#we return energy and cold shoulders over here

[usedpidemo]

Alive (tripleS Seoyeon)

15k words

—————

“For the last time,” huffs Seoyeon, tone playful but showing a tinge of disdain toward her friends, bothered by their insistence. Raising her voice through the ear-thumping club music, she says, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so cold.” Yooyeon replies, bumping shoulder to shoulder, poking at her sternness. “You haven’t gone out with us once the entire time. We’re headed back to Korea tomorrow, mind you. We don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity to spend time like this together.”

“Okay, and what about it? Someone has to be the adult around here.” Seoyeon remains uptight, crossing her arms and shaking her head. If not for the neon lights gleaming throughout the place, her face would be seen lit bright red with rage. “I’m down to follow you around and maybe have a drink or two, but please leave me out of your bullshit.”

“Bullshit? You mean us flirting with the guys here?” Xinyu points at one such man, in a ragged business suit, clearly a few bottles in and on the verge of falling over. “They won’t remember a damn thing when they wake up.”

“And what if they do remember? What about the rest of us then? Have you considered what you’re doing can harm our career, hell our personal lives?”

“Hasn’t done anything, so I think we’re good,” Xinyu fires back, as if it were a gotcha moment. Drinking another round to prove her point, she adds, “Look, I’m saying you should have fun every now and then. A little party never killed nobody, after all.”

“I don’t think that saying is true these days,” replies Seoyeon, tilting her head, unconvinced. She rises from her seat to leave, unwilling to hear any more of her friends’ yapping. “Like I said, I’m not interested. Just call when you need me to take you home.”

As she walks away from her two friends, disappearing into the energetic crowd, Xinyu and Yooyeon stare at each other, shrugging their shoulders before returning to the club’s backrooms. 

—————

“Look, for the last time, I’m not interested,” you tell your friend, looking left and right. Clubs have never been your favorite place nor have parties been your favorite pastime. Nevertheless, you’re still accompanying a few workmates there because of bullshit office culture and so-called teambuilding. For a weekday, the energy is surprisingly electric. “I don’t mind having one drink, but I’d rather be home right now over anything, so—”

“Dude, this is where all the rich people and celebrities hang out. No way on earth you’re not going,” your friend tells you, as if the last thing you wanted was to share the same space with more men and women in the upper tax bracket when you’re not even making a tenth of their monthly income. Nevermind the fact that most of you unceremoniously decided on this excursion at the eleventh hour—you’re all still in your office attire, evidently worn out and in need of a laundry service. “I mean, there are some gachas nearby, since you seem to like them a lot—”

“Hey. I haven’t bought a gacha in two weeks!” you fire back, but your reply is drowned out in a sea of colleague laughs and party music. 

You can only shake your head and sigh, taking an embarrassing defeat on your character. 

As you scan your surroundings, you can’t help but recognize that you’d fit right in with all the groggy strangers and passed out drunkards filling out the seats and the corners of the club. Your sleep-deprived brain might as well be a few rounds in with how overworked and pushed it has been with all the overtimes, assignments, and take-home work you’d been receiving. All that for the bare minimum with no consideration for promotion nor any hints indicating such. But to be fair, you’d only been around for a handful of months; most of your peers have found their careers stuck for up to years. 

And based on some of the other salarymen you’ve seen knocked unconscious, they seemingly feel the same way. So you can conclude that it’s only right that you should drink your worries and sorrows away, at least for tonight.

It doesn’t take long for jovial merrymaking and intoxication to set in. You swear that your coworkers emptied out two buckets full of alcohol bottles in mere minutes, with plenty of liquor in great abundance to pass around. It gets to a point where you have to take at least one.

And so you do—in tiny, barely recognizable sips to blend in.

Some of your colleagues are singing their hearts out, others end up on the dance floor, but most fall head first onto the table, completely inebriated. Their minds filled with poison, your cue to weasel out of there.

Making your way through the crowd, unsure of where the entrance and exit was, you head down some steps, uncaringly bumping every person that passes by you and vice versa. You’re one bad move away from an incident. It could be anyone.

It ends up catching up to you.

“Oh!” A frantic shout rips through your ears and to everyone nearby, sending you careening onto the floor—except it’s your body crouching by impulse. Glancing to your side, a phone falls onto the stairsteps with a not so audible thump. Your natural instinct is to grab it, while the party goes on without a care.

The person turns around and immediately realizes what’s happened. Reaching out her hand, it intertwines with yours. Your eyes meet. An air of familiarity flows between you two. It’s a slow-motion, time-freezing scene straight out of any cliche drama—the ones you’d make fun of for being too unrealistic and predictable. And now, you’re put in that exact same scenario. Not a soul could have written your story any better.

Looking into her eyes, you’re taken back to not that long ago, at the tail end of a busy day like this one:

—————

As the clock struck the top of the hour before midnight, a command blared through the subway station speakers, telling all passengers that there’s only 30 minutes remaining before all services will come to an end. And yet, even this late, every terminal is brimming with life. 

All the more reason to rush through the crowd and head home. Another overtime shift in the books and you’re running on fumes to get back to your apartment. You’re dead set on crashing as soon as you hit the bed or the couch, whichever is the first you see. 

You barely make it, narrowly entering the train mere seconds before the doors close. Before you’re forced to stay the night in some convenience store to get some semblance of sleep.

Inside, the carriage is filled with people from all walks of life, from single parents and families with their children, businessmen from salarymen to executives, to partygoers going club hopping. The city never sleeps. Like everyone else, you occupy yourself in your own earphones and music to get by until you reach your stop.

Shuffling your way out the train and down the steps, you recall this exact moment. It should have been an afterthought, but you still remember everything vividly: a bump—a borderline tackle—that sends you tripping down the stairs. No wonder that scream sounded so familiar.

Instead of a phone, it's a patchwork of documents and paperwork flying in every direction. The girl frantically grabs for whatever she can retrieve while you recover the rest. She’s quite apologetic doing so, repeatedly saying ‘Sorry’ in the tiniest voice imaginable, that you overlook how she’s got all your files mixed up with no cohesion or continuity whatsoever. 

“God, I’m so—so—sorry—” she mutters, clutching the last of your paper before straightening the pile she collected and handing them back to you. Bowing her head, she follows with: “I really am sorry. I was in such a rush to get home and—”

But you never hear the rest of it, because you promptly take the papers back and hurry out of there.

—————

Deja vu is working overtime. 

Your fingers are slowly pointing at each other, mouths slowly gaping, eyes also widening, stunned speechless. The girl is first to speak:

“It’s you again.”

And to be quite honest, you don’t have a response to that.

“You’re the guy I ran into at the train station last week,” she recalls, her eyes widening more, her shocked expression turning into a look of genuine delight, like you’re distant friends reconnecting after a long time apart: “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Glancing left and right, you scramble for a quick answer. It comes out awkward: “Y--yeah. Me neither. That’s crazy.”

“Small world, huh?” she quips, quickly grabbing her phone off the floor and pocketing it. “Didn’t I also see you the morning after?”

“Morning after?” you ask, puzzled by what seems to be a second previous encounter.

“Yeah. I was going to the convenience store for some coffee and I saw you across the street,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “You were still wearing the same suit you wore the night before.”

Knowing that you did, in fact, crash onto the couch once you got home and went to work the next day without changing clothes proves to be embarrassing. You get completely flustered. What a spectacular first impression.

“I—yeah, I—I guess I did,” you reply, scratching your head, unable to look her directly in the eye in light of this revelation. You can only chalk it up to one thing. “Work.”

The girl laughs, covering her mouth. “Can relate.”

“So,” you swallow your throat, tugging on the collar of your shirt. Feeling sweat trickle down your face and  new tension brewing. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, some friends,” she remarks, rolling her eyes seemingly at the thought of them. “I was about to leave for some fresh air. And you?”

You stifle your laugh, toothily smiling, hoping you’re not turning her away. She looks at you intently, like you have something important. “Oh, funny. I was gonna say friends, too, if coworkers qualify as friends.”

“Really now?” She scans you from head to toe and recognizes that you’re one of those men. “I’m not surprised. My friends dragged me here as well. I’m guessing you didn’t wanna come along too?”

Your eyes widen at how quick she is at reading you. Like she’s known you for so long. “Wait, how’d you—”

“I guess we share quite a lot of things, huh?” she comments, beaming. The realization hits her: it’s destiny, it’s fate. “Gosh, it does really feel like we’re meant to cross paths.”

“Now that you’ve said it, you might be right.”

The girl looks around, and a realization dawns on her: that you’ve been making casual conversation on some narrow stairs, unknowingly being a mild inconvenience to partygoers. It’s only afterward she notices the growing pileup of disgruntled people cutting past, cursing you both out for indirectly acting as human roadblocks.

Glancing up the stairs, she remarks, “I think we should take this outside, you know, so we can hear each other better. My ears are hurting.”

—————

Despite reacquainting yourself with fresh air, your ears are still reeling in aftershocks from deafening party music. 

Across the street, from the club, lies a humble cafe serving customers 24/7. Despite the music being so loud that you can still hear it from behind these walls, the place is empty and solemn. Evidently most people here prefer their drinks with alcohol, not coffee. And looking at the girl, you do seem to share something common: that you’re both fishes out of water, living in a way that your peers might describe as ‘foreign’ and ‘weird.’

She’s on her phone, sighing as she fires back text after text to what seems to be her friends, annoyed about being bothered. Occasionally shooting you a meek, apologetic smile. You can make out her name even through the little font on the screen; ’Seoyeon-unnie, where did u go?’ reads one of the messages, and she catches on right as you’re reading them, concealing it, her face turning red and cheeks puffing.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask, genuinely curious. She’s blended in with the locals effortlessly.

“Afraid not,” she tells you, rapidly mashing through her phone before putting it away. Sipping on her drink, her eyes fixate on you, reciprocating interest. She inhales deeply, adding: “We’re here on a scheduled trip, so we’ll be leaving soon. Don’t know when we’ll come back.”

If this is her attempt to dissuade you from developing this little date into something more, then she’s failed. She has a natural glow around her, a magnetic pull that has you hooked. Even when she sounds direct, she’s as gentle as a candle’s flame. You can imagine the stars revolving around her; she’s that charming.

“That’s unfortunate,” you reply, frowning, hoping to earn some sympathy points from Seoyeon.

She doesn’t really notice, or sees through your act. Either way, she doesn’t react. “Yep,” she sighs, stirring the straw on her drink, glancing down on the table’s surface. “Tonight’s actually our last night before we leave tomorrow, so we went out. Not a party animal, so—”

She should have probably led with that. Hearing that this encounter will be as brief as your previous ones rips through your hopes and dreams like a gun shot straight through your heart.

It leaves you speechless for a moment. Unable to take even a little sip of your own drink too. 

And maybe it’s better off this way. Cherish the brief time you have before you part ways again. 

“Hey, are you alright?” Seoyeon asks, snapping you from your daze.

Shaking your head loose, you adamantly lie. “Y-yeah. I’m good.”

She’s leaning her head forward, staring into your eyes intently. Something appears off. “I don’t think so.”

Fucking hell. Seoyeon’s smarter than you thought.

She pulls the rug from underneath, catching you further off-guard. 

“Let me guess: work, huh?”

It’s the perfect alibi and escape. There’s some truth behind your excuse to stand on. Countless hours of a thankless job, being forced out of your comfort zone by peers that you hardly know and vice versa, when all you want is to separate your work life and personal time. Clock in, clock out.

“Yeah. Something like that. I don’t really drink; I wanna go home, but you know—”

“I understand. I mean, I’m not saying my job is as bad, but the hours eventually catch up and weigh down on you. I don’t sit behind a desk in an office for hours everyday, like you do, but the feeling is mutual.”

“Way to kick a man when he’s down,” is your reply, throwing a light jab at what appears to be a misguided attempt at empathizing. She lost you when she said she doesn’t work office hours. 

Seoyeon seems to take offense to it, shooting a pout, firing a glare in your direction. “I didn’t mean to make your life sound boring and monotonous. If anything, I’ve got it worse—well, we do.”

You remain silent. Suspect.

“Imagine getting up at two in the morning, putting on makeup, being in front of cameras at nearly every waking moment, having to put on your best behavior, no matter how tired you are. Having to sing and dance the same song a dozen times without making a mistake. And when the day is over, you only have 30 minutes of sleep before you do it all over again. Rinse and repeat.”

A dour feeling hits you right in the gut. Not even you get overworked this terribly, even if your company’s policies are borderline unethical. 

“Well—shit,” is your only response to quite the expository dump.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is even worthwhile,” she adds, pausing to take a prolonged drink. “I mean, I’m not alone; the responsibility is on all of us to look out for one another, but I wonder if they share the same feelings as me.”

Tilting your head, you reply, “Pretty sure they’re just as good as hiding it as you are. I mean—there’s a reason why my coworkers keep asking me to drink with them almost every other day.”

“I guess, but—someone has to be the levelheaded one in our group,” she says, her brows furrowing, reminding herself of the responsibility. “As much as we want to let loose, we still have to be careful. Getting drunk can be the worst sometimes.”

“True.”

Seoyeon has already emptied her drink while yours is still halfway unfinished. She looks directly into your eyes, reaching out her hand across the table, which you instinctively hold. Despite the little time you’ve spent together, your interactions mostly a string of mere coincidences, you feel a sense of warmth and familiarity with her that only close friends share. 

“Sorry for going on a tangent like that,” she says, gently caressing your hand beneath hers, resting her head on the table, her gaze staring out the window, visibly looking tired and defeated. “I get really stressed out sometimes, and I can’t show weakness in front of anyone. I’m just—” she abruptly pauses, huffing, sighing wistfully. “I’m not ready to get back out there.”

Admittedly, you hardly know her, nor will you ever get a chance to, if she’s to be believed, but you can’t let the opportunity slip away for good. There’s no way she’s confiding this much of herself in some random stranger.

“Well, we can still stay in touch, for when you leave,” you tell her, drawing her attention. “Unless you don’t wanna exchange numbers with a guy you just met properly for the first time.”

She pauses, takes a moment to quietly chuckle, before looking up at you, grinning. “Technically, we already met twice. Just not in a conventional way.”

“Still won’t let me live that down, huh?” you remark, annoyed, much to her amusement. Meanwhile, she’s straight up laughing.

“I don’t know. I think it’s cute, actually,” is her reply, her ear to ear smile and upbeat expression infectious. “Shows that you’re committed.”

“Or that my workplace has no qualms about overworking their employees to death, but sure. Committed.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one overworked here, like I said.” Seoyeon raises her arms defensively, feigning innocence. “I thought we were on the same page.”

“You’re making me look like I enjoy it.”

“Never said you did. Did you not listen to me?”

“I heard you—I just don’t see it that way, honestly.”

“Then stop being an uptight dick about and move on.”

“You won’t let me.”

“Are you this insufferable with your coworkers?” Seoyeon mocks, resting her chin on her palm, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You lean back, feigning offense. "Only when they drag me to clubs late at night on a Wednesday." She laughs—a bright, clear sound that cuts through the cafe’s drowsy hum. "Fair. But you’re bearable. Surprisingly."

"Wow. High praise," you deadpan, swirling the ice in your half-finished drink. A comfortable silence settles, the kind that feels earned. Her thumb traces idle circles on the tabletop, and you notice the chipped polish on her nails. The neon glow from the club across the street paints her face in fleeting streaks of flashing colors.

Seoyeon sighs, the playful edge softening. "This was—nice," She glances at her phone lighting up again. Another ignored message. "I should probably face the music. Literally."

The neon glow from the club across the street pulses through the café windows, painting alternating stripes of violet and gold across her cheekbones. You watch as she absently traces the rim of her empty glass, the ice long since melted into a sad, diluted puddle. There's a quiet intimacy in the way the condensation clings to her fingertips, in the way she hesitates before finally pulling her hand away.

"You don't have to go back yet." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

She looks up, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? And what exactly would we do instead?" There's a challenge in her voice, but beneath it—something softer. Something hopeful.

Outside, the bass from the club thrums through the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes. A group of drunk salarymen stumbles past the window, their laughter sharp and raucous in an otherwise quiet street. The contrast is jarring; the chaotic energy of the night pressing in closely against this fragile bubble you've created.

"I don't know," you admit. "Walk. Talk. Find somewhere that doesn't smell like stale beer and poor decisions." 

A slow smile spreads across her face. "You had me at 'doesn't smell like stale beer.'" She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it properly." 

Before you can respond, she's shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it to you. "Put this on."

"Why—"

"Because," she interrupts, already pulling her hair into a messy bun, "if anyone recognizes me, I'd rather they think I'm some random girl out with her—" She trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. 

"Ugly salaryman boyfriend?" you supply dryly. 

She barks out a laugh. "I was going to say 'tragically overworked acquaintance,' but sure. Let's go with that." 

The jacket is too small around the shoulder, the fabric still warm from her body heat. It smells faintly of her perfume—something floral and expensive, undercut with the sharp tang of citrus. 

"You look ridiculous," she informs you playfully, stepping out into the night. 

The cool air hits your face like a slap, sharp and bracing. Seoyeon tilts her head back, inhaling deeply as the city lights reflect in her eyes. For a moment, she stands there, perfectly still, as if savoring the simple act of breathing. 

"Where to?" you ask. 

She turns, and the smile she gives you is different now. Less guarded, more alive. 

"Let's get lost." 

—————

The alleyways twist and turn like a maze, the sounds of the main streets fading into a distant hum. Here, the air smells of frying oil and damp concrete, of laundry hung out to dry on cramped balconies overhead. Seoyeon walks half a step ahead of you, her fingers trailing along the graffiti-covered walls as if reading some secret braille only she can understand. 

"You know," she says suddenly, "I used to do this all the time as a trainee. Just—walk. No destination. No manager breathing down my neck." 

A cat darts across your path, its eyes gleaming in the dim light. Seoyeon crouches down, making soft clicking noises with her tongue. To your surprise, the creature actually approaches, butting its head against her outstretched hand. 

"Traitor," you mutter. 

She grins up at you. "Animals love me. It's my one true talent." 

"What, and the whole singing-dancing-being-ridiculously-good-looking thing is a happy accident?"

The words are out before you can stop them, too honest by half. Seoyeon goes very still, her fingers pausing mid-scratch. The cat, sensing the shift, slinks away into the shadows. 

"Sorry," you start, but she shakes her head. 

"Don't be." She stands, brushing invisible dirt from her jeans. "It's just—strange. Hearing someone say that like it's a fact. Not a PR talking point."

There's a rawness to her voice that makes your chest ache. You want to reach out—to bridge the gap between you—but the moment stretches, fragile and uncertain. 

A distant siren cuts through the silence. Seoyeon blinks, as if waking from a dream. 

"Come on," she says, nodding toward a flickering convenience store sign at the end of the long, narrow alley. “I'll buy you a drink that doesn't taste like regret."

—————

It’s half-past midnight. The air inside Room 408 hangs thick with ghosts of cheap perfume and spilled beer. Neon lights pulse across soundproof walls as Seoyeon kneels on the carpet, her fingers hovering over the touchscreen. The menu glows unnaturally bright in the dimness, a constellation of song titles scrolling into infinity.  

“New rule,” she says, not looking up. “If you pick anything released before 2010, you automatically lose.” 

You sink onto the pleather couch beside her. The material groans, releasing a puff of dust that dances in the projector’s beam. “That eliminates eighty percent of good music.”  

“Your definition of ‘good’ is suspect.” She finally meets your eyes, a challenge in the tilt of her chin. “We’re playing ‘Answer Me.’  

“The kids’ game?”  

“Adapted.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The motion is quick, practiced. “I ask a question. You answer while staring at the ceiling. If you blink, you sing first. If I blink, then I do.”  

“What’s the question?”  

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

She rises, standing before you. The shift alters the room’s gravity; suddenly, the space feels smaller, charged. The thump of bass from next door vibrates through the floor.  

“Ready?”  

You nod, leaning back. The ceiling tiles are water-stained, patterned like old tea leaves.  

Seoyeon’s voice drops to a murmur, cutting through the muffled chaos beyond the door. “What did you wish for at the train station? That night we collided.”  

Your breath hitches, heart pumps erratically, endlessly going through a million probable answers. 

“A promotion.”  

She doesn’t move. “Liar.”  

“How would you—?”  

“You blinked.” Triumph curls her lips. “Twice.”  

You scowl, your brows furrowing. “Fine. I wished I had asked for your number when you apologized.”  

Silence. The neon shifts from blue to violet, catching the startled dilation of her pupils. Her throat moves as she swallows.  

“My turn,” she says, too quickly.  

You stand, closing the distance. Her shoulder brushes your chest. “Rules are rules. You blinked.”  

“I did not!”  

“Your left eye. At ‘apologized.’ 

She glares, but it lacks heat. “Cheap shot.”  

You chuckle.“Sing.”  

Indignantly turning away from you, she complies.

She picks the song almost a little too fast. ‘Into the New World’ by Girls’ Generation flashes on the screen. A classic. A rite of passage for every female aspirant looking to get into the industry.

The opening notes shimmer, crystalline and familiar. She takes the mic like a weapon, her knuckles clenched, white.  

“You know this one?” she asks, back still turned.  

“Who doesn’t?”  

“Right.” A bitter edge. “National anthem.”  

When she faces you, the transformation is jarring. Her posture straightens, shoulders pulling back. Chin lifted. Even her breathing changes: measured, controlled. The girl who tripped on alley cobblestones is gone. In her place: a performer. A born to be idol.

Her voice is clean, technically sound—every note placed with surgical precision. But it’s hollow. A perfect mannequin singing a perfect replica of joy.  

Halfway through, she stumbles. Not on the notes, but on the choreography. Her hand rises automatically for a fanchant that isn’t there, then aborts the motion, fingers curling into her palm. She doesn’t look at you. A glance here and there, but otherwise, you’re nowhere in sight.

The final chorus fades. The screen flashes 99.7%. Artificial applause crackles from the speakers. She smiles naturally as if she performs for thousands, not for one man.  

She drops the mic onto the couch. It bounces, hurling toward your knee.  

“Your turn,” she says, her voice tight.  

You don't pick a song. Not right away.  

“My question now.” You hold her gaze. “What did you wish for? That morning you saw me in this same suit.”  

The air conditioner whirs. A drop of condensation slides down a beer can, pooling on the table.  

Seoyeon looks down at her hands, deep in thought. A moment that could be its own eternity. She holds her breath, before her lips curl into tangible words: “That you’d look up.”  

It barely registers in your head.

“—What?”  

“At the convenience store. You were staring at your shoes. I wished you’d look up so I could wave. Say sorry properly for the stairs.” She picks at a thread on the couch. “Stupid, right?”  

You step forward. The scent of her shampoo cuts through the stale air—pear blossoms and salt. “Why didn’t you?”  

“You seemed—” She searches your face, blinking slowly. “Like you carried something heavy. I didn’t want to add to it.”  

The admission hangs between you both. Raw. Unrehearsed.  

“Just sing,” she whispers, her voice shrinking, body lightly jittering. “Please.”  

Turning around, you scroll past Hotel California, then Gee, eventually landing on Spring Day.

Seoyeon’s breath hitches. “That’s—”  

“Yeah.”  

The piano intro spills into the room, slow as honey. You don't bother to face the screen. Don’t need to. You watch her instead, keenly observing the way her lashes lower at the first line, how she knots her fingers together.  

Your voice cracks on the high note. Not idol-perfect. Human. Rough with the weight of overtime shifts and convenience store dinners and wishing for things you couldn’t name.  

Seoyeon doesn’t move. But when the bridge begins, her lips shape the words silently. A secret shared.  

On the final chorus, your voice breaks entirely again. When the song ends, the screen flashes 72.1%. ‘Better luck next time’ flashes brightly on the screen, as if it were a divine message from some higher power. You don't care in the slightest. At least you did your best, and you have no regrets.

Silence floods the room, for real this time. No fake applause.  

Seoyeon reaches out. Her fingertips graze the back of your hand: feather-light, electric.  

“You blinked,” she says, soft as the neon bleeding through the curtains. “During the second verse.”  

“I know.”  

“So I win.”  

“Do you?”  

Her thumb brushes your knuckle. A tremor runs through her. “No.” 

—————

The air in Room 408 hums, thick with the bass bleeding through the walls and the raw scrape of your own voice battling the final lines of Fix You. Hours have dissolved into a blur of flickering lyrics, shared laughter that rattles cheap speakers, and the warm, drowsy haze of cheap drinks. Empty beer cans and soju bottles gleam like fallen soldiers under the relentless neon pulse, cycling across Seoyeon’s face as she watches you, chin propped on her hand, a soft, unfocused smile playing on her lips.

Your voice, which was never strong to begin with, has been steadily ground down by belting out everything from Bon Jovi to Gee. It’s a ragged thing now, tearing on the high notes of Iris, collapsing into a cough that bends you double, one hand braced against the sticky tabletop. You try to push through, clinging to the mic like a lifeline to no avail. The sound you make is pure gravel, like a wounded animal rasping against the soaring melody still pouring from the speakers.

"Okay, okay! Stop!" Seoyeon’s laugh cuts through the noise, warm and slightly breathless. She’s on her knees beside you in an instant, her hand landing firmly over yours on the mic. Her touch is electric, sending a jolt through the pleasant fog of alcohol and shared exhaustion. "You sound like you’re gargling rocks. Give it!"

She tugs gently, but you cling on, stubbornly trying to croak out the next line. It’s truly pitiful. Painful, even.

"Seriously!" she insists, her laughter fading into genuine concern. She leans in closer, her other hand landing on your shoulder. Her face is inches away, the neon catching the flecks of gold in her wide, amused eyes. "You’re going to ruin your throat forever. Stop." There’s surprising strength in her grip as she pries away the mic from your weakened fingers. She tosses it carelessly onto the couch beside her, the clatter loud in the sudden vacuum left by the abruptly silenced backing track.

Silence crashes down, dense and immediate. It amplifies everything else: the frantic thudding of your own pulse in your ears, the soft, quick rhythm of Seoyeon’s breathing so close to your face, the faint, sweet scent of pear blossoms and alcohol clinging to her skin and hair. Neon washes over her; blue highlights the curve of her cheekbone, red stains her parted lips, green catches the sudden intensity in her gaze. She’s not laughing anymore. Just—looking. Scanning your face.

Her hand is still on your shoulder—a warm, grounding weight. You don’t pull away; neither does she. The air crackles, thick with the unspoken weight of the hours spent here, the confessions whispered between songs, the shared cynicism about work and life, the unexpected comfort found in mutual exhaustion. The ridiculousness of your dying-frog impression evaporates, replaced by something else entirely. Something fragile, terrifyingly potent, and charged with the raw intimacy of the dying night.

You see the shift in her eyes, a softening, a question forming in the slight tilt of her head. Your own gaze drops to her lips, then flickers back up, held captive. The scant distance between you feels like an impossible chasm and a magnetic pull all at once. The noise of Shibuya, the weight of her impending flight, the looming dawn—it all recedes, muffled by the soundproofed walls and the sudden, profound quiet binding you together. You lean in, your movement barely a fraction. An unconscious yielding to gravity. Her breath catches a tiny, audible hitch. Her eyes widen slightly, dark pools reflecting the fractured light, but she doesn’t retreat. Her fingers flex slightly on your shoulder, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just holding. Waiting.

Her face is but a hair away. You can see the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes, the almost invisible scar just above her left eyebrow, the delicate flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The scent of her is intoxicating—floral, malty, and something uniquely, essentially her. The world narrows to the point where your noses might brush, where shared breath mingles in the charged space between your lips. Her eyelids start to drift shut, long lashes casting feathery shadows on her cheeks, a silent surrender, an unspoken invitation held in that fragile darkness. Your own eyes begin to close, the chaotic neon dissolving into warm anticipation, the space between you measured in heartbeats. You lean in further, the distance collapsing into millimeters, the world reduced to the scent of her and the roaring silence—

The door crashes open with a force that rattles the entire booth.

"Unnie! There you are! We were wondering where you—" A woman’s voice, shrill and triumphant, cuts through the intimate silence like shattering glass. It dies instantly, choked off into a stunned gasp. 

You jerk back as if electrocuted, your heart pounding unceasingly against your ribs. Seoyeon recoils violently, snatching her hand from your shoulder and scrambling backwards on her knees until she bumps the low table, sending an empty can clattering to the floor. Her eyes, wide and dilated a moment ago, are now huge with pure, unadulterated panic. Not embarrassment, but fear.

Xinyu and Yooyeon stand frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent glare of the corridor. Their faces, flushed with alcohol and the thrill of the hunt, morph from gleeful excitement to slack-jawed disbelief. Xinyu’s mouth hangs open, her finger still raised in a pointing gesture that now feels accusatory. Yooyeon’s sharp eyes dart rapidly: from Seoyeon’s flushed face and dishevelled hair, to your proximity, to the scattering of empty beer cans, the discarded mics, and finally, landing pointedly on her jacket shared between your shoulders. Her expression hardens, a flicker of cold betrayal sharpening her features into something diabolical.

The silence is absolute, heavier and more suffocating than before. The only sound is the relentless, cheerful thump of an uncaring, soulless pop song bleeding from the room next door.

Seoyeon finds her voice first, thin and strained. "Xinyu. Yooyeon. What are you—"

"We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" Xinyu explodes, stumbling into the room, her voice regaining volume, thick with indignation and cheap soju. "Ignoring our calls! Texts! We thought you got lost! Or mugged! Or worse!" Her gaze sweeps over you again, lingering with undisguised disgust on the jacket, now spread on the couch after falling away. "And this? This is where you vanished to? Cozied up in a karaoke booth?" She spits the word like it’s filthy, her finger pointed at you like you’re dangerous. "With—him?" 

The pronoun is a weapon. A curse. A byword.

Yooyeon steps in beside Xinyu, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice is lower, colder, cutting through Xinyu’s drunken hysteria. "Manager-nim has called eight times, Seoyeon. Eight. He’s downstairs in the lobby. Right. Now." Her icy gaze flicks over to you, then back to Seoyeon, heavy with accusation. "Care to explain? Or were you too busy?"

Seoyeon flinches as if she were physically struck. Color drains quickly from her face, leaving her pale and suddenly fragile looking. The vibrant, almost luminous girl from moments ago is gone, replaced by a cornered idol, defenses visibly crumbling. She pushes herself shakily to her feet. "I—I just needed air. Somewhere quiet. We—we ran into each other. We were—talking. Singing." The lie is paper-thin, pathetic against the evidence littering the room and the intimacy they had shattered.

"Talking?" scoffs Xinyu, stepping further into the cramped space, invading it with her presence and the smell of stale cocktails. She gestures wildly at the scene: the beers, the mics, the close proximity. "In a private karaoke booth? At 2:00 AM? Looking like that?" She waves a hand dismissively at Seoyeon’s messy bun and slightly smudged lip tint. "Singing? Is that what they call it now?"

"It’s not what you think," Seoyeon insists, her voice gaining a desperate edge. She takes a step towards her friends, but Yooyeon’s glacial stare stops her cold.

"Funny," mocks Yooyeon, her voice dangerously quiet. She takes a deliberate step forward, her eyes locked on Seoyeon’s. "That’s exactly what it looks like. Looks like you ditched us. Ditched all of us. After all that righteous indignation earlier." She lets the words hang, sharp as knives.

Seoyeon swallows hard, looking worse by the second, evidently guilty. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb," Xinyu cuts in, her voice rising again. She steps right up to Seoyeon, jabbing a finger near her shoulder. "Remember? Back at the club? ‘I’m not interested.’ ‘Leave me out of your bullshit.’ ‘Someone has to be the adult!’" Xinyu’s mimicry is viciously accurate, laced with venom. "You looked down your nose at us for wanting to have a little fun, for maybe flirting with some harmless, wasted salarymen." She spits the last word, her eyes flicking contemptuously towards you. "And then you sneak off to do what? Exactly the same thing? But oh, it’s different when you do it, right? Because you’re the responsible one? Because your taste in men is so much better?"

The accusation lands like a wicked blow. Seoyeon’s face crumples for a split second before she forces the idol mask back on, but it’s deeply cracked. Her hands, clenched at her sides, tremble slightly. You see the shame flood her eyes, hot and bright, before she looks down at the garish carpet.

