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seungttttop · 2 days ago

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every version of you

pairing: choi seunghyun x fem! reader

synopsis: you’ve been best friends your entire lives. you danced in pink pointe shoes, while he scribbled lyrics in his notebook. he’s cheered for every twirl, and you’ve clapped for every verse. you’ve been there for each other through every moment. except, when everything you’ve both worked so hard for finally arrives at the same time, you’re left to wonder if the cost of chasing your dreams is losing the one person who’s always been a part of them.

warnings: 18+, mild swearing, angst with happy ending, fluff, miscommunication, emotional conflict.

authors note: i can’t even tell you guys how much i love this story, and the amount of joy it brought me while writing it. dancing has always been a way for me to cope with my emotions, so actually putting that feeling into words was strangely healing (i never did ballet but the idea is the same). anyways, i hope you guys love this as much as i do! it’s pretty long and will definitely hit you right in the feels, so be ready. i love you all! ♡

you don’t really remember a version of your life that didn’t include choi seunghyun.

he’s in every single moment of your childhood.

every scraped knee, every sleepover, every memory worth keeping.

your moms were best friends before either of you were even born, so by the time you came along, the universe had already decided; you were his, and he was yours.

there was never a first meeting. it was just, always.

but if you had to pick a starting point, it would have to be the time you showed up to preschool in your little ballet outfit like it was a red carpet premiere.

a pink leotard, glittery tights, the frilliest tutu you owned, and of course, your favourite ballerina doll tucked tight underneath your arm. she came everywhere with you, but today felt extra important.

three year old seunghyun was already in the classroom when you walked in. sitting on the alphabet rug, shoes off, building a block tower by himself. he looked up as soon as the door opened.

his mouth dropped open when he saw you.

he scrambled to his feet, tripping over one of the blocks in the process. “whoa.”

you blinked at him, confused.

he pointed, wide-eyed. “you look like her!”

you clutched your doll a little closer. “who?”

“your dolly!” he gasped. “the one you always bring. you look just like her.”

you looked down at her sparkly pink tutu and then at your own. “that’s ‘cause i am her.”

he nodded, like that made perfect sense, as his face lit up in that way it only ever did for you. “i’m gonna call you doll now. forever.”

your eyebrows scrunched. “forever?”

“uh-huh.” he stepped closer, serious now. “’cause you’re the only one who looks like a real dolly. and you’re my best friend.”

you paused. “but what if someone else calls me that too?”

his nose wrinkled. “no. it’s just me.”

“okay,” you said, after a long moment. “only you.”

and you meant it.

from that day on, you were doll. only to him, though.

no one else ever tried it more than once. not after the way he glared at a classmate for saying it in passing the next week. not after he grabbed your hand in the middle of lunch and told you, “that’s not your name unless i say it.”

you didn’t really understand what that meant, but you liked the way it sounded in his voice.

it was like a secret only you got to hear.

he always said it like that. like it was something sacred. like you were something sacred.

you didn’t call him anything special. not at first, anyways.

he was just seunghyun. or seunghyunnie, when you were feeling extra nice.

until one random afternoon during free time, only a few weeks after he renamed you.

he was at the art table, legs swinging, tongue poking out in concentration as he coloured in a lopsided rocket ship. crayons were everywhere, including the pink one he’d already set aside for you, like always.

you climbed into the seat next to him, tutu puffing out around you, your doll tucked neatly between your knees.

he didn’t even glance up. just nudged the pink crayon closer and kept drawing.

a rocket. a moon. two stick people floating in the stars.

“you forgot the fire,” you said, pointing at the bottom of the rocket.

“i’m not done yet,” he mumbled around his tongue.

you leaned your chin onto your hand, watching him. “it’s really good, hunnie.”

he paused. his crayon hovered mid-air. “…what?”

you looked up. “what?”

“what’d you just call me?”

“hunnie,” you repeated, like it was obvious. “your name’s too long.”

he blinked. “like…honey? the sticky stuff?”

“no,” you said immediately. “like you.”

he stared at you. eyes wide, cheeks pink, crayon still in his hand. “only you can call me that,” he said finally. very serious.

you nodded, just as serious. “okay. but only if i’m still your doll.”

