, his hands bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you with the kind of rhythm that makes your whole body shake. your hair is sticking to your sweat-slick skin, your throat hoarse from crying out, and your pussy’s so soaked, you can hear it—wet and filthy with every slam of his hips into yours.

his voice is in your ear again.

“look at you,” he hisses, snapping his hips up into you so hard your whole body jolts. “so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moaning my name like a good little slut.”

you can’t hold it in anymore.

“*jay—oh my god, jay, please—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” he growls. “you gonna cum? right here on my cock, in front of the fuckin’ mirror?”

you nod, whimpering, helpless, hands clawing at his shoulders. “yes—please, let me—need to—need to cum so bad—”

he grabs you by the throat again, not tight, just enough to keep you still, to keep your eyes on the mirror as he fucks into you harder than ever, the bench underneath creaking from the force of it.

“then cum,” he snarls. “cum for me, baby. let me hear you scream my name like you fucking mean it.”

you don’t stand a chance.

not with the way he’s fucking into you—fast and deep, relentless, rough. not with the way your knees are already buckling on either side of his hips, your legs barely holding on. not with the sound of your own moans echoing off the gym walls, getting louder, higher, more desperate every time he thrusts up into your dripping cunt like he’s trying to split you open.

and definitely not with the way he’s holding you—one hand braced on the small of your back, pressing you forward, forcing your spine to curve and your chest to push against his while his other hand curls around your throat again, gentle but firm, controlling your breath and your view and your body all at once.

his mouth is at your ear, hot and ragged, words slipping past his teeth like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for too long.

“you hear yourself?” he growls, hips slamming up into you so hard your breath hitches mid-moan. “fuckin’ crying for it, baby. you gonna cum for me like that?”

your voice breaks—another moan of his name, raw and high and aching. “j-jay—”

he bites down on your shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in control—and the way your body clenches around him in response makes him groan low against your skin.

“that’s it,” he mutters, voice strained. “say it again. moan my name while i ruin this tight little pussy.”

you do.

you can’t stop. his name keeps falling from your lips like it’s the only word you remember. you’re shaking now, full-body trembles that start in your thighs and travel up your spine, and your nails scrape down his shoulders as you cling to him, cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as the pressure builds too fast.

“jay—please—fuck, i’m gonna cum, i can’t—i can’t—”

you’re sobbing now, voice wrecked and falling apart, your head tipped back, your mouth wide open with a cry that turns into a full scream when he slams into you just right, again and again, never breaking pace. and then it hits.

your orgasm crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun—violent, pulsing, blinding. your whole body goes stiff for one perfect second, your toes curling, your walls locking down around his cock like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. and then you’re shaking. gasping. your face pressed against his neck as you sob out his name again and again and again.

he growls low in your ear, his thrusts sharp and deep, chasing the clench of your cunt like he’s addicted to it.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it—cum for me, baby, that’s it—jesus, you feel so good—so fucking tight—”

he doesn’t slow down. he fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the aftershocks, making you jerk and twitch in his lap while he breathes hard against your cheek. the wet sound of your cunt swallowing him gets louder, filthier, every time he pushes back in. your slick’s everywhere—on his thighs, the bench, running down the backs of your legs—and you can feel the way his cock twitches inside you with every clench of your pussy.

he’s close.

so fucking close.

“you want it?” he pants, voice sharp with strain. “you want me to cum in this pretty pussy?”

you nod frantically, still gasping, still crying, your voice gone but your body giving him every answer he needs. your hands grab at his back, your nails dragging down hard, and he hisses when you whimper against his jaw.

“yes—jay, please, cum in me—want it—want you to fill me—fuck, please—”

that’s all it takes.

he curses—loud, sharp, filthy—and then he’s coming inside you, hips jerking up in stuttered thrusts as his cock throbs deep in your soaked, clenching cunt. he holds you down on him, buried to the base, one hand gripping your ass, the other still at your throat, and you can feel the way he shudders under your palms. feel the warmth of his release spilling into you, thick and hot, making a mess of your insides.

he breathes your name like it’s the only thing grounding him. like he needs to say it or he’ll lose his mind completely.

your body collapses against him, still shaking, still pulsing around him as he slows—his hips rolling lazily, drawing out the last wave of his orgasm until you’re both panting and soaked, glued together in a mess of sweat and cum and need.

in the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself.

your hair is stuck to your forehead. your lips are parted. your thighs are trembling around his. and your pussy is still wrapped tight around his cock, cum already leaking down the inside of your legs.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ okay i want feedback for this, honestly idk how i feel about it >-< but i hoped you all still enjoyed !

#enhypen #enha #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heeluvv #park jongseong #jongseong x reader #jongseong smut #enhypen jongseong #enhypen jay x you #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen jay #jay smut

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fangswbenefits · 2 years ago

Text

Intimacy

𓂅 𓄹 Summary: Lack of intimacy after childbirth can weigh a relationship down. Thankfully, Miguel always finds new ways to keep the spark alive.

𓂅 𓄹 Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Lactation kink. Fangs. Implied breeding kink. A comprehensive study on intimacy with Miguel O’Hara.

“She’s finally sound asleep.”

Holding back a yawn as you entered the living room, you were promptly met with a very heavy-eyed Miguel O’Hara on the couch, enjoying the comforts of home.

“Thank you,” he said truthfully, straightening up lightly in his seat. “Come here.”

You paced towards him, lazily settling on his lap, both legs framing his as two big and warm hands sprawled across your back, pulling you into an embrace.

Instinctively, your eyes fluttered shut once cheek came to rest on his shoulder, taking in his body warmth and enjoying the steady heartbeat that drummed against your chest.

You figured you might just fall asleep and don’t fight against it. Taking care of a baby had been taking a toll on you both as of late, but it was to be expected.

Still, you missed moments like this. No talking, just feeling right at home in a silent embrace.

Miguel planted a few kisses to the back of your neck, but they were void of any sexual bearing. You knew what he meant with those. Absolute gratitude and devotion.

“Next time, I’ll put her to sleep,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hmm.”

His hands glided along your back, fingertips applying just enough pressure to raise goosebumps across your skin.

“I mean it.”

“You’re also tired,” you drawled out with a yawn, body slumping fully into him. “Work and all that…”

Another tender kiss. “But I have responsibilities here, too.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“You taught me how.”

Point taken.

Silent seconds ticked by and you shifted on his lap into a more comfortable position, ready to enter the valley of dreams.

“I miss you,” he said all of a sudden.

His hands settled on your arms to straighten you, a pair of red eyes encasing yours.

“I miss us.”

Miguel wasn’t a man to deliver empty words as filler, so you knew that he genuinely meant it, which had your heart to skip a beat.

His digital suit began to fragment and reced, exposing the skin underneath. Your placed your hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscles flex under your touch.

He was so handsome. Almost unfairly so.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.

You nodded, bringing your lips to meet his in a lazy kiss as you dragged your fingers along his hair, earning a moan of approval.

It was a slow and steady kiss. You were in no hurry and wanted to make the most of this rare opportunity.

One of his hands slid to grope your breast and you felt him groan against you lips, breaking contact.

His half-hooded eyes were now on your chest, and as you followed his line of sight, you realised what had caught his attention.

Your shirt was getting soaked with milk.

Damn.

Two round damp spots spread across the fabric that covered each nipple, and you felt instant embarrassment take over. “Sorry… wanted to pump before putting her to bed, but she—”

“Don’t ever apologise for this,” he silenced you at once.

You tried to slide off the couch to fix yourself, but he kept you in place with both hands gripping your waist, pushing you down on him.

“Stay.”

Oh?

“I’ll help.”

Oh.

“Miguel…”

Masterful fingers worked their way down the buttons of your nightgown to reveal your heaving breasts.

You knew that look on his face.

Hunger.

“So full,” he said more to himself, cupping both of them softly.

A few droplets coated both nipples and he brushed the pad of his thumbs along the sensitive skin, earning a jerk from you.

The tingling between your legs emerged in full force from just the sight of him staring at you like he could devour you whole.

He craned his neck just enough to capture one nipple with his lips before latching hungrily.

The overwhelming sensation was enough to have you clinging to his broad shoulders for support. You squeezed your eyes shut and gasped once you felt him sucking gently.

It didn’t take long for you to feel the growing pressure between your legs from his hardening cock.

“Be gentle,” you moaned, caressing his cheek that would rhythmically hollow as he downed your milk.

“Hmmm.”

Then your hand came to his neck and you gently gripped it, feeling his Adam’s apple bob with each gulp.

You stared adoringly at him, slowly grinding into his covered cock. A raw groan reverberated through his throat, and you could tear your eyes away from the sight of the warm liquid pooling in the corner of his mouth.

The latch was just perfect and felt too good.

You brought your hand to caress his face once more, brushing a few strands of his hair away.