"It’s not the same," Seoyeon whispers, the protest weak, barely audible.

"Isn’t it?" Yooyeon presses, her voice blisteringly cold, simmering with a deeper hurt. "You judged us, Seoyeon. You called it bullshit. You acted like you were above it. And now here you are, hiding away, drinking," she gestures at the cans, "getting cozy with some random office drone you bumped into on the subway. What’s the difference? Because he looks a little more pathetic than the ones we were talking to? Because you feel sorry for him?"

Each word is a lash on her back and her heart. Seoyeon flinches with every syllable. The hypocrisy laid bare is brutal, undeniable. The jacket you’ve gripped with your fingers feels suddenly heavy, suffocating, a symbol of a critical lapse in judgment. You want to speak, to defend her, to deflect, but the words choke in your raw throat. You’re paralyzed, a spectator to her public flaying.

"We were worried," Yooyeon continues, the ice cracking slightly to reveal genuine anger. "We were looking for you. We thought something happened. But you were—here. Doing exactly what you scolded us for. Only sneakier."

Xinyu snorts derisively. "Yeah, real adult behavior."

Seoyeon says nothing. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. The vibrant spark that animated her while singing, while arguing, while laughing with you, is utterly extinguished. She looks small, defeated, drowning in the harsh light and her friends’ cruel judgment.

Yooyeon lets the silence stretch, thick with condemnation. Finally, she sighs, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Whatever. Manager-nim is waiting downstairs. We’re leaving in five hours. Get your things. Now." 

It’s not a request. It’s an order.

Xinyu grabs Seoyeon’s discarded wallet from the floor. "Unbelievable," she mutters again, loud enough to carry, shaking her head as she turns towards the door. "Just—unbelievable."

Seoyeon doesn’t look at you, nor does she look at her friends. She turns mechanically, her movements stiff, robotic. She walks towards the door, shoulders slumped, head still down. As she passes Yooyeon, the taller girl grabs her elbow, not roughly, but with firm, impersonal efficiency, steering her out into the harsh corridor light.

Yooyeon pauses in the doorway, turning back. Her gaze sweeps over the wreckage of the booth—the cans, the couch, the abandoned mics—until it finally lands on you, still frozen on the couch. Her expression is unreadable, a mix of disdain and something colder, more calculating. "Stay away from her," she commands, her voice flat, final. "You’ve caused enough trouble."

Moments later, they’re gone, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft, definitive click.

—————

Silence. Not the warm, charged quietness of moments before, but a hollow, echoing void. Once again, you’re all alone. The relentless neon continues its mindless cycle—red, blue, green—flashing idiotically over the empty couch, the scattered cans, and the silent microphones. Her jacket now hangs over your shoulders, the scent of pear blossoms now sickly sweet, a cloying reminder of an intimacy violently ripped away. The phantom warmth of her hand on your shoulder lingers, a faint touch against the sudden, profound chill settling into your bones. This karaoke booth, previously a sanctuary, a pocket universe, now feels like a desolate crime scene. The taste of cheap beer persisting in your mouth has turned into ash. The city outside, hurling relentlessly towards dawn, feels vast, indifferent, impossibly cold. The space where her lips almost met yours is a vacuum, sucking all the air from your lungs. 

You sink back against the groaning pleather of the couch. Deathly silence presses in, broken only by the relentless, mocking, cheerful beat bleeding through the wall from the next room, a grotesque soundtrack to your shattered intimacy. The echo of Xinyu’s mocking words—’Because you feel sorry for him?’—reverberates in the hollow space, sharp and corrosive, scathing.

You can only stay here for long before it feels like a prison sentence. A crime for breaking from a predetermined path. A crime against normalcy.

The click of the karaoke door shutting behind you echoes with unnatural finality in the suddenly oppressive hallway. The cheap, overloud music from surrounding booths feels like a physical assault after the hollow silence you left behind. You’re adrift, unmoored, with Seoyeon’s jacket still draped awkwardly over your shoulders like borrowed skin. The scent of pear blossoms and lager clings to the otherwise soft fabric, a cruel, intoxicating reminder that feels invasive now, tainted by Xinyu’s sneer and Yooyeon’s glacial dismissal.

You walk. The corridor stretches, gaudy and endless, each numbered door leaking its own brand of musical chaos. The sticky linoleum tugs at your soles. You don’t look back at Room 408. That booth, as far as you’re concerned, is tainted and cursed. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even your worst enemy. Elsewhere, the lobby is a blur of overtly bright lights and the tired, vacant stare of the night attendant. The automatic doors hiss open, releasing you into the pre-dawn chill of Shibuya.

The city breathes differently now. The frantic, electric pulse has dulled to a weary, dead thrum. The crowds have thinned, leaving behind stragglers—stumbling groups clinging to each other, lone figures hailing cabs with the desperate focus of the profoundly exhausted. Neon signs still scream into the fading darkness, but their messages feel hollow, advertisements for a party that’s already moved on. The air is cool, damp, smelling of exhaust, stale beer and litter. It washes over your face, a feeble attempt to clear the fog of cheap drink, raw emotion, and the phantom sensation of Seoyeon’s breath so close to yours.

You keep walking, directionless for a block, her jacket heavy on your shoulders, every step dragging your feet. The memory of her cowardly flinch, the shame flooding her eyes under her friends’ assault, replays in your mind on a loop: 

"Because you feel sorry for him?" 

The words scrape like sandpaper against your raw throat. You shrug the jacket off, clutching it bunched in your fist instead of wearing it. The pear blossom scent is stronger now, released by the movement, a bittersweet assault.

A vacant taxi crawls past, its roof light a beacon. You raise a hand, the motion muscle memory. It pulls over, the tires whispering on the slightly worn asphalt. Opening the rear door, the vinyl seat feels warm against your legs. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.

“Sorry,” you rasp, your voice still wrecked from all the singing, from all the tension. You give the driver your address, your own apartment building, a place that suddenly feels impossibly distant and devoid of anything resembling comfort. You lean against your seat throughout the ride, closing your eyes, the city lights streaking past the window in blurred ribbons of color. The jacket rests on your lap as a crumpled weight.

The taxi navigates the quieter streets, leaving the core of Shibuya’s nightlife behind. The buildings grow more residential, the neon less aggressive. You recognize the familiar turn onto your street, a canyon of mid-rise apartments and shuttered family-run shops. The taxi slows, pulling towards the curb opposite your building. You fumble for your wallet, motions sluggish, your mind still trapped in that neon-lit booth, in the shattered moment before the door crashed open.

You pay the fare, the transaction silent and efficient. The driver somberly nods in appreciation, the partition sliding shut as you open the door and step out onto the pavement and back out into the real world. The cool air hits you again, now sharper. You take a step towards your building’s entrance across the street, clutching the jacket. You need water. You need silence. You need to avert your mind from thoughts of pear blossoms or panicked brown eyes or the acidic taste of hypocrisy.

“Hey! Wait!”

The voice slices through the pre-dawn stillness, high-pitched, slightly slurred, but unmistakable. Her voice.

Your heart stutters, then drums hard against your ribs. You freeze mid-step, turning slowly, disbelievingly, towards the sound.

She’s standing maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk, on the same side of the street as your apartment building, swaying slightly. Seoyeon. No Yooyeon, no Xinyu, no manager. Only her, silhouetted under the harsh glow of a singular streetlamp, wearing the same jean shorts and thin top from the karaoke booth, her arms wrapped around herself against the relentless cold. Her hair is way messier, escaping the bun entirely on one side. Her eyes are wide, searching, slightly unfocused.

“You!” she says again, pointing a finger that wobbles unsteadily in your direction. She takes a stumbling step forward. “You have—” her voice rises and falls, as if she were winding up. “You have my jacket!”

You stare, dumbfounded. The taxi pulls away, its taillights disappearing around a corner, leaving you stranded on the curb facing her. The street is completely deserted. The only sounds you can hear are the distant hum of the city and the frantic pounding of your own pulse.

“Seoyeon?” Your voice is rough scraped gravel. “How are you here?”

She ignores the question, focusing entirely on the bundle in your hands. “My jacket!” she insists, lurching towards you with more determination than coordination. “Give it! They’ll—they’ll smell it on you—or something,” Her logic is drowned by the evident alcohol still swirling in her system. She covered it better in the booth, fueled by adrenaline and shared rebellion. Now, outside, alone, the full weight of the drinks hits her like a truck.

She reaches you, close enough that you catch the stronger scent of layered soju and see the hectic flush high on her cheeks under the streetlight. Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, but beneath the intoxication, there’s a frantic, almost panicked energy. She makes a grab for the jacket crumpled against your chest.

“Seoyeon, stop,” you say, instinctively taking a half-step back. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where are the others? Your manager?”

“Fuck them,” she slurs, swiping at the jacket again. Her fingers brush the fabric. “Judgy—hypocrites—‘Feel sorry for him’—fuck them!” Her voice rises, echoing slightly in the quiet street. “Just gimme my jacket!”

This time she lunges with reckless abandon, off balance, her weight tipping dangerously forward as she snatches at the bundle. Her fingers clutch on the fabric, tugging hard. Caught by surprise, you instinctively hold on for a split second. The opposing forces—her drunken momentum, your reflexive resistance—are disastrous.

She gasps, her eyes flying wide with sudden, sobering terror as her feet teeter and tangle. She pitches sideways, not towards you, but towards the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.

Instinct screams louder than thought. You drop the jacket and lunge forward, shooting out your arms. You catch her not gracefully, but desperately, one arm hooking awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing her upper arm right as her knees buckle. Her weight slams into you, solid and warm and terrifyingly limp. You stagger back a step, boots scraping loudly on the pavement, struggling to keep both of you upright.

For a heart-stopping moment, she’s dead weight against you, her face buried against your shoulder, her breathing ragged and hot through the fabric of your shirt. The scent of alcohol, pear blossoms, and sheer, unadulterated panic washes over you. You tighten your grip, bracing your legs, holding her suspended inches from the ground.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” you repeat, your own heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ve got you. Don’t move.”

She doesn’t struggle. She sags against you, a shudder running through her frame. “Told you,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against your shoulder, thick with tears, or exhaustion, or both. “Screw them. I just—wanted my jacket—”

The near-disaster shocks some clarity into the situation. She’s out here alone, drunk, stumbling, and clearly in no state to navigate back to wherever her group is staying, let alone face her manager. The memory of Yooyeon’s icy command—’Stay away from her’—wars with the immediate, undeniable reality of Seoyeon trembling against you, inches from cracking her head open.

You look across the street. Your apartment building entrance is right there. Safe. Contained. A world away from judgmental friends and furious managers.

The jacket lies discarded on the damp pavement. You ignore it for now. Carefully, shifting your grip to better support her weight, you turn her slightly, keeping one arm firmly around her waist. She doesn’t resist, leaning heavily into your side, her head lolling against your shoulder. Her eyes are half-closed now, the frantic energy draining away, replaced by sheer, drunken exhaustion.

“Come on,” you say, your voice low, firm. “My place is right there. Across the street. You need to calm down. Get some water.”

She mumbles something incoherent, but allows you to guide her, her steps shuffling and uncoordinated. You half-walk, half-carry her a few steps to the curb, glance quickly for non-existent traffic, then navigate the short distance across the street to your building’s entrance. The automatic door slides open with a soft sigh.

The fluorescent-lit lobby is starkly quiet after the street. The night concierge glances up from his phone right as he’s about to walk away from the front counter, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene: you supporting a clearly inebriated, strikingly beautiful young woman inside. You avoid his eyes, steering Seoyeon towards the elevators. She stumbles again on the smooth floor, and you tighten your hold, pulling her closer. Her warmth, her weight, the softness of her hair against your jaw—it’s overwhelming, charged with a different kind of tension now, born of necessity and shared vulnerability.

Punching the elevator button, waiting feels eternal under the concierge’s silent observation, but he eventually leaves you alone to your own devices before the doors finally slide open. You maneuver her inside, leaning her against the mirrored wall as you press the button for your floor. The reflection shows her slumped posture, her flushed face, her eyes slammed shut. She looks impossibly young and utterly spent. You pick up the jacket from where you’d managed to grab it off the pavement without dropping her.

The elevator ascends in silence, the hum of machinery the only sound. The mirrored walls amplify the awkward intimacy, the sheer strangeness of the situation. You hold her upright, her body a soft, trusting weight against yours, the events of the last hour—the singing, the almost-kiss, the shattering interruption, the street rescue—collapsing into a single, surreal point of contact in this sterile, ascending box. Her jacket, previously a symbol of stolen connection, now feels like a burden, a complication clutched in your free hand. Dawn is creeping closer, and with it, her inevitable departure. But for now, she’s here, leaning against you, breathing softly, entirely in your care.

It takes a herculean effort to fish the keys to your apartment from your pocket, with the weight of Seoyeon on your shoulders, but you unlock the door and take her inside your flat. Approaching the lone couch in your living room, you gently lay her down on her back as she releases her grip on you, settling in and taking up every little space. Leaving her to rest, you rush to the kitchen fridge and grab a glass and a pitcher of water, pouring it as you return to her, sprawled and deeply wasted. Well aware of the dangerous precedent you’re setting and its disastrous consequences, you can only pray she comes to her senses.

Placing the half-full glass of water and the pitcher on the table, you gently mutter, “Oh, Seoyeon. If only—” 

The rest are words you don’t have the heart to openly declare. You share equal amounts of accountability as her, except you won’t get half the lashings, whether from her friends or from upper management.

As you scan her, peaceful and asleep, you come to the realization that she genuinely does not want to get on that plane in the morning. Beneath that quiet exterior lies unfettered frustration and rage against her so-called friends. The one time she decides to loosen up and have a night all to herself, it almost causes a near career-ending situation. She’ll probably live with that guilt for the rest of her idol days. Such is the unfortunate nature of the beast, of the industry. To be perfect always, to make no mistakes.

As the night approaches the point of fading away, you’re reminded of your own path. So different, yet so similar to Seoyeon’s. And considering what you’ve been through these last several hours, that’s a lifetime till you’ll get to experience something like this again. Admittedly, it’s liberating. A breath of fresh air from your otherwise repetitious life.

The only thing you want to see is her glow, that bright sparkle permeating from her face. If only you had more time.

Once you’re certain she’s unconscious, you hop from your crouch and walk away, readying yourself for a brief night’s rest, only to hear her faint, incomprehensible mumbles, drawing your attention.

“Seoyeon? What’s up?”

The cool plastic of the water glass beads with condensation against your palm as you turn back. Seoyeon hasn’t moved from where you laid her on the couch, a crumpled starfish against the worn dark fabric. Her face is turned towards the back cushion, half-buried. The soft, distressed mumble comes again, muffled.

“Seoyeon?” You crouch beside the couch, setting the glass and pitcher carefully on the low table. The floorboards creak under your knees. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

She stirs, a small, restless shift. One hand flails weakly, fingers brushing the air before falling back onto her stomach. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open. “—no,” she slurs, the word thick and indistinct. “—don’t wanna—”

“Don’t wanna what?” You keep your voice low, gentle, trying to pierce the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. The pre-dawn light seeping through your thin curtains paints everything in shades of weak blue and grey, making the scene feel fragile, unreal. “Water? Here.”

You reach for the glass, but her hand flails again, this time connecting loosely with your forearm. The touch is startlingly warm. “—go,” she breathes, the sound catching on something wet. Perhaps a tear or her saliva. “—don’t make me go—”

The fragmented plea hits you like a physical weight. ‘Don’t make me go.’ Back to the hotel. Back to the manager. Get on that plane. Back to the life where moments like tonight are impossible, dangerous contraband. 

You lower the glass. The urge to brush the stray strands of hair stuck to her damp temple is almost overwhelming. You curl your fingers into your palm instead.

“Nobody’s making you go anywhere right now,” you murmur, the lie tasting like ash. Dawn is making her go. Responsibility is making her go. Millions of fans around the world are making her go. The harsh reality Yooyeon and Xinyu represent is making her go. “No one else is here but me. Please rest.”

A small tremor runs through her. “Liars,” she whispers, the word barely audible, aimed at the cushions or the universe. “—all—hypocrites—” Her breath hitches, a soft, wet sound that twists something inside your chest. She’s crying. Silently, drunkenly, the tears escaping beneath closed lashes, tracking paths through the faint smudges of makeup still clinging to her skin.

The sight undoes you. The fierce performer, the exasperated friend, the girl with the sharp tongue but secret softness—reduced to this shivering, tearful vulnerability on your worn out couch. It’s a raw exposure far more intimate than any almost-kiss. It’s the crumbling of the last wall.

Carefully, slowly, you reach out. Not to touch her face, but to gently pry the crumpled jacket from where it’s still tangled near her hip. You smooth it out, the familiar scent of pear blossoms rising faintly, and drape it over her like a makeshift blanket, tucking it loosely around her shoulders. The gesture feels absurdly inadequate.

As the fabric settles over her, her hand moves. Not a flail this time, but a slow, searching crawl across the couch cushion. Her fingers brush yours where they rest near the edge of the jacket.

You freeze.

Her touch is hesitant, clumsy with intoxication, but undeniably deliberate. Her fingers, cold at the tips, curl weakly around your index finger. A silent cry. An anchor.

You don’t pull away; you let her hold on, her grip loose but desperate. Her crying softens to hitching breaths, her face still turned away, hidden. The silence stretches, filled only by her ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears. The pale light strengthens incrementally, outlining the contours of your small, cluttered living room—the overflowing bookshelf, the takeout containers forgotten on the table, the silhouette of her curled form on the couch, clutching your finger like a lifeline.

This is the precipice. This quiet, tear-stained connection in the fading dark. The world outside—the furious manager, the judgmental friends, the looming flight, your own precarious job waiting in a few short hours—presses in like a crushing weight, an inevitable that will pull you apart. But here, now, there is only the warmth of her hand around yours, the slight tremor running through her, the impossible fragility of the moment.

You shift slightly, settling more fully onto the floor beside the couch, your back against its sturdy arm. You don’t speak. There are no words that won’t shatter this. You simply stay. You become the anchor she’s silently asked for. Your finger rests in her loose grip, a point of contact in the vast, terrifying loneliness of her world and the quiet desperation of yours. The pitcher of water sits forgotten on the table, beading coldly. Dawn is no longer approaching; it’s seeping into the room, minute by minute, a slow, inevitable tide washing away the fragile sanctuary of the night. But for now, you hold the line. You hold her hand. You watch the light grow stronger on her tear-streaked face, and you wait.

The apartment is quiet, but not silent. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the soft whistle of wind nudging the balcony glass. Dawn creeps in inch by inch, peeling shadows off the room like skin from fruit. You shift slightly, your back pressed against the arm of the couch, her fingers still curled loosely around yours. Seoyeon hasn’t moved, but you can feel her breathing change—steadier now, more aware.

Her fingers tighten.

You look up and find her eyes open, red-rimmed and puffy, lashes clumped from dried tears. She doesn’t say anything at first, merely stares at you, as if trying to anchor herself in reality. You hold her gaze, patient, silent. The world beyond this room is still waiting to collapse around her. You both know that. But right now, it hasn't.

“You stayed,” she whispers, hoarse.

“I said I would,” you reply, matching her softness.

A beat passes. Then another. Her eyes search yours with something deeper than gratitude—something raw and reverent. And then, without warning, she pulls herself up, slowly, until she’s sitting beside you again. Her legs are folded beneath her, her hands rubbing nervously at the sleeves of the jacket you returned to her sometime in the night.

She doesn’t meet your gaze now. Instead, her voice, tentative and low, breaks the stillness like a ripple across glass.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

You don’t need to ask what this is. The industry. The expectations. The constant dissection of her every move, every breath. The public self, flawless and unbreakable. The private self, unraveling at the seams.

“I try to be the adult,” she continues, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “The one who keeps everyone safe, who doesn’t step out of line. But it’s so exhausting. I'm tired of holding it together just because I'm the one who looks like she can.”

She finally glances at you, eyes trembling. “And then I meet you. And it’s so stupid—this random accident. A bump on the train. A karaoke booth. But it’s the first time in a long time I felt like I didn’t have to—perform. Like I could truly be myself.”

You don’t speak. You reach out instead, brushing your thumb across the back of her hand, and her breath catches. Slowly, cautiously, she leans forward. Her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. Then her whole body follows, small and warm and vibrating faintly with emotion as she folds into you.

You wrap your arms around her without thinking.

She smells like soap and sleep now, the faintest trace of pear blossom perfume clinging to the crook of her neck. Her body melts into yours, burying her face in your shirt as though trying to disappear inside your ribs. You hold her there, unmoving, your cheek resting against the top of her head.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “That I’ll forget this. That I’ll go back tomorrow and none of it will matter.”

You close your eyes, fingers threading gently through her hair. “Then don’t forget about tonight. Don’t forget about the good times.”

She shifts, enough to glance up at you. Her eyes search yours again, but this time, the desperation is replaced with something quieter. Trust. The kind of trust that hurts because it’s so fragile, so undeserved, and yet she’s giving it to you anyway.

Her hand comes up, cupping your jaw with tentative care. You lean in without hesitation, like gravity’s been pulling you this way all night. She closes the distance the last few inches, her breath warm against your lips. 

And then—she kisses you again.

It’s not careful; it's fierce—urgent. Like she’s trying to pour all the things she can’t say into the press of her lips against yours. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You respond in kind, sliding your hand up her back, pressing her into you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The kiss deepens, not messy, but aching. Like a dam bursting. Like the moment before a fall you no longer want to stop.

She tastes like citrus, alcohol, regret, and everything else in between, like all the things you should have said earlier. Perhaps this night was always meant to end here.

When she finally pulls away, breath shallow and lips red, her forehead rests against yours, your noses brushing. Her eyes are closed, her voice small. You can hear her heart through her gentle breaths.

“I’m not sorry.”

You shake your head. Neither are you.

Her breath mingles with yours, shallow and unsteady, the heat between you both rising in quiet, unstoppable waves. Seoyeon’s hand remains against your cheek, her thumb gently stroking your skin, but there's tension behind the softness—an urgency beneath the surface, waiting to break through.

Then it does.

She kisses you again, harder this time—less hesitant, more driven. The kind that demands something, not just offers. Her fingers tighten at the back of your head, pulling you closer, until your teeth barely graze and your breaths tangle, ragged and warm.

Your body moves on instinct. You shift, climbing onto the couch, one knee sinking beside her hip, the other anchoring you against the cushions as your hands cage her in—one planted beside her head, the other skimming her waist. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. Her eyes burn into yours for a fleeting second before she tugs you down into another kiss, fiercer than the last.

Your hand slides up her side, her thin shirt wrinkling beneath your touch. You feel the tremble in her breath as your fingers graze the hem. She answers by hooking her hands beneath your shirt, tugging it upward in fits and starts between kisses. When she finally peels it halfway up your chest, she lets out a soft, frustrated sound and rips it the rest of the way. The fabric stretches, then tears at the seam near the collarbone.

You blink. “That was my—”

“I’ll buy you another,” she murmurs against your mouth before pulling you back in, her teeth catching your bottom lip with intent. Pushing it off you, she tears the rest of it off your body, landing on the ground. She takes lease of your bare chest, claiming you as hers. “It was looking worthless anyway.”

You can’t even argue. In fact, you’re too far gone to care. 

Your hands fumble at the hem of her shirt now, working fast, your pulse roaring so loudly in your ears it drowns out the city beyond your window. Digging through her shirt, slowly lifting it off her svelte body, eventually getting a little assist from her hands. Over her head, then sliding it off her shoulders, tossing it aside and joining the other discarded piece of clothing on the floor.

Seoyeon pulls you flush against her, her legs parting slightly to make room as you sink into the cradle of her hips. Your lips move along her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—tracing heat and longing across every inch of skin you find. She gasps your name into the quiet, and it doesn't sound like a whisper. It sounds like a need.

The moment has the weight of something irreversible.

You pause, your forehead resting against hers, your chest rising and falling against her ribs. Her hand rises to the side of your face, her eyes searching yours through the hush.

There’s no pretense left. No posturing. No industry rules. No office culture. Just the two of you: lonely souls, pressed together in the dying hours of a borrowed night, clinging to something fleeting and real.

And when she pulls you down again, lips parted, body arching to meet yours, it’s more than passion—it’s rebellion. It's a confession. It’s all the things she can’t say with a manager waiting in the lobby, with fans watching her every breath, with friends who pretend support but demand perfection.

Your mouths meet again. And again. The world blurs around the edges. Time unspools into something slow and molten.

Neither of you have anything left to lose. But in this fragile, fleeting moment—you have each other.

As the clock goes from 4 to 5, your kisses intensify, burning brighter than the neon lights that have blinded your eyes for hours. Your hands are all over each other, exploring the other’s bodies, leaving no opportunity wasted, leaving no room for regret. She kicks up a leg, giving your hand new territory to travel. Wrestling skin and fabric, your primal urges get the best of you. Like your mind hasn’t already hit the gutter, the temptation is something you can barely fight.

Still, you never forget your place. Hiking your hand up those jean shorts of hers, you ask her: “Can I?”

She nods vigorously, seemingly wanting it more than you. 

You oblige, slowly working through the buttons, followed by the zipper, sliding it down along with the rest of the obstructive fabric. Getting a feel of her thighs, she trembles; whether it's due to the cold seeping in or from your touch, you have no clue. But what do you know is there’s barely anything beneath. A thin piece of black underwear separates you from her heat.

Dipping between the lines, the space between you merely breaths, you slip a finger through—and she keens.

Letting out this airy, thick sigh as your digit curls into her slit. Her core aches. Her mouth hangs wide, singing a profound note that’s music to your ears. 

“Oh my God—” she whines, holding onto that last word with every fiber of her being. The newfound pleasure is heavenly.

“Don’t worry about anything, just focus on me,” you mumble, softly kissing down her neck between commands, hitching your breath as you feel her pussy begin tightening around your finger. 

With her grip slowly arresting you like a vice, you slip a second digit in, eliciting a nasally moan from her saccharine lips. The chant is clear. ‘Need it, need it,’ she repeats, every word heavy, like it’s her lifeline, like it’s something she can’t do without. 

Keeping your focus on her pleasure-laden face while her features are constantly shifting and morphing. Your fingers are pushing into her cunt, pressing the buttons that make her go wild. As she writhes and wriggles beneath you, you’re holding her steady with your other arm to keep you both from falling off that couch. She grows more and more restless with each pulse, each stroke, the sensation becoming too overwhelming to resist.

“Ah—fuck—this—is—so—” Seoyeon can’t help but rattle on, even with the endless rush of ecstasy flowing through her nerves. Still having the clarity to remember everything. It’s embedded into her mind like a deep scar. “Bet they’re jealous that you’re fucking me—”

You immediately cut her off kissing her hard on the lips, stretching that cunt a little too deep for comfort. She hums into your mouth, her body fighting against you by instinct before you quickly pull away. Gently shaking your head, you hush into the air, comforting and reassuring her, “Remember. Only me.”

She nods emphatically, bracing for impact. Through the talking, your fingers remain buried inside her cunt. They’re a match made in heaven, like she’s meant for you.

Fast on her clit, you’re regaining your rhythm as quickly as you’ve lost it. Everything falls naturally into place. Seoyeon lets out these quick whimpers, unable to keep herself together under duress. She looks so good like this, so vulnerable, so helpless in your grasp. With each sigh supplementing her moan, her body pushing against you in kind like you’ve been railing her for hours. You can feel how long she’s bottled it up, and how you’ve unlocked this side of her.

“Yes—God—yes—” she mewls, wrapping her arms around your neck and dragging you close, releasing any hope you have of letting go. Not that you had any intention to, considering how alarmingly wet and tight she feels around your grip. You can only imagine what it’s like when you finally make the move on her. 

But at this moment, you can only focus on bringing her to that apex. Everything around you blurs except the heavy breaths and sighs, the natural squelch of her cunt with every drag of your fingers, and the tiny, desperate pleas for more.”‘So close,” she murmurs, biting harshly on her lower lip, using what remains of her dwindling resolve she has left to hold on, but she knows she’s on borrowed time. You’re there to accelerate the process.

Anytime now, she’ll come undone in your arms, so you savor every moment you can get. 

“It’s okay, babygirl,” you whisper, your fingers inside her delicate, but ardent. “Cum for me. Cum all over my fingers. You’re so wet, God.”

Your voice activates her. Sets her off in a way that only you can.

Arching her back, you feel every inch of her fighting—resisting—only to fold right after. Her walls tensing, rigid against your digits, before it all comes together in a perfect concoction. 

Seoyeon’s jaw drops hard. Lips forming a shape vaguely resembling an O, letting out a guttural whiny as her body locks beneath you, violently trembling. Brain going blank, having no other thought but the climactic bliss, the culmination of a dramatic night reaching its expected end. Fucking all sense and sanity out of her, if there’s even anything left to begin with. Your fingers take it all: a torrential downpour of slick and nectar coating your filthy digits, spilling onto your already worn couch, now past the point of repair. 

You guide her through the aftershocks, never moving an inch inside her needy cunt, showering her with heaps of praise and soft, tender kisses on her skin. “Good girl—you’re cumming so much for me—” you tell her, comforting and reassuring your presence will stay for as long as she wants.

As her breaths shift from quick and erratic to slow and heavy, you take this opportunity to scoop her in your arms, taking her to somewhere a bit more—spacious. Your bedroom.

Her body instinctively clings to you, arms hooked around your neck, legs coiling around your hips as she finds an air of solace from the madness. Resting her head on your shoulder, you figure that she’s actually light as a feather when she’s not burdened by the weight of her world. Caressing streaks of raven colored hair and back, unhooking her bra and letting the panties halfway down her legs fall to the floor, leaving a trail of your whereabouts. 

Gently setting her down on the bed, still in a wayward haze from her climax, the rest of your clothes follow; pants, shoes and boxers all kicked aside as you join her. Your bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, both of you sharing another passionate kiss. There’s nothing in between keeping you apart. Seoyeon looks incredibly pretty like this: so delicate and peaceful, the afterglow of her orgasm and her sticky juices clinging to her skin making her glow under the little light.

Already hard and finally loose, you line your cock on the edge of her aching core, the touch setting her alight, rekindling a dying fire. She keens, bites on her teeth, bracing herself for what’s to come, though she knows she’s not ready.

“Gonna put this inside you, babe,” you whisper , dangerously close to leaving a bruise on her skin, calling you to mark her, to claim her. She waits with bated breath, nodding vigorously in approval, as eager as you are. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you add, leaving pecks from her cheek down to her chin, finishing up at her lips. You don’t know when you’ll get a chance like this again, so you’ll make every moment something meaningful. “I’ll ease into you, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

“I know you won’t.” sighs Seoyeon, tilting her head back, gently smiling. “Not like you can hurt me as much as they have.”

“Need I remind you that we’ve only known each other for hours?” you reply, much to her amusement. She laughs, heartily—like you didn’t fuck her to pieces minutes ago. 

“Not bothering to ask me if I’m on the pill?” she says, trying to throw you off. 

“You’re an idol. I think we both know the answer to that.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

You remain silent, brushing strands of hair blocking her otherwise perfect face away, seeing through the facade.

“Gosh, I will seriously get in so much trouble. I mean—they’re probably looking for me right now.” Seoyeon looks away, finding some clarity through her mostly drunken haze, even if her words feel heavy. “And if they see me here—with you—”

“Don’t worry about that,” you interrupt with a kiss, shaking your head. “Just—don’t forget this night. Forget about me, but not tonight. Ever.”

With that, you slip your cock inside her spreading core, feeling the sensation of her walls stretch against you upon making contact. Looking into Seoyeon’s twinkling eyes, seeing lifetimes in each other’s gaze, before the clench utterly breaks her. More than anything, more than your fingers ever have with a single stroke.

Lips parting, moaning against you, breath hot, laced with a dangerous concoction of  alcohol and ecstasy. Her eyes slam shut as she takes you in. It’s all too much for Seoyeon to handle at once. 

“Oh, holy fuck. Holy fuck,” she cries, her breath hitching, her body nearly jumping at the depths you’re reaching. “You feel so large inside me—”

“Does it hurt?” is your first question. It’s your top priority, caring more for her wellbeing than your own gain. Because fuck, she’s incredible. Too much for words to explain. Tight, intoxicating warmth envelops your cock as you bury yourself deep in her sopping cunt, unwilling to release you from its ironclad grip.