“you are,” he said, like that was the easiest answer in the world. and to him, it was.

he added a tutu to your stick figure before drawing spiky scribbles for his own hair.

you leaned over, inspecting the picture with a little frown. “you forgot my crown.”

his head popped up. “you wear a crown?”

“sometimes,” you said seriously. “when i’m being a princess.”

his eyes went wide. “you are a princess.”

you didn’t answer. just watched as he grabbed a yellow crayon and scribbled a big lopsided crown right on top of your stick figure’s head.

“there,” he said proudly. “perfect.”

you pointed at the other stick figure. “that’s you?”

“yeah.” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

“you forgot to write our names.” you said, somehow always noticing missing details.

he froze, blinking. “i don’t know how.”

“but you know letters.”

“…yeah,” he mumbled, already reaching for the black crayon.

you watched him sound it out under his breath, tongue sticking out in concentration. he knew his name had an ‘s’ and a ‘y’ and…probably an ‘n’? maybe a ‘g’?

he tried his best, eyebrows furrowed like it was the most important thing he’d ever done.

when he was done, he leaned back so you could see.

snygn + dol

you grinned immediately. “what does that say?”

“us,” he said, all puffed up.

“i think you forgot the e.” you commented, as if you could have done better. you both knew you couldn't.

he shrugged. “letters are hard.”

you didn’t say anything else. just rested your chin back on your hand and stared at the picture a while longer before smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

that was it.

from then on, he was hunnie. just like you were doll.

it stuck. like stickers on your lunchbox. like dried glue on his fingers. like the pink crayon he always saved just for you.

neither of you ever questioned it again.

he always arrived to school before you did. always waited by the classroom door, bouncing on his toes the second your mom’s hand appeared in the window.

if you wore a dress, he complimented it. if you put a new sticker on your lunchbox, he pointed it out like it was hidden treasure.

he carried your bag when it was too heavy. always gave you the better crayons. yelled at the kids who were mean to you. always clapped the loudest when you showed the class your twirls.

so, when your ballet class announced its year-end showcase, it was seunghyun who beamed the brightest.

at the age of four, he made his mom mark the date on their calendar. kept asking what song you were dancing to. what moves you were going to use. what outfit you would wear.

when you told him it was just you on stage for one part, his jaw dropped like you announced you were going to space.

“you have a solo?”

you nodded, nervous.

he grinned. “that’s ‘cause you’re the best.”

you believed him, because he always said it like it was the only reasonable answer.

ballet was something you had always taken very seriously, starting when you were around two and learned how to spin without getting dizzy.

when it came time for your first showcase, your tutu was too puffy and your hair was in a slick bun your mom had already redone three times. your tights itched, your ballet shoes were too tight and you were scared out of your mind, fidgeting behind the curtain with trembling hands when it was almost your turn to perform.

that was until you heard someone call your name. well, not technically your name, but to you, it might as well have been.

“doll!”

you turned just in time to see him darting down the hallway, the sleeves of his little blazer flapping as he ran.

the bouquet he held was nearly the size of his entire torso, wrapped in crinkly cellophane with a pink bow slipping off.

he came to a stop in front of you, flushed and extremely proud of himself.

“they match her dress,” he said, holding the flowers up with both hands. “your dolly one.”

you looked down at her, seeing the soft pink lilies stitched onto the front of her tutu, then back at the flowers.

you gasped. “they’re the same.”

“i told my mom we had to find these ones,” he huffed, like it had been an ordeal. “i said they were your favourite.”

you didn’t even know you had a favourite flower.

but the way he said it, so sure and so proud, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, you didn’t even question it.

they were your favourite now.

and somehow, without either of you ever saying it again, it stayed that way.

every recital. every show. every small performance. he always showed up with pink lilies in hand.

by the time elementary school rolled around, the differences between the two of you started to show a little more.

he thought before he spoke. you spoke before you thought.

he was quiet around most people, always a little guarded. you made friends in every room you entered. you were loud, bright, and impossible to miss.

he liked the back row. you liked the spotlight.

he hated asking for help. you never hesitated to raise your hand.

you were opposites in every way. and still, you moved through the world like a matching set.

people asked why you were always with him. the loud girl and the quiet boy. the dancer and the daydreamer. but it never felt strange to you. it never needed explaining.

you were his favourite noise. he was your calm in the chaos. you never really left each other’s side.

thankfully, by the time high school rolled around, the questions had stopped. no one really asked why you were always together anymore. they just knew.