“You’re so good…” you moaned.

His cock twitched at your praise, and you could feel the wetness damping his own underwear. Now he was the one leaking for you, his body full on auto-pilot as precum readied him for more.

A couple of droplets began to run down his chin, dripping and drenching his underwear.

“No fangs…”

You’d felt them grazing your skin lightly, but you couldn’t really blame Miguel. His fangs would emerge from either extreme anger or blinding pleasure. A roll from your hips with added pressure was enough to tear his lips from your nipple, head falling back and mouth parting with a raw moan.

He bared both sets of fangs as both hands gripped your waist. Your own mouth dropped open as haziness filled your vision, absolutely revelling in seeing your own milk dripping from his lips and down his muscular neck.

“Fuck,” he grunted, eyes squeezed shut.

You hurried to collect some of the beads of milk from his skin, but Miguel intercepted you midway, capturing you into a searing kiss. His tongue hurriedly slipped past your lips and you tasted sweetness.

Parting yourself from him, you focused on the grind of your hips and Miguel snapped open his crimson eyes, lust dilating his pupils.

“I’m not… I’m not…” he mumbled incoherently, too lost in his pleasure. “I’m not… lasting…”

You leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I’m surprised you lasted this long,” you whispered seductively, pressing a quick kiss to the pulse point on his neck. “So much stamina…”

Miguel was a sucker for praise and it was the easiest and fasted way to get him to crumble.

Your clit rubbed against his covered cock in a steady rhythm as more droplets of milk kept dripping from your nipples. Your eyes roamed along his chest that was glistening as beads of white liquid streamed down.

Suddenly, Miguel pulled you into him, your breasts now squeezed in between you two, more liquid pouring out.

He titled your head and immediately latched his lips against your neck, fangs nearly puncturing the flushed skin.

“You ride me so good,” he murmured hungrily against you.

A moan tangled in your throat and your hips surged to encourage his, ruthlessly intensifying the pleasure. Miguel picked up the speed again and you felt each burst of bliss at every thrust and desperate to feel the next.

Your orgasm was upon you faster than you had expected, the sense of urgency in his thrusts pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Miguel… Miguel…” you moaned, your panties completely drenched.

“Inside… please…”

Desperate fingers clawed at your underwear, sliding it to the side as the tip of his cock nudged at your entrance. He slid inside effortlessly, bottoming up in an instant, and after a moment he gave a harsh cry and shoved himself so deeply and tightly against you that you gasped, clenching hard around him.

Miguel buried his face in the crook of your neck in a failed attempt to muffle his groans.

He kept grinding and rocking against you with stifled grunts, spurting hotly inside.

Only the sounds of your harsh breathing followed, and you sank against him weakly as if drained of all energy.

A familiar waile filled the room, making you wince.

“Shit… were we too loud?” you asked, trying to ease your breathing.

Miguel was still buried deep inside you, beads of sweat rolling down his face. “I’ll go check on her.”

You could tell he reluctantly slid out, easing you on your back. The sudden emptiness made you clench involuntarily, and you felt some of his warm cum spilling

“Keep it in,” he said, pressing your legs together as he planted a kiss to your forehead.

Masterlist

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel o’hara imagine #atsv miguel

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sugarplumfairy777 · 4 months ago

Text

𓊆ྀིWHIPLASH METHOD:𓊇ྀི

⏝ ͝ㅤㅤᛝㅤㅤ ◟🎀 okay so if you know or don’t know aespa, they have a song called whiplash. in the song there’s a part that goes like “Just close your eyes, breathe in and visualize” and I thought “woah that sounds like a cool way to induce pure consciousness” so anyways I came up with a “method” to induce the void state in a fun way inspired by the song! (and note: you don’t have to follow it verbatim whatever resonates with you is just as fine!) now anyways enough of me yapping here’s the method! buuuut before any of that we must remember a few things:

your god, you are the one who creates everything in your reality. you are the most powerful form in the universe—you are the universe basically. nothing can ever change the fact that you are god. everything is within you. do not focus on the 3D that is your old story=old thoughts & assumptions. you are I AM/VOID/PURE CONSCIOUSNESS, and this state is so easy to induce because you are already in it. there’s nothing to enter, and finally you are limitless.

𝜗℘ step I | close your eyes and drift off: softly close your eyes and drift off into a state of peace, do not force anything simply be. imagine yourself laying on a soft cloud; focus on the darkness behind your eyes.

𝜗℘ step II | take a deep and gentle breath; breath in like you’re taking in the scent of something sweet and familiar. as the air fills your lungs, feel it bring warmth and comfort, wrapping around your body like a soft, invisible hug. hold it for a moment, then exhale slowly, releasing any tension, any tiny worries, as if you’re letting go of everything that’s been weighing on you. each breath pulls you deeper into this quiet, safe space, where nothing else matters.

𝜗℘ step III | visualize; visualize yourself somewhere soft and warm. anywhere; if you don’t want to do that you can visualize any object or thing or person or place you want to!

𝜗℘ step IV | whilst doing all of the following, with each breath you take imagine your self slowly sinking into the thing your visualizing and beyond whatever it is that your visualizing it’s just darkness; with each deep breath your getting pulled closer and closer. now finally after one-six deep breaths sink fully into the state of pure consciousness. after this you’ve induced the void state!

꒰ঌ🎀໒꒱ a little reminder since, no offense, some of you are dense: you are limitless. this state? it’s not just some distant thing you have to reach for. it’s already yours, i mean it is YOU. you’re so powerful that tapping into the void is like flipping a switch. no hesitation, no struggle. everything you desire, everything you dream of, is already within you. you just breathe and step into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world because it is. nothing is hard for you. you are that girl, and the universe bends for you, flowing with your energy effortlessly. your dreams, your goals, your peace; it’s all just waiting for you to claim it. you don’t even have to chase anything, you are so powerful that everything falls into place the moment you decide it will. the void is your space, and you glide through it with the grace of someone who knows that everything is already hers. failing at this state is impossible.

remember, you’re not here to struggle and your not here to waver, the more you realize how easy this is, the more unstoppable you become. you are limitless and you are literally god. ♡ ♡ ♡

어디서나 거침없어 I'm the coldest 오직 나만이 이 판을 바꿀 changer 🖤🎀

#void state #pure consciousness #loa #manifesting #loa tumblr #loassumption #vaunts & affirmations #manifesation #loablr #⊹ ࣪ ˖🧁₊˚⊹♡must reads !#affirm and persist

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thelov3lybookworm · 4 months ago

Text

Flicker Out

Summary: Azriel's chest becomes hollow, and the place where once love bloomed, only emptiness remained.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1950

Warnings: angst, angst, death (but she comes back) az in agony, a lil bit of me being poetic ofc 🤭 did i mention angst? oh and more angst and angst

A/n: based on this request by an anon. i adore this request and it was litterally one of my fav ones to write. i just couldnt stop writing once i started tbh 🥹

(@potatoplace this is the fic i mentioned hehehe 🤭😏)

anyways, enjoyyy🥹🤭

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

There was almost nothing that could distract Azriel when he was locked in battle. He could not afford to let his mind stray from plotting the next defence, the next manoeuvre, the next attack. It was almost similar to a dance, except he did not know the song and hated his partner, and he also had to be mindful of anyone who might attack him while he was focused on this waltz between life and death.

The soldier whose sword had come within an inch of Azriel’s throat- only the second one since the battle began, unsurprisingly- sneered at Azriel, his teeth stained red and almost half of his face slashed by a vicious stab wound.

Azriel almost pitied the male. Almost. And only because he knew a thing or two about having untreatable scars after escaping the clutches of death.

Still, Azriel heaved his whole body weight against his sword forcing the soldier to yield a step. Azriel’s eyes moved quickly, searching for places the soldier might have left open for him to attack, and gleefully, Azriel noted that his ribs were open. His armour seemed to have chipped off in a corner, and seemed a size entirely too big.

That’s stupid, but good for me.

Azriel moved his blade away from his opponents, swiftly bringing it down to the side of his ribs. The blade had almost touched the male’s unarmoured body when Azriel faltered.

Too empty.

Void.

How?

Azriel breathed in, his eyes losing their focus before a sharp sting brought his attention to the dagger that now seemed to have befriended the skin and bones of his thigh. He looked up, feeling the blood drain from the wound on his thigh- though the concern was in the back of his mind- and his heart. The place where constant love from his mate flowed, a gaping wound had appeared. That hurt more than any fatal wound to his body could.

How?

Azriel did not see nor hear anything around him, his consciousness too busy scrambling to figure out why he could no longer feel her. But it was the warrior instincts in him that his peers had drilled into him, making him instinctively raise his sword, eyes slowly moving to meet the spooked gaze of his enemy, and within the moment, those same eyes stared up at the open, vast sky, unseeing and unfeeling.