Vehemently, she shakes her head, her face burning red from sheer pressure. “It’s okay. I can handle it, I can handle it,” she pants, though her tone remains low, giving you second thoughts. But then she follows up with: “Don’t worry. There’s nothing you’ll do that can hurt me. Not when you’re giving this to me. Like you said: let loose.”

Further spurring you on is her hand delicately brushing up and down your arm. The only thing to really seal the notion is a kiss signed with her lips.

It takes every bit of strength to draw your hips back; she has you wrapped in a magnetic pull. Slick, wet, hot. Testing your resolve with every second you stay embedded inside her pussy, daring you to break right then and there. It’s nothing like the porn you’ve been watching during the little time off you have from work.

Swallowing your throat, holding onto a breath like you’re drowning (you are), the sound is sloppy yet so satisfying. Her juices coat your shaft, making it easier to plunge right back in. Stretching her cunt a little deeper with every thrust, overwhelming your muscles with a rush of adrenaline and blissful rapture as you fuck Seoyeon at a steady, perfect rhythm.

Doing all the little motions in between: kissing her temple, burying your face against her neck, finally leaving a bruise as a memento, whispering all the things she wants to hear.

“So fucking tight—” you mumble, brushing up against her ear, letting your tongue have a taste. As daylight begins to break and the night dies, you’ve never felt more alive with anything or with anyone than with Seoyeon, especially when you’re fucking her like this. Raw, intimate, passionate.

You can feel her body respond in kind. Her nails leave scratches all over your back, hugging you so tightly it’s suffocating. Moaning with desire, with intent. Demanding you go harder, she’s not as fragile as you believed.

“More, baby—” she whimpers, kissing your side, her embrace now inescapable. “This fucking cock—it’s so, so good—”

It’s now beyond your control. Hammering into her cunt, pinning her deep into the mattress to the point of splitting it in half. You’re working her throat overtime; unfazed and barely muffled, her voice strains and cracks with every curse and whine, clearly breaking apart at the seams. She leaves chills down your spine through vibrations of her obscene noises against your ear, accompanied by the echo of your skin slapping skin. It’s only pushing you further and further over the edge.

Pushing your hips against hers, your noses create a connection, allowing you to meet halfway in a torrid, frenzied kiss. You can hardly call it a respite, as you continue to pound into Seoyeon without quit, like you’ll burst into flames if you ever stop. Hardly a thought worth considering when you feel the intrusion of dusk piercing through the windows of your apartment bedroom. 

She doesn’t have much time left—and so do you.

“Promise you won’t ever forget about me,” you beg, despite going against your own word and Seoyeon losing herself in her own bliss. A few minutes more and she might disintegrate into nothing right before your very eyes. Forget about pace at this point, it’s only about surviving the night till the world comes calling again.

“Never,” she manages to spit, moaning against your face, body trembling. Pulling you close to her like you’re her lifeline, shifting into millions of pieces that have no well-defined identity. “Not when you make me feel this good, this alive—”

God, no wonder you’ve fallen so hard for Seoyeon. Even when she’s shaking and pressed beneath your grip, she still finds ways to make your heart flutter.

“So close, again—” she whines, and that’s all you needed to hear. “I hope you are too—”

She activates something in your head. Right there, she’s set your body on fire. Like a ticking time bomb, minutes turn into seconds in an instant. As if her clench stifling your lungs wasn’t enough. Your senses are working overtime to salvage what’s left. It’s right there—the inevitable, the end. 

You just have to give in.

A couple more thrusts into her; you’ve stopped thinking about it and choose to let go. Seoyeon keens, and then: she softly grins.

“There you go—give it all to me—”

Surprisingly, it’s a quiet affair. A deep moan escapes your mouth, sure, and it’s mostly you filling up the air with your weak groans, but she lets the moment pass by with an air of peace and finality. Like she’s already accepted her fate. And you pour it on; shot after shot of cum painting her cunt, not wasting a single drop. Falling beside her, burying your face into the sheets, now you’re the one desperately clinging to Seoyeon. 

It should feel euphoric, a grand triumph. But knowing what’s waiting on the other side, it isn’t. It’s bittersweet.

You kiss her. Leave a second bruise on her neck. It will eventually disappear, but the memory never fades.

And so remain together like this: glued to each other in bed, while your orgasm dies and the morning rises. You don’t wanna look; the sight of Seoyeon’s little smile is the last image you want to remember. It finally catches up to you: the fatigue, the drunkenness, the wear of your emotions. 

Eventually, your world fades to black.

————— Sunlight slants through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled duvet where Seoyeon had been. The space beside you is hollow, the indent of her body already fading. A crushing weight settles on your chest, immediate and suffocating. The vibrant, tangled intimacy of the night—the moans, the desperate kisses, the raw vulnerability, the fierce claiming—feels like a dream punctured by the sterile silence of your bedroom. 

The digital clock on the nightstand screams 10:47 AM. You’re catastrophically late.

Panic flares, cold and sharp, but it’s instantly drowned by a deeper, more profound realization: she’s just—gone. Like the last notes of a song fading into silence. 

You push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, the phantom warmth of her body against yours still palpable. The room feels too big, too quiet, haunted by the ghost of her laughter, the memory of her trembling beneath you, the echo of her whispered confessions against your skin. The faint, sweet scent clinging to the pillow is a cruel reminder of what you lost.

Stumbling out of bed, legs unsteady, the pleasant ache in your muscles a stark counterpoint to the hollow feeling expanding inside you. The living room is a tableau of the night’s chaotic intimacy: your torn shirt discarded near the couch, the empty water pitcher and glass on the low table, the cushions still bearing the deep impression where you’d coaxed her climax with your fingers. The memory is visceral, electric, making your breath catch. But the space feels abandoned. Sterile, despite the mess.

Then you see it.

Draped carefully over the back of the armchair, not crumpled on the floor where you’d both shed clothes in a frenzy of need, is her jacket. The soft, expensive-looking one she’d made you wear, the one that smelled like her. It’s folded with a care that feels deliberate, almost reverent. And beside it, resting squarely on the seat cushion, is a single, tiny square of paper, torn from something larger. Maybe a receipt, maybe a notebook page.

Your heart stutters, then hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird. Crossing the room slowly, the worn carpet feels rough under your bare feet. The silence is eerie, deafening. You pick up the paper. The handwriting is small, neat, a little rushed, but unmistakably hers:

> Had to go. Flight. Idol stuff. You already know. 

> Don’t forget.  

> 010-XXXX-XXXX  

> - S1

Below the number: a single, hastily drawn puppy. Like something she might doodle in a margin during a boring meeting.

The simplicity of it steals your breath. No grand declarations. No promises she couldn’t keep. Just a lifeline. 

‘Don’t forget.’ 

As if you ever could. 

The scent of pear blossoms seems to intensify, rising from the jacket, from the paper held tightly in your suddenly trembling fingers. It’s not the scent of loss anymore. It’s the scent of her, preserved. A tangible connection.

You trace the numbers with your thumb, the ink slightly smudged, but real. The frantic worry about work, the looming dread of facing your boss, the mountain of emails undoubtedly piling up—it all recedes, muted by the sheer, staggering significance of this tiny square of paper. She didn’t merely slip away. She left a part of herself. Deliberately. Hopeful.

You remember her fierce kiss in the grey dawn light, her whispered "I'm not sorry." You remember her vulnerability, the tears, the way she clung to you like an anchor. You remember the rebellion in her touch, the way she shattered her own carefully constructed walls against your skin. She wasn’t merely escaping her friends or her manager last night; she was claiming a moment of pure, unvarnished self.

And she wants you to remember. She wants this—this connection forged in shared exhaustion and unexpected understanding, the intimacy that bloomed in the cracks of their pressured lives—to mean something beyond the frantic hours before her flight.

You pick up her jacket. It’s soft, still holding a whisper of her warmth or maybe the memory of it. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply. Pear blossoms, beer and soju, the faintest trace of her perfume, and underneath it all, something uniquely Seoyeon. Not the idol, but the girl who tripped on subway stairs, who rolled her eyes at her friends, who confessed her fears in a quiet cafe, who kissed you like it was her final act of defiance.

A slow, hesitant warmth begins to spread through the hollow ache. It’s not happiness—not quite. It’s something quieter, more profound. A fragile kind of hope, delicate as the paper in your hand. The world hasn’t changed. Your soul-crushing job still waits. Her life as an idol, governed by rules and scrutiny, continues relentlessly. The distance between Seoul and Tokyo remains vast.

But—she left her number. She asked you not to forget. She reached back.

The frantic panic about work resurfaces, much sharper now. There will be consequences. The weight of your ordinary, monotonous career presses in. Life goes on.

Yet as you stand, still holding the jacket and the precious slip of paper, the dread feels—different. Manageable. It’s merely noise. Background static to the quiet hum of possibility resonating from the number in your hand.

You carefully fold the paper, slipping it into the pocket of your sleep pants, a lucky charm against the mundane hell awaiting you in the office. You drape her jacket back over one of the dining room chairs, not putting it away. Let it stay. A reminder.

You head towards the shower, the hot water a necessity to face the day. The steam rises, filling the small bathroom. As you close your eyes, letting the water sluice over the scratches on your back—her marks—the image that surfaces isn’t of spreadsheets or your boss fuming. It’s Seoyeon’s face in the dim karaoke light, fierce and alive as she sang, then vulnerable and trusting as she fell apart on your couch. It’s her smile, small and real, in the grey dawn after. It’s the lone puppy drawn beside her number.

The day ahead is a gauntlet. Deadlines and apologies and the ruthless grind of an indifferent corporate world. But beneath the surface tension, beneath the fatigue and the lingering scent of her on your skin, something else thrums. A quiet, persistent current. A purpose.

“Don’t forget.”

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Again, would like to apologize for the inactivity, semester just ended and thesis work is brutal. But I am getting into tripleS a little. A bit too many members to remember, but I really like Sohyun especially. Haven't had time to listen to their new music, but Girls Never Die was one of my favorite 2024 songs. What started as a fun prompt turned into something a bit more emotional and sentimental. I do wonder if I'm just repeating elements from older works, especially since it takes a lot from Instant Crush. Hopefully with more free time, I can post a bit often than usual, even if it's only temporarily. Thank you for reading!)

[hyruling]

buddie prompt finale eve here we go 45. feeling their temperature 🥺

Eddie’s hot.

Which, okay. That’s like saying Maddie is his sister, or Christopher is the best kid in the world, or Chim is an annoying brother in law. Objectively true, directly observable statements of fact.

But Eddie’s hot. Like, sweating all over Buck under two blankets hot. And normally, as a cold-natured person, Buck would be very into that. But he can feel sweat soaking through the two layers of Eddie’s t-shirt and Buck’s hoodie, pressed together as they are in the center of Buck’s bed. A new development in his life as Eddie’s roommate that he is handling very normally, by the way.

“Eddie,” Buck whispers in the quiet.

Eddie doesn’t stir. Buck reaches over him, trapped by Eddie’s head on his chest, and checks Eddie’s phone — three thirty-two in the morning. They have to be up for a shift in two and a half hours.

“Eddie,” Buck tries again, nudging him with his shoulder, but he’s still dead to the world. He hates to wake him from such a deep slumber — he tries to gently roll him off instead but Eddie clings, the way he tends to do in his sleep. A fact Buck is intimately familiar with after a month of sharing a bed.

“Hey,” Buck murmurs, and switches tactics. He gently pushes Eddie’s sweaty hair off his forehead and mutters his name again. Briefly, he wonders if he forgot to turn the air down before bed, but he can hear it blowing above their heads along with the fan. Eddie is a white noise snob, insists on keeping the fan and air purifier both on all night. He claims it drowns out Buck’s snoring, usually with a teasing lilt in his voice that drives him crazy, but honestly, he has a point. Buck’s never slept better.

Eddie finally stirs after Buck strokes his hair for a minute, snuffling into Buck’s neck with his eyes still closed. “‘S matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just a little hot in here. I’m gonna go turn the air down.”

“No,” Eddie says, voice pitched in an uncharacteristic whine. He wraps a sweaty thigh around Buck’s, effectively trapping him even further. “‘M cold.”

“You’re cold?” Buck asks incredulously. “You’re sweating Eddie.”

Eddie just groans, mashing his face against Buck’s neck, and it’s then that he can feel how warm Eddie’s face is.

“Hey, c’mere.”

He’s still half asleep himself, can barely muster the energy needed to manhandle a sleepy and slightly combative Eddie, but he manages to maneuver him around enough to lay a hand on his forehead. It’s hot, fever hot, and Buck is abruptly wide awake.

“Eddie, hey. I think you have a fever.”

“‘Kay,” Eddie mumbles.

“No, hey, don’t go back to sleep. We need to get some Tylenol in you, and some water.”

“‘M fine, Buck, lemme sleep.”

“I will, I promise, you just—you gotta let me get some medicine in you, okay?”

“Ugh,” Eddie groans. “Fine.”

He releases his grip on Buck, who scrambles out of bed, nearly tripping over the jeans he didn’t manage to get into the hamper earlier. He makes a pit stop in the kitchen for a bottle of water. In the bathroom, he grabs Tylenol and wets a washcloth, then returns to the bedroom to see Eddie curled into a ball under the comforter, shivering.

“Hey, sit up for me, okay?” Buck says. He perches on the sheets next to him and rubs his thumb over Eddie’s collarbone.

Eddie obeys with a little more gentle coaxing, eyes glazed and exhausted when he finally opens them. Buck gets him to swallow the Tylenol and presses the cool washcloth against his forehead. Eddie grunts appreciatively and downs nearly the rest of the water without Buck even nagging him.

“Throat hurts,” Eddie rasps, handing the bottle back. His shirt is soaked in sweat.

“Yeah, you’re sick bud. Think you caught that bug Jamison had last week.”

Eddie giggles for some reason, and says, “Bud. Bug. ‘S almost the same word.”

And Buck — normally, Buck would laugh with him. Would tease out more delirious ramblings, and secretly delight in how cute he is any time his inhibitions are lowered. But right now, after everything, all he can feel is a dull sort of panic climbing its way up his throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Buck says with an uneasy chuckle. “Hey, why don’t you—”

“You’re my bud,” Eddie continues, poking Buck in the chest. His eyes are half-lidded, glinted with mischief, and he grins crookedly at Buck. “My—my bud bug. My bed bug, ha.”

His heart gives a helpless little tug, made worse by Eddie dragging his finger down Buck’s chest and curling possessively in the pocket of his hoodie. “Okay, Eddie. You’re pretty out of it, I think maybe I need to take you to an urgent care.”

“Nooo, it’s just a fever,” Eddie protests, tugging at Buck’s hoodie. “I can sleep it off.”

“Eddie—”

“No. Our deductible is like. Stupid high, bug, I can’t afford it right now.”

Buck is momentarily comforted that he can think about his deductible while in this state, but that bug nags at him. Almost as much as it sends heat flooding into his cheeks.

“My name’s Buck, Eddie.”

“I know that, Evan,” Eddie snarks, and at the rate Eddie’s nickname and full-naming him, Buck’s gonna have to call an ambulance for himself. “I’m not that far gone. Can I go to sleep now?”

“Let me at least call Hen—”

“Don’t bother Hen,” Eddie insists. “It’s the middle of the night, and I’m a medic. I think I would know if I was dying.”

“It didn’t—”

Buck cuts himself off. He can’t lay this on Eddie tonight, when he’s half asleep and zonked from fever. But Eddie latches on like a tick, eyes suddenly sharp, and the hand tucked in Buck’s pocket wraps around his wrist instead.

“Didn’t what?”

“Nothing,” Buck says. “C’mon, lay back down.”

“Buck,” Eddie says firmly, shockingly so. “We aren’t doing that again. Talk to me.”

“In the morning,” Buck tries, but Eddie shakes his head, presses his fingers into Buck’s pulse point.

“Buck.”

Buck sighs, knows Eddie won’t get any rest until Buck explains himself.

“It’s just. Bobby, he didn’t—he didn’t die in a fire, or in a rescue, he—he got sick. And I know, I know it’s not the same thing, you’re not—but I just. I don’t know. It’s dragging up some—some shit, I guess. I can’t lose anyone else. Especially not—”

He snaps his mouth shut with a click, but it’s too late. He’s laid himself bare, and for a moment he desperately hopes Eddie won’t remember this in the morning.

Eddie stares at him, mouth set in a small frown. The hand on his wrist squeezes, a gentle and grounding pressure against his thundering heartbeat. Eddie must be able to feel it, but he just strokes his thumb softly over Buck’s hand and says, “You’re right, it’s not the same. I’m okay, Buck. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“I know,” Buck says. I’m going to make sure of it this time, he doesn’t. “But you’re a notoriously bad patient, so you need to trust me.”

Eddie chuckles, then coughs, a rough sound that makes Eddie wince. “Says the guy who wanted to come back to work a week after literally dying.”

“It was two weeks.”

Eddie waves a hand. His eyes are drooping again, and he shivers a bit. “Semantics.”

“Okay, come on. Let’s change your shirt and get you back to sleep. I’ll call Hen in the morning, tell her we’re not coming in.”

Eddie grumbles a bit about Buck not needing to take time off just for him, but Buck can tell his heart’s not really in it. Buck tugs off his shirt and grabs the first clean one he finds, which happens to be one of his. Not that either of them are paying all that much attention to that kind of detail anymore, another facet of his new living situation that he refuses to look at directly. He gets Eddie into it and makes him finish the bottle of water before he all but collapses back onto the pillows.

Buck climbs back in on his side, pulls the comforter up over Eddie’s shoulders when he starts shaking again. Eddie shuffles close like he’s going to koala himself around Buck again, but hesitates at the last second.

“I can—sleep on the couch,” Eddie offers around a jaw-cracking yawn. “Don’t wanna get you sick.”

“Oh, yeah, actually, would you mind?” Buck teases, just to see the look of shock and betrayal that passes over Eddie’s face. He doesn’t disappoint — Buck laughs, and Eddie swears in Spanish under his breath.

“It’s rude to tease a sick person, you know,” he says, then tucks himself back against Buck’s side, head pillowed on his chest

Buck snorts and pulls Eddie closer. “It’s too late anyway. I’m sure I’ll be right behind you.”

Eddie hums, drawls, “I’ll take care of you. If you are.”

Buck closes his eyes, and pretends the warmth spreading through him is from Eddie’s overheated skin. “You always do.”

He checks Eddie’s forehead again, and Eddie mutters sleepily, “Y’know, lips are a better measure of body temperature than hands.”

Buck stills, heart in his throat. “That so?” he croaks.

Eddie nods, jaw digging in Buck’s clavicle. “More sens’tive. I’m a medic, I would know.”

“Guess you would,” Buck manages with a soft chuckle. He wishes he had brought another bottle of water to bed, throat suddenly parched.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Eddie mumbles with a shoulder nudge, hanging onto consciousness by a thread.

And Buck, unable to deny Eddie anything in the best of circumstances, twists his neck and presses his lips to Eddie’s forehead. Eddie sighs, and Buck would swear he leans into it, gives Buck no choice but to let his mouth linger over the dry, overwarm skin. Eddie’s hair tickles his nose — he can smell their shampoo and a faint hint of sweat, and breathes him in while he can.

“Still sick,” Buck declares, lips brushing Eddie’s forehead. “Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t respond, and Buck thinks maybe he’s finally drifted off. But just as he’s about to fall asleep himself, Eddie noses at Buck’s neck and murmurs, “Thanks, bug,” close to his ear.

It’s almost worth the misery of the weeklong cold he catches, just for that.

—

prompts xo

[ponderingmoonlight]

Wicked Games

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 3k

Synopsis: From the second Ryomen Sukuna appears on the surface on earth again, you are bound to each other. Until the Shibuya accident. Until Sukuna gets confronted with the fear of losing you first-hand.

Warnings: angst to fluff y'all, enemies to lovers in a kind of rushed way, this made me think about doing a series with like 5 chapters and a slow burn enemies to lovers with Sukuna x curse!reader - how do you feel about that? <3

Inspired by this prompt:

You remember it as if it was yesterday. The night was cold and eerily quiet when you sprinted through the dark streets, your body buzzing with the vibrations of cursed energy.

The reports had come in just an hour ago: a powerful curse had manifested, and it wasn’t just any ordinary curse. The whispers and especially Gojo spoke of something ancient, something nearly forgotten. Something that had slumbered within the shadows of legends until now.

“Guess what, (y/n)? Megumi found something that might interest you”, Gojo jeered at you through the phone when you already felt it.

Ryomen Sukuna.

You had heard his name your entire life - a dark deity, a figure so terrible that entire villages had been wiped out by his bare hands centuries ago.

Since you were a child, you've been obsessed with him, the so-called "King of Curses." Not because you were drawn to the death and chaos he brought, but because of the mystery he posed. The idea that something so cruel, so powerful, could exist outside the boundaries of human comprehension. As a sorcerer, you committed yourself to understanding curses, to studying their origins, motivations, powers. And there was no greater paradox than Sukuna himself.

But now, he wasn't only a paradox anymore. Now he had returned. They had found one of his fingers. Apparently, someone had consumed it.

“I’m in the middle of souvenir shopping and guessed you wouldn’t mind stepping in and helping little Megumi out.”

"Normally I'd scold you but today...thank you, idiot."

Yuji Itadori, the boy who had swallowed Sukuna’s cursed finger, who brought Sukuna back into the world after centuries of slumber, stood right in your sight along with Megumi Fushiguro. But you couldn’t let yourself worry about the boys; your focus was on the curse now staring straight back at you.

Your fingers tightened on the hilt of your sword, the cursed energy crackling around you like lightning in the dark night. You had prepared your entire life for this moment. The countless hours of sickening training, the sleepless nights spent poring over ancient texts and scrolls, and the battles fought against nameless curses. All of it had led you here, to your first confrontation with the King of Curses.

As you reached the completely destroyed school building where the cursed energy was originating from, you could already feel it. The overwhelming, tyrannical weight of Sukuna’s presence. It was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, so thick it felt as though it was suffocating you.

You pressed on, despite the nausea building in your chest. There was no time to second-guess yourself. You moved swiftly through the corridors of the building, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The cursed energy grew heavier with every step, your breathing becoming uneven when the spiteful aura grew stronger. And then, at the far end of the hallway on top of a roof, you saw him.

At first glance, it was a boy, a teenager no older than Megumi. His body was rigid, standing in the middle of that roof, shoulders squared as though fighting an internal battle. But the look on his face, the wicked smile stretched across his lips, told you otherwise. The way his dark eyes gleamed with wicked amusement confirmed what you had feared.

This wasn’t Itadori anymore.

This was Sukuna.

“Interesting...” Sukuna’s voice rumbled from the boy’s throat as his gaze locked onto yours.

His smile widened, predatory and cruel.

“What do we have here? Another little sorcerer, so eager to die?”

You held your ground, your body tense but steady. This was no ordinary curse you were facing. Every instinct screamed at you to flee, but you couldn’t, you wouldn’t, allow fear to take control. Your entire life had been building up to this.

“You’re not getting out of here,” you said, your voice firm.

“Not while I’m here.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. His eyes narrowed, taking you in.

“Brave words, but foolish. Do you really think you can handle me, girl?”

You didn’t respond with words, Instead, you shoved Megumi behind you and let your cursed energy flare to life around you, the air crackling with power. You moved swiftly, launching yourself at him, your blade drawn and poised for the strike.

But Sukuna was fast — faster than you had anticipated. With barely a flicker of movement, he dodged your attack, his grin never faltering. He countered with a swift punch, sending you flying across the air and crashing into the opposite wall. Pain exploded in your chest, and you gasped for breath.

“Is that all?”, Sukuna taunted, his voice filled with mockery as he stalked toward you.

“I expected more from someone who’s been chasing me.”

You coughed, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth, but you forced yourself to your feet. Your body ached from the impact, but the adrenaline was stronger. You had trained for this. You wouldn’t go down so easily.

As Sukuna advanced, you focused your cursed energy into a powerful barrier, your eyes blazing with determination. You wouldn’t let him win. Not today.

“Let the boy go,” you demanded, your voice sharper now.

“I’m your opponent now.”

Sukuna’s eyes gleamed at the challenge.

“Bold. But you should know better than to give me orders.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sukuna’s strikes were relentless, his movements impossibly fast and deadly. You could barely keep up, each of his blows a near-fatal attack. But through it all, you fought with everything you had, refusing to back down.

You’ve studied Sukuna your entire life. You knew his techniques, his fighting style, the cruel unpredictability of his power. But even with all that knowledge, facing him in person was something entirely different. His cursed energy was overwhelming, suffocating, a malevolent force that pressed against your very soul.

And yet, you stood your ground.

As the fight wore on, something shifted in the way Sukuna looked at you. What had started as amusement, as mockery, slowly turned into something else. Curiosity. Interest. Even a hint of admiration.

“You’re not like the others,” he jeered at one point, dodging one of your attacks effortlessly.

His eyes flickered with something dangerous, something… intrigued.

“You’re still standing. Most would have died by now.”

You spat blood onto the ground, your body screaming in agony but your will unbroken.

“I’m not most people.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound dark and throaty.

“No. You’re not.”

That was how it began. The first encounter — your first dance with death and the King of Curses. It didn’t end with your victory or his defeat. No, you knew better than to believe you could win against him in a single battle. But it wasn’t a defeat, either.

It was the beginning of something bigger.

After your first encounter with Sukuna, something within you shifted. Yuji Itadori regained control, but you knew it was only temporary. Sukuna wasn’t gone. He was still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for his next opportunity to take control. And when he did, you were there.

Every. Single. Time.

Every time Sukuna resurfaced, you fought him. It became a twisted routine, an endless game of cat and mouse where neither of you could claim absolute victory. You learned his techniques, his fighting style, and the nuances of his cursed energy. You pushed yourself harder, training longer, grew stronger. And with every battle, Sukuna’s interest in you grew as well.

He began to speak to you during the fights, taunting you, teasing you, but always with that glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. He never seemed eager to kill you, not really. In fact, there were moments, brief, fleeting moments, where he seemed to hold back, almost as if he was enjoying the challenge you presented.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked him one day, your voice strained after yet another brutal fight.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Sukuna’s grin was feral, his eyes glittering dangerously as he wiped the blood from his lips.

“Because you’re amusing,” he replied, his voice low and menacing.

“And because I’m not done with you yet.”

You hated the way his words sent a shiver down your spine, the way his gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. But more than anything, you hated how much you wanted to beat him, to prove yourself against the King of Curses.

As the months passed, you found yourself drawn deeper into Sukuna’s world. You fought him, studied him, and slowly but surely somehow began to understand him. He wasn’t just a mindless monster, not like the other curses you’ve faced. There was something more to Sukuna, something ancient and calculating, a mind sharper than any blade.

And Sukuna, in turn, began to learn more about you. He observed your fighting style, your strategies, your strengths and weaknesses. He pushed you, challenged you, forced you to grow stronger with every battle. There was a strange, unspoken connection between you: a mutual recognition of each other’s strength, a respect born from the countless times you’d clashed.

But there was something else, too. Something neither of you wanted to acknowledge. Something that simmered beneath the surface of every encounter.

You hated him. You despised everything he stood for, the chaos and destruction he brought into the world. But there was a part of you that couldn’t deny the pull you felt toward him — the way his presence ignited something fierce and primal within you.

And Sukuna? Sukuna had grown attached to the thrill of facing you. You were unlike anyone he’d ever fought. Strong. Determined. Unyielding. It was no longer about crushing you under his heel. It was about keeping you close, about testing your limits and pushing you to your breaking point.

But neither of you were willing to admit what was truly happening between you.

You smile weakly to yourself, blood spilling from the corners of your mouth. Not even now.

The Shibuya Incident is chaos. The city is overrun with curses and the streets are filled with blood and screams. You dispatched alongside other sorcerers to contain the situation, but things quickly spiraled out of control. The curses were too many, too strong, and the collateral damage was catastrophic.

Your focus was on protecting your students, the young sorcerers under your care who had been thrust into this nightmare far too early in their training. You were always their protector, their guide, and you would do anything to keep them safe. But the battle was relentless, and the curses were closing in fast.

In the midst of the chaos, Sukuna reappeared, his presence like a dark shadow over the battlefield. He took control of Yuji once again, his cursed energy crackling through the air with terrifying force. You felt it the moment he arrived, your senses attuned to the overwhelming hatred that accompanied his presence.

You barely had time to react before you were caught in the crossfire. A powerful curse lashed out at you and you moved to shield your students from the blow. But the attack was too fast, too strong. It tore through your defenses, the cursed energy slicing through your body like a hot knife through butter.

Pain exploded in your chest when you collapsed to the ground, blood pooling beneath you. Your vision blurred, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You had suffered injuries before, but this… this was different.

This was fatal.

The world around you fades almost instantly, the edges of your vision go dark. You can feel your life slipping away, your body growing cold.

Out of all people, why does it have to be him you long for the most? Why do your eyes start watering by the thought that you'll might never see him again, that you were never able to feel his lips pressed against yours? Are you really so naive, so dumb? Fuck, you really fell for the King of Curses, the root of all evil.

But then… you hear his voice.

“Get. Up.”

Sukuna’s voice cuts through the haze of pain and exhaustion like a lightning strike. You blink, trying to focus, trying to understand what is happening. Is he really there? Are you hallucinating?

“Get up,” he repeats, his voice sharp and commanding.

But then you feel it. His hand pressed against the gaping wound in your abdomen. No, he's really there. It's really him.

“You’ve suffered bigger wounds. And if you don’t get up, I’ll destroy everything that’s left of this world.”

You force yourself to breathe, your chest burning with the effort. But your body isn’t responding anymore. The pain is too much. You simply can’t move. The only reaction you're able to build up is a weak smile.

Is this really how it ends? With another empy threat?

Sukuna growls, crouching down beside you. He can't let you die here. Not like this, not after this short time. There's still so much more he needs to show you, so much more he needs to say.

Before he realizes what he's even doing, his hands are on you, cursed energy flowing into your body, patching up the worst of the damage. It isn’t healing, not really - more like forcing your body to hold together for just a little longer. Just enough to keep you.

“Please…”

Sukuna’s voice is strained, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Please get up. Don’t die on me.”

You blink, your heart stuttering in your chest as his words sink in. He’s asking you. Pleading with you...Not to die?

“Please don’t die on me.”

With his cursed energy coursing through you, you really feel your strength returning, your wounds slowly mending under his influence. The pain fades away, replaced by a strange warmth that spreads through your body. You gasp for breath, your chest rising and falling as life surges back into you.

Did…Ryomen Sukuna save your ass? Your heart pounds so roughly against your ribcage that you feel like fainting all over again. This can’t be possible, right? You have to be dreaming. After all, Ryomen Sukuna is your greatest enemy, responsible for at least half of the mess here.

“I’m not… done yet,” you rasp, your voice weak but steady.

Sukuna’s lips curl into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous paired with a hint of relief.

“That’s more like it.”

He helps you to your feet, his hand lingering on your arm for just a moment longer than necessary. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, the unspoken bond between you stronger than ever.

"What, were you worried about me, dumbass?"

Faster than you're able to react, he grabs your arm again and pulls you in. When his lips press themselves against yours, you forget how to exist for a second. Out of instinct, you open your mouth, allow him to enter, close your eyes when your whole body starts to burn up all over again.

Oh, you imagined this more than once. How do his firm arms feel against your touch? Are his lips softer than his cruel words? Is Sukuna a good kisser?

A desperate moan escapes your lips before you can stop yourself, your arms now roaming all over his muscular frame.

This...this is so wrong. You shouldn't do this, shouldn't even dream about something like this. But as sudden as he appeared, he's gone again, leaving you with nothing but your swollen lips as a proof for what just happened.

Are you actually going insane?

Bonus:

After Shibuya, things changed between you and Sukuna.

The battles continued, of course. The fights, the challenges, the taunts, the unnecessary deaths and killing  - none of that stopped and you still hate him with every fiber of your being for all those horrible things he did. But there is something else now, something that neither of you can ignore. The second Sukuna saw you lying there in a pool of your own blood on the edge of death, he started to realize it.