you were still the loud one. the spotlight. the dancer with the glitter pens, contagious laugh, and a new band-aid on your knee every week.

he was still the quiet one. the rapper in oversized hoodies who barely said a word unless he was around you.

he waited outside your studio every day after class, leaning against the wall, scribbling lyrics while you twirled through your last cooldown.

you always came out humming, pink cheeked and sometimes barefoot, throwing your dance bag towards him like clockwork.

when he got into yg, you were the first person he told. it was between classes, sometime in the mid-morning.

you’d just dropped half your books in the hallway and were mid-rant about how your locker ‘literally hates you’ when he tugged at your sleeve.

“doll.”

you looked up. “hunnie, hold on. i’m yelling.”

“no seriously—” he tried, but you were quicker.

“you won’t believe what it did this time. it slammed shut on my head, and now i have a dent. like an actual dent. do you see it? does my skull look uneven—“

he laughed softly. “can i just—doll—listen.”

you paused, and blinked up at him.

he stepped a little closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “i got in.”

you froze. “got in…?”

his eyes flicked around the hallway, then back to you. “yg.”

your mouth fell open. “shut up.”

“i’m serious.” he whispered, still just as shocked as you were.

“SHUT UP!” you couldn’t stay quiet. not in a moment like this.

“doll—shhhh!” he whisper-hissed, glancing around again. “i don’t want people to know yet.”

it was too late. you already launched yourself into his arms, knocking him back into the lockers behind him with a dramatic squeal.

“i KNEW it!” you shouted, completely ignoring his attempts to shush you. “i told you! i told you you were gonna get in!”

he was blushing furiously, trying not to smile. “you are making such a scene right now.”

you pulled back just enough to grin at him. “you’re a trainee. my best friend is a trainee. this is literally the biggest moment of my life.”

“your life?” he questioned.

“yes, mine,” you sniffed. “your life is my life.”

he rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile anyways.

you nudged him with your shoulder. “don’t act like you’re not obsessed with me.”

“i’m really not,” he said a little too fast, too flat, and way too red in the face.

you smirked. “you literally called me from your house last night to tell me you saw a pigeon with one foot.”

“it was impressive!” he quickly defended.

“uh huh.”

he exhaled through his nose, then rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fidgety. “okay, but—doll, seriously. i need your help.”

your head tilted. “with what?”

he lowered his voice. “dancing.”

you blinked. “hunnie, you know i do ballet, right?”

“yeah.” he shifted on his feet, glancing at the passing students. “but you’re, like…really good at it. and i just found out i’m supposed to learn hip hop for evaluations and i have no idea what i’m doing.”

you softened. “you want me to teach you hip hop?”

“you don’t have to,” he said quickly. “i just figured if anyone could figure it out, it’d be you.”

you looked at him for a long second, then smiled. “meet me at my place after school.”

his head jerked up. “really?”

you shrugged. “your life is my life, remember?”

he grinned, all teeth now. “remind me to get that in writing.”

he showed up right after school, just like you said. hood up, earbuds in, and already mouthing lyrics like he’d been rehearsing the whole walk over.

you had faked being sick at school so you could come home and prepare for this.

you were waiting for him in the living room, where you’d cleared out every possible piece of furniture that could get in the way. the rug was rolled up. the lamp was gone. the coffee table was banished to the hallway.

you had his hoodie and a pair of his sweatpants on.

the sleeves swallowed your hands whole, and the pant legs had to be rolled at your ankles. but when you spun around to face him with a dramatic bow, you looked like you belonged in them.

his brows lifted. “those are mine.”

“tip number one,” you said, striking a ridiculous pose, “baggy clothes make you look cooler. bonus points if they belong to your favorite trainee.”

his mouth twitched. “you’re so full of shit.”

“and you’re welcome,” you said, spinning again. “now you look cool by association.”

“doll,” he warned, grinning now, “don’t test me. i’m already embarrassed enough.”

you softened. stepped closer. “you’re gonna kill it, hunnie.”

he exhaled, looking at you like he always did when he needed to believe something. like if you said it, it had to be true.

“okay,” he murmured. “teach me.”

you started slow, and had him mirror your steps. corrected his posture by tapping his knee, guiding his hands, pulling his shoulders back with the tips of your fingers.

when he kept tensing up, you resorted to drastic measures, which consisted of throwing yourself into the moves like an absolute maniac, flailing your arms and singing off-key.

he nearly collapsed laughing. “what the hell was that?!” he wheezed.