But Azriel was already bolting towards where he had felt the last pump of love coming from, and nothing and no one, even the mother, could have stopped him from cutting through the soldiers trying to get in his way as smoothly and viciously as a hot knife cut through butter.

Y/n. Please.

Azriel’s chest heaved, tiny needles stinging his sides and the muscles in his thigh protesting, but still, he ran. Ran towards his love, the one he doubted but refused to admit was…

Gone.

Azriel spread his wings, despite knowing it would just drain his energy faster. He could not walk through his shadows either. They were tired too. Running took too much out of him, and flying would take him to her faster, even if it hurt his muscles and wounded wings.

Please. Just please stay.

From the height his wings took him to, he looked around, and then leaned forward, gliding through the air and riding the breeze that took him closer to where his mate was.

The first thing he saw was a small crowd of his family members. Mainly, Rhys, Feyre and Cassian. The second thing he saw as he touched the ground was the cauldron.

And then…

Y/n.

She lay motionless on the ground, staring up at the sky.

And in that moment, Azriel didn’t care that Rhys stood over his sister’s body, crying. Azriel did not care that his family members who did not know of his relationship with Y/n stared at him wide eyed as he pushed them away from her.

He simply dropped to his knees, his thigh protesting. But he gently grabbed Y/n’s cold hand, his own scarred ones shaking and covered in blood. He let loose a ragged breath, eyes filling up with water as he stared into the empty gaze of his beloved.

He screamed.

A loud, wordless scream ripped from his chest, the sheer pain and longing and regret echoing through the battlefield, even worlds not his own. His heart no longer beat in that familiar, unnoticeable rhythm people come to ignore most of the time, instead beating like a wardrum.

Hollow and empty, but still too loud for him to not hear.

Where once love bloomed, only sadness and pain remained, and Azriel continued screaming.

When he could no longer scream, he weeped.

He let his forehead rest on his mate’s chest, and he wept. Deep, sorrowful sobs ripping from his throats. They were as deep and powerful and soft as his love for his mate.

And when he couldn’t weep, he whimpered. Sorry, quiet whimpers resembling the silence and lack of warmth in his body and the bond that had once tied the bridge between two souls. The sounds escaping him were low, almost silent, but they were just as loud and impactful as his silent love for Y/n when they could not afford to love freely and loudly.

Azriel’s shadows had regained enough of their power to brush against his ears, his hair and shoulder like Y/n’s hands had once touched him, gentle and soothing and calming.

But there was no calming now, for the storm rising from the shattered pieces of his heart would no longer let him live in peace.

The only peace for him now was death and burial with his beloved.

"Az." The unmistakable shakiness in Rhysand’s voice made Azriel raise his head and meet the sorrowful eyes on his friend.

Azriel said nothing, only letting his eyes wander and take in the crowd that had only grown bigger since he had arrived. The high lords, all seven of them, stared down at him, some with tears in their eyes, like Rhysand, Helion and Tarquin. Some with empathy and pity, like Thesan and Kallias. And then some with quiet sadness and understanding, like Tamlin and Beron.

Under other circumstances, Azriel would have wondered why Beron looked like he knew and had been through what Azriel was experiencing, but in the moment as he tightened his grip around his mate’s hand and curled closer to her cooling body, he could not care less.

"Az," Rhys repeated. "What are you doing?"

But Rhys looked like he already knew what Azriel was doing. So Azriel said nothing, just let his forehead go back to resting on her shoulder.

Muffled words surrounded Azriel, but he heard none of them as he focused on somehow reaching his mate. There must be some way, some sort of… connection to bring her back. Maybe her lingering soul.

Something, anything.

Moments later, Azriel felt a familiar hand grip his shoulder. Despite his lack of will to look at the person, he lifted his head slightly to meet Cassian’s gaze.

"Move back, they’re trying to bring her back."

Azriel stared at Cassian, the words looping in his head for a moment before he could truly process them, then he nodded and scooted back. It was almost unrealistic, but still, Azriel was a drowning male and the hope a wood plank that he latched on without thought.

Azriel watched as Rhysand stepped forward and lifted his hand, staring at it for a moment, tears rolling down his cheeks before he turned his hand, a drop of moonlight dropping straight onto Y/n’s chest.

All the high lords took turns repeating the action one after another, and Azriel watched numbly, still on his knees on the ground, refusing to lose hope but at the same time forcing himself to not hope.

At last, Tamlin stepped away from Y/n’s body, and Azriel leaned forward, his eyes wide as he waited for that feeling to take root in his chest again, the one he had cherished for the past ten years.

But nothing happened for a long moment, and the flame of hope that had begun warming his insides began to flicker out.

"Rhys." Azriel mumbled, his voice cracking. "What happened? Why is she not…"

"Oh Az." Cassian whispered, wrapping an arm around Azriel’s shoulder from the back.

Azriel just stared at her. "Why?"

Long moments passed, and then…

There.

Life.

Just life, pure and untainted, began glowing at the end of the bond, and Azriel laughed.

He laughed, tears pouring from his eyes.

"Az?"

It took Azriel a while to form the two words he uttered, the smile on his face making it impossible to speak.

"She’s back."

Azriel felt Rhysand’s gaze on him, but after Y/n’s eyes slid closed, his gaze was ripped away.

Then Y/n opened her eyes again, blinking twice before her eyes found Azriel’s, unprompted and instinctive.

"Hey." She whispered, and Azriel laughed again. He leaped forward and tackled her into a hug, his hands shaking worse than they had before.

"Hey." He whispered in her ear, and she giggled, patting his back before she stopped suddenly.

"Az… Rhys."

Azriel pulled away, glancing up. He did not care about what Rhys might do to him anymore, considering he had very nearly lost his mate without even having the chance to scream and proclaim his love for her from the tops of Velaris’s mountains like he had sworn to her he would one day. Rhys’s wrath was the least of his worries.

Everyone who was not a part of the inner circle had departed while Azriel had been busy breathing in the fact that Y/n was alive, that she was here. Rhysand stood with his arms folded against his chest, in that protective stance every brother had when it came to their sisters.

But there was that slight tilt to the corner of his lips, a happiness in his stern eyes.

Azriel could not tell if it was because of Y/n being alive or something else.

"Uh…" Y/n mumbled, sitting up. "Hey, Rhys."

He sighed, rubbing his brows as Azriel helped Y/n stand. He quietly stepped forward and gathered his little sister in his arms, holding her close to his heart as Azriel watched, his chest feeling full again.

Though a certain hollowness lingered, and Azriel almost knew it would follow him around like the ghost of his past.

Rhysand pulled away, holding the back of Y/n’s head.

"I don’t know what you two have been up to, and frankly, I don’t think I even want to know, but I will not interfere. When you’re ready, I want to know everything." He glanced at Azriel, the single glance telling Azriel he would have been ten feet under ground by now if his sister was not watching.

Azriel dipped his head, gaze moving back to Y/n. She smiled at him, reaching out to take his hands.

Rhys turned to Feyre, taking her hand too. "Freshen up, rest. Then we’ll talk."

Cassian was already gone, left to find Nesta by the time Rhys winnowed Feyre away. Azriel turned fully to Y/n then.

"Don’t you dare do that again."

She giggled, grabbing his collar and pulling him down. She pecked his cheek, then turned her head to rest it against his chest as he lifted his arms in a practised motion to hold her close.

"Will try."

He pinched her waist, making her squeal. He savoured the simplicity of the moment before pecking the crown of her head.

"I love you, Y/n."

The bond flickered.

And stayed.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Permanent Taglist: @berryzxx @sarawritestories @milswrites @throneofsmut

@daycourtofficial @sweetorangeblossom @secret-third-thing

@serenescureforboredom @cassie6392 @harrystylesfan2686

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

@cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1

@hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21

@mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @lady-of-tearshed @starsinyourseyes

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @byyalady

@lilah-asteria @girlswithimagination @garden-of-runar @girlswithimagination

@sunnyspycat @artists-ally @milswrites @kingdomofstarrynights

@berryzxx @buttermilktea11 @loving-and-dreaming @yucanbmylxdy

@mellowmusings

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

@stqrgirlies-blog @tele86 @bakananya @xyzmeh

@st4r-girl-official @caraaaaugh @nacho-nat @allllium

@fandomarchiveilyd @nickishadow139 @angel-graces-world-of-chaos

@okaytrashpanda

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nova-amor · 2 years ago

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𓈒∘☁︎ ◜ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭-𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ◞

𝐜𝐰 — 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐢-𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 [𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠], 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐝𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐲 & 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 [𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐞𝐭𝐜.]