You aren’t a simple enemy for him anymore. You are his obsession.

Sukuna’s possessiveness over you grew, but so did the strange, unspoken understanding between you. You weren’t just another sorcerer to him anymore. You were his: his opponent, his challenge, his equal. And though neither of you would ever admit it out loud, there was a twisted sort of affection in that.

And you?

You’ve found something unexpected in the King of Curses. Not love, not really, but something close. Something raw and powerful, a connection without any logic and reason.

You didn’t know where it would lead. But you knew one thing for sure:

As long as Sukuna was in this world, you would be right there with him.

And that was enough.

Tags:

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[svearehnn]

a balm for the heart | azriel x reader

Summary: When you're sent to the House of Wind to help baby Nyx recover from a cold, you don’t expect to catch the attention of the brooding spymaster himself. Azriel is quiet, careful, and utterly unprepared for how much he likes Madja’s new assistant healer. As your visits continue, so do the lingering glances, clumsy conversations, and quiet moments that grow into something deeper. In the warmth of tea, laughter, and soft shadows, something tender begins to bloom.

A/N: sorry y'all, i'm in my yearning era. just broke up with my boyfriend of three years so... here we are :)

It was just a cold.

That’s what Madja had said when Feyre had sent for her—Nyx had the sniffles, a little fever, and had refused to eat anything but honey-drizzled bread for two days straight. And since Madja was neck-deep in whatever plague was tearing through the artisan quarter, you were the one sent instead.

Which is why you now stood in the sunlit foyer of the River House, boots dripping melted snow onto the floor, holding a satchel of herbs and an unreasonably tiny jar of eucalyptus balm.

“Upstairs,” Feyre said with a grateful smile, rubbing at her temples like she’d been chasing her son in circles. “Azriel is with him. Good luck.”

You laughed softly and stepped past her, the warmth of the house curling around your frozen fingers like a sigh. You’d only been working under Madja for a few months, but you’d already become her go-to for the littlest patients. Something about your energy, she said. Calm. Gentle. Good with chaos.

You reached the stairs and, at the end of the hallway, there he was.

Tall. Shadows curling lazily over his shoulders like they lived there. Hair mussed from baby fingers, wings half-furled, and eyes—Mother above—those eyes. Gold on brown, fixed on you like you were an echo he wasn’t expecting.

You blinked up at him. “Um. Hello.”

“…Hi,” he said, as if the word was foreign on his tongue. His voice was low and rough and far too intimate for a stranger in a hallway.

“Is it Azriel?” you asked, vaguely remembering Feyre mentioning him.

He nodded once. Still staring.

“I’m here for Nyx,” you added, holding up your satchel like a peace offering.

Azriel looked down at it, then back at you, mouth parting slightly. “Right. The… the healer.”

“Assistant healer,” you said with a grin. “Madja’s too busy saving the rest of the city.”

He nodded again. You stepped past him into the nursery—felt his gaze follow like the sweep of a warm hand—and were immediately accosted by a sticky, pouting, sniffly baby lordling. 

He followed you in as silent as a ghost.

You were halfway through wiping Nyx’s nose and humming a lullaby you barely remembered learning when Azriel cleared his throat from the doorway.

“He’s usually not this calm,” he murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Are you saying I have a gift?”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Maybe.”

You lingered with Nyx a little longer, soothing the stubborn flush from his cheeks with a bit of balm and pressing a kiss to his curls when he yawned into your neck. When she entered, Feyre gave you a grateful smile as you passed him off, whispering, “You’re a miracle.” You slipped through the nursery door again.

Azriel was still in the doorway. Waiting. Shadows curling lazily near his boots.

“I can see myself out,” you said gently, but he shook his head once.

“It’s snowing. I’ll walk you.”

The words were simple. Practiced, maybe. But his voice was soft. Like a page being turned.

The walk ended quietly, a silent exchange of thanks, but it didn’t end there.

You returned two days later with a tincture for sleep, tucked into your satchel next to a few drops of lavender oil and a fresh-knit scarf you’d meant to gift to Feyre. She thanked you profusely, though Nyx was already much improved. Still—she asked you to come again.

And you saw him again—this time through a crack in the door, lingering in Rhys’ personal library. Their voices were hushed, strained, but his eyes flicked to yours as you passed, shadows swirling.

The third time, it was a faint rash on Nyx’s cheek. A harmless thing, more skin sensitivity than illness. You soothed it with salve and coaxed a smile out of the boy by letting him tug on your braids.

Azriel passed through the hall as you were packing up. Said nothing, but left a steaming cup of peppermint tea near your satchel. Somehow he knew it was your favorite, yet you had never said a thing.

You didn’t see him go.

The fourth time, you came without Feyre sending for you at all.

Over your weekly lunch, she had mentioned Nyx wasn’t sleeping well, and you, of course, had suggestions. Warm milk. Chamomile. A storybook laced with faint, calming spells. You hadn’t meant to stay long.

But Azriel was already in the hall when you arrived, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting.

He didn’t offer tea this time. Instead, he offered a quiet, “You came back.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “Of course I did.”

His shadows curled at your wrist as you passed.

Like they knew your name.

And when you had soothed Nyx to sleep once more with the gentle cadence of your voice, the little lordling finally snoring, the shadow that had curled around your wrist tugged you toward the kitchen.

With Nyx asleep, the River House was finally quiet. You knew Feyre was getting the rest she needed—her exhaustion prevalent the moment you took over and she gave you that small, relieved smile.

You weren’t needed anymore. At least, not by the babe or the new mother. So you let the shadow lead you through the archway, the soft lighting of the kitchen eliciting a yawn from your throat.

You weren’t sure what surprised you more: how awkward he was sitting there, wings tense and back rigid, or how charming he became when he relaxed at the sight of you.

His lips twitched again—not quite a smile, but close enough. A steaming cup of tea kept his hands busy, and one already sat across from him, warm and waiting. You sat, curling up on the kitchen bench, fingers wrapping around the blue mug.

He watched as you took a sip, shadows blanketing his shoulders. They only relaxed when your lips met the rim of the mug for a second taste.

Azriel didn’t say a word. Just sat across from you. Not brooding, but observing, as though taking in the moment. You did the same, a small, amused smirk lighting up your lips.

“I see you made Nyx his honeyed bread today.” You murmured, eyes flicking over his tan cheeks.

He blinked. Brows furrowed. Those pretty hazel eyes of his seemed to darken just slightly.

“You’ve got honey on your cheek,” you said suddenly.

“What?”

“Here,” you leaned across the table, wiped a thumb gently across his cheek, and showed him the smear. “See?”

Azriel stared at you like you’d reached inside his chest and given it a twist.

“You’re blushing,” you added, teasing.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“…It’s warm in here.” His shadows swirled.

You smiled, sipping your tea. “You really don’t have to keep pretending to run into me, you know.”

Azriel stilled.

“I mean, unless you enjoy watching me wrangle a toddler and rub balm on his nose.”

A pause.

Then: “I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I do enjoy it,” he said again, voice softer now. “And I like the way you talk to Feyre. And Rhys. Like you’re not afraid of them. I like how you laugh when Nyx sneezes on you. I like… how you feel.”

You swallowed thickly. “How I feel?”

His shadows shifted behind him, curling close.

Azriel leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. Quietly, earnestly, he spoke. “You make the world feel quieter. Not empty. Just… right.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, really looked.

This man who’d guarded a thousand secrets, who wore silence like a cloak and carried the weight of a thousand watchful nights. Who blushed like a boy when you touched his face. Who smelled faintly of cedar and sky.

You reached across the table and took his hand.

It was scarred and strong and trembling slightly in yours.

“Well,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his with a gentleness that stole his breath.

“I might have a balm for that.”

Azriel’s smile was slow. Small. Unbearably beautiful.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You let go of his hand. His shadows seemed to reach for you. But you stood and rounded the table—leaned against the polished wood right by his side.

He didn’t even have to look up to meet your gaze.

“I think you’ve had enough honey for one night,” you murmured, eyes flicking to his lips.

His throat bobbed.

You reached for the edge of his mug and pulled it from his hands—deliberate, teasing. His fingers brushed yours, and the contact lingered, neither of you letting go right away.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me, you know,” you said, tone light, but your eyes searched his. “I’m not going to shatter.”

Azriel’s voice was rough, unsteady. “I’m not worried about breaking you.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Then what?”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Just stared at you, as if the truth was caught somewhere behind his teeth, held back by old habits and older fears.

But his hand rose, slow and reverent, and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek. It was almost shy, almost questioning.

You caught his fingers in yours.

“Spymaster of the Night Court,” you whispered with a playful smile. “Speechless over a female with peppermint tea and a bit of salve?”

Azriel huffed something between a laugh and a sigh. “Completely ruined.”

“I was hoping so.”

And then, before he could retreat behind those shadows again, you leaned in.

The kiss was soft—barely a press at first, more breath than contact. His lips were warm and hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. But when you stayed close, when you didn’t pull away, Azriel tilted his head and deepened it just slightly, as if learning the shape of you by feel alone.

His hand slid to your waist. Yours curled behind his neck. And for a long, quiet moment, there was no River House, no baby lordling asleep upstairs, no world beyond the hush between two hearts finally touching.

You pulled back first, just slightly, your noses brushing.

“Still warm in here?” you whispered, lips ghosting over his.

Azriel’s smile was dizzyingly soft. “Scorching.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound barely more than a flutter between you. Azriel didn’t let go—not of your waist, not of the moment. His shadows twined lazily around your ankles, brushing like silk, as if even they sighed in contentment.

“I should go,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But not yet.”

And when he kissed you again, it was slower this time—deeper, with the confidence of someone who’d been holding that longing in for far too long. You melted into it, into him, your fingers threading into the dark lush of his hair, your smile catching against his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Madja should’ve warned me.”

You grinned, breathless. “Consider this your final symptom, Shadowsinger.”

He laughed, really laughed, and you decided then that you'd come back tomorrow. And the day after that. As long as he kept smiling like that, you’d never run out of reasons to stay.

[gyunotes]

Closet Affair - Choi Soobin x F!Reader

You came to support your sister as maid of honor—handle the prep, give a sweet speech, maybe share a dance with the best man. Babysitting with him? Definitely not part of the plan.

cw : strangers to lovers, making out, sex in closet and it wasn’t on the seating chart, but damn was it worth it.

You were here to support your sister as her maid of honor. You pictured yourself helping with last-minute wedding prep, giving heartfelt speeches, and maybe even stealing a dance or two. Babysitting was definitely not on the agenda.

But here you were, stuck in the living room, keeping an eye on your wild little cousin, the ring bearer, while everyone else was out celebrating her last night as a single woman.

You glanced around, heart pounding a little. You weren’t great with kids. Honestly, you found them exhausting and unpredictable. This one was already testing every ounce of your patience, darting between chairs and snatching cupcakes off the table like a tiny hurricane.

Your fingers twisted nervously around the hem of your dress. You were supposed to be calm and supportive—maid of honor material. Instead, you were on edge, trying not to lose it while the kid zoomed around like he owned the place.

A sudden shift in the room made you jump. You hadn’t even noticed someone else had come in. “Hey,” said a calm voice beside you. You turned, startled, to see a tall guy leaning casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets and a small, amused smile playing on his lips.

You blinked, trying to collect yourself. “Hey. Uh… wait, who are you? And why are you here?”

“I’m Soobin,” he said quietly, as if that was supposed to make everything less chaotic. He nodded toward the tiny tornado tearing through the room. “Looks like we are on babysitting duty, we’ve got our hands full.”

“I’m really not great at this,” you admitted.

The kid zoomed past again, nearly knocking over a vase, and your nerves tightened.

“Okay,” you said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this.” 

The kid wasn’t making it easy. Every time you thought you had him cornered, he slipped between your legs or darted behind the couch, giggling like this was all a game.

“So,” Soobin said, crouching down, “what’s his weakness? Candy? Toys?”

You shook your head, breath catching as the kid zigzagged past again. “I don’t know what if he gets extra screen time, maybe he’ll calm down.”

Soobin grinned. “Perfect. Let’s bribe him.”

You both knelt, and Soobin called out, “Hey, kid, want to watch one more cartoon before bed?”

The kid’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!”

You exchanged a relieved smile as Soobin flicked the TV on and settled the kid between you on the couch. The little guy’s energy slowly drained away, his heavy eyelids drooping as the cartoon played softly.

Within minutes, his head lolled onto Soobin’s shoulder, and he was fast asleep.

Soobin looked over at you, quiet but kind. “I’ll take him to bed.”

Before you could protest, he gently scooped the kid into his arms, careful not to wake him. You watched as Soobin carried the sleeping boy down the hallway, soft footsteps barely audible on the carpet.

You stood there for a moment, heart a little lighter than before, realizing that babysitting with Soobin might not be so bad after all.

You were still standing by the couch when Soobin reappeared, his footsteps soft, his presence even softer. He gave you a little smile as he padded back into the room, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“He’s out cold,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t even stir.” You smiled, easing back onto the couch. “You’ve got a touch, apparently.” He shrugged with a humble grin, then glanced toward the kitchen. “Wine?” You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

He disappeared for a moment, returning with two glasses and a half-full bottle of red. He handed you a glass, their fingers brushing, brief and electric. Neither of you mentioned it. The TV played on, low and forgotten, as you sat side by side, sipping slowly. The warmth of the wine settled in your chest, and the quiet between you shifted—no longer awkward, but charged.

Soobin looked at you over the rim of his glass, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not so bad at this babysitting thing either.” You chuckled. “Thanks, I think.”

There was a pause. Not empty. Full. His gaze lingered, darker now. You met it, not quite ready to look away. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice lower than before. “You’ve got something on your lip.” Your brows furrowed, but before you could wipe it, he leaned in—just enough. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.

And he didn’t move away. Neither did you. The air between you tightened like a string pulled taut, and when he leaned in that last inch, you didn’t stop him. His lips found yours, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, firmer. You melted into him, tasting the wine on his mouth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve.

But then—

The sound of the front door opening shattered everything. Laughter. Voices. You and Soobin sprang apart like you’d been electrocuted. His hair was a little messy. Your breath was unsteady. You both sat stiffly, trying to look as casual as two people who definitely weren’t just making out in the living room.

Footsteps approached.

“I’ll, um…” You stood quickly, setting your glass down with more force than necessary. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked up at you, still slightly breathless, eyes searching yours. You gave him a quick, almost sheepish smile before turning and heading toward the hallway. Your footsteps were fast, your heartbeat faster. The soft click of your bedroom door was the only sound you allowed to linger. 

The morning of the wedding was a blur of curling irons, zippers, and soft panic. You kept your hands busy, tying ribbons, fixing veils, touching up your sister’s makeup. Doing anything to avoid thinking about last night.

But your thoughts betrayed you every time. The press of Soobin’s mouth. The way he’d looked at you right before. The way he’d looked after. And the fact that you had fled the room like your own heart was something to be embarrassed about.

Now, standing near the altar in your dress with the bouquet clutched tighter than necessary, you tried not to scan the guests for him. Tried and failed. Soobin wasn’t hard to spot.

Tall, stupidly handsome, perfectly disheveled in his groomsman suit. He was talking to the groom, smiling casually like he hadn’t completely scrambled your brain the night before. Like he hadn’t kissed you with enough heat to melt the air between you.

And when his eyes finally found yours, it was instant. That jolt again. He gave you the smallest smile, subtle but just for you. You looked away quickly, cheeks burning, heart stuttering under your ribs.

Throughout the ceremony, your eyes kept brushing his. During the speeches, the toast, the dinner...you could feel him across the room like gravity. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

You tried to focus on the celebration, on your sister glowing as she danced with her new husband, but every glance from Soobin made it harder to pretend nothing happened.

Later, after the first dances, while guests were laughing and drinks were flowing, you were grabbing a fresh drink from the bar when his voice cut through behind you, smooth and far too close.

“You ran off pretty fast last night.”

You turned to face him, your breath catching. “I—yeah. It was… late.” His eyes twinkled. “Is that what we’re going with?” You gave a small, nervous laugh, fiddling with the rim of your glass. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“I could tell,” he said, not unkindly. “But… just so you know—I don’t regret it.” That silenced you. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you didn’t know how to say that you didn’t either.

Then his voice dropped, a little lower, a little rougher. “Want to get some air?”

Your heart skipped. “Air,” you echoed, dumbly. “Yeah.” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. You hesitated, then nodded, pulse already racing. Soobin reached for your hand, brushing his fingers lightly against yours in a way that made your whole body aware of the contact. It wasn’t full-on bold. But it was enough to make your breath stutter again.

He didn’t take you outside, though. He led you quietly down one of the side hallways of the venue, then paused in front of a supply closet. You raised your brows.

“Seriously?”

Soobin grinned. “Unless you know a better hiding spot in mind.”

He opened the door, peeked inside, then gestured. You stepped in, heart pounding, and he followed, shutting the door behind you. It was quiet. Dim. Your back brushed against a shelf full of extra linens. You were pretty sure there was a broom poking your calf.

“This is ridiculous,” you whispered, half laughing, half mortified.

He leaned against the door with a crooked smile. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lied, voice shaky. Soobin stepped closer, just close enough to make your breath hitch. “Good. Because I kind of want to kiss you again.”

You swallowed hard. “In a closet?”

“So… is that a no?” Your fingers curled at your sides. “no.”

His hand rose slowly to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip. His gaze lingered there, full of something raw and reverent.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered, like it was a secret meant only for the quiet between your heartbeats.

His other hand found your waist, drawing you to him until your bodies touched. It was warm, alive, trembling with anticipation. He moved in gradually, his breath ghosting over your lips. You tilted your face up to meet him, offering the smallest nod of permission, your pulse thundering like a war drum.

His mouth found yours.....soft at first, exploring, savoring. A kiss that tasted of wonder and need. But soon, it deepened, turning desperate, hungry. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were his only breath.

“God, I need you,” he rasped, pulling away just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. “Last night… the way you tasted, the way you moved beneath me, I've been thinking about it nonstop. It's driving me insane.”

His hands slid down to cup the curve of your ass, lifting you slightly as he pressed you gently back against the shelving. The closet was cramped, shadowed and secret, but you hardly noticed. All you could feel was him.

“Soobin…” you gasped, your head falling back as his lips trailed down your neck, warm and open, his teeth grazing your pulse. “We shouldn’t… not here…”

“Shhh,” he murmured into your skin. “Let me take care of you. No one’s going to find us. Just you and me, sweetheart.”

His fingers gathered the hem of your dress, sliding it up with reverence, exposing your thighs to the cool air. His touch was firm, purposeful, yet gentle as he parted your legs and stepped between them, cradling your body as if it belonged to him.

You whimpered, torn between reason and need, but when his mouth found yours again, every hesitation unraveled. He kissed you like he meant it, like you were his salvation.

He guided your hand down to the front of his pants, letting you feel him twitching beneath your touch. “Feel that?” he groaned. “That’s all for you. I’m aching for you, baby.”

He rocked his hips against your center, the friction enough to make your breath catch and your knees weak. You clung to him, the hunger in your body coiling tight like a spring, ready to snap.

“Please…” you breathed. Whether it was a plea for more or for restraint, you couldn’t say.

But Soobin heard what you truly meant.

He freed himself with a few hurried motions, his cock thick, flushed, and glistening at the tip. You gasped at the sight—at the weight of what was coming.

Still holding your gaze, he shifted your panties aside with one hand and rubbed the head of his cock through your wet folds, teasing, testing.

Then, with a single, aching thrust, he filled you completely.

“Soobin—” Your cry was swallowed by his kiss as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open, claiming you.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands down the curve of your thighs and bent slightly. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, voice low and rough.

You barely had time to react before he lifted you effortlessly, his strong arms hooking beneath your thighs. A gasp escaped your lips as your body rose, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, locking behind him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel unreal. So warm. So tight. So perfect.”

His hips began to move, slow at first, savoring every inch. You held onto him with everything you had, each thrust sending a fresh wave of pleasure through your trembling body. His hands gripped your thighs, grounding you, as the rhythm between you grew faster, more desperate.

Every movement was worship. Every breath was shared.

“So good,” he panted, mouth hot against your jaw. “I can’t… I’m not going to last. I need to feel you cum for me. Need to fill you up.”

His words made you moan, your own release spiraling closer, tighter.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—” you begged, your voice breaking as your body surged forward into ecstasy. You shattered around him, your walls clenching, pulling him deeper as pleasure bloomed from the center of your soul.

Soobin cried out your name, and with one final thrust, he came hard, burying himself in you as he spilled deep inside—pulse after pulse of heat filling you. His entire body trembled with the force of it, arms locking tight around you.

The world stilled. You held him. He held you. Only your breaths remained—shaky, tangled, real. He pressed soft, reverent kisses to your cheeks, your lips, your hair. “That… that wasn’t just sex,” he whispered, voice hoarse and true. 

You kissed him back, slow and lingering, your body still trembling from the aftermath. When your lips finally parted, he rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Don’t go. I need you next to me.”

And the way he said it...the vulnerability in it made your heart ache in the best way.

Because you realized…You needed him too.

© 2025 gyunotes

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

yandere!young justice x magician and sorcerer!reader

BUUUUUUUUUT,the readed is a part of the team,however,shows no interest in them,and it just there because she kinda just has to,and no matter how much they try to get her attention,she never gives them any of it.

(I love your writing btw😼)

Yandere! Young Justice x magician! Reader

The Cave was quiet, as it always was at night, the hum of machines and distant murmurs of the world outside barely touching the stillness that clung to the mountain like a second skin. In this isolated hollow, surrounded by the cool stone walls, you could hear your own thoughts—the whisper of spells, the pulse of magic, the unspoken words you chose not to say.

You never had to explain yourself here, never had to wear the mask of pleasantries or pretend you cared about anything more than the mission. The others, they didn’t understand. They couldn’t, not really. You weren’t like them, never had been. You didn’t need the comfort of their companionship. You didn’t want their attention, their curiosity, or their pity.

And yet, they tried.

Conner was always watching. A silent presence, brooding and intense, always lingering in the background, his eyes following your every movement. He never asked questions—no, that wasn’t his style. Instead, he observed, the way a predator watches its prey, calculating, waiting. He never made an effort to speak, not in the way Wally did with his incessant jokes or M'gann with her quiet warmth. Conner was patient, cold, waiting for something to crack, for something to change.

His silence was a constant reminder. He didn’t need to speak; you could feel his presence, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you, always at the edge of your vision, always waiting.

It was unsettling, but you never let it show.

Wally was a different story altogether. His energy was like a crackling fire, unpredictable, always bouncing from one thing to the next. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t leave you be. "Come on," he would say, leaning over your shoulder as you worked on a spell, his grin wide and carefree. "Show me something cool. You know you’ve got some crazy magic tricks up your sleeve."

His insistence was always accompanied by that grin of his, mischievous and bright, as though his charm could draw you out of your shell. But you never did. You never gave him the satisfaction of seeing you smile, never let him see you as more than just another teammate. It wasn’t his fault—he was just trying to make the team feel more like a family. But you didn’t care about family. You didn’t care about any of them.

“I’m busy,” you’d say, dismissing him with a flick of your hand, returning to your spell. And Wally, ever the optimist, would laugh and zip away, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he left you to your silence.

But it wasn’t enough for him, no. His persistence was a thing of legend. Sometimes you’d catch him watching you, his gaze fixed, a question burning in his eyes. "Why are you always like this?" he seemed to ask with every look. But he never voiced it. Instead, he’d turn away, hoping that somehow, eventually, you’d change your mind.

Then there was Robin. The dark and silent watcher. He knew how to stay in the shadows, how to be everywhere without being seen. His presence was like the night itself—always there, always watching, never truly gone. Robin was the most subtle of them all. He never asked outright; instead, he would drop little comments, observations that always felt like a puzzle, like he was trying to figure you out, piece by piece.

"You know, you could talk to us more," he’d say, casually leaning against the wall as he watched you work. His tone was light, almost playful, but you could sense the undercurrent of something more—something deeper. “We don’t bite, you know.”

You didn’t respond. Of course, you didn’t. The only response he got was the steady flick of your fingers over the spellbook, the quiet hum of magic filling the space between you. He didn’t try to get too close, not like Wally or M'gann, but his eyes never stopped tracking you, always measuring, always calculating. Robin was patient, the kind of person who knew that some things took time, that some people had walls that needed to be broken down slowly.

And you? You weren’t going to let him.

M'gann was the opposite. Her presence was always warm, soft, inviting. She would sit beside you, her legs tucked under her, her eyes wide with curiosity. "You know," she would say with that gentle voice of hers, "I could help you with your spells. I can be a good study partner, if you ever need one."

Her kindness wasn’t forced, never had been. It was natural for her, as natural as breathing. She wasn’t like the others who were driven by some sense of duty or curiosity. No, M'gann’s attention was genuine, a quiet offer of companionship. She was the one who tried to reach you without asking, without expecting anything in return.

But you didn’t need help. You didn’t need her to reach you. And so, you’d quietly decline, giving her nothing more than a polite smile before returning to the words in your book, the pages filled with symbols that had no need for her warmth.

And then there was Artemis. The sharp, straightforward one. She didn’t waste time on subtlety. Her approach was always direct, blunt, like a sharp blade that never hesitated. "You don’t have to be so closed off, you know," she’d say, her voice a mix of irritation and something else. It was hard to tell with Artemis—her eyes were always guarded, her emotions always hidden behind a wall of indifference. "We’re all in this together."

She had a point, of course. But you didn’t care. You didn’t care about being “in it together.” You had your own path to follow, and they weren’t a part of it. You didn’t need to explain that to her, or to anyone. So, you’d give her a nod, a brief acknowledgment that wasn’t really an acknowledgment, and move on with your work.

Kaldur was the calm one, the quiet one. His respect for you was obvious, but it never crossed the line into anything more. He would offer you a nod as he passed, his gaze soft, his presence steady like the water he controlled. He didn’t push you the way the others did. He didn’t try to break down your walls. He simply respected them, kept his distance, and allowed you to be as you were.

But even Kaldur had moments when his gaze would linger on you, just a second too long, like he was waiting for you to finally open up, to let him see more than the cold silence you kept locked behind your eyes.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough for you to feel the weight of their gaze, the quiet pressure of their attention. They thought they understood you. They thought that if they just tried enough, kept reaching out, eventually, you’d let them in.

But you wouldn’t.

In the midst of their attempts, you kept your distance, always lost in the pages of your spells, your incantations, the quiet hum of power that thrummed beneath your fingertips. They were drawn to you, like moths to a flame, their fascination burning just beneath the surface of their words, their glances, their actions.

But you would remain untouched. You would keep your secrets locked away, your magic a barrier between you and the world they wanted to draw you into.

They didn’t understand it, not really. They couldn’t. You were not like them. You didn’t need what they offered. You didn’t need to be a part of their team, their family, their world. You were the silent watcher, the one who kept their distance while they reached out, always hoping that something would change.

But it wouldn’t.

You weren’t there for them. You were there because you had a purpose, one that had nothing to do with them, nothing to do with the team, and nothing to do with any of their quiet, unspoken obsessions. You would remain distant, and they would keep trying, never understanding why you remained so cold, so unreachable.

And that, for now, was enough.

(A/n: thank you kind fellow fur🤭😽)

[aspenmissing]

hiiiii hii hi hi ummm could you do jinx (anyone, but mainly jinx pls) with a reader just as clingy as her? not so much chaotic as her but they both always share that “pls don’t leave me” energy and bond over it, idk do whatever u want ofc, thank you !!

ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ? || 5226 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ? ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ (ᴏɴ ʏ/ɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏ ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ! ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ!! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx

JINX

The moment Jinx first laid eyes on you, something shifted inside her—a subtle spark that said you were different. Not in the “I can fix you” kind of way—she never wanted to be fixed—but in a way that quietly filled the emptiness, like discovering a mirror that reflected more than just her own loneliness.

It wasn’t long before you realized that the connection was mutual. You found yourself drawn to her erratic energy and vulnerability, clinging to her as fiercely as she clung to you. In your shared silences, in the unspoken assurances between hesitant touches, you both found a solace that the chaotic world around you never provided.

One chilly evening atop a worn rooftop in Zaun—where the city’s harsh neon glow danced against the dark sky—Jinx broke the silence. With her legs dangling over the edge, she mused, “Y’know, most people get all weird about this whole attachment thing.” Her eyes, alight with mischief and a hint of fear, searched yours for understanding.

You settled beside her on the crumbling ledge, drawing your knees close and resting your head lightly against her shoulder. “Like we care what most people think,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute.

A crooked smile spread across her face as she nudged your forehead with hers. “Exactly! That’s what I like about ya.” There was a quiet intimacy in that moment—a shared defiance against a world that always seemed intent on leaving you both behind.

For both of you, the bond was born of the same desperate energy: the need for someone to anchor you when everything felt like it was spiraling out of control. You never thought she was too much, even on nights when she clung to you after a terror-filled dream, or when she demanded you stay close while she lost herself tinkering with unpredictable explosives. And in return, she never questioned the way you’d reach for her hand when the uncertainty of life in Zaun grew overwhelming, or how you always made sure to be by her side when the world fell into a heavy, uneasy quiet.

Some might call this attachment unhealthy, but you both knew it was more—a lifeline amid chaos. Because in a city where every moment was a struggle to hold on, you only ever wanted one thing: to never be alone.

=

Then, one night as rain slicked the metal and concrete around you, she asked, almost in a whisper, “Where are you gonna go?” Her fingers toyed with one of her cherished bullets—a ritual of sorts whenever fear crept in.

“What do you mean?” you asked, genuine curiosity mingling with concern.

She paused, her eyes reflecting the harsh blue lights of Zaun. “Y’know… if everything goes to shit. If Zaun burns, if Piltover clamps down even harder, if—if everything falls apart.” The words hung in the air like a question with no easy answer.

A small frown creased your brow. “That’s a dumb question,” you said, though your tone betrayed the worry beneath your words.

Jinx’s fingers froze on the cold metal. “Oh?” she challenged softly, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.

Slowly, you turned your head, allowing the scattered light of Zaun to dance in your eyes as you gave her a look that said, without words, you idiot—I've got you. “If everything falls apart,” you murmured, “I’ll still be here.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady patter of rain against the metal. Then, almost imperceptibly, Jinx extended her pinky toward you. Before she could even fully process it, you responded in kind, interlocking your pinky with hers in a timeless gesture of promise. She stared at that small, tangible commitment—afraid, hopeful—and then gripped your hand a little tighter, as if anchoring herself to a lifeline.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper yet filled with unwavering certainty, “I promise.”

In that simple act, the weight of a thousand unspoken fears eased just a little. It was a fragile promise in a world where nothing was certain, but it was enough. Because even if the streets of Zaun burned and the chaos of Piltover seeped into every corner of your lives, you knew that as long as you had each other, there was a chance to weather the storm.

JAYCE

The warm glow of Piltover’s streetlights bathed the city in a golden hue as you walked side by side with Jayce, your fingers loosely hooked around his arm. The night carried the scent of metal and oil from the nearby workshops, mixed with the faint aroma of fresh bread from a late-night bakery down the road. Despite the cool breeze brushing against your skin, the warmth radiating from Jayce’s body kept you comfortably snug, and as always, you couldn’t help but press yourself just a little closer.

Jayce let out a soft chuckle, his deep voice laced with amusement as he glanced down at you. “Y/N, you’re practically glued to me.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, nuzzling your head against his shoulder as your grip tightened around his bicep. “That’s because I missed you today.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “We were only apart for a few hours.”

You pouted up at him, exaggerating the expression just to see if it would get a reaction. “That’s a few hours too long.”

Jayce smirked, shaking his head again, though the fondness in his chocolate-brown eyes was unmistakable. He pulled his arm free for a second—just enough to sling it around your shoulders and tug you even closer against him. “You really are something else, you know that?” His voice was full of mirth, but there was an undeniable tenderness beneath it.

You grinned up at him, taking the opportunity to slip your arms around his waist as you both continued walking. The streets of Piltover were mostly quiet now, the usual bustle of inventors and enforcers settling down for the night. The two of you strolled along at a leisurely pace, Jayce’s thumb rubbing gentle circles against your shoulder.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” you mused, your cheek pressed against his chest as you matched his steps.