“that,” you said, gasping, “was called confidence.”

“that was called a safety hazard.” he retorted.

“you’re not allowed to bully me,” you scolded, jabbing his chest. “i’m literally molding you into a star right now.”

he caught your finger mid-jab and held it gently for a beat longer than necessary. “you already think i’m a star.”

“obviously,” you grinned. “i’ve known that since we were like two.”

his smile faltered for just a second. not in a bad way, just in that 'caught off guard by how much you love me' type of way.

“maybe i’m just not meant for this,” he muttered, eyes dropping.

you tilted your head. “you say that now, but just wait. give it a year, you’ll be on stage making girls pass out just by looking at them.”

“don’t say that.” he groaned, only half-serious.

“why? you are. you’ve got the voice, the face, the attitude—”

“i don’t have the moves,” he cut in.

you stood up, a little less dramatic this time, brushing your hands off on your sweatpants. “that’s why i’m here.”

he looked at you. really looked at you.

“you already have everything you need, hunnie,” you said softly. “you just don’t believe it yet.”

he didn’t speak. just stared at you like you were saying things he didn’t know how to believe but desperately wanted to.

and for once, he didn’t argue.

you practiced until it was dark. until your body ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing. until he actually started to get it; the rhythm, the ease, the confidence.

it came out of nowhere, but you saw it. that flicker of belief starting to settle in his shoulders. he was good. he’d always been good. he just needed someone to remind him of that.

you said it was the baggy clothes and chaotic energy. he said it was you pulling his shoulders back and looking him in the eye like he was already everything he wanted to become.

you told him he had the swag for it. the presence. the attitude. he just needed the belief. you’d been right all along.

and now, at nineteen, just weeks away from his debut, he was exhausted, restless, and always on the move. but, he was still the same boy who’s cheeks flushed pink every time you called him hunnie in front of other people.

you’re now in school on a ballet scholarship, surrounded by perfectionism, pointed toes, late night rehearsals and pressure that always manages to sneak under your skin.

but you still make time. for him, you always would.

he’s your best friend. your biggest supporter, and you’ve been his for just as long. even before either of you had the words to explain what that really meant.

sometimes he meets you outside class with two drinks and his hoodie half-zipped.

sometimes you show up at his rehearsals and sit on the floor with your knees tucked up to your chest, mouthing the words like you wrote them yourself.

he still calls you doll like it’s your real name.

still listens to every dramatic rant about your professors like it’s headline news.

still texts you when he can’t sleep, or when he should be sleeping but is too busy pacing with headphones in.

being with him has always been the easiest part of your life.

like breathing. like sunlight. like something you never had to question. it was comfort without condition. love without demand.

ballet was different though. it was all discipline and devotion.

it asked for your silence, your hours, your pain. and still, it never promised anything back.

you bled for it. bent for it. broke for it. not because it gave you peace, but because it gave you purpose.

because somewhere in all that ache, you felt alive through it all.

tonight was no different.

you’d been at the studio for hours at this point.

the mirrors had long stopped reflecting daylight. your water bottle sat untouched by the stereo. the only sound was the soft thud of pointe shoes and the occasional squeak of the bar beneath your palm.

your thighs ached. your feet were blistered. but your head was louder than your body; full of counts and choreography and the rising panic that you wouldn’t be ready in time.

the showcase was next saturday.

the one they held every spring; a curated performance for scouts, agents, and the most elite conservatories across the country.

usually, it was only for seniors. maybe a junior or two, if their talent was undeniable.

you were only a freshman. you weren’t even supposed to be considered.

but your coach had pushed. argued. said she’d stake her name on you. and when they finally gave in, she called you into her office with the list in her hand and a huge smile on her face.

you were on it.

no real time to prepare. no safety net. just a little over one week to prove you belonged on that stage.

you hadn’t told anyone about it yet. not even him.

your body was running on pure instinct. pirouette after pirouette, breath ragged, sweat clinging to your skin like second fabric.

the spins blurred together, every muscle tightening to stay upright.

you’re somewhere in your sixth pirouette when the door suddenly opened with a quiet creak and a small flash of the hallway light.

your focus slipped, causing you to tumble slightly out of your turn.

your foot skidded on the floor as it landed, arms lifting instinctively to catch your balance.