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 𝟏.𝟔𝐤

red oak wood digs into your abdomen as you lay flat across the surface of your desk. a rough hand digs into your scalp, forcing your heated cheek against the cool surface as the clattering sound of an undoing belt fills the silent void. there’s a heavy weight of tension lingering in the classroom’s air— the sounds of your blood rushing filling your ears, your muscles tensed and body tingling in anticipation.

your pleated midi skirt is bundled up to your waist, white blouse unbuttoned and bra disgarded from the copious kisses and fondling toji had done before bending you over your desk. pens and papers were casted aside, littering the classroom floor— a mess you definitely didn’t mind cleaning up after. this hadn’t been the first time you had fucked a student’s dad and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“look at you,” toji cooes into your ear from behind, his voice dropping an octave— thick, gravely, and lust-ridden. the accompanying metallic hiss of an undoing zipper makes your cunt throb with want, your body needy and begging to be filled. “dirty slut, yer fuckin’ pussy’s droolin everywhere, makin’ such a mess and we haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“please, mr. fushiguro,” you’re desperate. your hips bucking at the sensation of his cock’s head poking at your wet folds, smearing your arousal around with each glide and slide between. “don’t tease me— need ya so bad, please.”

toji tsks, rolling his eyes as his cock catches the hood of your clit. “i’ll do whatever the hell i want,” a harsh smack lands on your ass cheek, flesh stinging from the blow, your body attempting to jolt forward to evade another hit. “and what i want is for you to beg; beg me to fuck you, sweetness, c’mon.”

another smack echoes through the room, a whimper slipping from your lips from how hard he was spanking you. you want to melt into a puddle, knees growing weaker as the tip of his cock pushes into your sopping cunt. your walls clench hard around the cock’s head, clinging desperately to the single inch he was providing you with.

“mr.fushiguro, please,” you sound so pathetic, so weak— your voice high-pitched and needy. without even looking behind you, you knew that a shit-eating smirk had formed on toji’s pink lips, his ego inflating at the sound of your begging. “please, need your cock so bad— need t’ be stuffed with your cock— just wanna be your little cocksleeve, want you to fuck me like i’mma fleshlight— pleasepleaseplease—”

“good girl,” toji hums in delight, releasing his grip on the back of your head to hold your hips in place. “sounds so pretty when ya beg. whatever you want, baby, i’ll give t’ ya.”

his cock slides deep into you— your tight walls straining to stretch around his thick girth, your eyes crossing and mind melting into mush from how full you are. he doesn’t waste a second to start rutting into you, his thrusts short and fast— balls bouncing against your clit and the ridges of his cock dragging against your gummy walls. you can’t restrain the moans that bubble in your throat, the sounds of skin slapping against one another and your combined moans and groans filling the classroom.

“fuck— pussy’s too fuckin’ good, moanin’ like a whore f’me, baby.” toji grunts, nails digging deep into your hips. “that’s what you are, right? a dirty whore who likes fuckin’ her students’ dads? good for nothing but screwing half of the pta?”

you’re a blubbering mess, tongue-tied and mind too far gone to string words along. drool seeps from the corner of your mouth, brows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut. a hand snakes its way around your throat, lifting your head up and arching your back deeper, forcing you to make eye contact with the man behind you.

“i asked you a fuckin’ question: you like being a slutty little teacher?” there’s a hint of possession in his voice. his green eyes boring into your’s, eyes narrowing as he grips your neck a bit tighter. “like it when your students’ daddy’s use you?”

“yesyesyes— love bein’ a slut, love bein’ used, f-fucckkk,” you blabber, the flat of your palms pressing against your desk to support yourself. the angle allows toji’s cock to perfectly bully your g-spot, your vision growing blurry as the familiar tight knot forms at the pit of your stomach. you’re so close, it’s almost pain. “that’s what i’m here for, t’ be the school’s slutty teacher— fucckk, toji— you feel so fuckin’ good...”

“yeah? you like it when i fuck you like this?” he taunts, his other hand finding the back of your knee, forcing it to prop up on the desk. the angle is deeper, his thrusts getting faster. “can feel you’re about t’ cum, slutty pussy’s clench around me like a damn vice.”

“make me cum, please— wanna cum all over yer cock, wanna cream all over yer big cock— pleaseee—” your begging makes toji chuckle, his cock jackhammering into your g-spot.

“fuck, if i had known you were this much of a slut, i would’ve fucked you so much earlier,” he taunts, leaning in closer to you. “cum for me. be a filthy little cockwhore and cum on my cock.”

your orgasm hits you like a freight train, toji laughing at the sight of tears spilling down your cheeks as your cries fill the classroom. you’re so thankful there’s no one else around to hear your screaming, the rest of the school’s staff having left hours ago. your cries and expression earn a condescending “thatagirl” from toji, your cunt throbbing around him so hard that he struggles to keep his cock buried deep inside you.

toji then turns you around, manhandling you to lay your back flat down on the desk, his hands cupping the underside of your thighs. he squishes your legs up to your chest, knees tucked and pussy spread wide open— glistening with the thick slick of your arousal under the fluorescent lights of the classroom. the cool air makes your clit twitch, your throat dried out from your previous wails of pleasure.

“stick that tongue out, pretty girl,” toji forces you into a mating press, leaning over you completely and blocking the light above. you obediently stick your tongue out, a fat glob of spit landing on your tongue as he slides his cock back into you. “atta girl, such a perfect little thing.” he says as you gulp down his spit.

he ruts deep into you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. your tongue glides against his, allowing him to explore every crevice and space of your mouth as he pounds into you. you breathe through your nose, both of you unable to pull away from one another as he rearranges your insides to his liking.

“love this fuckin’ pussy— g’na stuff ya full of my cum, want ya barely able t’ walk out of here with my cum drippin’ down your thighs.” he murmurs inbetween the kiss, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging hard before letting go. you moan at the pain, your walls clenching hard again around him. he pulls away just enough to let you lick at his scar, the tip of your tongue gliding against the smooth skin.

“you’re my girl now, sweetness.” he cements the title into both your mind and your pussy, imprinting every vein and curve of his cock into the walls of your cunt. “only i can use this slutty little pussy from now on, got that?”

“holy shit— yess yesss,” you nod your head pathetically, your head bobbing along in complete agreement. your body bounces across the surface of your desk, barely able to keep up with the brutality of toji’s hips snapping into you. “all yer’s— no one else’s— fuucckk— i promise,”

“please fill me up, toji— pump me full with yer cum— please need it so bad—” with your pleads, toji only fucks you faster. his thrusts growing sloppier, his cock twitching and pulsating against the tight walls of your sloppy cunt.

with a sharp hiss, toji buries his cock deep inside of you— spilling his seed up against your cervix and his hips stutter from the intensity of his release. his grip on the back of your knees tighten momentarily, your cunt milking him and draining his balls for every drop of cum.

“fuck,” you giggle, a delirious smile tugging at your lips as toji retracts his cock from inside of you. his cum spills out, dense semi-translucent droplets staining your desk, your puffy folds, and inner thighs. “that was amazing.”

toji presses a sloppy kiss to your damp forehead, dropping your knees before gathering himself up to stuff his cock back into the restraints of his underwear and his pants. his vibrant eyes glimmer with a combination of possession and amusement, watching attentively as you clean yourself up with a few kleenex tissues before readjusting your outfit. he helps you to pick up the items littering the floor that he had knocked off your desk, giving you a proper moment to breathe and relax since the bones in your legs had turned to gelatin.

“what were we talking before?” you try to recall as you glance over the notes you had made to discuss with toji. the whole purpose of his visit was to discuss something related to his son, megumi, but you hadn’t the faintest clue where you had left off before getting derailed.

“his grades,” toji cups your cheek, his large hand engulfing the entirety of the side of your face. his thumb runs across your bottom lip, his finger tip dipping into your mouth. you suckle lightly, his eyes darkening once again as your tongue swirls around his thick finger, eagerly welcoming it. “somethin’ about his grades.”

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yandere-wishes · 9 months ago

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Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

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anakinstwinklebunny · 28 days ago

Text

PAIRING: (un)burned!vader x f!reader (I haven't decided)

SMUT ❦

Knowledge wasn't your strongest side. It was rather obvious when you settled yourself on his lap, whining about how lonely and needy you were. Vader had simply given you that look—calm, unwavering, superior. Like he was humoring a child. But then, with an indulgent sigh, he had lifted you without much effort, spreading you open over his cock, sheathing himself to the hilt with ease.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Now, you were still there, still with your body trembling, still stuffed to the brim with his cock while he barely acknowledged you—one arm wrapped lazily around your waist, the other flipping through data files on his holopad as if you weren’t sitting fully impaled on him, whimpering against his throat with pity.

"Be still, little one," he murmured against your temple, voice deep and endless like the void outside the Death Star. "You're making a mess off my lap."

That was a fact. There was a slick, embarrassing wetness pooling between your thighs, soaking the fabric of his black uniform pants, but how could you not? He was so big, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you beyond comfort—refusing to move.