He arched a brow. “Of what?”

“Me clinging to you all the time.”

Jayce let out a low chuckle and pressed a kiss against the top of your head. “Not even for a second.” His voice was sincere, steady, like he meant every word. “If anything, I’d say I’m the lucky one.”

You felt your heart do a little flip at that, your arms tightening slightly around him. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

=

After a while, the two of you made it to his workshop, the familiar scent of parchment, oil, and metal filling the air as you stepped inside. The space was cluttered in a way that was undeniably Jayce—blueprints scattered across his desk, half-built contraptions lying around, and his signature hammer propped against the wall.

As soon as he sat down at his workbench, you wasted no time climbing onto his lap, draping your arms around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jayce didn’t even flinch. If anything, he welcomed it, one of his hands automatically settling on your lower back as he reached for a pencil with the other.

“You know,” he murmured as he sketched, “if anyone else saw us like this, they’d probably think I’m completely whipped.”

“You are,” you teased, leaning in to nuzzle his cheek. “And you love it.”

Jayce exhaled a soft laugh, his free hand slipping up your spine to tangle in your hair. “Can’t even deny it,” he admitted, turning his head just enough to brush his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

You smiled triumphantly, feeling warm and utterly content. “Good answer.”

For a while, he actually tried to focus on his work, his pencil scratching against the paper as he murmured calculations under his breath. But every so often, you would shift in his lap, pressing a kiss to his jaw, tracing patterns along the back of his neck with your fingertips—little distractions that made him exhale in amusement, though he never once asked you to move.

“You’re gonna get distracted,” you murmured eventually, brushing your nose against his.

Jayce hummed, setting his pencil down and finally giving in, both of his arms wrapping tightly around you. “I already am,” he admitted, his voice softer this time. “But I don’t mind. Not when it’s you.”

A pleased hum left your lips as you melted into his embrace, pressing your forehead against his. His warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—it was all so perfectly Jayce, and you never wanted to be anywhere else.

Jayce tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple as he murmured, “I really do love how clingy you are, you know.”

“I know,” you whispered, grinning as you buried your face against his neck. “And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured back, his arms tightening just a little more around you.

And just like that, the rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the warmth of his workshop.

VIKTOR

The familiar creak of the apartment door opening was nearly drowned out by the howling wind outside. The bitter chill of the night air followed Viktor as he stepped inside, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. He exhaled, his breath slow and measured, exhaustion seeping into his very bones. Another late night. Another long evening lost to the glow of blueprints, the sharp scent of metal, and the endless calculations that cluttered his mind.

As much as he was devoted to his work, as much as his mind thrived in the pursuit of progress, there was only one thing—one person—who could make him feel like all of it was worth it. The thought of her waiting at home, the warmth of her presence lingering even when she wasn’t beside him, was what had kept him going through the hours of grueling research.

He leaned his cane against the wall and sighed, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension settled deep in his muscles. The fatigue wasn’t just physical; it was mental, emotional—a weight that only lightened when he was home.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight from the bedroom, casting soft golden hues against the walls. His heart softened. She must have left it burning for him, just as she always did, a silent yet ever-present reminder that she was waiting.

He stepped forward, moving toward their shared bedroom, and the moment he pushed the door open, the sight before him made his tired heart ache.

She was curled up on his side of the bed, her small frame tucked beneath the thick blankets, her arms wrapped so tightly around his pillow that it might as well have been a lifeline. Her soft face was buried into the fabric, her lips slightly parted as she breathed steadily, the faintest trace of warmth lingering on the pillowcase where her breath had melted into it.

She looked so peaceful. So delicate in sleep, like a dream that would slip away if he made too much noise.

Viktor’s lips curled into a small, weary smile. He knew how much she craved his presence, how she always sought the warmth of his touch, the security of his embrace. She was clingy, some might say—always reaching for him, always resting her head against his shoulder, always finding little ways to touch him, whether it was intertwining her fingers with his or pressing herself into his side absentmindedly.

And he loved it.

It was grounding. She was grounding.

He had spent most of his life feeling distant—too absorbed in his work, too separated from those around him, too accustomed to being left behind. But not with her. No, never with her.

With her, he was not just Viktor the scientist, Viktor the co-creator of Hextech—he was simply Viktor. The man she loved. The man she waited for.

Carefully, he slipped out of his vest, letting the fabric fall away before loosening his tie and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. The night had been long, but this… this was what made it worth it.

Moving slowly, he approached the bed, sitting on the edge with careful precision, not wanting to disturb her. His fingers reached out, brushing against a few strands of her hair, gently tucking them behind her ear. The warmth of her skin lingered beneath his touch, and his chest tightened at the way she instinctively leaned into it, even in sleep.

She mumbled something incoherent, shifting slightly before clutching his pillow even tighter, her brows furrowing as though she felt the emptiness of the bed beside her.

Viktor let out a soft chuckle, quiet but full of warmth. Even in sleep, she missed him.

His body was heavy with exhaustion, but he wanted to be close to her. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the bed, moving slowly so as not to wake her too suddenly. The mattress dipped under his weight, the familiar creak of the frame filling the silence.

And then, as soon as his warmth settled next to hers—she stirred.

“…Vik?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, barely above a whisper.

“I am here, lásko,” he murmured, his accent soft, his voice full of quiet reassurance as his fingers ghosted over her cheek. (Love)

She hummed, barely opening her eyes before she let out a slow, sleepy sigh. Without hesitation, she released the pillow from her grasp—only to immediately replace it with him.

Her arms wrapped around him with surprising strength, her body shifting so she could mold herself against his. Her face pressed into his chest, nuzzling against the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt, her warmth sinking into him in a way that made the weight of exhaustion disappear, if only for a moment.

He let out a slow breath, a quiet chuckle humming against the top of her head. “You are clingy, even in your sleep, moje láska” (My love)

She only hummed, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt as if making sure he stayed this time.

“I missed you…” she murmured, her words muffled against his chest, tinged with drowsiness.

His heart clenched at the softness of her voice. He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, his lips warm against her skin.

“I am here now,” he whispered. “Sleep, moje láska.”

She exhaled slowly, her entire body melting into his like she had been waiting for this moment all night. Her breathing evened out again, her grip on him not loosening in the slightest.

And for the first time that day, Viktor felt at peace.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax, to breathe in the comfort that was her.

She was always within reach

JAYVIK

The lab was warm, filled with the gentle hum of Hextech cores and the rhythmic scratching of Viktor’s pen against parchment. The soft glow from various devices cast long shadows against the walls, flickering slightly as if alive. The faint scent of oil, parchment, and a lingering trace of Jayce’s cologne mixed in the air, comforting in its familiarity.

Jayce, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed in concentration, leaned heavily over a blueprint sprawled across the worktable. His muscles tensed as he studied the schematics, fingers twitching slightly as if he were already assembling the mechanism in his mind. Every so often, he would mutter something under his breath, adjusting a measurement or making quick annotations.

Viktor, on the other hand, sat poised, a stark contrast to Jayce’s fidgeting. His pen danced effortlessly across the page, notes forming in neat, efficient strokes. His golden eyes flickered toward Jayce now and then, a quiet amusement lingering in them at his partner’s obvious frustration.

And then there was you—nestled between them, wrapped up comfortably in one of Jayce’s coats with Viktor’s scarf draped over your shoulders. The coat smelled like him, like home—an earthy warmth mixed with hints of metal and the faint traces of whatever cologne he had dabbed on that morning. Viktor’s scarf was softer than expected, well-worn and slightly frayed at the edges, but you liked it that way. It smelled like ink and faintly of copper, a reminder of just how much time he spent in the lab.

You always needed to be touching one of them. It wasn’t even a conscious thought—just an instinct, a tether grounding you to them. Whether it was the warmth of Jayce’s arm beneath your fingertips or the way Viktor’s knee occasionally bumped against yours as he shifted in his seat, the contact soothed you. It was as if their presence alone wasn’t enough; you needed to feel it, to confirm that they were real, that they were here.

At that moment, one hand rested lightly on Viktor’s arm, feeling the warmth beneath his sleeve, while the other absentmindedly played with the hem of Jayce’s shirt. The soft fabric slipped between your fingers, an idle motion, but it kept you connected to him.

Jayce let out a deep sigh and leaned back, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair. “I think I’ve been staring at this too long,” he grumbled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“You have,” Viktor replied without looking up, adjusting his notes with careful precision. “Your handwriting is suffering.”

You giggled softly, shifting slightly to lean into Viktor’s side, careful of his cane propped against the table. “Told you so,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

Jayce cracked one eye open and shot you a playful glare. “Oh, so now you’re ganging up on me?”

You hummed in amusement, resting your head against Viktor’s shoulder. “Mhm. That’s what you get for not taking breaks.”

Viktor, ever the enabler of your clinginess, smirked and gave your knee a light pat. “She does have a point,” he mused.

Jayce groaned dramatically, stretching his arms above his head before reaching for you. Before you could react, he grabbed your waist and effortlessly pulled you onto his lap, securing you in place with a strong arm around your middle. You let out a small squeak of surprise, squirming slightly as he held you there.

“If you’re going to be so cuddly,” he murmured, voice deep and teasing against your ear, “at least distribute the affection evenly.”

You huffed but didn’t resist, letting yourself sink into his embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Even still, you stretched your arm out, fingers searching for Viktor’s. He didn’t hesitate, intertwining his fingers with yours in a quiet show of acceptance.

“Better?” you asked, peeking up at Viktor with a playful glint in your eyes.

He let out a soft, long-suffering sigh but squeezed your hand lightly. “You are insatiable,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, though the fondness in his expression betrayed him.

You grinned unabashedly, nuzzling against Jayce’s chest while still holding onto Viktor’s hand. “You love it,” you said, your voice muffled against the fabric of Jayce’s shirt.

Jayce chuckled, his free hand stroking lazily up and down your back. “We do,” he admitted, pressing a warm kiss to your temple.

Viktor hummed in agreement, though he shifted slightly, as if debating whether to pull away from the moment to return to his work. You weren’t about to let him. With an exaggerated sigh, you tugged at his hand, keeping him anchored to you.

“No more work,” you insisted, peeking up at him. “Just for a little while.”

He looked at you, eyes scanning your expression as if trying to argue, but in the end, he relented. With another shake of his head, he exhaled and leaned back slightly.

“You are a terrible influence,” he murmured, though he made no move to pull away.

You beamed at him, victorious, and snuggled further into Jayce’s embrace, feeling the comforting weight of Viktor’s hand still holding yours.

The work would still be there in an hour. But right now? Right now, none of you were in any hurry to move.

VANDER

The Last Drop was quiet tonight. A rare thing, considering the usual hustle and bustle of Zaun’s infamous bar. Normally, the air would be filled with the sounds of laughter, the clinking of glasses, the occasional scuffle breaking out in the corner. But tonight, it was different. The usual patrons had either stumbled home early or were deep in quiet conversations at their tables, leaving the bar unusually subdued. The dim lanterns above flickered, casting long, warm shadows across the wooden walls.

But none of that mattered to you.

Because he was here.

Vander.

Your Vander.

The sight of him alone was enough to pull you in. He sat at the counter, broad and sturdy as ever, nursing a tankard of ale in one hand while his other absentmindedly rested against the wood. His expression was unreadable, but you could tell—he was thinking about something. He always did that when things got too quiet. His brows would furrow just the slightest, his jaw would tense, and his fingers would flex as if grasping at something unseen.

You hated seeing that look on him. It wasn’t that you didn’t respect the weight he carried—how much he took on for everyone, how much he sacrificed—but you wished he didn’t feel like he had to do it alone.

So, naturally, you did what you always did.

With a soft sigh, you draped yourself over his shoulders from behind, arms winding around his thick frame, pressing your cheek against the worn fabric of his coat. He was solid and warm, the scent of smoke, leather, and a faint trace of ale filling your senses.

Vander let out a gruff chuckle, setting his drink down as he tilted his head just enough to acknowledge you. His thick, calloused fingers reached up, lazily brushing against your arm.

“Again, love?” His voice was low, rough in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. But it was warm too, like embers glowing beneath the ash.

“Mhm.” You hummed, nuzzling into his shoulder, arms tightening around him like a lifeline. “You’re so comfy.”

He let out a deep sigh, one that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the undeniable fondness laced through it. His broad chest rose and fell beneath you, steady and sure.

“Y’know, people are watchin’.” His voice held a teasing edge, but beneath it, there was something else. An unspoken question.

Are you sure you wanna be this close to me in front of everyone?

You barely hesitated.

“So?” you murmured, pressing a kiss against the rough stubble along his jaw. The scratchy texture made you smile. “They already know you’re mine.”

That got him.

Vander let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, the sound reverberating through his chest and into you. His shoulders shook slightly with it, the tension he’d been holding onto melting away like ice meeting warmth. He shook his head, but you could see it—the way his lips twitched, fighting a smile.

His hands, strong and scarred, slid up your wrists, prying you away just enough so he could turn on the barstool to face you. The moment he did, you climbed into his lap without hesitation, making yourself comfortable as if you belonged there. Because you did.

He let you settle, his large hands bracketing your waist, holding you against him like you might slip away if he let go. You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, his gaze flickering over your face like he was memorizing every inch of it.

You grinned, poking a finger against his chest. “Something you love.”

A beat passed. His expression softened, something unspoken lingering in his stormy blue eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher in a way that made your heart stutter. His grip on you tightened slightly, fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt as if anchoring himself. “Something I love.”

That was all you needed to hear.

You melted into him, resting your head against his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He smelled like home—like smoke and steel, but beneath that, something distinctly him. Safe. Familiar. Yours.

His fingers moved, slow and absentminded, tracing circles against your lower back. The touch was warm, soothing, like he was grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

“Y’know,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “you could just carry me everywhere. I wouldn’t mind.”

Vander let out another deep chuckle, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Mhm.”

He shook his head, but his arms didn’t move from around you. Instead, they tightened just a little, as if silently agreeing with your request.

“Spoiled little thing,” he muttered, though there was no bite to it—just adoration.

And, well—if he held you just a little tighter after that, neither of you mentioned it.

SILCO

The atmosphere in The Last Drop was thick with smoke and the murmurs of business, as always. Silco held his usual commanding presence, sharp-eyed and unreadable, every movement deliberate. He stood at the center of the room, a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him—where others drank, gambled, or plotted, he remained poised, a force of control amid the unpredictability of Zaun.

You stood beside him, posture composed, expression neutral, as though the act of restraint didn’t tear at you from the inside out. It was a battle you fought every time you were by his side in public. You knew better than to cling to him, knew that in the eyes of others, Silco was a man who demanded power, respect, and unwavering loyalty. He had cultivated an image, one that didn’t allow for softness, for indulgence, for anything that could be perceived as weakness.

But it was so hard.

Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach for him, to feel his warmth, to remind yourself that he was there, close enough to touch. But you held yourself back, forcing your hands to remain still, curling them into small fists to resist the urge. It was second nature to want to be near him—to press yourself against him, to let his presence ground you, to absorb his very essence. But out here, in front of everyone, that wasn’t allowed.

Still, he noticed.

While he discussed dealings with Finn, while Sevika hovered nearby with a drink in hand, his sharp gaze flicked toward you—once, twice—brief, calculating glances that told you he saw everything. The way your body tensed with effort, the way you stood rigidly in place, the way your lips pressed together in frustration.

And then, without a word, his gloved fingers brushed against yours.

It was so subtle, so fleeting, that you might have thought it accidental. But before you could dwell on it, his fingers deliberately laced with yours, pressing firm, solid, real.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding against your ribs.

It was small, barely noticeable, but to you, it was everything.

You held onto that touch for the rest of the evening, even after he withdrew his hand to return to business. It was enough to get you through, enough to keep you from crumbling beneath your own restraint. But every second that passed, every deal he struck, every hushed conversation he had, you counted down to the moment you could finally have him to yourself.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, the two of you returned to the privacy of his office.

=

The second the door clicked shut, it was as though an invisible chain snapped. You surged forward, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing yourself into him as though you might melt into his very being. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his vest, clutching it like a lifeline as you buried your face into his chest. He smelled of cigars and expensive cologne, a familiar scent that wrapped around you like a blanket.

Silco let out a soft huff of amusement, though his arms came around you easily, pulling you flush against him. His grip was firm, his touch practiced, as though he expected this from you the moment the door closed.

"You," he murmured, voice tinged with amusement, "must you always act like you’ve been starved of affection?"

You nodded without hesitation, your cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest. "Yes."

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers stroking absentmindedly down your back, tracing small, slow circles. "You held back admirably."

"I hated it," you admitted, your voice muffled against his vest. "I just want to hold you all the time."

Silco sighed, tilting your chin up with a gentle touch, forcing you to meet his mismatched eyes. The red one gleamed in the dim light, sharp yet softened by something unreadable. "You do realize I am not going anywhere?"

"Don’t care," you muttered, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. "Let me be clingy now."

His lips brushed over your temple, and this time, there was no teasing, no sharp amusement—only quiet understanding.

"Very well," he murmured, then took your hand and led you toward the worn leather couch near the fireplace.

He sat first, sinking into the cushions with the ease of a man who had lived a thousand battles, and you wasted no time following. You practically threw yourself onto him, arms winding around his torso as you half-climbed into his lap, tucking yourself against him like a puzzle piece meant to fit. Silco exhaled softly, one arm draping over your shoulders, the other hand resting idly against your hip as he leaned back into the couch.

For a man so guarded, so sharp and calculating, he had a way of holding you that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world. His touch was firm, grounding, as though even in these rare moments of stillness, he was unwilling to let you slip away.

You let out a deep, content sigh, shifting slightly to get even closer. "This is better."

Silco hummed in agreement, fingers threading lazily through your hair. "I imagine you'd suffocate me if given the chance."

"Probably," you admitted, voice drowsy with comfort. "Wouldn't even regret it."

His chest rumbled with amusement, but he didn't move away, didn't push you off. If anything, his arm tightened around you just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in the warmth of each other, away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, there was no restraint, no expectations—just the quiet understanding between two people who knew how cruel the world could be, but had found solace in one another.

And Silco, despite all his carefully cultivated power and distance, let you cling to him for as long as you needed.

[natalievoncatte]

Alex rolled onto her side, and was a little surprised to see Kelly Olsen laying next to her, turned away and curled up the Egyptian cotton of her bed

(their bed)

snoozing softly in the morning light. Alex took the time, as one does, to admire the vulpine curves of Kelly’s back and the elegant sweep of her shoulders. She wanted nothing more but to lean in and plant a soft kiss on the back of her neck and wake her, which would hopefully lead into a glorious Saturday morning of sun-kissed, gentle lovemaking that would result in an forgotten breakfast and breathy declarations seared into hot skin with caressing fingers and tasting lips.

Unfortunately her fucking phone was going off.

Alex rolled out of bed and snatched it, relieved that she hadn’t disturbed her girlfriend. She threw on a button-down as a makeshift robe and plodded out into the kitchen.

She wasn’t expecting a call from…

“Lena?”

“Alex?”

“Yeah, what’s up? You don’t call me often.”

“I need help. It’s an emergency. Sort of.”

Alex glanced back at Kelly’s languid form and one long leg slipping out from under the sheets.

“Where’s Kara?”

“I can’t talk to Kara about this. It has to be you, Alex.”

“Okay, sure,” Alex said, warily. “We can grab a coffee later at-“

“Alex, it has to be now and at my place. This is serious.”

Alex bit her lip. There was a compelling urgency to Lena’s voice. Alex didn’t have Kara’s super senses but she could pick up the nervous energy and hint of feed behind the words.

“Okay,” said Alex. “I’m on my way.”

Alex pulled on her cleanest pants and most readily available tank top and scribbled a note for Kelly (encouraging her to either stay in or be back in bed by the time Alex returned, as their business was unfinished) and grabbed her car keys.

Rising her bike would have been… a sore subject, as it were.

Morning traffic was surprisingly light and she made good time. Lena buzzed her up and she walked into Lena’s weirdly cold penthouse, and found her sister’s best friend pacing rapidly back and forth, dressed in a hoodie and hugging herself.

“Okay,” said Alex. “I’m here, Lena. What’s going on?”

“I’m pregnant,” Lena blurted out, before Alex had finished speaking.

Alex stared at her.

“Funny, I always thought you were a virgin.”

Lena glared at her. Alex knew why Kara was so fascinated by her- she had those big pretty eyes that radiated sadness and set off Kara’s protective instincts. Alex had figured out a long time ago that these two dipshits should just bang it out, but it wasn’t really her place to tell them, especially if it meant outing Lena, or dealing with Kara’s baggage from her weirdly fascist home planet and its bizarre ideas about sex.

(One example of said baggage being her sister’s heart breaking over the alien fuckboi from the asshole planet. If only Kara had realized that her gorgeous kind billionaire best friend was in love with her… you know, before the whole world domination Kryptonite laser thing)

(People who aim orbital fusion cannons at their friends should not cast stones, Alex had decided)

“Alex?”

Oh. Lena was talking. Alex pretty much blue screened there.

“Right, you’re pregnant. Are you sure?”

“I’ve taken two tests, and I’m late.”

Alex rubbed at her chin. Lena looked like a drowned rat, more than a little terrified.

Alex swallowed hard.

“Okay, first question. Did someone hurt you?”

Lena looked up sharply. “What? No.”

Standing to pace the room again, Lena rubbed at her arms as if she were cold.

“So um,” said Alex. “Do you need my help with…”

“I just need someone I can talk to that isn’t Kara. I can’t tell her yet.”

Alex swallowed. Hard. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

Lena sighed and stared out her balcony window.

“Do you remember that game night where we all got sloshed, last month?”

“Yeah,” said Alex. “You hosted. As I recall, Kara was the last to leave.

“She didn’t leave. I… I did something stupid. I tried to seduce her, clumsily. I was drunk off my ass.”

Alex tensed, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

“Oh,” said Alex. “She brushed you off and you went out for a hookup? I’ve done worse. Are things okay between you?”

Lena stared at Alex as if she’d just grown a second head.

“No, Alex. Kara spent the night. She insisted we not do anything intimate until we both sobered up, but I talked her into staying in bed with me.”

Alex sighed. “You got any of that expensive single malt? Your dad’s brand?”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“Well, it’s not like you can drink it. You can have juice.”

Lena glared at her. “Cabinet by the fridge.”

Alex ended up pouring two glasses of cranberry juice and sat down at the kitchen island, pushing one over to Lena.

Lena sighed. “I don’t want to get into the details but we were definitely sober when we woke up.”

“And?” said Alex.

“We, um, we had sex,” said Lena.

“And then she got weird and brushed you off and you went out for a hookup?”

“What? No! Just let me finish telling the story.”

Alex sipped her juice, enjoying the bite on her tongue. “Okay.”

“We’ve been sort of seeing each other ever since. Quietly, keeping it to ourselves. Kara is…” Lena sighed, “she’s very protective and she’s afraid that you’ll get upset if you find out we’re together.”

Alex’s fist closed tightly around her glass.

“Lena,” Alex explained, “I’ve forgiven and forgotten a lot from you, but I’m having a hard time understanding how this happened if you’re with my sister. Did you cheat on her?”

Lena looked up sharply from her glass. “What the fuck, Alex? How could you even ask me that? God, am I ever going to be good enough for your sister? I know I fucked up. I know what I did was wrong. Hurting her was the worst thing I have ever done and I would trade anything to take it back, but we are in…”

“Okay,” Alex cut her off. “Fine. Our lives are fucking weird, so I’ll give you the benefit of tbe doubt. But usually you being pregnant would imply that a man was involved somehow.”

Lena blinked. “What?”

“You’re pregnant. There has to be a father.”

Lena stared at her in abject confusion.

Then she said, “Alex, Kara is the father.”

Alex looked at her for too long a moment.

“I’m sorry but what the fuck, Lena? What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Lena demanded. “It’s not my fault! I mean it is as much my fault as it is hers, but we weren’t worrying about protection the first morning and after that neither of us brought it up. I know, I’ve been stupid, I just…”

Alex’s mouth fell open.

“Protection? You and her? What the fuck?”

Lena took a long pull of cranberry juice and winced at the tartness.

“You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Apparently, under a yellow sun, Kryptonians can, um, adapt to a sexual partner’s body.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Alex snapped, “okay fine my little sister… with you… and you’re pregnant. Fine, we’re on the same page. What now?”

Lena stared at her, biting her lip as she sought answers.

“Are you going to keep it?”

“Keep it?” said Lena. “It’s Kara’s. Of course I will. That’s not even a question. I’m just… I’m scared, Alex. What does this mean? How is she going to react? What if… Jesus, I’m carrying a half-Kryptonian baby. Is that even safe?”

“It worked out fine for Lois and Clark. Twice. You’ll be okay, if having the baby is what you want.”

“It is,” said Lena. “Kara makes me deliriously happy, Alex. She was like a knight in shining armor that night and she was so kind and gentle the next morning and it’s like… like this was natural. We both fell into it so easily that it was like it had always been this way. I love her. I love her so much.”

Lena was red faced, looking embarrassed as she cast her eyes down. Alex reached across the table and took her hands.

“Well, I’m glad you dipshits figured it out. Watching you two blush and stammer at each other for another five years would’ve killed me.”

“ALEX!”

“If you want my blessing, you have it. I’m sorry I doubted you, but in my defense, I didn’t know she could… do… that.”

“Uh, right,” said Lena. “I want to call her and ask her to come over now so I can tell her. I know this should be a private moment but… can you stay? It just feels like you belong here for this.”

“Yeah, Lena. I’ll stay.”

Lena smiled.

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Silence

Co-author: @astarry-moon

Synopsis: They called him cold. Distant. Impossibly composed. The kind of man you should never try to love because he would never love you back.

You believed that, too. Until you didn’t.

You weren’t the type to be tamed. You were too bold, too curious, too free-spirited for the quiet fate society carved for you. But when your path crossed with the enigmatic Duke of Ashbourne, everything began to unravel—your expectations, your composure, and eventually, your heart.

He was a man no one understood—not even you, not at first. But behind the silence was something raw and aching, something that burned just for you. And once you saw it, once you touched it, there was no turning back.

Together, you didn’t just defy society and its expectations—you rewrote them. One stolen glance at a time.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Repression, Misunderstood Male Lead, Strong-Willed MC, Tender Domestic Moments, Protective Family Bonds, Healing from Generational Judgment, Mutual Pining, Late Realizations of Love, Deep Yearning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Courting to Marriage Progression, First Time in a Semi-Public Setting, Love Confessions, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Established Relationship Intimacy, Tender & Rough Sex, Spicy Domesticity, Semi-Public Intimacy, Marking, Praise Kink, Possessive Touches, Desperate Kissing, Soft Dom Energy, Manhandling, Obsessive Affection, Gentle Restraint, Insatiable Zayne Energy, Bath Sex, Mirror Sex, Against a Piano Sex, Aftercare, Soft Epilogue, Pregnancy Reveal, Happy Ending.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 8.8k words

A/n: After writing A Duke’s Promise, I knew I wanted to return to this world. So, alongside @astarry-moon, we created Zayne's story that takes place in the same Regency Era AU as Rafayel's.

Zayne is everything I personally wanted in a Regency Duke: misunderstood, composed, maddeningly controlled in public—but utterly undone in love. He’s quiet in crowds, devastating behind closed doors, and so deeply in love with the reader it’s almost unbearable.

This story is for the bold girls, the ones who speak too loudly in drawing rooms and ride too fast through snow-covered forests. For the girls who want to be chosen not for convenience, but for everything they are.

So if you like brooding dukes, fiercely soft devotion, piano duets turned scandalous, and an ending that feels like a long exhale after years of restraint—then this story is for you.

With all our love, —Lex and Elle

Chapter 1

You shouldn't be here. That much is obvious from the moment your heeled boots echo against the polished marble floors of Wendell Hall, every step a defiance. The air inside is stale with parchment and pomp, a faint scent of cigar smoke still clinging to the wooden panels despite the ban. The room is filled with men in deep coats and deeper voices, all gathered for a guest lecture on “Liberty and the Ethics of Rule”—which is to say, men talking about how other men ought to govern everything. Including you. 

You slip into one of the upper rows of the tiered seating, cloak drawn over your shoulders, hat pulled low, the curve of your jaw a weapon as sharp as your mind. Seraphina had helped. Of course she had. Her innocent eyes were the perfect smokescreen for your aunt’s nosy questions.

Your cousin Jace, seated across the aisle in the crowd, doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when he spots you. He leans across during the applause that greets the guest speaker’s arrival, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear, “You really think I wouldn’t recognize you, even in that ridiculous bonnet?” 

You give him a slow smile. 

“I didn’t come here to be recognized,” you whisper back. “I came here to listen.”

“God help us all,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

The room settles. The speaker begins—a renowned philosopher, old and rotund, with breath like damp wool and a voice like chalk against slate. But you listen. And your mind sparks. And you take notes in your head, biting the inside of your cheek every time someone says “naturally, women lack the constitution for governance.” But it’s not the lecturer who steals your attention first. No, it’s him. 

Seated in the far right corner, his coat a precise obsidian, gloves still on, posture rigid but regal—as though the seat itself was carved around his spine. The Duke of Ashbourne. You’d only heard rumors. You’d never spoken. Never even been in a room with him until now. But there he is. Watching the speaker. Listening, but not quite still. You notice the way he taps one gloved finger once—once—against his knee when something idiotic is said. 

And then, you feel his gaze. Not once. Not twice. But thrice. It drags along your profile like a cold wind curling over firewood—not blatant, not indulgent—but aware. 

And then there’s another. A man you hadn’t noticed until he spoke. 

“Quite the scene,” comes a warm, easy baritone beside you—a man with a softer coat, a charming smile, and eyes that glitter with just enough virtue to be suspicious. Lord Berkeley.

“You,” he murmurs, glancing toward you as if he stumbled upon a rose among thorns, “are the only reason I’ve remained awake. I rather think more women ought to attend these things. The room might be a touch more intelligent for it.” 

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Is that flattery or philosophy, My Lord?” 

He grins. “Whichever gets the Lady’s attention.”

It’s charming. Not sincere. But the way he speaks of liberty, of choice, of women deserving a voice—it is refreshing. And part of you can’t help but wonder if he's just clever enough to believe what he says… or just clever enough to say it.

When the lecture ends, the crowd buzzes—mostly with murmurs about your presence. The Duke of Ashbourne walks out without a word. Without a glance. But you feel him pass. Like the press of a storm before the thunder.

Outside, Jace joins you under the colonnade, cloak around your shoulders.

“You’re going to regret this,” he says lightly, glancing toward the exit doors.

“Unlikely,” you reply. “I rather think I’ll enjoy it.”

But when you return to the Everthorne townhouse later, soaked in evening mist, your aunt is already waiting in the parlour. Tapping a spoon against a teacup, quietly. Like a sword against glass.

“Do you truly think I wouldn’t find out?” she says coldly. “Wendell Hall. A lecture reserved for men. What would your father say?”

And then Jace steps forward, arms crossed. “I had invited her.”

You blink. She blinks. He shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that, Mother. I needed someone to keep me from falling asleep.”

She groans into her hands. And somewhere far away, in the high towered silence of Ashbourne Hall, a certain Duke stands at his rain-slick window, his hands behind his back, and remembers the scent of bergamot, smoke, and roses. 

————

The mornings are yours. Before the world awakens with its stifling rules and expectations. Before society dons its masks of silk and civility. Out here, on horseback, wind slicing your cheeks and damp grass whipping at your boots, you feel like something more than a daughter, more than a Viscount’s ward, more than a pretty porcelain on a shelf. You feel alive.

Your mare, bright and spirited, cuts clean through the fields at a gallop. The hem of your riding coat flutters behind you like a banner. There is nothing polished or polite about you at this moment. No pearls. No powdered scents. Just sweat, smoke, bergamot and the wild. Your signature.

The path curls lower as you guide the reins, pressing your heels lightly—your breath syncing with the rhythm of the ride, your thoughts silent for the first time in days. There is no one here to scold. No prying eyes. Only the wide stretch of moor and morning frost.