“doll?” his voice rang out softly.

you blinked toward the doorway, heart still racing, sweat dripping down your back. “hunnie?”

he smiled wide. “you weren’t answering your phone.”

before you could respond, he jogged across the room and scooped you into his arms, spinning you once before setting you down again.

you laughed like a little girl, already feeling so much lighter than you felt two seconds ago. “you scared me,” you said, still clinging to his arms.

“yeah, well, you scared me,” he countered. “it’s late. and i know you. when it’s this late and you’re still here…”

you looked up at him. he didn’t finish the sentence. he didn’t have to.

“yah!” came a muffled shout. “you said together!”

“he ditched us again!” another voice called out, sounding completely offended.

the door burst open, and chaos followed.

jiyong stumbled in first, arms out dramatically. “doll’s here!”

“don’t call her that,” seunghyun muttered, not even turning around.

“what? it’s cute.” jiyong smirked, already bee-lining for the bar. “besides, she likes me better.”

“hi noona!” daesung grinned as he bounded in. “we come bearing good news and interpretive dance.”

he flung a leg onto the barre with zero grace, mimicking your stretch in the most exaggerated, cartoonish way possible.

“she’s gonna kick your ass,” youngbae said, wobbling mid-pirouette before almost crashing into the wall.

you just blinked at all of them, wide-eyed, a little stunned, and then you laughed. the sound broke out of you without warning, sharp and soft all at once. it cracked through your exhaustion like sunlight through a glass window.

“what the hell are you guys doing here?” you asked, eyes darting back to seunghyun.

he was practically glowing, like the kind of proud that couldn’t be contained.

“we’re debuting,” he blurted.

you blinked. “you’re—what?”

“it’s official,” he beamed. “next saturday. on a live broadcast. it’s real.”

your breath caught, but not because of the date. not yet. you hadn’t even registered that part.

the words blurred behind the weight of him. of this. of them.

you threw your arms around him without thinking.

he caught you instantly, arms closing around your waist as your feet left the ground again. “hunnie! oh my god—you did it!”

“we did it,” jiyong called from behind, still latched to the barre.

“i’m so proud of you,” you whispered, forehead pressed against seunghyun’s shoulder. “so, so proud.”

he eased you back just enough to look at you. “you’ll be there, right?”

that’s when the date landed. next saturday.

your fingers curled tighter around his sleeves before you could stop them.

it was on the same day as your showcase.

but you still smiled like you hadn’t just swallowed glass. “of course. i wouldn’t miss it.”

his brows twitched with the smallest flicker of something, but he didn’t say anything.

jiyong cleared his throat. “so what is this place? and why does it smell like sweat and sad dreams?”

“it’s a ballet studio,” you said, grateful for the shift in attention. “and those are the dreams of every dancer who died trying to nail fouettés.”

“noona,” daesung called, lifting his leg again and pretending to sob. “i have a cramp.”

“i have a question,” youngbae added. “how do you move in those shoes?”

you let them clown around for awhile. let their chaos pull you out of your thoughts.

until you felt seunghyun’s eyes still on you.

you turned back toward him. “what?”

he was studying you. not suspiciously, but something more gentle.

“so why are you here this late?” he asked. “this studio closes hours ago unless you’re—”

“—working on something,” you interrupted. “yeah.”

“showcase?” he asked, head tilting.

“i just got offered one today,” you said. “it’s pretty big. they didn’t give me much prep time.”

“you didn’t tell me,” he said, more surprised than hurt.

you shrugged, eyes flicking away. “you’ve had bigger things going on.”

he watched you for another beat, longer than he probably meant to, before nodding once and letting it go.

you exhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the barre. the smile on your face stayed steady, but the air around your ribs felt tight.