Your breathing hitched when his cybernetic hand ghosted up your thigh, before curling at your hip in a form of a warning "Did I not tell you to be patient?"

You whimpered again, sound becoming like a habit. Your walls clenched involuntarily, and felt everything—the sheer girth of him twitching inside you, him filling you so utterly, so perfectly. A breath stopped in your throat, turning into a broken, silly sound as your fingers clawed at his chest, pressing into the sturdy muscle.

"Vader," you gasped, rolling your hips the tiniest bit; just to seek friction, seek relief.

That was a huge mistake.

His hand tightened instantly, fingers digging into the plush of your thigh as he stilled you with an iron grip. You felt the power in his hold, the quiet, restrained discipline. He could break you if he wanted. But instead, his lips found your shoulder, pressing a deceptively soft, almost reverent kiss against your skin.

"You're testing my patience, little one."

Your head lolled back against his shoulder, a whine escaping your swollen lips. "Please, I need—"

"Shhh," he silenced you with another kiss, this time trailing up your throat, nuzzling the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "I know what you need."

You bit your lip, body trembling with both hunger and frustration. Yet, he wasn’t done toying with you at all. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice turning all low and teasing.

"You're my sweet girl, aren't you?"

You nodded frantically. "Y-yes—"

"My obedient girl?"

"Yes!"

His lips curled into a smirk against your skin. "Then behave. I have work to finish."

Oh, how you wanted to protest. How you wanted to beg, to plead him to move, to let you ride him like you needed to—but you knew how he played this sick game. The more desperate you got, the more he enjoyed it. The more you obeyed, the sweeter the reward.

So, you slumped against his chest, breathing shaky, thighs quivering with exertion as you fought to remain still. Which, apparently, was enough for him to finally reward you.

Gloved, leather hands glided down your hips, slow and appreciative, adoring, before lifting you—just a small fraction—before letting you sink back down onto him with a wet, obscene sound.

A choked sob left your lips. Whole body momentary clenched, eyes rolled back as he spread you all over again, splitting you open on his cock in a way that made you see stars. Such beautiful stars

"There’s my good girl," he purred, voice emphasized with approval, fingers caressing the curve of your belly, pressing right where he knew he was buried the deepest.

Then, in the calmest, most infuriating voice imaginable; "Now, be silent while I finish my work."

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prettybugsinbandages · 1 month ago

Text

Blot!reader pt. 6

Part 6 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The weight of the conversation clung to you like an iron shackle, dragging with every step, slowing you further. You had unearthed some truths, yet in doing so, only carved out more unanswered questions. Just the tip of this disastrous iceberg.

And the illusion of progress.

You couldn't quite recall how you had returned to Ramshackle. Your mind felt like a void, empty and unresponsive. You barely registered the sensation of unlocking the door, barely acknowledged the presence that trailed behind you—silent, patient, ever-eager. The blot moved like a shadow, misinterpreting your fleeting moments of warmth as permission, as affection.

Had you walked? Ran? You weren't sure.

Morning came quietly, golden light filtering through your bedroom window, painting the room in warmth that failed to reach you. You stirred at the shrill cry of your alarm, eyes blinking slowly as they adjusted to wakefulness. Beyond the glass, birds sang in the trees, but their melodies were swallowed by the ever-present static that plagued your mind.

And, as always, the blot was there.

It lingered at the foot of your bed, waiting—no, anticipating. Its posture shifted ever so slightly, subtle stretching itself taller, as if longing to be the first thing you saw upon waking. You didn't allow it in your bed while you were in it, but you permitted the entity to nestle into a tangle of the blankets on the floor beside you.

Like a pet.

"Did you sleep well?" It inquired, voice smooth as silk, thick with misplaced limerence.

The Blot moved with eerie precision, rising to its feet, gliding soundlessly across the room. It handed you items before you even thought to reach for them, a silent shadow shaping itself to your needs.

You didn't respond immediately, eyes following its every move with muted scrutiny. Something about it felt... off. Too eager. Too rehearsed. Your lips curled into a sardonic smile as you finally spoke.

"Well trained, are you?"

And yet it only beamed in return, as if the remark had been a compliment rather than an insult. "Of course I am, my love. For you, anything—I'd defy god."

You didn't dignify that with a response, nor did you allow yourself to linger on the implications of such words. It was impossible to tell whether this power over the Blot was something to relish or recoil from. The most unsettling thought of all was the question clawing at the back of your mind; Were your affections real? Or were they simply a means to survive?

You couldn't tell. Or maybe you didn't want to—afraid of the answer waiting for you.

Your morning routine continued in a state of autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the motions. The day was yours to waste—Kalim had suggested fresh air after you'd fled from him the other day. He had worn his concern on his sleeve despite trying, as always, to mask it beneath that ever-present cheerfulness.

A part of you appreciated it—the concern you never received before—but as always the memories came back to haunt you like abandoned lovers. Concern you never received before.

You reached for a shirt, motioning for the Blot to turn around as you changed. But then—

A flicker of something wrong. A shift in the air. The phantom scent of home.

Your fingers stilled halfway through pulling the fabric over your head, eyes narrowing. The scent of something mockingly familiar lingered in the room, subtle yet jarring. And there—sitting neatly on your desk, impossibly out of place—

Three books.

Books from home.

Your breath caught, chest tightening as you took a hesitant step forward. Titles you had mourned, stories you had resigned yourself to never being able to finish. Two, half-read, fated to remain incomplete. One, a beloved favorite you thought you'd never hold again.

Your gaze snapped to the Blot.

It had curled into your bed in your absence, pressing into the sheets like a needy cat basking in the morning sun. You inhaled sharply, your expression hardening as you turned to it, accusation laced your voice.

"You're cruel." It wasn't anger. Not quite venom. Just exhaustion. A bitter, quiet fatigue.

And yet, the Blot merely materialized behind you, shifting effortlessly as mist. A favorite place of its—just beyond your line of sight, close enough to touch. Close enough to remind you that it was always there. its breath, infuriatingly warm, ghosted against the nape of your neck, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Hm? Blaming me, my star?" There was something coy in its tone, something pleased.

Your lips twitched, a weak excuse for a laugh escaping. Slowly, you tilted your head, resting it against its own, playing into its desires. If there was one thing you had learned, it was that the Blot answered better when you indulged it—when you fed into its obsession, however reluctantly.

"Why?" You forced the question with normalcy instead of the disgusting concoction of emotions brewing within.

It hesitated. Only for a fraction of a second. Considering which truth to give you. "You won't need to go home anymore, my love," it whispered, melting beneath your touch as if your palm against its cheek was the highest form of worship. "We can stay here—together of course—and I'll work hard to bring your favorite things here."

It clung to you a little tighter.

Desperation masked as devotion.

As you moved through Ramshackle's halls, past faded portraits and ever-watchful ghosts, you could feel them watching. Shrinking away yet unable to quell their curiosity. Could they sense it? The Blot, wrapped around you like a second skin, or perhaps more accurately fused with your soul? Or perhaps they saw the truth beneath the surface—

That you were barely living.

A corpse still walking.

One of them hesitated, drifting close, mouth parted as if to speak. A warning. A revelation. You weren't sure. But the dread curled in your stomach as Yuuna took notice, mid-conversation with Yuuken.

You prayed to whatever got might still listen and as always, silence answered you.

The ring on your finger turned deathly cold and the ghost recoiled as if burned, retreating through the wall in an instant.

They're looking.

You're going to get caught.

Instead, you slip too easily back into the composed, assured mask you wear around others—the same one even your newfound family has come to expect from you. The thought of them ever knowing the truth, ever glimpsing the weight you carry, coils in your stomach like a sickness. Guilt festers beneath the surface, nausea bubbling at the mere idea of their concern.

"Morning," You say, voice leveled, steady. "Where's Grim? I figured he'd already be up and raiding the kitchen."

Your gaze sweeps across the lobby and into the kitchen, yet there's no sign of the little gluttonous bastard. A rare occurrence.

Yuuken hesitates for just a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he offers a measured response. "Might still be sleeping in someone's room." He takes a slow sip from his mug, the pink ceramic one Yuuna thrifted with a faded phrase scrawled across it about being a 'single mother.'

Yuuna scrunches up her nose, peering around the kitchen as if Grim might appear if she looks hard enough. "Grimmy's probably just sleeping in." Her voice is casual, dismissive, but there's the faintest note of curiosity.

Relief washes over you like crashing tides, your body sagging into a chair with a sigh. They don't seem suspicious—at least, not outwardly. No accusations, no searching glances lingering too long. They aren't going to confront you.

Not yet.

Kalim had thrown together some impromptu plan, gathering a mix of people for a day out—something about fresh air, a hike, and 'cheering you up.'

Soon enough, Yuuka hopped down the stairs, her hand settling on your shoulder as she checks her phone's time—a silent signal. Time to go.