Unknowingly, the trees begin to thicken. You do not notice. Not at first. You’ve ridden this path countless times, though never quite this far. It winds like a whispered invitation between old oaks and yawning thorns. You think only of air and blood and freedom as you disappear into the edge of the forest. Ashbourne Forest. You don’t know it. Not yet. But he does.

Far above, standing still as carved marble on the jagged cliffs that rise behind Ashbourne Hall, The Duke of Ashbourne watches. He came to walk. As he always does in the early morning, when the rest of the world still sleeps. Dressed in black, boots crunching lightly over frost-bitten rock, coat collar turned up against the wind. He came to think. To be alone.

But then, he sees the figure on horseback. A streak of movement where there should be none. A figure too confident, too bold, not one of his stable hands, and certainly not from his household.

For a moment, he assumes it must be a reckless boy from the Everthorne estate. But then he sees the posture. The curve of a waist. The flash of unbound hair escaping a loose braid. The way your hand grips the reins—not like an amateur, but like someone born in a saddle.

And then he knows. You. The woman from the lecture. Riding, wild and untethered, straight into his woods. And though you cannot see him—though the cliff is high and the distance vast—you feel it. That pull. That sudden prickle of awareness, as though the air has shifted. As though someone, somewhere, is watching.

You glance back over your shoulder. There is nothing there. Only trees and frost and the warm breath of your mare. But the sensation lingers. Crawls beneath your skin. For a single heartbeat, you feel… seen. Not in the way men at soirées look at you. Not like a commodity or curiosity. But like something... dangerous. 

You don’t linger. Not after the trees begin to thin and the hush of the forest tightens around your chest like a too-tight corset. Not after the air shifts—too still, too sharp—and you feel the unmistakable press of something unseen along your spine. You pull at the reins gently, the mare slowing beneath your hands, her ears twitching at the wind.

You realize then, with a flicker of unease, that you’ve crossed too far. The Everthorne fields are behind you. You’re no longer riding on your family’s land. This is Ashbourne territory. And you, bold and brilliant and stupidly curious, have trespassed on the Duke’s domain.

You turn the mare with practiced ease, heart thudding low in your chest. It isn’t fear—not quite. But something colder. Sharper. As if the eyes that were watching still linger, even now that your back is turned. By the time you return home, the sun is higher, your boots muddied, your hair wind-tangled and wild. You’re met at the stables by your uncle’s steward, who hands you a sealed note from your aunt.

"Return by the drawing hour. We are to discuss London."

London. You knew it was coming. The Season always does. And yet... It feels heavier this year. Not the weight of gowns or expectations or the endless dance of introductions. But knowing that they expect you to choose. To settle. To be softened and shaped into something suitable. A match must be made, they’ll say. As though you are a thing to be traded. As though your fire can be measured by coin and lineage.

You dress properly that evening. You sit in the drawing room as expected, spine straight and lips still. You nod when your aunt speaks of carriages and trunks and guest rooms in the London manor. You are to leave in four days. With Jace and Seraphina.

A chaperone is not required for you, not anymore. You are not a fresh debutante, wide-eyed and simpering. You have already been presented. Already survived one Season—and emerged unmarried.  It was a quiet scandal last year. This year, it will not be allowed.

You don't argue. You only murmur your agreement, then slip away before your aunt can ask about the state of your boots.

————

The night before departure you are summoned, not scolded. The note arrives at supper, tucked beneath your napkin in your uncle’s familiar hand.

“Meet me in the study. After.”

It smells faintly of pipe smoke and wax. You fold it silently, already knowing what this is. You do not expect affection. You certainly do not expect understanding. But you go.

The house is quiet as you move through it, the kind of stillness that settles before a great shift—like the breath before a storm or the ache before a goodbye. The door to your uncle’s study creaks slightly as you push it open, and he’s already there. Standing by the fire, brandy in one hand, his expression soft in that rare, unguarded way you remember from childhood.

"Come in, little thorn," he murmurs, using the name your father gave you once. 

You shut the door behind you, blinking at the unexpected warmth in his voice. The study is old and heavy with memory. Books, firelight, shadows. You feel smaller here—but not unwelcome.

He doesn’t scold you for riding into the Ashbourne woods. He doesn’t mention the raised voices earlier with your aunt, or the way you refused to apologize for existing in a way society deems improper. Instead, he nods to the second glass already poured. 

You cross the room in silence, settle into the chair opposite his, and take the drink with both hands. The brandy is sharp. Like the truth.

“I thought,” he begins, voice low, “that I had more time. When your father died.”

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t speak of him often. None of them do. As if grief is something best buried beneath expectations and silk-lined silence.

“He was reckless,” your uncle says, not unkindly. “And brilliant. Too brilliant, sometimes. Always thinking the world would catch him, no matter how high he leapt. You’ve got that in you too.”

You set your glass down, carefully. “I’m not reckless,” you murmur.

“You are alive,” he says, with quiet conviction. “And in this house, that is almost the same thing.”

The silence stretches, long and aching.

“I was not meant to be a Viscount,” he admits. “I was the second son. The quieter one. I loved horses and poetry and chasing your father into all kinds of trouble. Then he was gone, and I had to grow up in a week. Your aunt married a man who barely remembered how to write a proper letter.”

You smile faintly. “She reminds you.”

He laughs, a real sound, low and warm. “Every day. And I let her. Because she’s often right, even when she’s… sharp.”

You look down at your hands. “She doesn’t like me.”

He exhales. “She loves you.”

You lift your eyes to meet his. Doubt etched in your brow.

“She doesn’t understand you. That’s true. But you frighten her in the same way your father frightened me—because you make the world bend around your will. And that kind of woman… is often punished for existing.”

That strikes deeper than you expect. You feel it all the way down to your spine.

“She wants to protect you,” he adds. “In the only way she knows how. By forcing you to fit into a shape society will not crush.” 

“I don’t want to be shaped,” you say, fierce and soft at once. 

He nods, eyes warm. “Then carve something new.”

The fire crackles. You want to remember this moment—this warmth, this rare truth—forever.

“But still go to London,” he says, after a pause. “Go with Jace. Go with Seraphina. See what the world offers. Not because you must find a husband, but because your father would never forgive me if I let you rust here in a cage you never asked for.”

You rise, and he stands with you. For a moment, you hesitate—then step forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens at first, then folds around you, one hand against your back, warm and steady. You smell smoke and old books and something like comfort. It matters more than you can say. You leave the study with your eyes burning, your chest heavy, and your heart—for the first time in weeks—just a little less angry.

———— 

The carriage ride is a balm you didn't know you needed. Jace sits beside you, boots crossed, book forgotten on his lap as he argues half-heartedly with his wife. Seraphina leans out the window despite the wind, her hair whipped in every direction, laughing like it’s a language only the two of you speak. 

"She’ll catch a fever," Jace mutters. 

"I’ll catch freedom," Seraphina retorts. "Have you ever seen clouds this dramatic, or are you too buried in your maps?" 

They squabble like that for miles. Loud and bright and ridiculous. You don’t even try to hide your grin. It is only with them that you feel this version of yourself—sharp-tongued and untamed. You are not Miss Everthorne, not quite. You are you. 

"She’s smiling," Seraphina gasps with mock horror. "You’ve done it, Jace. You’ve made her smile before the Season. The world must be ending." 

"Impossible," Jace says. "I haven’t even begun my lecture on noble etiquette and comportment."

"Do that and I will leap from this carriage."

"And I will push you," you offer sweetly.

The laughter bubbles again, loud enough to make the driver glance back once in amusement. You watch the trees blur past as the city looms closer, the sky bright with spring. Somewhere behind you lies the edge of Ashbourne Forest. Somewhere ahead, the Season waits with all its sharpened teeth. But for now, between the three, you are just you—untamed and unchosen, fire on the edge of being lit. 

The London townhouse greets you like an old book someone else has read. Its walls echo with familiar voices—Jace’s steady calm, Seraphina’s bright laughter—but they feel like borrowed warmth, not yours just yet. Still, the fire is lit, your rooms are already prepared, and the windows let in the shifting grey of the London sky. 

Seraphina wastes no time flinging open the drapes in your chamber, declaring that the dust of the countryside has no place in the capital.

“There are too many people here to waste a good view,” she says, hands on her hips like she rules the city.

You smirk from the doorway. “And too many people to hide from.”

She turns, grinning, eyes full of mischief. “You never hide. You terrify. It’s not the same thing.”

Jace lingers in the hall, arms folded, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he watches you both. The golden warmth between the three of you settles quickly—like you never left each other’s sides. The townhouse holds your laughter well. That night, you sleep in high-thread sheets and dreamless silence, the kind that only old cities can offer.

————

The carriage rocks gently over the cobbled street as you peer out at the mansion ahead—all crystal windows and gilded door frames. The chatter of debutantes and matrons swirls in your ears like perfume.

“I still don’t understand why this one is called a small gathering,” you murmur.

Seraphina, resplendent in soft violet and starlight, giggles beside you. “Small means under a hundred guests.”

“Then I shall start referring to thunderstorms as light weather,” you mutter.

Jace, across from you, snorts into his cravat. “You’re not required to dance tonight, you know.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, but neither am I permitted to scowl in a corner without your dear wife dragging me into conversation.” Seraphina beams, utterly unrepentant.

The ballroom is a hive—candlelight dripping from chandeliers, string music dancing through laughter, and the air thick with too-sweet perfume and too-eager glances. You are wearing midnight blue. Your signature scent—bergamot, firewood, something alive and untamed—follows you through the crowd like a dare. It makes some women narrow their eyes. Makes some men’s gazes linger longer than they should.

You navigate it all like a soldier through smoke. Not rude. Not afraid. But untouchable. And then—“Miss Everthorne.”

You turn. The voice is smooth, low, and achingly familiar. Too familiar. Lord Berkeley stands just behind your shoulder, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. Dark curls impeccably tamed, coat perfectly tailored, the picture of noble warmth. You blink, then smile—slow and amused.

“I should not wonder at our paths crossing again, My Lord.” you say, arching a brow. “It seems London is not as wide as it claims to be.” 

A chuckle. “Or perhaps fate is not as subtle as it pretends to be.”

You tilt your head. “Or you simply haunt places where women gather, like a ghost with particularly charming manners.” 

He places a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “Now that was unkind.”

You smirk. “Indeed, but not inaccurate.”

His eyes flick over your figure, not indecently, but not with disinterest either. “You look like trouble tonight, My Lady.” he murmurs. “Elegant, dangerous trouble.”

“Good,” you say, sipping from your champagne glass. “That means I’ve dressed correctly, My Lord.”

He laughs. It’s a pleasant sound—deep and easy. The kind of laugh you know how to distrust, even as it slides easily into your bones. Around you, the crowd stirs. Conversations and music continue. But the moment narrows, just a little.

He leans in, just enough to make you feel it. “I do hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Everthorne.”

You smile, slow and sharp like a blade dressed in velvet. “I shall consider it.”

And you leave him standing there, still grinning after you, eyes gleaming with something you cannot yet name. You had just turned away from Lord Berkeley’s pleasant smile—far too charming for comfort—when the low murmur moved through the ballroom like wind through silk.

The Duke of Ashbourne had arrived. Not alone, of course. He walked in beside another tall figure—Lord Greystone, if you remembered correctly. A man more known for scandalous laughter and flirtation than the restrained thundercloud at his side. But it was the Duke who caught the room like flint to stone. Midnight black. From boots to gloves to the gleaming buttons of his coat, he was carved in severity, every movement controlled, like a man at war with his own presence.

And yet—people parted for him. Like the tide for the moon. He did not look around. He never needed to look around to be noticed. You, however, had quite enjoyed being the one watching. Until he turned his gaze and met yours. It was a blow, not a glance. Steady. Measured. So very unreadable.

“I feel cold,” Isabella murmured beside you, fanning herself furiously. “And I think I like it.”

You nearly choked on your laugh. Lord Greystone’s voice snapped your attention just in time, “Miss Fitzroy?” 

Isabella blinked. “Yes, My Lord?” 

The man was practically glowing, his boyish smile stretching wide as he stepped forward. “I’ve heard so much about you from Lord Everthorne. I confess I did not expect you to be quite so…”

She arched her brow. “So?” 

“Enchanting,” he said with a grin, utterly shameless. “Will you grant me the honor of the next dance, My Lady?”

You jabbed your elbow gently into her side.

“Go on,” you whispered, smirking. “You look like you’re considering setting him on fire anyway.”

“I might still,” she muttered, cheeks pink, but she accepted Lord Greystone’s arm, and off they went.

“Shameless,” you murmured after them.

“And hopeless,” Jace added, chuckling, before turning to Seraphina with a courtly bow. “Shall we, My Lady?” 

Seraphina took his hand, the pair already melting into the rhythm of the room. And then it was only you—and the Duke. The silence between you was immediate. Not tense, but charged. Like the air before a storm. 

You turned to him, a smile tugging at your lips, and tilted your head just so. “Do you dance, Your Grace?”

His gaze did not waver. “Not unless I am in a circumstance which forces me to.”

You blinked—then raised your fan, hiding the curve of your grin behind painted silk. “Charming.” 

And then, just like that, you turned and walked away—unhurried, shoulders straight, the ghost of your laughter hanging behind you like perfume. He did not follow. But his eyes did. 

The ballroom air had begun to thicken—heat from bodies and music and perfume settling like a second layer on your skin. You made a graceful escape under the guise of refreshment, weaving through silks and stares until you reached the edge of the room.

You plucked a glass of chilled cordial from a silver tray just as a familiar voice ghosted behind your shoulder. 

“Careful, Miss Everthorne. If you stand too long alone, you may be mistaken for a ghost.”

You didn’t turn. You merely sipped, and smirked. “I assume that makes you the haunting type, My Lord?” 

Lord Berkeley moved to your side with a smile that had probably unpinned more than a few hairpieces over the years. “Only at parties. The Duke tends to take all the brooding corners for himself.” 

Your eyes flicked subtly across the ballroom—and yes, there he was. The Duke. Standing alone, half in shadow, posture straight and untouched by the music, the crowd, or the warmth of the room. 

You hummed into your glass. “Yes, well. He did inform me he only dances under duress.”

Lord Berkeley laughed, and the sound was light enough to cut through the candle haze.

“He has not danced in years. Doesn’t speak unless forced. And still, every Lady in the room keeps glancing his way as though he might suddenly recite poetry and fall to one knee.”

You arched a brow. “And what about you, My Lord?”

He placed his hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “I would never deprive a Lady of poetry, should she require it.” You laughed despite yourself. He extended a hand, eyes glinting. “May I have this dance?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

The music swelled, and he led you to the floor—and for the first time that evening, you moved. Not politely. Not stiffly. But with freedom. Lord Berkeley was light on his feet and lighter with his conversation. He asked no prying questions, made no overreaching assumptions. He merely spun you in time with the violins and told you, quite sincerely, that your laugh was better than the champagne.

You smiled. You even forgot, for a moment, the weight of eyes. Until you glanced up—mid-turn, flushed and grinning—and saw him. Still against the wall. Still watching. But now, his hands were behind his back, jaw taut, gaze fixed on you like a blade waiting to fall. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he did not look away. Not once. 

————

Three days pass. Three more events. Three more crowds full of powdered laughter and gold-rimmed gossip. And his name follows you through them all. The Duke of Ashbourne. You hear it behind gloved hands and beneath raised brows. Not shouted. Never that. But breathed—like scandal, like fire, like something no one dares touch directly for fear of what it might reveal.

He ruined a lady once, they say. Though no one agrees which one. He doesn’t dance. Doesn’t court. Doesn’t entertain a single name sent his way. And yet they all still try. Mothers with trembling fans. Daughters with eyes wide and rehearsed. They circle him like moths around a fire that never warms. 

You sip your champagne slowly and listen. He never denies the rumors. That one, at least, is true. He doesn't defend. He doesn't explain. He doesn't engage. He simply stands—regal, motionless, black-gloved and perfectly unreadable. A figure carved out of winter and legacy. And silence. 

He is incapable of love, one says, voice too bright to be casual. He is bound only to duty, says another, older, sharper. That one lands deeper. Not because it’s cruel. But because it feels true.

And then—Eirhart. That stops conversation. Always does. You’ve heard the name spoken before, always with the same air of reverence and unease. The Eirhart family. Ancient. Prestigious. Distant. There is power in that name—old power, deep and bone-quiet. They are respected, yes. But never embraced. People tip their heads in greeting and keep three steps’ distance. You have only just begun to understand why. 

That night, in the quiet of your room, you find your thoughts straying. You could be thinking of Lord Berkeley. Of his beauty. His charm. His ease. His comfort. But instead, your mind is stuck wondering about someone uncomfortable. Someone who does not speak unless he must. Who does not look unless something catches. Someone who does not smile. But who for some reason, watched you dance. 

There is something in him you cannot read. Something that makes you curious, intrigued even. And for you, that is new. And that, perhaps, is why you find it hard to look away. 

————

The morning began with war. Or at least, it felt that way. Maids moved around you like soldiers in campaign—pinning, fastening, smoothing, powdering. Ribbons and silks and pinned curls flew through the air like artillery fire. A comb snapped in someone’s hand. Another shrieked about the placement of a floral rosette. You barely suppressed the urge to dive from the balcony in your shift. 

“You’d think we were being offered to the Gods,” you muttered, as yet another petticoat was tugged into place. 

“You are,” one of the maids said cheerfully. “Only the gods wear waistcoats.” 

By the time it was over, you stood at the mirror, polished and pinned, wrapped in a pale blue gown that sparkled like frost kissed by sunlight. You looked... delicate. You hated it. But it fit the theme—and if you were to be paraded among fountains and florals like a prize mare, you might as well play the part.

You descended the staircase like a lady, but your heart was already elsewhere—not in the salons or gossip, but in the winding walks of Vauxhall Gardens. It was the only thing about the day you did look forward to.

The gardens were madness dressed in flowers. Everywhere you turned: silks and lace, powdered curls, parasols like spun sugar. Music floated from the elevated bandstand, light and fluttering, and the walkways overflowed with laughter and carefully staged conversations. Gentlemen in fashionable coats bowed and blinked too much. Young ladies curtsied like porcelain dolls.

Vauxhall Gardens was a theatre—and you, reluctantly, were cast. You wandered along the gravel path, the sound of your heels lost in the hush of whispers and the steady trickle of water from marble fountains that seemed in competition with one another. The largest resembled a temple, flanked by statues of Roman gods and surrounded by a ridiculous number of cherubs.

At least the refreshments were divine. You helped yourself to a glass of lemonade—perfectly chilled—and eyed the endless parade of pastries, delicate sandwiches, and fruit tarts that disappeared faster than they arrived. No alcohol, of course. A fact you deeply resented.

But these parties offered a rare mercy, you could wander alone without scandal. That was the unspoken rule of Vauxhall—people watched, but they pretended not to. It was a theater with the curtain slightly askew.

You drifted past the grand rotunda and toward the less crowded west lawn, where the scent of roses nearly overpowered the perfume clinging to your skin. Your gown brushed over the grass, the pale blue fabric catching the sunlight like seafoam. Around you, voices carried; 

“She’s still not married, poor thing—”

“—heard Lord Alton nearly proposed in Bath last year—”

“—and did you see Miss Farlow’s décolletage—”

You tuned them out. You let your steps fall where they pleased. You were not a debutante. You were not new. And for one golden afternoon, you were simply... free. Even if you wore blue. Even if your skin itched for shadow, and your thoughts wandered back to unreadable eyes in a crowd, black gloves resting behind his back, watching. But he wouldn’t be here. The Duke didn’t come to garden parties. Or so they said.

You were admiring a row of hedges sculpted into the shape of mythical creatures—a griffin with far too many feathers, a centaur mid-lunge when Lord Berkeley appeared.

“Miss Everthorne.”

You turned, expecting a greeting. Not the flower he extended between his fingers. A single, exquisite blue rose.

You blinked. “Is that for me, My Lord?” 

He smiled, infuriatingly warm. “It is.” 

You hesitated, staring at the bloom—its color unnatural and stunning, like moonlight soaked in ink. The petals curled at the edges like silk ribbons, almost glowing beneath the sunlight.

“You do realize,” you said slowly, “that blue roses do not exist in nature?”

“That is what makes them interesting,” he replied. “Much like you.”

You frowned, but not unpleasantly. “It must have cost a fortune.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “I noticed your necklace the other night. The sapphire pendant.�� His eyes flicked briefly to the delicate piece resting against your collarbone—your mother’s, always worn, never mentioned. “It reminded me of this. I thought the match appropriate.”

Your fingers brushed the pendant instinctively. It was oval-cut, framed in gold filigree, cool against your skin. You had never taken it off. Not even for sleep. You weren’t certain you remembered how. 

Your throat tightened. The necklace belonged to your mother. The only thing she left you that wasn’t measured in ledger books and distant mourning. You were still trying to find your voice when Jace arrived, Seraphina on his arm. His brows lifted slightly at the sight of the rose in your hands. 

“Oh no,” he said dryly. “Lord Berkeley is giving you things. This is how it starts.”

Seraphina beamed like the devil in lilac silk. “That’s a very rare flower, My Lord,” she said sweetly. “I suppose next you’ll be offering to name a star in her honor?” 

Lord Berkeley grinned. “Only if she’ll agree to claim it.” 

You coughed, trying to suppress the blush threatening your throat. “You are all utterly ridiculous, My Lord.”

But you did not give the rose back. Seraphina leaned in slightly as Jace pretended to study a hedge shaped like a stag.

“He has taste,” she murmured in your ear. “A little dangerous, no?”

You said nothing. You looked down at the flower. You felt the weight of your mother’s necklace. And you tried—truly tried—not to look around for a flash of black coat or the sharp line of a jaw watching from somewhere deeper in the garden. You did not succeed.

You found Isabella near one of the marble fountains, caught mid-laugh as she tried to coax a pastry off a delicate silver tray without entirely dislodging her reticule or dropping her drink.

“Are you stealing?” you asked mildly.

“Borrowing,” she said with her mouth full of cream and sugar. “Temporarily.”

You handed her a linen napkin just as she nearly lost a raspberry tart to the breeze. The two of you wandered toward the refreshment tables, skirts brushing the clipped grass, plucking lemon cakes and tea sandwiches between jokes about terrible suitors and the woman near the gazebo who had clearly stuffed her corset with false padding. 

“I think I spotted a scone in her décolletage,” Isabella whispered. 

You snorted into your tea. “I’m serious,” she added. “It shifted when she laughed.”

“And how closely were you observing the upper scones, Miss Fitzroy?” 

“I am a scholar of the absurd,” she said, lifting her chin with mock dignity. “And today, society is my lecture hall.”

You were still laughing when they appeared. From nowhere, naturally—as if conjured by the very laws of dramatic inconvenience. Lord Greystone. And beside him—all black, all silence—the Duke.

“Oh no,” you murmured, still chewing, “I feel a promenade coming.”

Isabella tried, valiantly, to look surprised. 

“Miss Fitzroy,” Lord Greystone beamed, already halfway through a bow, “I’ve been looking all over the gardens for you.”

“Have you, My Lord?” she said, straightening slightly. “How very concerning.” 

“I was hoping,” he continued, “you might allow me the honor of a promenade.”

You arched a brow at her sidelong. She shot you a look that said Help me. You smiled.

“I’m afraid I promised Miss Everthorne I’d remain at her side today,” Isabella said sweetly.

You began nodding—just as Lord Greystone turned to you with a grin.

“Then allow me to propose a brilliant solution,” he said, clapping his hands together. “A shared promenade. The four of us.”

The air shifted. You swallowed. Well, damn me, you thought. Thank you so much, Isabella. You glanced sideways. The Duke hadn’t flinched, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t breathed, as far as you could tell. He was all stillness and sharp lines, eyes fixed on some distant point behind your shoulder.

Isabella looped her arm through yours with the grace of a traitor. You turned to the Duke, hands folded primly at your waist.

“Shall we, Your Grace?” you asked, voice sweet as sugar left too long in the sun. “I promise not to lecture you on the dangers of fresh air.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Cold. Precise. And something else—something faintly annoyed. Good.

“Lead on, Miss Everthorne,” he said simply.

You walked side by side, behind the more animated pair of Lord Greystone and Isabella, who were already several paces ahead and deep in some ridiculous conversation about Greek myths and dancing. You and the Duke… did not speak.

You tapped your fan against your palm idly. "You are very quiet, Your Grace."

"I have little to contribute regarding whether Persephone would prefer waltzing or the quadrille."

“A pity. I imagined you had strong feelings about classical symbolism.”

A pause. “I do. I simply keep them to myself.”

You hummed, amused. “Fascinating.”

He glanced down at you. “What exactly do you find fascinating, Miss Everthorne?”

You met his gaze with a smile that bordered on mischievous. “How little I know about you. You’re like a statue someone placed at every party—admired, avoided, and thoroughly unreadable.”

“That is by design.”

“Even so,” you said, tapping your chin with your fan, “I find myself terribly tempted to read you anyway.”

He looked forward again, jaw tight. But his stride stuttered—just once. You grinned. The path through Vauxhall’s west garden curved gently around a copse of trimmed hedges, the gravel soft beneath your slippers as the four of you promenaded together—though it hardly felt even.

Lord Greystone and Isabella were already several paces ahead, now lost in conversation about the absurdity of fashionable boating hats. You adjusted your grip on the blue rose in your hand—still impossibly vibrant, still drawing the eye. You noticed his glance before he spoke.

“A blue rose,” he said. “Interesting.”

You turned your head, calm and unreadable. “What’s so interesting about it, Your Grace?”

“They’re rare.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m well aware. Lord Berkeley was very kind to give it to me.”

“Interesting choice of a courting gift.” His tone was deadpan, unreadable. But the edge of it? Sharp.

You kept your eyes forward. “And may I ask why, Your Grace?”

He paused, just a beat too long. “Blue roses symbolize unattainability. And unrequited love.”

You chuckled—warm, but wicked. “They also symbolize mystery. Then perhaps such a rose should be given to you instead?”

That stopped him. He did not laugh. “I’ve no interest in such things.” He didn’t look at you when he said it.

You tilted your head. “Flowers… or love, Your Grace?”

His jaw flexed. “Neither.”

You nodded, as if that answer were predictable—expected, even. “Not many can afford such a privilege.”

His eyes flicked to you then, briefly—something unreadable tightening behind them. “I suppose Lord Berkeley could be a comfortable match for you, then.”

You laughed, low and dry. There was no humor in it. “I’ve no interest in a comfortable match, Your Grace.”

His mouth opened slightly, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head. Then, his voice smooth as silk drawn across a blade. “Then what are you interested in, Miss Everthorne?”

You smiled. The kind of smile that did not touch your eyes. “I want a man who sets fire to my reason and leaves me breathless with wanting,” you said. “Either that, or nothing at all.”

Ahead, near the edge of the lake, you spotted Lord Berkeley leaning lazily near the boats, speaking with another gentleman. His coat was open, posture relaxed, unaware of the heat humming behind you like a spark in a dry forest.

You turned to the Duke and dipped into a perfect little curtsey. “Do excuse me, Your Grace.”

And just like that—you left. No backward glance. No explanation. You walked away, rose in hand, breath steady. And behind you, the Duke stood very still. As if you’d thrown the flower at his feet.

The lake glistened like glass beneath the late afternoon sun, its surface dotted with decorative row boats painted in soft pastels—blue, green, a faded gold that shimmered like champagne. You’d barely taken three steps toward the bank before Lord Berkeley appeared at your side like a shadow made of charm.

“Miss Everthorne,” he said with a bow, eyes twinkling, “may I offer you a moment of freedom before the orchestra begins its attack on Haydn’s Fourth?”

You laughed, unable to help it. “Freedom and a boat ride? My Lord, you’re spoiling me.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, gesturing gallantly. “I find it my civic duty to rescue ladies from suffocating promenade partners.”

You arched a brow as he helped you into the boat. “Then consider this a formal thank you for helping me escape a most grievous torture.”

He grinned, taking the oars with the practiced ease of a man born to flirt and row at the same time. “I do what I can for the helpless and oppressed.”

You gave him a look. “Helpless?”

He smirked. “Momentarily oppressed, then.”

The boat drifted into the gentle current. The sun dappled across the water, catching the edges of your gown and his smile. The conversation, like the breeze, was light—playful. He made you laugh without effort. You didn’t notice the edge of the path. You didn’t see the shadows beneath the line of manicured trees. But someone else did.

The Duke stood at the northern edge of the garden walk, coat still buttoned to the throat despite the warmth, his gloves clasped behind his back. He had not expected to see you so at ease. In a boat. Laughing. His jaw tightened.

You tipped your head back and laughed again—loud enough that it carried across the lake. The wind caught your hair, loosened it slightly from its pins, and he watched—stared—as you pushed it back with one unguarded hand. The blue rose was still in your lap. His jaw flexed once. Twice. The muscles at his temple flickered. He did not speak. He did not move. He did not blink.

You returned to the lawn with slightly flushed cheeks and an extra curl loose from your temple. Isabella found you near the lemon cakes, still nibbling on your victory. She looked like she’d seen something entirely more entertaining than anything Vauxhall had yet offered, or something Lord Greystone might have said.

“What?” you asked, reaching for another tart.

She leaned in, voice low and laughing. “What did you do to the Duke, exactly?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The poor man looked like he was about to shoot arrows out of his eyes. At you.” 

You smirked. “Hm? I may have insulted his entire bloodline or something of the sort. No idea, really.” 

She nearly choked on her pastry. You popped a raspberry into your mouth and looked out across the crowd. You didn’t see him now. But you felt it. He had seen you with Lord Berkeley. He had looked. And he hadn’t liked it.

The day faded in soft colors and laughter. You, Isabella, Jace, and Seraphina stayed longer than most, indulging in lemon pastries, live musicians, and the firework display that lit the gardens in streaks of gold and blue. It ended in laughter, not scandal. For now.

————

Three days later, you stood in your chamber with your arms raised halfway while Seraphina circled you, scrutinizing the fit of your ivory linen day gown as though preparing you for battle.

“It’s too proper,” you muttered.

“It’s appropriate,” Seraphina corrected, hands busy with the sash. “This is a race viewing, not a masked ball.”

“You say that like those are two different things.”

Jace’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “I heard that, you know!”

You and Seraphina shared a look and promptly rolled your eyes in unison.

“Honestly,” Seraphina said, straightening the neckline with one last tug, “he’s more excited for this horse race than he was for our wedding.”

You snorted. “He thinks he’s going to be asked to judge something.”

A pause. Then Seraphina’s grin bloomed. “We should tell him it’s a fashion competition. Watch his entire sense of identity collapse.”

You both burst out laughing just as Jace stepped through the open door, impeccably dressed in a deep green coat with gold trim and the sort of expression that screamed importance. “What, may I ask, is so amusing?”

You gestured vaguely at his existence. “You. And your unwavering belief that today’s event will change the course of English sporting history.”

He didn’t flinch. “You underestimate the significance of Thoroughbred bloodlines.”

“You underestimate how loudly you said that just now,” Seraphina murmured. 

Still, you let them banter, smiling faintly as Seraphina hooked her arm through his and pulled him toward the stairs. The sun outside was already high, pouring golden light over the cobblestone streets of London as the carriage waited. 

There would be crowds, laughter, excitement—and hopefully, pastries. And perhaps, if luck continued to stir as it often did when you least expected it, a certain Duke whose presence you could tolerate... if only for the opportunity to tease him a little more.

————

The race grounds were a riot of color and anticipation. Silks rustled in the breeze, sunlight glinted off parasols and polished boots, and gentlemen clustered near the track like roosters before a storm. The scent of cut grass and trampled petals lingered under the crisp scent of tea and citrus pastries being passed around on silver trays. The main promenade was flooded with bright gowns, hats the size of serving trays, and fashionable lords pretending they understood Thoroughbred lineages more than they actually did.

You stood beside Seraphina, watching Jace lean far too enthusiastically over the fence, pointing at one of the black horses as if the beast would somehow remember his encouragement.

“Look at him,” you murmured. “He’s ready to challenge the horse to a duel.”

“He’s naming it in his head,” Seraphina said, sipping her tea. “He’s probably composing a poem to it.”

You tilted your head. “Something beginning with 'To the beast of my heart—’”

“'Whose hooves beat like thunder, and mane like the sea—’” Seraphina added.