"Grim's in Yuuta's room." She confirmed while already heading to the door.

She was the only Yuu not tangled up in other plans today, so she's tagging along.

And so, the day begins as you try to swallow down the lingering anxiety that's seemed to cling to you long enough to seem familiar.

Up ahead, an unexpectedly large group waits at the edge of the park, where the neatly trimmed grass gives way to the dense forest beyond. The air is crisp with the lingering chill of the early morning, and the golden light of the rising sun casts long shadows across the scene.

Kalim is off to the side, gathering dandelions with childlike enthusiasm, his nimble fingers attempting to weave them together into something resembling a flower crown. Rook kneels beside him, offering guidance with a keen eye and steady hands, spewing encouragement in that overly flowery way that's grown familiar to everyone. Jamil, ever the shadow, lingers nearby, half-watching with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and resignation.

Leona and Vil are handling the food—well, mostly Vil. Leona looks about two seconds from abandoning the task altogether. Not far from them, Ace has completely taken over the children's swing set, lazily kicking his legs as he sways back and forth. Trey stands nearby, leaning against the metal frame with a knowing look. undoubtedly to keep an eye on the freshman. Ace must have been in trouble, and you wouldn't find yourself doubting it if he told you he was sneaking out and Trey trailed him just in case.

Bags are piled neatly in a corner, and for a fleeting moment, the entire scene looks like something out of a dream—idyllic, lighthearted, the kind of outing anyone would be lucky to experience. The kind of memory people hold onto when everything else falls apart.

Leona is the first to notice Ramshackle's arrival. His ear twitches before he turns, walking over in what seems like an effort to brief you on the plan—but you have a sneaking suspicion he's just looking for an excuse to ditch setup duty.

"We're eating quick and going over materials before heading out," he says, his tone gruff and to the point. "Kalim heard from one of those creepy twins—the one that lies politely to your face—that there's a good spot around here, so we're gonna find it. For whatever reason."

His gaze settles on you, lingering just a second too long. Ears flick back, subtle but telling and you can't help but wonder if he can smell the Blot on you.

The first time Yuuka met him, Leona had been dismissive—rude, even—stating outright that he couldn't smell even a trace of magic on her. A human with nothing special to offer. But things are different now.

You push the though away and smile instead. No use dwelling on secrets that might already be slipping through your fingers. You wanted to try and relax today.

"Why did you come, then?" you ask, your tone light, bordering on teasing. "Kalim must've made it clear this whole thing was meant to cheer me up. He's not exactly subtle about it and can't keep secrets for the life of him." You shrug off your bag into the designated pile and turn to face the housewarden again, a brow raised, eyes narrowed. "I figured you'd rather be home sleeping—wasting away your remaining days like the old man you are. What, feeling bad for me or something?"

Leona bristles at the slight, but his gaze darkens further at your suggestion, jaw tightening as a muscle twitches beneath his tanned skin. His brows, furrow, and he glares straight ahead like the very suggestion is beneath him.

Jerk.

But instead of snapping back with a cynical remark, he merely crosses his arms, eyes scanning you with that sharp, piercing scrutiny of his.

"Something's off with you," he states, matter-of-fact. "And Ruggie acts differently around you. You both used to be closer."

A jolt of unease ripples through you, trampling whatever fragile hope you had for a peaceful day. Now you felt like you were walking on a tightrope with a sea of glass beneath it.

"We got in a fight," you lie smoothly, the words slipping past your lips with practiced ease. It isn't even entirely untrue—just not the whole story. But you're not about to tell Leona that you nearly killed his right-hand man in the midst of a breakdown.

Leona doesn't buy it. Of course he doesn't.

Something about you is wrong. Off-kilter. Fractured. You carry yourself like you're standing at the edge of something—death, madness, revelation—he isn't sure which. Perhaps all three.

It's the real reason he came along.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

But there's something else, too. A quiet, nagging concern buried beneath his usual indifference. because people like you don't just disappear. You don't slip through the cracks without someone noticing. You've already rooted yourself too deeply in their lives—unraveling them, understanding them, comforting them with an ease that borders on infuriating.

And people don't let go of someone like that so easily.

Idle chatter drifted through the air as the group walked, a soft hum of voices blending seamlessly with the rustling leaves and distant chirping of wildlife. The forest path stretched ahead, dappled with shifting patches of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. Despite the lingering unease from Leona's earlier words, you had to admit—the fresh air, the rhythmic crunch of footsteps against dirt, and the sheer vastness of nature did wonders to soothe your nerves.

You let yourself slow, just slightly, allowing the group to move ahead as you took your time absorbing your surroundings. The scent of damp earth, the occasional flicker of movement in the undergrowth, the way the sunlight caught on the edges of the leaves—it was all so strangely grounding.

Ahead, Ace was in the middle of an animated conversation, his voice rising above the others as he gestured wildly.

"No, no, I'm serious! The last unbirthday party was nuts—Riddle actually let loose for, like, a while five seconds. That's gotta be some kind of record," he declared, spinning on his heel to look at Jamil. who regarded him with tired patience of someone used to Ace's antics by now. "You guys do things way differently over in Scarabia, yeah? Like, c'mon, why can't Heartslabyul throw parties like that? I'm just saying, my morale would be through the roof."

Ace threw his hands in the air for emphasis, nearly smacking Yuuka in the process.

"And your grades would be through the floor." Jamil added, earning a snicker from you.

"I'm just saying," he continued, turning to Jamil with an exaggerated huff, "Scarabia's got the right idea. Parties should be wild! And fun! Heartslabyul is all rules, rules, rules—what kind of party needs a rulebook?"

Trey~," he drawled, dragging out the name as he shot his unofficial babysitter a pleading look. "When's the next unbirthday party? I'll die if its in like four months. People need to stop being born every day or something."

Trey, who had been walking at a steady, unbothered pace behind them, pulled out his phone to check the calendar. "Next month," he said with a chuckle. "This month's already packed with birthdays."

Ace let out a theatrical groan, dragging his feet as he stalked ahead with exaggerated lethargy, muttering something about the injustices of responsible scheduling.

You might've laughed at the scene if not for the sudden, quiet prickle at the edge of your awareness. A presence lingering just a little too close.

A strand of golden hair caught the sunlight in the corner of your eye and you turned just in time to see Rook.

You startled and he laughed—bright, effortless, the kind of sound that felt weightless, as if he had never known the burden of uncertainty. For a brief, fleeting moment, you envied that.

"Ah, Petite étoile," he purred, his words dripping with something sweet. It reminded you of the Blot—of something thick, syrupy, impossible to escape. "It has bothered me longer than I dare admit, but I cannot help but notice... we have never celebrated ton joyeux anniversaire?"

Your birthday? The question made you pause-mid-step.

When was the last time you even celebrated it? The memory was hazy, distant, like something viewed through a fogged -up window. Had it been so long? The thought unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

The idea of celebrating it here—with them—felt... wrong.

Yes, you were close now. Yes, these people had become something akin to friends. But that didn't erase the beginning, the cold indifference, the neglect, the way you had been overlooked time and time again.

Forgiveness wasn't so simple.

Your stomach churned.

Rook, perceptive as ever, tilted his head, waiting—expecting.

You swallowed the unease, forcing your expression into something unreadable before giving him the easiest answer.

"...Never thought about it."

Your anxiety must have been obvious—even in that split second, because Vil swiftly intervened. With a sharp huff, he placed a perfectly manicured hand on Rook's shoulder to quiet the boy. Then, just as seamlessly, his other hand landed on your back, a gentle but firm pressure meant to guide you back into the fold of the group.

"Perhaps it simply hasn't happened yet?" he mused, his voice light, but his violet eyes sharp as they studied your face. "I trust you'd invite us when it does. We're friends, aren't we?"

The weight of expectation in his gaze made something in your stomach twist, though he likely didn't intend to make you feel that. way. Vil could accept it, if you truly didn't want him or the others—but especially him—at your birthday. But that wouldn't make it hurt any less. Weren't you close?

The air shifted. Conversations lulled. The moment stretched just long enough for you to realize—all eyes were on you.

A nauseating pressure settled in your chest, tightening like an iron vice.

Instinctively, your gaze flickered to Yuuka, searching for something—reassurance, an escape, an answer she didn't have.

She stood with one hand on her chin, her head tilted ever so slightly, deep in thought. The usual warmth in her eyes was tempered by quiet contemplation, her gaze downcast. The forest pressed in around you, the rhythmic crunch of footsteps and the rustling of leaves the only sounds filling your ears. But they no longer offered any sense of calm.

"Huh... now that I think about it," Yuuka murmured, "we don't know your birthday either." She turned to you with a playful smile, poking your side teasingly. "Hey, how could you neglect us like that? I thought we were close."

Her words were lighthearted, teasing—but because they were from Yuuka, or any of the Yuus for that matter, you knew there was no malice behind them.

Still, your lips felt stiff as you smiled, hoping it masked the way your stomach churned.

"It's coming up." You lied.

Lies upon lies. They pile up endlessly, stacking so high that at some point, you'd begun to suffocate beneath them.

A deep, unsettling monachopsis loomed over you, wrapping around your ribcage like barbed wire. The date didn't matter anymore—it felt meaningless. How could you celebrate the birth of a person long dead? A person you still feel was left behind in a cold, snowy ditch. A body buried or eaten, lost to time. Their soul-splitting hiraeth never healed.

"Four weeks from now—"

A voice slithered into your mind, curling around your thoughts like smoke

"You lie so often, it's widdiful."

The Blot's presence enveloped you in suffocating warmth, cloying and sickly sweet, whispering in a tone that was almost amused. You could hear the smile in its voice, feel its cruel delight reverberating through your bones.

The ring on your finger trembled against your skin, nearly pulsing with excitement.

It corrected you. Softly. Sweetly. Mockingly.

It spoke your true birthday like it was sacred—like it was the most important date in all the world.

You froze. The breath in your lungs turned to ice.

A visible flinch. A sharp recoil

As if you could physically escape the voice in your own head.

How does it know that?

Why does it know so much?

Disgust coiled over you in thick, suffocating waves. You'd let yourself get too comfortable. You'd let yourself forget the philosophies you once swore to live by—

Though that was an empty promise from the beginning, wasn't it?

A promise a corpse made to itself using its own life as a bargaining chip when that life had long since been snuffed out.

You lag behind, arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold something in—pressing against your ribs as if to keep the truth from spilling out, as if guilt might slip through the cracks of your gingers and stain the earth beneath you.

Exhaustion clings to your bones like frost, settling deep, making the world blur at the edges. The colors of the forest, once vivid, now bleed into muted grays and greens, their vibrancy dulled as if a veil has been drawn over your eyes. The laughter and idle chatter of the group dissolve into the distant hum, their voices blurred, like echoes traveling through the water.

You cannot even appreciate the beauty around you anymore. The sky stretches vast and endless above, golden light threading through the branches, dappling the forest floor in flickering patterns of warmth. And yet, you feel cold. The weight of guilt presses against your chest, relentless and suffocating. This trip was meant to lift your spirits—to make you smile. but instead, you've cast a shadow over it.

Vil, ever the perfectionist, refuses to let the silence fester. With a sharp sigh, he slows his pace, stepping back toward you. His gaze, cool and assessing, sweeps over your face, searching for cracks in the mask you wear.

"What is with you today?" His voice is poised, controlled, yet laced with something more—something akin to concern. It strikes like cold water to the face, and you grimace instinctively.

Ace, always quick to tease but slow to notice subtleties, finally picks up on the shift. His brows furrow, his usual carefree demeanor slipping away as the frown tugs at his lips.

"Wait—yeah. You're acting weird. Or, like—recently. I dunno." His words come out clumsy, but earnest. He realizes, belatedly, that he should have said something earlier. But how do you bring up something like this? How do you ask what's wrong when you don't even know where to start?

Kalim squeezes past Leona and Trey, warm hands enveloping your own, his touch gentle yet urgent. His garnet eyes search your face, open and unguarded, filled with a worry so sincere it nearly burns.

"Are you okay? Are you sick? Tired? We can stop if you need—" He glances back at Jamil, as if seeking confirmation, as if hoping someone else has the answer he lacks.

The concern is suffocating. The world feels too fast, yet you move so slowly—like sinking into the mud, like falling through water too thick to breathe.

Your knees buckle. The forest floor rises to meet you.

Muted voices. Hands reaching, shadows shifting. Their words fade into nothing, drowned beneath the roaring static in your head. You press your fingers into the damp earth, grasping at the grass as if you could anchor yourself to the present, as if the ground could tether you to reality before you drift too far.

Rook kneels beside you, his presence a quiet force in the growing storm. He does not touch you. Does not crowd you.

But his voice cuts through, an arrow through the fog.

"You are afraid."

Something cracks.

Something crumbles.

The tower of lies—built from desperation, stacked upon a foundation of despair—collapses beneath you, the weight of it finally too much to bear.

Your lips part, trembling. You try to speak. Trying to salvage the last shreds of the façade. but nothing comes. Your mouth opens and closes, a fish gasping for air in a world where none exists. The fear in your eyes is raw, unfiltered, undeniable.

Even the most naïve among them would not believe another lie from your lips. The truth spills forth, quiet, brittle, final:

"Last winter... somebody died."

A breath. A pause. A shuddering exhale.

"Last winter, I died."

Ace lets out a nervous chuckle, but it's thin, fragile—like glass ready to shatter. He rubs the back of his neck, as if the motion could scrub away the uneasy weight pressing down on him. "Good one. Uh—kinda dark though. What, did you fall in the snow and think you were gonna freeze to death or something?"

He's being flippant because he has to be. That's how he copes—with humor, with sarcasm, with pushing things down so they can eat away at him later, when no one's watching.

Kalim still clutches your hands, fingers trembling slightly, and when his pleading gaze flickers toward Jamil, looking for reassurance, he finds none. Only the furrowed brows, the narrowed grey eyes, calculating, searching—examining you for cracks in the story, for a lie he desperately wants to uncover.

Because this doesn't make sense.

It shouldn't make sense.

Jamil's silence is louder than any accusation.

The longer you don't answer, the more the panic festers, creeping into the air like thick smoke. Ace steps forward, shoving you—not roughly, but enough to try to jolt you out of whatever this is.

"O-oi... snap out of it," he urges, voice strained. It wavers, cracks, uncertainty threading into his words. "Answer." His voice rises now. "Just—just say something!"

Trey, ever the peacemaker, reacts instinctively, placing a firm hand on Ace's shoulder, mediating the moment before it spirals. "Hey, let's not jump to conclusions, alright? There's gotta be some kinda of—

He stops.

Because he already knows.

He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to believe it, but it's in your voice, in the way you said it, like someone who's already accepted the truth as an immovable reality. Defeated. Final.

Yuuka kneels beside Kalim, shooting Ace a warning glare before grasping his shoulder, grounding herself through him just as much as she's grounding him. He's trembling—breathing too fast, too shallow. He's always been the type to hide his worry behind laughter, behind warmth. But right now, there's nothing left to mask it.

And still, she won't look at you.

Because if she does—if she acknowledges what you are, what this means—she'll break too.

The silence stretches, Thick. Suffocating.

Vil, Rook, Leona—they don't speak. They don't move.

And you don't dare lift your head, shoulder hunched beneath the unbearable weight of their gazes. Shame settles like a stone in your gut.

Kalim moves before he can stop himself, dipping his head lower, desperate to meet your eyes, searching for something—anything—to break the illusion. He waits for the laugh, the grin, the reassurance that this is a cruel joke.

But Jamil doesn't say anything.

Nobody does.

And Kalim's heart pounds so violently it aches.

His fingers lace tighter with yours, as if holding onto you harder will somehow keep you here. A creeping, suffocating feeling of running out of time seizes his heart, drowning him in silent, unseen panic.

"But... but you're here." Kalim's voice is small. Fractured. "You're right here, in front of me."

I should've spent more time with them.

His grip tightens until his nails leave half-moon indents in your skin. He lets go of one hand only to trap your wrists together in one hand, and his free hand rises—slow, almost hesitant—to cup your face, to force you to look at him.

To prove you're lying.

"You're lying," he whispers. It's not a question. it's a desperate command. "Tell me you're lying."

What do I do? What can I do?

That—That's not—you're not—"

But your gaze is blank. Unfocused.

Staring through him. past him.

You look dead.

Kalim's breath stutters. "Oh."

The sound is barely more than an exhale, a whisper of realization as his vision blurs and hot tears spill over sun-darkened cheeks.

Leaning against a tree, Leona grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. His tail lashes, irritation rising—not at you, but at fate.

This shouldn't affect him. It doesn't affect him.

That's the lie he keeps telling himself. Keeps repeating, over and over, like some stubborn, half-hearted mantra.

But it does.

More than he's willing to admit.

"And what?" His voice cuts through the air, the simmering edge of frustration barely masking something deeper—something unspoken. "You expect us to just get all weepy?" His tail whips against the ground, his voice measured, forced into control even as it rises. "What, you expecting a damn eulogy? A pity party? If you're dead, why the hell are you standing here?

Because he doesn't know how to handle this.

He's a prince. He can fix things. He should be able to fix this.

But he can't.

And the realization is unbearable.

The room feels impossibly small. The silence weighs heavier, pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

And then—

"Explain." Vil demands, stepping forward.

His fingers grip your jaw, firm, unwavering, tilting your head up until your vacant eyes meet his own. His gaze is sharp, burning with the need for clarity, for control, for something that will make this make sense.