You both burst out laughing. Jace turned slightly. “I can hear you, you know.” 

“We know,” you said in unison, not even pretending to be sorry. 

He wandered off soon after to join a group of lords talking loudly near the refreshments table—all waistcoats, monocles, and wild declarations about bloodlines. You and Seraphina drifted toward one of the viewing pavilions shaded in pale silk, where cushions and small garden stools made lounging in lace slightly more bearable.

That’s when Isabella found you. She wore a sun-yellow dress and had a pastry in each hand. Her smile was wide, her expression nothing short of delighted.

“I’ve made peace with the fact I’ll be rolled home like a jam tart,” she announced. “And you’re both coming with me.”

Seraphina reached for a pastry with one hand, linking arms with her in the other. “If I’m to perish, it shall be under sugar and scandal.”

The three of you found a patch of shade, shoes nestled in grass, skirts tucked carefully, laughter flowing like wine.   

You leaned closer. “How many Lords have offered to explain the rules of racing to you so far?” 

Isabella held up three fingers. “But one tried to rhyme with ‘derby,’ so he’s been disqualified from life.”

Seraphina snorted, shaking her head. “You know, when my parents come to these things, they spend more time critiquing the color palettes of the banners than the horses themselves.”

“Oh yes,” you smiled, “The Duke and Duchess of Ravencourt are known to inspire whispers when they attend anything involving dirt.” 

Seraphina gave you a sideways grin, her voice softening. “They never minded that I didn’t care for horses, either. I liked books. And laughter. And questions. They had told me little me asked my father why bees loved lavender so much. And why he kissed my mother that often.” 

You tilted your head. “What did he say?” 

“He said lavender was soft and stubborn, just like her. And some things you never stop loving, even if you don’t understand why they matter to anyone else.”  

Her voice grew more wistful, her eyes bright with quiet affection. “Evelyna’s the one who takes after him. All sharp eyes and sketchbooks and observations about cloud shapes. She’s got a mind like a silver knife. She once told me she wanted to grow up and ruin men with her intellect.” 

You nearly choked on your tea. Seraphina smiled. 

“And Theodore... Well, he thinks the garden belongs to him and that the sun rises only because he woke up. He’s got ink on his nose every other day and pockets full of flower petals. And somehow still manages to charm everyone.”

You rested your chin on your hand, smiling faintly. “Your family sounds like poetry.”

Seraphina’s voice turned soft. “They are. Wild, disorganized poetry. But still.”

The crowd suddenly roared with excitement as the jockeys began guiding their horses toward the start line, and the buzz of anticipation rolled like thunder through the grass. You stood, brushing your skirt, and let your eyes drift over the crowd. A world of silks and society, of smiles and wagers and stares. And somewhere—you could feel it—a certain pair of unreadable hazel eyes, watching you from a distance you hadn’t yet turned to find. 

The viewing terrace was draped in white linen and the smell of too many expensive colognes. Polished benches stretched beneath fluttering awnings, all arranged for the best view of the racing green below—where the horses were lining up, stomping the earth with impatient hooves.

Your party had been given prime seating, naturally. Jace and Seraphina took one end, deep in whispered mockery of the powdered man to their left who’d already dropped his opera glasses twice. You were seated beside Lord Berkeley, who had already offered you a second fan, two sugared almonds, and a commentary on each rider’s waistcoat. 

Across from you sat Lord Greystone, practically vibrating with delight, and Isabella, who looked both amused and alarmed. And then, at the far end—slightly turned from the group, boots crossed neatly, gloves folded in one hand—sat the Duke. Silent. Sculpted. Watching the field as though the sun was a personal offense.

You hadn’t spoken with him yet. But you knew he could hear you. The moment the first horn sounded and the riders took off—thunder across the field—your entire posture changed. You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the dark bay at the edge of the pack, your hands tightening in your lap. You did not sit like a lady watching horses. You sat like someone who understood what they were doing.

“Watch the left, My Lord” you said softly to Lord Berkeley, though your eyes never left the track. “That one’s pacing too high. He’s trying to burn them out before the turn.”

Berkeley blinked. “Should I be taking notes?”

You didn’t answer, you were too focused on the race. You were up out of your seat half a second later, as the horses thundered past the first corner. “That’s it, that’s it—take the inside line—yes!

You clapped once, grinning. A bright, genuine, unapologetic thing. The others laughed—not at you, but with you. Isabella leaned over to give you a look. “I’d pay to watch you ride one.”

You waved her off, but your eyes never left the finish line. When the dark bay crossed first, you let out a triumphant, “I told you!” that startled the man in the row behind you into spilling his cordial. 

You turned to your friends, glowing, still smiling—and found him watching you. The Duke. Expression unreadable, but... not empty. His eyes narrowed slightly. Like he was cataloguing something. Like he’d just heard a new language and wasn’t sure whether he liked the sound of it — or was already memorizing it.

Your smile curled. You raised a brow. “What, Your Grace?” you asked, casually. “Surprised?”

His gaze flicked to the track. Then to you again. “Not entirely,” he said. “You strike me as the sort who prefers to win, Miss Everthorne.”

You tilted your head. “And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t like surprises, Your Grace.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a fraction. But you saw it. And then he looked away again, as if you hadn’t said anything at all. But he had heard you. You knew it. The moment the race ended, Lord Berkeley turned toward you with a smile that hadn’t dimmed since the boat ride at Vauxhall Garden. 

“Well,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his cuff, “I appreciate horses as much as the next gentleman, but I confess I haven’t the faintest clue what actually just happened.”

You laughed—warm, genuine. “Don’t worry, My Lord. I’ll teach you.” 

He smiled wider, clearly pleased with himself. You didn’t notice the beat of silence beneath the joke—the lightness with no depth behind it. He meant well. Always did. Just didn’t speak your language. Not really.

You settled back into your seat as the chatter around you swelled—other matches were still being set, more races to come. Lord Greystone, who had spent the last twenty minutes alternating between cheering like a child and whispering increasingly ridiculous commentary into Isabella’s ear, turned toward you with an easy grin.

“That was rather impressive,” he said, nodding at you. “You really do love this.”

Isabella leaned over slightly, sipping from her lemonade. “Oh, she knows a lot about those things, My Lord.”

You gave her a look. “Do not make it sound like I collect riding manuals in secret.”

“Do you not?” she asked sweetly.

Lord Greystone laughed, then glanced past you to the far end of the bench. “You also love these things, Zayne,” he said over your head, a little louder than necessary.

You felt the shift instantly. The name. Zayne. You turned your head, just slightly—not to look at him directly, not yet, but enough to catch the angle of his profile. The Duke sat as still as ever, but… his eyes were sharper now. The air around him felt taut, drawn. He didn’t respond. Not immediately. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I do.” 

Two words. Clipped. But they held weight. You blinked. He does? You hadn’t expected that. Something about his silence, his stillness, had made you assume the races were simply part of his endless tolerance for society’s charade. But now…now you wondered. How much does he know?

You felt the weight of his stillness differently after that. Less like boredom. More like observation. You didn’t speak to him, not directly. But as the next match was announced and the horses trotted onto the field, your gaze slid to him more than once.

And once—just once—you caught him watching you back. Not smiling. But not looking away either. 

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next part

[lunavelha]

Come Back, be here.

Paring : Laxus Dreyar x f!reader.

Word Count : 3381.

Contains : Explicit content, beginning of smut, thigh riding. Minors DNI.

My note : English is not my main tongue, and i do not have any beta reader, so sorry if I have made any mistake ! Also, it was supposed to be longer, but I didn’t wrote a smut for such a long time that I stopped it before. I hope you can still enjoy it tho’ !

Be careful spoiler of tenor arc /!\

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

7 years. 7 long years had passed, so much pain had been caused by the disappearance of her friends, since he had disappeared. She hadn't had a chance to speak with him after he'd been exiled from the guild, and unfortunately, the last words they'd exchanged had been words of anger. It had started out as a small argument, but in just a few minutes it had grown into something much bigger.

Ever since that day, (y/n) had been replaying her own words over and over in her mind. She told herself that she could have understood his point of view better, that she shouldn't have been so mean or defensive, that she could have asked him to talk, to sit down, or at least to separate for a few minutes until he calmed down. (Y/n) now had to carry the guilt on her shoulders, now that he was gone, she would never have the chance to make amends.

She had needed to get as far away from the guild as possible, everything reminded her of Laxus, his place at the bar, the table where he usually sat with the Thunder God Tribe, or even just her house. His scent was still in the sheets, his clothes were still in the wardrobe. She'd never found the courage to take them off, she didn't want to lose him again. (Y/n) still had a small part of hope inside her that he wasn't dead after all, that he'd turn up on her doorstep and everything would go back to the way it was before. But she knew it was a lost cause, something she dreamt about every night.

And then one fine morning, Lamia Scale was there, saying that at last there might still be some realistic hope. The energy at the island hadn't completely disappeared, and was slowly building up again after all these years. (Y/n) had simply let her gaze wander to the horizon, but what if it wasn't true? Perhaps the magic really was returning to this place, but without giving their friends a chance of survival. The young woman had refused to go on an adventure with the others, but she could see that some of them were terribly happy, especially the members of Shadow Gear. She had no right to let her feelings get the better of her too, she had to keep a cold head, keep her hopes deep in her heart, and above all, not let anyone see it.

"-You can go home, it's possible they'll be back tomorrow, there's no real point in spending the night here. When they're back, don't worry, you'll know." Macao said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"-I...I don't even know why I'm still here. Every time they leave, we end up disappointed... If you only knew how much I want it to be the right one, for them to suddenly walk through the door, for Gray to strip, for Natsu to start fighting him, for Erza to try and separate them so that her cake gets destroyed, and for her to finally join in the fight too. And Laxus... Even if he came back, could he come back to the guild? Would he want to talk to me..." She looked at the guild leader, before shaking her head. "-I'm just at my breaking point sometimes."

"-Go get some rest, you're back from a mission. But we're here, we can support you, okay? Whether it's tomorrow, or even for years, we're with you. One day we'll understand, one day I'm sure we'll find them." He nodded to her towards the door. "-I'll walk you out, Romeo's still outside, you know how he's been since..."

"-He lost Natsu, we all know how much he admires him. He's like me on this one, too much hope ends up hurting, he's protecting himself."

Macao and (y/n) left the guild, walking through the streets of Magnolia. The young woman looked around, trying to find Romeo, it was a way for her not to think about what was going to happen in the next few hours at least. Once at Magnolia South Park, (y/n) noticed Romeo sitting against the tree, looking around. He too didn't want to get his hopes up. Telling Macao that she could finish on her own, she left him to go and talk to his son.

The young woman arrived home a few minutes later, and sat down on her sofa, looking in front of her, where on the small table was a drawing of the Thunder God Tribe, a gift from Reader. 

The only thing she could do now was wait, and above all, hope to see her lifelong love alive again.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

Hours had passed without any real news. (y/n) finally got up and stood in front of the window, trying to see someone from the guild approaching. But no one came. When there was a sudden knock on the door, she frowned, wondering who it could be, and went straight to open it.

Behind her was Bisca, a slight smile on her face. It was surprising, since she hadn't seen her coming from the guild, perhaps she came here from the boat?

"-I figured you'd be here." She smiled at him, "-Come on, let's get back to the guild."

"-If you're here it's to say something, no need to leave to do so."

"-I'm not saying anything until we get back to the guild. Take your jacket or don't, but I'm not waiting for you."

The woman leaves her house, letting (y/n) stand here for a few seconds, wondering what she should do. She knew that she would be disappointed at the end, that they didn’t find anyone. But… what if ? What if he has come back ? Having finally made her decision, she left her house, barely taking the time to lock her front door. Bisca hadn't waited for her, and had already started on her way to the guild. (Y/n) had to run to catch up with her, coming to her side without saying a word.

A lump of anxiety had filled her stomach, and she could feel it growing as they walked. 

After a few minutes, she stopped, hearing much more noise than usual coming from the guild. (Y/n) looked at Bisca, as if to ask if she was dreaming. So much noise could only mean one thing. A Fairy Tail party. A celebration. And so, the return of their companions, their friends, their family. The woman smiled gently at her, nodding. That was enough for (y/n) to start running, her heart beating so fast she could hear it in her ears. She didn't waste a second opening the door of the guild, discovering all those they had lost 7 years ago, all those they had mourned, cried.

And suddenly, in front of his eyes, was Natsu ruffling Romeo's hair, like a big brother would. Macao with Mirajane and Makarov chatting at the bar, probably making up for lost time. Erza with a slice of strawberry cake, while being with Alzack. Levy surrounded by Jet and Droy, crying non-stop as she tries to reassure them. Gildarts and Cana were at a table, a beer in front of each of them. Lisanna, Elfman, Lucy, Wendy, Gray, Juvia, Gajeel... Everyone was finally back.

She entered the room, attracting stares from her friends, but each of them said nothing - they knew who she was looking for. She too had the right to find him without being interrupted. Her gaze fell on his blond hair, and her eyes softened as tears quickly filled her eyes. Laxus turned around after Fried nudged him lightly, pointing to the young woman with a shake of his head.

Laxus rose from the bar, his gaze meeting the eyes of the woman he loved, the woman who had never really left his thoughts, the woman he had thought of directly when he woke up on this island. He was the first to move forward, realising that she must still be in a state of shock. 

When he reached her level, he looked her up and down, realising that he had not kept his promise to always be there for her. For years she had been alone, she had suffered, she had probably had to fight. And he had simply disappeared from the face of the earth thanks to the Fairy Sphere. It was their only means of survival, and yet he blamed himself. Of course, Acnologia's arrival was not his fault, or that of anyone else in the guild, but he regretted his past actions. He'd been so blinded by it that he'd forgotten that behind it all, once the doors were closed, there was someone who loved him.

His hand rose to rest tenderly on her cheek, never taking his eyes off her for a second. He was trying to communicate his endless love for her, words had never really been his forte, but at this moment, he promised himself he would make an effort. She deserved it, she deserved all the happiness in the world, and Laxus wanted to be part of her happiness, he wanted to make her smile every morning when he kissed her, when he told her he loved her.

“-Laxus…” She whispers in a trembling voice.

“-I’m here now my love, I will never leave you again. I swear.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, smiling. “-I’m sorry for everything that happened in the past, I will make up to you, we will be happy if you still want us to be together.”

“-Of course I want us, I never even thought about leaving you. Now that you are here again, you are stuck with me.” She let out a small laugh, although you could hear the emotion in her voice.

The blond smiled at her tenderly, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head, holding her against him as a few tears escaped from her eyes. The guild members around them looked on in delight. Makarov, the master, well, the former master, was happy to see his grandson reunited with the woman who loved him. Of course, he still couldn't understand how Laxus could have strayed from the straight and narrow by having someone like (y/n) by his side, but the main thing was that now, he wasn't just interested in possessing power. 

Surprisingly, even Natsu hadn't said anything, he hadn't intervened to ask (y/n) to fight him, or Laxus. He'd realised that this wasn't the time, and it was one of the rare occasions when he finally understood the need not to be interrupted. Gray had done the same, not yet trying to provoke the pink-haired one, after all he could wait.

Once the reunion at the guild centre was over, (y/n) and Laxus headed towards the Thunder God Tribe to have a little more privacy. The young woman smiled at Freed, Bickslow and Evergreen; she'd had time to really get to know them since she was a child, but also in a different way as Laxus's girlfriend. Once the blond was seated, he pulled her closer to him, making her sit on his lap, putting a firm arm around her waist to hold her against his body.

“-You’re coming back to the guild right ?” She whispers to his only attention, looking at him expectantly.

“-I don’t know yet baby, for the moment I’m just happy to be here. I will speak to gramps later.”

“-Then you’re still living with me, I have your stuff in my closet.”

“-Of course, even if I didn’t want to, you would have kidnapped me, you little minx.”

The couple started to laugh, happy to finally be back together after so many years. She did not let him go, keeping her arms around him.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

For the rest of the night, (y/n) stayed with Laxus, her face against his chest, finally complete again. The guild had slowly begun to empty, with those who had lodgings outside leaving to join him. The young woman couldn't help but feel sorry for her friends, as when they had disappeared, the guild had managed to pay some of the rent so that their debts weren't too high, but over the last 4 years, this had become totally impossible. Missions had become rarer and rarer, guide members were leaving, and the worst was during the Grand Magic Games. The guild's reputation had been destroyed in such a short space of time. 

Laxus drew her attention by gently kissing her cheek, making her lift her face towards him so that she could meet his gaze. There was so much love in his eyes that (y/n) thought she might start crying again just from that.

"I love you.” She said softly, placing a hand on his jaw. "And I missed you terribly."

"I love you too". He grabs her hand and places a kiss on it. "Let's go home, shall we? I need to be forgiven.”

There was something in his gaze that instantly lit a flame in (y/n). It was a look she could recognise at any moment, something she could never forget. And it told her that her night was not about to end. The woman agreed, rising first, followed by Laxus, who wasted no time in taking her hand and pulling her out of the guild.

The walk to their shared flat seemed to last an eternity, with Laxus's firm hand still in hers, leading the way at a quick pace. He didn't even take a second to look around, the only thing that mattered to him at the moment was (y/n). He had never felt the need to be close to her so strongly, the need to kiss her, to show her his love, to prove to her that he had come back and that he would never leave her alone again.

No sooner had they entered their flat than Laxus pushed her against the door, pressing his lips directly against hers in a passionate, fiery kiss. The couple knew that if they had kissed in the guild, they would have ended up putting on a show that their friends would not have wanted to see. And all that tension was being released as the two came to lose themselves in each other's arms. 

"-If you only knew how much I'd missed your lips." He said between kisses, his voice having suddenly become deeper, his hands had begun to venture down her body, reaching under her T-shirt to caress the soft skin of her stomach. "-I missed your body, your skin, your voice, everything about you."

"-Laxus..." She intervenes in a low voice, meeting his gaze. "-I need you so much, please." Her voice became more plaintive, almost begging.

“-I know baby, but you gotta wait.” He replied softly, continuing to kiss her.

They kissed again, Laxus gently running his tongue over her lips before nibbling her bottom lip. At his movement, (y/n) let out a plaintive moan. Between her thighs, she could already feel the moisture building up, and only the desire to see the blond man take care of it filled her mind. However, he seemed determined to discover her body again, as if it were their first time. (Y/n) came and put his arms around her shoulders, bringing him even closer to her. She could feel a lump forming against her, but knew better than to say anything to him, the tension had to be built up, they both had to get closer to the edge, the better they would fall.

The blonde only broke the kiss for a few seconds, just long enough to look at his girlfriend, her eyes slightly moist, filled with passion and desire. A desire that only he was capable of satisfying. This thought only excited him even more, and he came back to kiss her fiercely, removing his own jacket at the same time and letting it fall to their feet. (y/n)'s jacket joined it only moments later. 

Their body temperature seemed to have risen a hundred degrees in just a few minutes, and all it took was one kiss to fill them with excitement.

The couple began to explore each other's bodies over the top of their clothes, and Laxus was the first to put his hands under her top again to touch her body. Sensing (y/n)'s curves, he broke the kiss they were sharing, nibbling her neck to put a few love marks on it, leaving his mark, showing everyone that she was his, and his alone. 

“-Such a good girl for me, so sweet, so soft.” His deep voice sent shivers down (y/n)'s spine, making her close her eyes as she looked forward to the next step.

“-Please, please, I’ll be good for you, but please, just touch me already.”

He clicked his tongue lightly, shaking his head as he looked at her disapprovingly. Slowly, he raised a hand, catching her jaw.

"I taught you to be patient, have you forgotten everything already? It's all right, we'll start again from the beginning."

Laxus looked at her, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. He intended to take his time, of course, but he could only understand her desire, her needs. The blond was going to tease her, but in the end, she would be the one to have the last word.

(Y/n) smiled softly, she could feel that he wanted to touch her as much as she did, and yet he held back. The blond returned to kiss her neck just after he had removed her T-shirt, revealing her bra, and using one of his hands, he untied the last piece of clothing, leaving her breasts for him to see alone. Laxus turned his gaze to it, placing one of her breasts in his hand, taking her nipple between two fingers and beginning to touch it. As for the second, he took it into his mouth, sucking gently. The young woman quickly began to moan, throwing her head back against the front door. 

She had waited so long to feel his touch, to feel the pleasure that only he could make her feel for 7 years, 7 long years. Laxus was a desperate man, he wanted to see her face contort with pleasure, so he came to torture her chest, coming to knead her breasts one after the other. 

(y/n) felt her body getting hotter and hotter, the fire completely overwhelming her at the sensation Laxus was making her feel. The blond looked up at her, before slowly moving his second hand down to his trousers, unzipping them. She didn't waste another second sliding them down his legs. He pulled his mouth away from her, putting his arms around her waist to carry her. 

Quickly, he took the common path to the bedroom, before sitting on the edge of the bed, leaving her on his lap. She came to kiss him, putting her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest.

Laxus's hands came to rest on her buttocks as he quickly devoured her lips. Their tongues began a dance together, both with their eyes closed, and both craving each other more and more. The blond came to move her against him, and the young woman moaned into his mouth as she felt her humidity rub against the blond's trousers, giving him a much-needed rub for his crotch.

“-Go ahead baby, come on, use me.”

(y/n) didn't hesitate, starting to accelerate against him. Laxus's fingers became firmer on her buttocks, helping her with her movements. He didn't waste a second of the show, his face concentrated on hers, watching her eyebrows furrow with pleasure, her eyes close as soon as one of the rubbing strokes touched her clitoris particularly well, her half-open mouth letting out moans of pleasure.

“-I know you’re getting closer, baby girl. Does it feel good ? Do you like using my legs for your little pleasure ? We have the entire night for it, you have no idea of how much orgasm I will give you.”

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

©Lunavelha

Do not repost somewhere else, do not translate, or use in any way.

[luneko-san]

Sylus fluff

A truly self-indulgent drabble of Sylus taking care of you, 'cause I'm sick and need it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━✧ ˚₊

Returning from another business deal, Sylus strides into his home with his usual grace. He pauses and quirks an eyebrow, however, when he hears... nothing. He knows you're home (Mephisto confirmed as much), and usually, you'd already be in motion at the slightest hint of his presence. (He intentionally doesn’t move quietly when you’re here—partly so he doesn’t startle you, and partly because he wants you to react to his return.) He briefly considers that maybe you’ve already fallen asleep, so he continues through the base, eyes scanning for you.

When he rounds the hall and walks into the living room, he finds you curled up on the couch. His shoulders relax slightly at the sight of you, but something feels off. His smooth and teasing voice cuts through the quiet.

“Tired, Miss Hunter?”

There’s his usual teasing lilt, but beneath it, a flicker of concern. You don’t notice it though; too dazed, your mind fuzzy with a fever you haven’t yet realized.

“…Sy?” Your eyes blink slowly, then land on his. His gaze was soft, but now it sharpens with worry.

His face stays calm and gentle as he steps closer, crouching beside the couch in front of you.

“Are you sick, kitten?” he asks, voice low and careful, like he doesn’t want to jostle you with volume.

“Dunno…” you mumble, barely awake. “I feel—” You trail off weakly, unable to find the words or the energy.

He studies your flushed face and glossed over eyes a moment longer, then places a large hand on your forehead. You’re burning up. He breathes in a long breath, then exhales slowly. Like he’s trying to slow his own thoughts.

“I think someone’s been overworking themselves.” he says with forced lightness. “ You have a fever, sweetie.”

He stands up and disappears, but by the time you register his absence, he’s already back with a glass of water and some medicine.

“Sit up,” he says softly, sitting beside you and pulling you in. He passes you the pills and glass, watching intently as you nod and just…take them. You obey without protest. No quip. No eye roll. Just sluggish compliance.

That unsettles him.

It’s just a fever. Probably a cold or flu—something mild, something non-life-threatening. He knows that. But logic doesn’t quiet the part of him that cares too much. His calculating mind churns out a solution after solution, to counter all the ‘what-ifs’ that are piling up. Still, he keeps his composure.

When you're done, he gently takes the glass and sets it aside, brushing your hair back.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, fingers stroking your hair as he tries to compartmentalize his spiraling thoughts. He tries waiting for your answer but he quickly finds himself muttering “never mind,” because you were taking too long to answer for his current state of restlessness.

He quickly scoops you up and brings you to the kitchen with him. With you in one arm, he opens the fridge and scans the contents.

“What about some grapes, kitten? Or some kiwis? Or…” he starts listing off all of the easy-to-eat options. He doesn’t actually expect you to answer, but he also knows you like the sound of his voice, even if you can’t fully process it. “Oh, and we still have—”

“I missed you…” you murmur half-consciously, nuzzling against his shoulder. Your barely audible words catch him by surprise, making him pause. He glances down at you in his arms, flushed and feverish, eyes closed but content. Peaceful, even.

“…Is that so?” he replies, a small smile finally forming. He grabs some of the grapes and carries you to the bedroom.

He lowers you onto the bed and props you up against the headboard with pillows. “Eat,” he says, bringing a cold grape to your lips. You accept it readily, letting him feed one after another. When your eating slows, he doesn’t push it and puts the rest of them aside. “I suppose that’s all a little kitten like you could handle” he gently teases, breaking up the silence that’s a little too loud of his liking.

You drift somewhere between sleep and awareness as he proceeds to move around the bedroom. He fetches your favorite of his shirts that you insist on wearing instead of the fancy pajamas he’s bought for you, along with a wet towel to wipe away your sweat. His touch is gentle as he gets you comfortable, and before long, you’re tucked into the cool spacious bed that smells like him.

Your eyes flutter open just a little. You catch sight of Sylus bringing over one of the grumpy crow plushies towards you with a small and fond smile. Something about that soft look in his eyes wakes you up just enough and makes a different kind of warmth spread in your chest. Your hand reaches out, and noticing this, he moves to hand you the plushie, but instead, your fingers wrap around his hand.

Sylus raises an eyebrow in silent question.

“I want you” you whisper, voice hoarse as you tug weakly, trying to get him to come cuddle you instead of the plushie.

He smiles wider now, his smug charm returning.

“How could I ever say no to a sick kitten?” he murmurs, kissing your hand before slipping away just enough to shed his clothes. His large frame, now only wearing boxer briefs, slides into bed and settles next to you. You immediately curl towards him, and bring the crow plushie along.

“Someone’s greedy,” he purrs, amused. “I didn’t realize you needed that plushie, even with me here.”

“…we’re a family…” you murmur, already fading into sleep.

He stills.

“Family…” he repeats, voice quieter now. He then goes from looking at you, to the plushie in your grasp, to the other dozens of plushies on the shelves.

A soft smile tugs at his lips.

“I didn’t realize how big of a family I had.”

[moonmaiden1996]

OMG GIRLLIE I LOVE YOUR NAGUMO FICCCC PLEASE MAKE A PSRT 3!!!!

Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part 3

Well... if you insist....

The next night, you swore you wouldn’t go back to Sakamoto’s convenience store.

And yet, here you were.

Blame it on the late hours, the exhaustion, or the sheer fact that this was the only store within seven blocks that reliably stocked your favorite coffee. The rest of the nearby stores always seemed to be mysteriously out of everything you needed, their shelves either barren or suspiciously disorganized.

This place, at least, was consistent. The buzzing fluorescent lights, the faint hum of an ancient refrigerator, and the distinct smell of cup ramen and floor cleaner—it wasn’t anything special, but it was familiar. Predictable.

Or, at least, it should have been.

The door let out a tired electronic chime as you stepped inside, already half-dreading what awaited you. You were hoping, against all logic, for a quiet, uneventful trip.

And then the lights flickered.

A slow, deliberate dimming, followed by a sudden flare back to full brightness. The hum of the store shifted, the atmosphere becoming eerily dramatic. A beat of silence settled over the space, and then—

From behind the snack aisle, a figure emerged.

Draped in what could only be described as a stolen mannequin display, Nagumo stepped forward, the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit jacket just a little too short, the shoulders slightly stiff. He moved with the air of a man completely oblivious to how ridiculous he looked. In his hand, he held a single lollipop, gripping it like a delicate offering.

And then, with all the flair of someone who had rehearsed this moment far too many times, he spoke.

“My beloved,” he declared, voice smooth, confident, and utterly absurd. “You’ve returned to me.”

You stopped mid-step, expression flat.

Your gaze flicked from Nagumo—who was now standing under the fluorescent lights as if they were a stage spotlight—to Sakamoto, who stood behind the counter, barely reacting.

The store owner’s face was as blank as ever, his usual deadpan expression unwavering. In front of him, a pot of instant noodles sat open, steam curling lazily into the air. He stirred them with all the enthusiasm of a man who had long since given up on fighting the chaos that regularly plagued his store.

One lone noodle dangled from his chopsticks, swaying slightly.

“I don’t know why I expected anything different,” you muttered.

Nagumo grinned, stepping forward and extending the lollipop toward you with a flourish. “A gift, for the love of my life.”

You sighed. Without a word, you stepped around him and made your way toward the drinks.

Behind you, Nagumo let out a dramatic gasp, clutching the lollipop to his chest as if you had just rejected an expensive diamond ring. “Sakamoto, did you see that? She’s playing hard to get.”

Sakamoto barely looked up. “She’s not playing. She just doesn’t like you.”

Nagumo scoffed, shaking his head. “Impossible.”

You ignored them both, reaching for your usual coffee from the refrigerated section. The cold air brushed against your fingertips as you grabbed the can, relishing the brief moment of peace before you inevitably had to deal with whatever this conversation had become.

When you turned back, Nagumo was suddenly right there.

You startled slightly, stopping just short of walking directly into him. “Do you not have personal space?”

Nagumo merely smiled, leaning lazily against the fridge. His dark eyes shimmered with amusement, his posture effortlessly relaxed. “Not when it comes to my future wife.”

You exhaled sharply, stepping around him. “We are not getting married.”

He followed without hesitation. “Not yet.”

You made your way to the counter, slamming the coffee down in front of Sakamoto. “Please make him go away.”

Sakamoto scanned your drink with the same resigned energy he always had. “If I could do that, he wouldn’t be here.”

Nagumo placed a hand over his heart, his expression the perfect imitation of a man deeply wounded. “You wound me, old friend.”

Sakamoto didn’t even blink. “We’re not friends.”

Nagumo turned back to you, his smirk unwavering. “He kids, but deep down, he loves me. Just like you will.”

You let out an exhausted groan. “You need help.”

Nagumo’s grin widened. “Ah, playing the cold, distant type—I respect it.” His voice dipped just slightly, a rare sincerity slipping into his tone. “But I can be patient. Take all the time you need to realize I’m the love of your life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t even know your name.”

Nagumo’s smirk turned triumphant. “See? You do love me. You want to know my name.” He stepped back theatrically, throwing his arms out as if awaiting applause. “I am Yoichi Nagumo—and you will be the future Mrs. Yoichi Nagumo.”

You gave him the driest look you could muster, grabbed your coffee, leaving the change on the counter, and turned toward the exit. “I’m leaving now.”

Nagumo, completely undeterred, leaned against the counter. “See you tomorrow, my love.”

You didn’t bother responding.

The door swung shut behind you, the store’s chime ringing softly in your wake.

Nagumo exhaled dramatically, flopping against the counter like a man struck by the weight of a grand, unreciprocated love. “Man. She’s incredible.”

Sakamoto didn’t even look up from his noodles. “You’re exhausting.”

Nagumo grinned. “And yet, you keep letting me stay.”

Sakamoto pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because you won’t leave.”

Nagumo smirked, tossing the lollipop into the air and catching it effortlessly between his fingers. “Exactly.”

He watched as you disappeared down the street, the corners of his mouth twitching up. You were tired. Overworked. Stubborn, yes, but you’d come around eventually. He just had to wait.

Maybe he should visit you at work. Just to check in. Make sure you are eating properly, getting enough sleep. It was the responsible thing to do, really. Someone had to look after you, and clearly, no one else was stepping up. If anyone else tried he would have to... get rid of them. He was your future husband- it was his job

Yes, tomorrow would be a new opportunity. Maybe he’d bring flowers next time.