But there's no sense to be found.

Only grief.

Only growing despair.

Only the horrifying, unshakable uncertainty of what this truly means.

Your body felt unbearably heavy, the pull of consciousness just beyond your grasp. It was as if exhaustion had struck you like a freight train, barreling through your body with merciless force. The weight of everything—of truth, of revelation, of fraying nerves—had finally collapsed upon you. Words abandoned you, retreating into the recesses of your mind where they could not be reached.

Time had begun to slip through your fingers like silk, too smooth, too fleeting, too intangible to hold onto. The sun, once high and brilliant, had begun its descent, bleeding into the sky with streaks of molten gold and deepening crimson. A masterpiece, painted just for you, but you barely had the strength to admire it. The air cooled with the vanishing light, a crisp reminder that the day was ending, though the night ahead felt even more uncertain.

A low sigh broke through the thick silence. Leona pushed off the tree he had been leaning against, running a hand through his hair before snatching up your bag without a word. The movement was almost lazy, but there was something deliberate in the way he slung it over his shoulder.

"They can explain it later," he muttered, his voice rough with unspoken exhaustion, ears still lowered. "I'll rent a cabin nearby. We're staying overnight." His free hand gestured vaguely to the group, to the silence, to you. "I can't drive like... this."

His words lacked their usual drawl, as though even he was struggling to process the weight of the moment.

Yuuka was at your side before you could even think to stand, her grip steady but careful, like you were something fragile—something that might break if handled too harshly. You let her guide you, though your limbs felt leaded, your steps sluggish.

Kalim sniffled softly beside you, his red-rimmed eyes downcast. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

No one else spoke.

Rook had already separated from the group, his silhouette cutting through the evening as he walked ahead, disappearing into the trees.

You could still feel Ace's presence to your left, his burning stare drilling into your back. Of all people, it was his disappointment that twisted something sharp inside you. You saw him every day, whether by chance or by choice. He had always been there, lingering like a familiar melody you never quite noticed until it was gone. And now? Now he stood just out of reach, silent and unreadable.

The last remnants of adrenaline drained from your body, and your vision flickered in and out of focus, your memories hazy and fragmented. One moment, you were still on the trail; the next, you were inside the Airbnb—warm, dimly lit, and unnervingly quiet.

Vil stepped inside the cabin, tucking a strand of blond and purple behind his ear. "Your driving was abysmal." he muttered to Leona, arms crossed.

Leona grunted in response, hardly paying him any mind.

The cabin itself was beautiful—spacious, yet intimate, crafted from dark wood and bathed in the soft glow of warm-toned lights. It was the kind of place you might have admired under different circumstances, but now, it felt too much like a gilded cage.

Your head lolled to the side as you sat, exhaustion pulling at you, but the second you felt yourself slipping too far, you jolted awake, a frown creasing your face.

Your gaze flickered toward the door, an old habit surfacing, your mind hazily calculating the energy it would take to run.

But Rook stood against the nearest doorway, his arms crossed with deliberate ease, as if he had been expecting this. The warm light caught strands of his golden hair, illuminating his sharp features. He smiled as your eyes met, and though his expression was unreadable, there was something in it—something patient, something knowing.

"Mon Étoile." His voice was smooth, saccharine in the way that a chill down your spine. He gestured lightly toward the couch, as if this was some grand stage and you were the evening's main performance.

The weight of expectation settled over you like a suffocating fog. They still wanted answers. They still wanted to know.

Could you do it? Could you really tell them everything?

You sank into the plush couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, but there was no comfort to be found. Their eyes were on you—Kalim's heartbreak, Ace's hurt, Leona's unreadable frustration, Vil's impatient scrutiny, Jamil's calculating gaze, Trey's quiet unease, Rook's unwavering curiosity.

Yuuka was the first to speak. Her voice was soft, too soft, the kind of gentleness that only made the ache in your chest worse. She was giving you a kindness you didn't think you deserved.

"You're... dead."

The word hung in the air like something fragile, something forbidden. It was barely more than a whisper, yet it felt like it could shatter the very ground beneath you. Yuuka, the ever-steadfast, ever-confident girl you knew, suddenly looked small. Unsteady. Her breath hitched, and for once, there was no easy answer at the tip of her tongue.

"How—when?"

You tilted your head back, baring your throat to the ceiling, to the heavens, to the weight of their stares. Like an animal in surrender. Like a body already cold.

"I went on a walk," you murmured, voice light, distant, eerily calm yet carrying the unmistakable finality of a confession. "I didn't belong here. My feet carried me outside, further and further, like they had a will of their own."

Your fingers found the Blot ring on your hand, twisting it idly, the habit second nature by now. The silver was cool against your skin, humming with something you pretended not to feel.

"That compulsion neglected kids have when they float limp in a swimming pool, waiting—wondering if someone will notice if they're gone or quiet." A humorless chuckle escaped your lips, brittle and tired. "I guess I wanted the same thing. For someone to notice."

But no one had.

"A slippery path, no winter clothing... that was all it took."

The memory was sharp, ice cold. You nearly recoiled from it, but you forced yourself to stay still, to keep speaking. You wouldn't—couldn't—look at them. You didn't want to see what was in their eyes.

"I fell." Your voice barely carried across the dimly lit room. "Somewhere isolated. Somewhere no one would ever think to look, not even come spring." A pause, a breath, but it didn't make it any easier. "The cold numbed the pain, but I knew I was mangled. Left to die—unnoticed. Forgotten. A name in a ledger, a carving on a stone, if I was lucky.

Your laugh was sudden, breathless, and void of anything resembling joy. It scraped its way out of your throat, raw and ugly, carrying only self-loathing in its wake.

"I gave up."

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone in the room. A flinch, barely visible from the corner of your eye.

The words threatened to stick in your throat, but you forced them out anyway.

"And I died that night. Alone in the cold. Forgotten."

Yuuka's hand flew to her mouth, but it did nothing to stifle the soft, broken gasp that escaped her lips. The color had drained from her face, her wide eyes glassy, unreadable. It struck something deep—something painful—inside her. You could see it, feel it. The way her hands trembled slightly, how her posture caved inward like she was trying to hold herself together. Like she could make up for something she had never even known happened.

A sharp 'tch' broke the silence from Jamil.

How are you here then?" The words were clipped, suspicious. An accusation, not a question.

You couldn't blame him.

Your fingers clenched around the ring, its metal thrumming with something sinister.

"I made a deal."

The words leave your mouth before you can think better of them before you can soften the edges, and you hate how they sound.

How final.

The silence in the room sharpens.

Trey is the first to break it.

"What kind of deal?" He sounds cautious, like he's waiting for you to confirm his worst suspicions.

"Something parasitical."

Silence stretched between heartbeats, heavy and unbroken, as you lay on the floor.

You weren't allowed in your own room—monitored for your own safety, watched like a fragile thing on the verge of shattering. Instead, you were cocooned in a nest of blankets in the cabin's living room, the rhythmic assault of rain against the roof filling the space where words failed.

Your eyes remained shut, feigning sleep indistinguishable from death with your barely-functioning body.

Earlier, exhaustion had weighed on your bones, pressing down like a relentless tide, yet now, rest refused to come. Something lingered at the edges of your mind—unease, dread, or perhaps something worse.

Watching.

The Blot had been quiet since you reached out to others.

Kalim sat close, his presence warm, hesitant. He hovered at the edge of touch, unwilling to wake you, yet unable to let you go. In sleep, he betrayed himself, arms curling around you in a desperate grasp, his fingers clenching the fabric of your sleeve as if holding on for dear life. As if he feared you'd slip away like mist come morning.

Ace lay facing you, silent except for the steady rhythm of his breath. His fingers ghosted over the ring encircling yours, tugging at it occasionally, as if testing whether it would come off—whether he could pry it away from you like it was some cursed shackle.

It wouldn't budge.

Earlier, his grip had been ironclad, his hand clasping yours so tightly you thought something might break. Your sleeve was still damp from his tears. They were nearly silent—save for quiet gasps and low apologies he thought never reached your ears.

In the distance, past the hush of breathing and the storm outside, voices murmured from the kitchen. Low, tense.

They were discussing you.

Arguing, no doubt, about what to do, about how to fix something irrevocably broken. but beneath the clipped words and frayed tempers, a common thread wove through their voices.

Steady. Unyielding.

A promise.

And for the first time in a long, long while, a quiet ember of hope flickered to life in your chest.

Maybe—just maybe—you didn't have to reach for the Blot alone.

For the life of me I can NOT remember what I wrote in the earlier sentence while writing the next and I am so confused

part seven

I feel like this part was really wonky???

memory issues goes crazy

also I literally had to make the new divider cause I couldn't find any good eye ones

erm idk

so sorry if this part is wonky I can't remember what I wrote at all ��

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