[caitified]

Hi queen!

i am not sure if your taking requests but I was thinking about a little valentines paige fic where the reader goes to see her but ends up getting sick and ruins their valentines plans and it’s just sweet and fluffy comfort of paige taking care of the reader just trying to make the most of it.💓(this is also shamelessly self insert because I got sick and can’t see my girlfriend tomorrow😭)

TAKE CARE

PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

notes: sorry this is late!! i hope you got to see her.

warnings: sick

you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks.

valentine’s day with paige—finally. after all the long-distance calls, the facetimes where she swore she could almost feel you through the screen, the endless countdowns—it was finally here.

you had booked the flight, planned the perfect surprise, even packed the cute little outfit you knew she loved. and as soon as you landed, the excitement bubbled in your chest.

but by the time you reached her apartment, something felt… off.

your head was pounding. your body ached. your throat was scratchy.

no. not today. you refused.

so you pushed through it. when paige swung open the door, her signature grin lighting up her face, you tried to match her energy.

“baby!” she beamed, pulling you into her arms.

and normally? being wrapped up in paige’s arms made everything better. but this time, you felt exhausted just from standing.

she pulled back, studying your face. “you okay?”

you forced a smile. “yeah, just a little tired.”

but paige was paige. which meant she saw right through you.

her eyes narrowed, hand pressing to your forehead before you could even protest.

“you’re burning up.”

you groaned. “i’m fine—”

“nope.” she shut the door behind you, already steering you toward the couch. “you’re not fine. why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“because we had plans,” you whined, collapsing onto the cushions. “i didn’t wanna ruin them.”

paige’s face softened as she knelt in front of you, brushing your hair back.

“baby,” she murmured, “the only thing that would ruin today is if you don’t let me take care of you.”

you sighed, pouting. “this isn’t how today was supposed to go.”

paige just kissed your forehead. “well, new plan: you stay right here, and i take care of my valentine.”

you rolled your eyes but secretly melted at her words. “you don’t have to—”

“shhh,” she hushed, standing up. “you know i’m going to.”

you watched, helpless but adoring, as she disappeared into the kitchen, mumbling something about making tea and finding medicine.

a few minutes later, she returned, balancing a tray with tea, soup, and a bottle of cold medicine.

you raised an eyebrow. “where did the soup come from?”

paige looked very pleased with herself. “door dash.”

you laughed, but the sound came out more like a weak cough.

paige frowned. “okay, nope, that’s it. you’re officially banned from speaking.”

you gave her a look. “that’s dumb.”

“and yet, i’m still right,” she teased, sitting beside you. she tucked a blanket around your shoulders, pulling you close. “now, drink your tea.”

you sighed but obeyed, taking a sip.

paige watched you, one arm around you, her other hand resting over your knee.

“i know this sucks,” she said softly, “but i really don’t mind. i just wanted to spend the day with you, no matter what.”

your heart swelled despite your pounding headache.

you squeezed her hand. “happy valentine’s day, paige.”

she kissed your temple. “happy valentine’s day, baby.”

[catiuskaa]

Game On, Game Boy.

SUMMARY: dating someone from the opposing team is banned? So what? Minho isn’t dating that cute girl with the purple headset, they clearly hate each other! …wait, what? You never said it was her? O-oh… um, well…

REQUESTED! here by my pookie dookie @15092000volcano, who OMG LOVE YOU GOT SOME IDEAS™️ and i’m 100% here for it!

WC: 3.8k

CW: extensive use of curse words, use of petnames, gaming lingo that i won’t explain (sorry), a sneaky mention of changlix and a ridiculously explicit mention of hyunin because idk broski i just felt like it

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

“Are you sure this is the section you’re supposed to be in, Lee?”

Minho’s eyes turned darker and he chuckled a cold laugh that could’ve frozen the Han river over a hundred times.

No one noticed the slight smile he let out that was quickly hidden again.

“Look who it is,” Minho beamed a newly found energy, as if a dark, bad, and rude soul had just taken control of his mean smile. “If it isn’t other than the wrongly chosen personality hire of… mhh… I don’t remember… sorry, dollface, what’s the name of your team again?”

Behind him, a blond guy stared at him, eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. He turned around and faced one of his other team players.

“Hey, hyung. Does Minho know that girl?” Felix asked in a low voice. “He… doesn’t look too happy.” That was a nice way to put it.

Changbin rolled his eyes at the encounter, throwing his arm over Felix’s shoulders.

“Her username is something like ‘soondondori25”. Minho and her met a while back, in high school. As little as he’s said, one thing’s for sure: they really don’t like each other.”

Despite it not looking too good for the team the fact that its leader wasn’t behaving with their opponents, Seo huffed, not paying any mind to the arguing pair, unlike Felix, whose eyes stayed glued to his other hyung and the new girl, still going at each other.

"I bet you’re still using the overpowered weapon. Can’t really get past Nerf Bastian, can ya?” You stated mockingly, your cheeks red as you kept arguing. “I guess you need all the help you can get."

"Says the one who relies on camping. Can't face me head-on, huh?” Minho grinned with a sense of superiority, stepping forward. “Scared, dollface?”

You bit your lip, your eyes locked on his.

"You won’t need to worry about my team’s name, sweetie. I’ll make sure you never forget it.” Your stare would’ve burnt a forest just by staring at the grass for a bit too long.

“Still can't win without relying on cheap strategies, can you?"

Minho settled his hands on his pockets, halfly staring down at you, as if mocking your height.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You chuckled lowly. You said it with a smirk, which Minho was fast to return. “Still stuck on that low-tier character, right? It seems like you need to step up your game, buddy."

“Oh, please!” Minho passed a hand through his hair, his tone hinting mocked amusement. He bent down lightly, his face in front of yours. “You're just a sore loser who can't handle a fair fight. Go back to your corner and cry some more, dollface.”

“Keep telling yourself that. We both know you're just jealous I'm better at this game than you."

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dollface. I still manage to win against you. Seems like you're just bitter about losing."

The battle of comebacks kept going on, both of you stepping closer to each other with each sentence, as if about to throw hands.

“Ah, fuck! They do this every year!” Someone from your team approached the both of you while cursing. You ignored him at first, but then halfly gasped, facing your teammate.

“Jisung, I swear he started.”

“Yeah, Jisung. I started.” Minho cackled mockingly. “Tell Santa so I don’t have toys this Christmas.”

Han squinted at Minho. “Sure. As if I fucking care.” He then turned to face you, handing you a red shirt. “Yours. We’re red for the first round.” He stated seriously, taking on the role of team leader.

Minho and you stared at each other deeply just as Jisung flew the scene, missing how you two were basking in the glow of shared secrets.

“I’m team red, bunny,” you snickered at him in a smug tone. “You know what that means.”

“Superstition is for the rookies, dollface,” he said, his smile confirming the nickname you gave him was well justified.

No one knew the troubles the both of you had gone through. That’s why you smiled, knowing that when the round ended and you were both done for the day, —when you won, of course—, your boyfriend would still owe you a kiss.

All this mean smack talk was purely for the benefit of the other rival teams. Minho was happy to let you prove yourself to those who couldn’t grasp the idea that a girl in sparkly, cute dresses and what some would call ‘over the top’ makeup belonged in the competition. Minho and you both knew that one of the toughest rounds would certainly be against one another. You know exactly how good of a gamer he is, and likewise, his team had already heard about how your team had broken records during trials —named team Levanter, even if your endearing opponent pretended not to know it—, but there was no real animosity here.

Not an easy thing to hide, considering that to you it was obiously noticeable how Minho’s eyes hadn’t left your lips in what seemed like ten minutes. But yeah. No animosity. Just a knack for competition. And a bet that decides who’s making dinner for the night, but right now…

Right now was about the fight.

Both team Levanter and team Thunderous were sat in places, red vs blue once again as several cameras from the streaming platform that broadcasted the event were turned on, recording each player while the ref briefly introduced them with a loud tone for the crowd.

“Levanter, ready?” He asked with a smile meant for the thousands and thousands of viewers streaming online as the camera focused on him shortly.

“Ready,” Jisung smirked, to which everyone in your team logged in the computers before you as a response.

“Thunderous, ready?”

Minho smiled in your direction, holding back a chuckle when he noticed you had already been staring, then threw a wink at him.

“Ready,” he said.

You two exchanged a glance, openly competitive, any other meanings hidden between you two and the red thread that joined your little fingers, a silent agreement breaking the rules —the same ones you broke barely half an hour ago, when his lips consumed yours, or that you’re probably going to be rehashing the whole gameplay in your shared apartment and no one will know.

(And sure, you might do other things, too.)

The sound blasted in your headset when you settled it in place. You gave one last look to Minho, and he mumbled towards you with a smile.

“See you on the other side, dollface.”

“You’re the worst.” An easy shorthand for love you.

He smiled, and there was a knowledge that made your heart smile too, because winning or losing, in the end, you were coming back to his arms.

Your hands tightened and you cracked your knuckles, settling them back in place, one over the keyboard and the other on the mouse. You were nervous, yeah, but not afraid. This was your comfort zone. This is your comfort zone.

“COUNTDOWN,” the ref shouted, the numbers showing up in the complete view in the big screen behind him. “STARTING IN 3…! 2…! 1…!”

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

The vehicle shuddered when you closed the door with a thud.

You two stayed in silence for a bit, merely listening to the rain as the droplets hit the car nonchalantly.

“Can I be smug about it?” You smiled cheekily.

“Just ‘cause I ain’t that much of a sore loser, you get two minutes.” He scoffed with fake annoyance, which wasn’t truly worrying because he didn’t put any effort on hiding his smile, too.

You snickered, turning your body to face him, teasing him even before starting.

“But you owe me something first, dollface.”

You rolled your eyes. “It ain’t even that good of a nickname, Min.”

But then his hand, always a little colder than yours, swiftly gripped you by your neck, fingers stroking your nape as you held back a shiver, easily less than an inch away from him now.

“Would you rather I call you buddy?”

You smiled, eyes wondering where to focus, in a trance between his eyes, deep and enticing, or his lips, sweet and so stupidly kissable.

“Hurt much?” You pouted mockingly. You were obviously not expecting him to bite your lower lip.

He laughed, a menace he was, but he was quickly winned over —dare I say once more— when you pulled him towards your lips by tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Minho smiled as you let him take control.

“Your two minutes are over.” He whispered over your lips, leaving a small peck on your forehead before turning to the steering wheel.

You were about to complain, but that was before his hand, a bit warmer now, was strategically placed just a bit further up your knee.

He gave you a playful side eye.

You rolled your eyes again, to which he chuckled.

“Before you start snickering and bitching about what you want for dinner, princess,” Minho started speaking with a smile, his hand not leaving your leg as he started the engine, “seeing as I didn’t go to the grocery store and neither did you, we’re doing take-out.”

“That’s so unfair!” You argued as he manoeuvred to get the car out of the parallel spot. You stayed silent until he did, faking a pout. “You made me buy groceries last time I lost.”

He cackled. “Because I drive, silly.”

You glared at him. He grinned.

“I’ll call your mom.” You threatened. “I’ll make sure she takes the cats with her the days you have free.”

He gave you a stare with wide eyes once he encountered a red light.

“But honey, those are my children too.” His fake tone of worry was too funny to not burst out in laughter, to which he happily joined in.

“Shits and giggles aside, don’t,” he smiled. “Last time you did she told my dad and he still makes jokes about it.”

You acted smugly as you fetched for the aux cord and plugged it to your phone, scrolling down through your music app.

“Of course he does,” you snorted with a toothy grin. “I’m amazing. And even if we’re doing take-out I will beat the shit out of you if you don’t make lasagna before Friday.” You threatened again with a silly smile. “You know I can.”

He snorted too, his hand playfully squeezing your leg for a second.

“I know,” he mumbled absentmindedly, tracing patterns over your knee. “But we’re getting sushi tonight.”

The idea seemed nice enough, so in a silent agreement you settled on a playlist you knew he’d sing along to. Just as Wonder Girls started to play, he giggled, his hand tickling your knee —something as ticklish as confusing, really—.

“Cheeky.” He snickered, unable to not join in to your efforts into making the korean lyrics make sense, singing for a fun time, not a long one, specially when after Tell me finished, the next songs calmed down the upbeat vibe and soothed it sweetly, your boyfriend humming only when he concentrated on the road ahead.

He shoved you one of his hoodies that he had kept in the seats in the back, because he knew you’d show up with clothing that as beatiful as you looked with it, he just clicked his tongue and tutted at you when you tried to enter the restaurant after he parked, and sneakily locked the doors. You squinted your eyes at him.

“Put that on, missy.” He snickered, eyebrows up. “As funny as the idea may seem, cold as a concept isn’t psychological.”

You chuckled at his commentary, and quickly threw it on, a silly smile on your face when you realized that it smelled like him.

“Sure, Mr Charmer.” You shook your head sideways, smirking once he unlocked the car and you could open the door. “For the record, pretty boy, I’m just doing it cause you left money on the pocket.” You cackled and skipped inside the restaurant, with him chuckling just a bit behind you.

The restaurant was fairly empty, saving a couple of tables that were reserved for later and other customers that had barely started to eat.

You hid the twenty bucks bill you found in your phone case, and Minho pretended to forget about it when he saw you grin. You smiled at him gingerly, thinking where would it be a good place to put the it in where he could find it later.

He let you choose from the menu, trusting your taste and letting you pick the items for the both of you, doozing off slowly, distracting himself with the strange tipping device that the restaurant had on the counter top. Upon inspection, it was clearly a lucky cat figure, that when coins were placed on its hand, he’d just… eat them…?

“To go, yeah?” the young man at the counter asked with a tiny smile, wearing a small name tag that read “JEONGIN” in big letters.

You nodded, but noticed ‘Jeongin’ gave your really-interested-in-the-stupid-ass-tip-animal-robot company a look, and you stared at Minho too, scratching your cheek absentmindedly.

“Is he with you?” He asked nonchalantly, merely starting small talk.

You smiled. “Yeah. A girl needs a wallet from time to time.”

He snorted, nodding in agreement. “He’s… something.”

“Thanks. He’s rescue.”

You felt a hand slither into the pockets of your hoodie. Well. Technically his.

“Stop telling people that.” He huffed, laying his forehead on your shoulder.

Jeongin snickered at the two of you. “My boyfriend is a rescue too,” he winked. “This is his uniform, because he used mine by mistake and stained it with soja sauce.”

“Oh. So you’re not Jeongin, I guess?” You chuckled gently.

“I’m Hyunjin.” He corrected with a smile. After a bit, he handed you your order in a plastic bag. “It was nice to meet you two!”

You waved back with a sheepish smile as you two exited.

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

“WHAT?!” You screamed, the mic on your purple headset able to catch it flawlessly, as in response you started hearing laughs.

You stared at the screen, the music lowering as your character approached your house —or what used to be your house—.

“Y-yeah,” Seungmin’s voice chimed in, who tried to explain once more in between laughs, “Changbin added landscape mods o-or something,” he chuckled. “The storms can start fires.”

“B-HUH?” You frowned, trying to extinguish the fire that remained around. “Fuck that! What the fuck was Notch onto with this bullshit?”

Felix and Changbin still were unable to speak, as they continued to laugh loudly in the call. You went to Discord for a second, and muted them both. “You guys, shut up!”

They were muted, so you couldn’t possibly know if they had listened to you —most likely not—. Going back to Minecraft, you went in your house, and started looking around in your chest room if you had any wood to spare to repair the ceiling.

“Motherf- I gotta go chop wood?” You scoffed. “Brother.” You were starting to get pissed off, so you breathed in, fixing your glasses in position and your mind went back to the stream, and you started talking to the chat while getting the materials.

“Shit, I ran out of torches,” you cursed, going on your inventory to see if you had more. Oops. You didn’t. And you didn’t have much food either. Suddenly, zombie noises started to blast in your headset, several arrows hitting you.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you used your shield, trying to find your enemies. “Where is this bitch?”

Minho went to the kitchen, that was a door away from your streaming room, able to hear loud noises coming from inside. He raised his eyebrows, wondering what could be happening in the gameplay.

“MOTHERFUCKER?! I DON’T— FUCK THIS SHIT! IT’S DISGUSTING. HEY, IT’S DISGUSTING THAT- THIS FUCKING ASSHOLE. HE’S AN IDIOT. HOPE HE CHOKES ON LENTILS, FUCK!”

You stormed out of the room, encountering Minho barely a couple steps away from the door.

He blinked, puzzled. “I’m making lasagna…?”

You struggled to calm down, just knowing you didn’t want to lash out at him.

“Time-out?” He questioned, wondering if you wanted some time on your own.

You flinched when you finally realized he was in front of you, your shoulders lowering and your body physically relaxing as you sighed and shook your head sideways.

“A storm burned down part of my roof and then a creeper blew me up when I was trying to fix it.” You sighed. “And then Changbin stole all my materials.”

“Did you turn off stream?” He wondered soothingly, his hands cupping your face and lightly scratching the back of your head.

You shook your head again. “I just turned the camera and the mic off, but it’s still on.”

“And you want to keep playing?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, one of your hands traveling to his. “Thanks, Min.”

He entered the streaming room with you, his arms over your shoulders.

“Where is she though?” Changbin questioned. “She’s not answering.”

“Dude.” Felix let out in shock.

“Lix?” Seungmin questioned.

“Guys, look at her stream.”

Minho left a peck on your head and ruffled your hair.

“Text me if you need anything, yeah?”

You smiled. “Thanks, bunny.”

You put your headphones back on, moving the mouse to turn on the screens again.

…maybe the camera hadn’t exactly been turned off.

You stared at the stream, eyes wide open as the chat started going wild.

…oops.

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

catiuskaa, may 2024 ©

~kats, who now wants to go play some minecraft.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant * Epilogue

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger, necophilia. These warnings are not exhaustive and some triggers may not be specified for plot reasons.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: We came back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

The red blaze sears into the large stone at the edge of the cliff. Clark huffs and reins in his fury, balling it up in his chest as he heaves. He blinks and looks up the burnt husk in his hand. Her body dangles from his grip, lifeless as what's left of her skull is a pile of ash on the ground. 

He drops her and recoils, grasping his skull as he snarls. Why did he do that? No! Why did she run? All these months, up here, living together, building their dream, and it ends in dust. 

He staggers and leans against a tree.  

He’s back in the office, hovering his fingers aimlessly over his keyboard, staring at a flashing cursor. Then he hears her voice. He didn’t know who she was then. Or what she was. His everything. 

He sees a hint of her pink plaid skirt as she passes by his office. She’s getting the tour. He stares for a moment then returns to his blank page. 

He can’t focus as he hears her muffled laugh. He sighs and grabs his cold mug. He takes it out into the hall and into the lounge. As he dumps it, he hears her getting closer. 

“And this is the kitchen, or lunch room, whatever,” Glenn explains. “And our star reporter, Clark Kent.” 

Clark looks over his shoulder as he rinses out his cup. He smiles and hesitates to get the quip out as he gets a look at her. Her eyes round in amazement at him. He can’t remember the last time his own wife looked at him like that. 

“I think you should reserve that for Lois,” he scoffs. Glenn chuckles in that bootlicker way. 

“Don’t let him be humble,” Glenn says then introduces her.  

She gives a small wave and a wiggle, “hi, Mr. Kent.” 

He smiles. He’s in love. 

He sits up suddenly and nearly lets out a wail to the trees. It’s those other voices that keep his muted. He closes his eyes and hangs his head back. Everything gone. Everything he sacrificed for her. 

His job, Lois, and his child. He saw it inside her. Growing. She didn’t know yet. He was going to surprise her. Again. He loves giving her surprises. 

Loved. 

He looks over at her corpse and whimpers. He’s seen the worst of this planet, of these people. Blood, marrow, bone, bruises... he’s faced the worst villain from across the galaxy. This is unlike any carnage he’s ever seen. He is the greatest monster he’s ever known. 

He’s not some farm kid. He’s not some saviour. He’s a twisted fucking alien. 

He exhales and stands. He paces, mindless of his naked form. He can see beyond the cliff, the outline of the swimmers, he can see for miles the wildlife and thick trunks. 

He swallows, his mouth acidic. He keeps his back to her and head back toward the trees. He’ll tear the place down. Burn it. He’ll go somewhere. Somewhere not earth. 

He stops before he reaches the trees. He can’t leave her there. He wretches as he makes himself turn back. He brings his fist to his mouth as he crosses back to her lifeless form. The top of her neck is melted and black. Her flesh stinks from the burns. 

He drops to his knees beside her. He slides his arms under her gently and scoops her up. He hugs her to him and his eyes tingle. He stands with a wobble. It takes several steps to find his balance. 

His heart thumps as he turns and carries her into the trees, the sway of the leaves, the shrill joy of the swimmers, muting into a bitter silence. His footsteps echo through the forest as the chain links tinkle over the ground. Her warmth is draining from her. 

He lays her at the threshold of the house. He should burn it with her inside. Burn the whole damn planet. 

He can’t. 

He starts digging with his bare hands. It doesn’t take long. When he’s done, his nails, his knuckles, his knees are dirty. 

He reaches to her as he stands in the hole. He doesn’t look as he drags her over by her ankle. He takes the chain off her before he puts her at the bottom, between his feet. She’s flat, her arms limp, legs too. He looks at her, unable to make himself leave her. 

His body moves on its own. He’s blinded with tears as his grief overflows. He’ll never feel her again. He wants to feel her. 

He’s between her legs before he can think. He curls an arm under her, crushing her as he guides himself along her cunt. She’s still warm enough. He closes her eyes to block out her stubbed neck. 

He ruts into her as the dirt tamps down beneath the shape of her. His knees sick as he pounds with everything he’s lost, everything he ever wanted to give her. He cums quickly but doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. 

The night falls and passes over him. He stills but doesn’t leave her. He stays inside her until he feels the stiffness in her. Until the chill has overtaken her completely. 

He grunts as he forces his way out of her. He winces and digs his fingers into the dirt wall to help himself stand. He hops out and goes inside. He finds the plaid skirt. The one he went back for when they got here. 

He brings it to the hole and slips it onto her. She doesn’t look like her. Not just because the missing part. She’s truly gone from him. He feels her death inside him. 

He’s numb as he shovels the dirt with his hands. He covers her, fills up the hole, then sits on it and watches the house beneath the sunlight. He can hear people. All the way down at the lake. They’re happy. Why the fuck are they so happy? 

He’s not. 

Darkness comes again. The house is still standing. He goes inside. 

He doesn’t come out. Not for a while. Not at the days grow cooler. Not as the snows come. Not as the thaw softens the earth around her body. Only when the sunlight wakes him does his hibernation end. 

His hair is messy and long, his beard too. He has no mind for it. He hears the splashing down at the lake. He can see the women diving from the dock. He stands and goes to the door. 

He walks out into the summer haze. The grass has grown over her grave. He stomps past it without a glance and heads for the trees. 

He can’t get her back, but he doesn’t need to be alone. What he is, he doesn’t need love. Love? It’s so human. So pathetic. 

He won’t make the same mistake twice; a cage will do better than the chain. 

End. 

Read the sequel. 

[motthe]

If there requests are still open <3 could you maybe do something with a isekai/Lumen au? I thought of how different would be The reactions towards The different technology or behaviors! Any character is fine! (But if it's possible Viktor) Any gender is fine too!

Only if you're comfortable with it! Your writing is amazing 💖💖💖

oh man this was fun to play around with. thanks for requesting!!!

“Construction will be delayed.” Viktor hated to say it, but the storm had done too much damage to the Hexgate and there was no telling what that lightning strike had done to the core far below ground. “We must pray everything is intact at the base.”

“Elevator’s running. That’s good, right?” Jayce tried to find the silver lining as they stepped in, doors closing behind them.

Viktor grabbed your lumen before gravity shifted. The first time in an elevator had sent you into the ground and you’d yet to learn despite the many times he had used the academy elevator.

It was a common thing amongst lumens. They merely floated so how could they expect the ceiling to suddenly come racing down.

You brightened at his touch as did Jayce’s when he grabbed his own companion. It was second nature for the both of them to keep you close with all the dangers going on around inventors.

“Surely the lightning wouldn’t travel all the way to the core,” Jayce murmured over the whir of gears moving. “It’s miles below surface.”

“All witnesses reported a pulse of energy,” Viktor reminded him, lithe fingers rubbing against the soft outline of you against the crook of his neck. Your warmth was blocked with the long raincoat covering him. “Perhaps a boost of sorts would be best case scenario. An excess.”

“It’s not powering anything yet,” Jayce said.

“That’s why we must investigate, yes?”

As the metal box slowed to a stop, Viktor dropped his hand. You remained pressed against him.

A loud rattling filled the space as the doors creaked open before quickly coming to a halt. The opening was slim.

“Oh, great,” sighed Jayce, pushing forward and attempting to get them open. He grunted, arms straining as his lumen fluttered above his head. “Yeah, no.” He stepped back huffing. “That’s not budging.”

Viktor eyed the opening. “I think I may fit.”

“You wanna go in there alone?” Jayce’s judgmental tone had him rolling his eyes.

“It would make the most of our time.”

“If you get in trouble, I won’t be able to help.”

Viktor gave him a gentle grin, raising a hand to pat his shoulder. “I will be quick, yes?”

His business partner shrugged, shaking his head as he moved aside to let Viktor through.

Grabbing the seam of the door with one hand, he wedged himself through, cane first. The hall was dark, the only light came from inside elevator and your small form as you eased through.

“Stay close, my star,” he whispered, knuckles nudging you as he began the walk to the core room. The hit of his cane against the floor echoed an eerie song, shadows closed in tight against your brilliance.

Reaching the door posed a problem seeing as there wasn’t any power on this hall. But Viktor was prepared.

Moving his raincoat aside and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small pen light and master key and got to work. It was a heavy door but perhaps with some inertia, he’d get it open enough to slip in and check the core.

“You all right?” Jayce’s voice echoed from behind.

“The power is out,” returned Viktor, “I must open the door manually.”

“I’ll see if there’s a control box in here and work on getting these doors open.”

You loomed above, doing a better job of lighting up the lock. He thanked you, finishing up the various interlocking mechanisms before turning his attention to the door.

Taking a breath, he position his bad side against the frame, pushing off with his good leg. It took time, but soon the metal obstacle inched open bringing with it a cold breeze and the glow of the hextech within.

“The cooling system is still active,” he called to Jayce.

A curse sounded as well as an electric zap.

Rolling his eyes, Viktor pushed onwards, slipping through as soon as there was enough space.

His breath clouded in front of him as you hovered near his shoulder, the quiet hum of the core paired with the chill sending goosebumps across his skin.

The fact the core was still active was a good sign and the pack debris on the floor showed nothing had exploded, at least.

Taking a turn around the piece, he squinted as a warm light seeped through the cool, blue glow.

He jumped as the lights overhead flickered to life, the door behind him opening fully as gears turned and Jayce’s “A-ha!” rang out.

Blinking through the sudden blindness, Viktor sighed and rubbed his eyes clear before searching for the light he’d seen.

Instead he saw a hand peaking out from around the core.

“Uh!” he choked, the tip of his cane thumping hard as he moved quickly.

The hand extended to an arm, then a shoulder. A body laid bare just a foot or two from the fore, stomach down and face covered by their hair.

“Jayce!” Viktor yelled, kneeling so fast his cane slid across the floor. His hands hovered over the back, before he took a breath and grabbed their shoulder, attempting to flip them over.

He nearly jumped back as a lumen floated up, a deep, tawny brown. Viktor didn’t pay it much mine, too concerned with trying to get the person on their back and praying they were breathing—

But then your lumen was circling it, the two dancing around one another.

He paused, chest aching as the two brushed and another light blinded him.

You, he thought, breath quickening as he peered down, straining to flip you over. It’s you.

Moving your hair from your face, he took the slope of your nose, the shape of your jaw. You were in a deep slumber, all but dead to the world as clouds slipped from you parted lips.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered, quickly ridding himself of his raincoat and covering your nude form. “Jayce!”

Finally, those heavy footsteps came racing around, nearly slipping from the water trailed on.

“What is it?! Did the core—“ Jayce stood, dumbstruck as he stared down at your body in Viktor’s arms. “How…?”

“Help me,” Viktor gasped. “They’re my fated. Help me!”

“What?” he hissed, eyes moving to the two lumens circling in each other. “Why are they down here?!”

“I don’t know but they’re freezing to death as we speak. They need medical attention.”

Shaking his head, Jayce left the question for later as he lowered to take you from Viktor, carefully keeping you wrapped in the raincoat.

“Go, I will follow,” Viktor ordered. Jayce nodded and took off the way he came towards the elevator. That tawny lumen flew after them as yours returned to Viktor, rubbing against his cheek.

“Please, he all right,” he murmured, cupping you against his neck as he scrambled for his cane. “For my sake.”

.

The crack of lightning and thunder resounded in your head. You bolted upright, gasping.

Something tumbled into your lap, bright against the dark room. You thought maybe you’d knocked a lamp over or a flashlight—but as you get your breath back you find there wasn’t much weight to it.

You scrambled back as it floated up, shrieking.

“What the fuck?!”

Movement across the room had you scrambling for a weapon, the best you get was the pillow behind you as you hold it between you and the weird floating light thing.

“You’re awake.”

The accent was foreign against your ears. You squinted as light flickered on above, taking in a blurry outline on a couch. Rubbing your eyes, you remained tense a man pushed up onto a cane. He stood with a hunched form, shoulders long but dragging down. Wild brown hair framed tired eyes and a narrow face.

“Who are you?” you said, voice cracking from a dry throat. You held the pillow up higher as the light drifted closer. “What is that? Some kind of bug?”

Whatever it was, another one popped up over the man’s shoulder, perching there as if it belonged nowhere else. The man cradled it, brow furrowing.

“You do not know of lumens?”

“What? No,” you huffed, glancing around the room. The white curtains and beds hinted at a hospital or maybe a mental institute. Were you going insane? “Where am I?”

“The infirmary at the academy. It was the closest,” he answered.

“Academy? Which one?”

He tilted his head. “The only one. There are no other academies in Piltover.”

“Piltover?” you whispered. “I don’t know where that is.“

“Are you from another region?” You murmured the name of your country. “Is that in Runeterra?”

“You’re not making any sense,” you huffed, squealing when you spotted the ball of light creeping over the pillow. You panicked, thwacking it away. The man flinched.

“Please don’t,” he said, “it won’t hurt you.”

You eyed the creature before looking to the man.

“You’re connected,” you said.

“Lumens are the embodiment of our souls or so the legends say,” he explained, holding the one on his shoulder out and nudging it towards you. “This one is yours.”

“Mine?” You stared as it hovered, easing back towards the man.

“Go on,” he murmured to it, pushing it back your way. The thing—lumen—refused, sweeping up under his chin as he sighed. “You’re frightened.”

“I don’t know where I am or who you are,” you said flatly. “Of course, I am.”

“Viktor,” he limped forward to the end of your bed, offering a slender hand. “My name is Viktor.”

You took a breath, wincing as the tawny lumen brushed your arm. It was soft and warm, taking a moment before nudging you again.

“Uh, hi,” you whispered to it, raising your eyes to Viktor. “Or, hi to you, I guess?”

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile.

You pushed your fear down and reached forward to take his hand, introducing yourself.

.

When Viktor left the infirmary to grab you food, Jayce was waiting in the hall. He pushed off the wall as soon as the door closed.

“How are they?”

“Fine,” Viktor said, frowning. “They are lost. They don’t seem to know anything about, well, anything.”

Jayce’s face twisted. “Uh, what?”

“They have never seen or heard about lumens,” he explained, “nor have they heard about Piltover or even Runterra. The names they speak are foreign to me.”

“Well, you’re speaking the same language,” he noted.

“That is one blessing,” he sighed.

Jayce frowned, noticing the new weight in Viktor’s stance. “They don’t know they’re your fated?”

He shook his head.

“Did you tell them?”

“They are overwhelmed, Jayce. I think it best to explain it at a later time.”

“But—”

“I do not wish to scare them even more than they already are,” Viktor stated, words sharp.

Jayce’s eyes lowered to your lumen, shaking against the crook of his neck.

“Right. Okay, yeah,” he whispered. The two stood in silence for a moment before he dared to ask, “Do you think…the Hexgate?”

“Perhaps,” Viktor breathed. “We shall find out, but first things first.” He started off down the hall. “I have my fated to take care of, whether they know it or not.”