“anyways,” you said brightly, “wanna see what i’ve got so far?”

the boys erupted into chaotic agreement, but seunghyun’s voice was the softest and the closest. “always.”

you didn’t plan on saying anything about the fact that you won’t be able to attend his debut, and that he would be missing a performance of yours for the first time.

not tonight, anyways.

you made it through your rehearsal. through the boys’ visit. through seunghyun insisting he slept over at your apartment tonight. through the car ride home and the quiet shuffle up the stairs.

you even let yourself melt into him a little on the couch; head on his shoulder, hand tangled with his, pretending the static in your chest wasn’t getting louder.

but he knew you better than anyone. better than you knew yourself. so when he turned to you, eyes searching and his voice barely above a whisper, “doll…what aren’t you telling me?”, it all cracked open.

you sat up slowly, pulling your hand from his. “i didn’t want to ruin it.”

he didn’t move. he just stared, waiting.

your throat tightened. “your debut,” you added. “i didn’t want to take anything away from it. from you.”

his brows pulled together. “what are you talking about?”

you took a breath, and then, before you could stop yourself, it came out. “my showcase is next saturday too.”

the words hung in the air. it felt thick. quiet. final.

he blinked once. then again. his whole body went still. “what?”

you looked down at your lap. “my showcase and your debut. they’re both on saturday.”

his breath caught. “why didn’t you tell me?”

“because i knew what would happen,” you said quickly. “you’d feel guilty, and i didn’t want that.”

his voice went quiet. “you’ve never lied to me.”

“i wasn’t trying to lie,” you whispered. “i was trying to protect you.”

he flinched. barely, but you felt it. he stood suddenly. pacing once, twice, like his skin was too tight. like his chest couldn’t hold the pressure.

“do you know how many performances i’ve missed?” he asked, almost biting.

you swallowed hard. “none.”

“none, doll. not a single one.” his voice cracked, and your heart broke with it.

“you were sick. you were hurt. you had that dumb middle school flu that wiped out your whole grade and you still showed up,” you said. “i know.”

“and now i won’t be there.” he dragged a hand over his mouth. “for this. the one that matters most.”

“stop,” you said, standing too now. “don’t make me feel worse for something i can’t control.”

he turned toward you. “you think this is about you?”

“isn’t it?” you asked, slightly taken off guard.

“it’s about us.” his voice dropped, raw and thick. “about how this is the one time we don’t get to show up for each other. and it fucking hurts.”

you didn’t mean to cry, but it was already happening. your lip trembled, and when you blinked, the tears came hot and fast.

“i didn’t say anything because i knew you’d pick me.” your voice broke open.

he stilled.

“and you can’t, hunnie.” you stepped back, chest heaving, hands shaking like you couldn’t hold it in anymore. “not this time. not when this is exactly what you’ve been working for. what you’ve given up everything for.”

“doll…”

“if you would have even thought about skipping your debut for me, i would’ve never forgiven myself.”

his face twisted like it physically hurt to hear that.

you kept going anyway. “this is your dream. this is your life. and i’m just—i’m just some girl who got a showcase dropped on her out of nowhere and didn’t have the guts to speak up about it.”

his head shook. “you’re not just—”

“i didn’t want to take anything away from you,” you said, quieter now. “not one second of it. not the attention, not the celebration, not the moment. i just…i wanted to protect it.”

his jaw clenched.

you looked down, voice barely a whisper. “i just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

he didn’t say anything. not at first.

he just looked at you like those words physically hurt him. like he didn’t understand how someone like you could ever believe something so wrong.

then, gently, like he was afraid you might pull away, his hands cupped your face.

you barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.

not like a best friend. not like a maybe. like a breaking point.

your heart stopped. your whole body did too. because for one dizzying second, you weren’t even sure this was real.

you’d dreamt of this moment. wanted it quietly, selfishly, for longer than you were ever willing to admit.

but this was better. so much better.

his lips moved with a kind of certainty that undid you.

slow at first, reverent. then deeper, needier, like he’d been holding back for years.

and maybe he had. you certainly had.

your fingers curled in the front of his hoodie, holding on tightly.

because the second your lips moved with his, everything else disappeared. you weren’t tired or scared or second-best anymore.

you were his. and god, did it feel good.

it was hot. aching. tender in a way you didn’t know kisses could be. like every part of him was trying to show you what he couldn’t say.

when you finally pulled apart, it was barely an inch. just enough to breathe.

your foreheads pressed together. his hands still cradling your face like you were something fragile. your own hands still clinging to him like the ground might give out from underneath you.

you blinked at him, stunned. he looked just as wrecked.

his voice cracked when he finally spoke. “you could never disappoint me,” he said. “not even if you tried.”

your chest squeezed tight.

“you hear me, doll?” he whispered. “never.”

you didn’t say much after the kiss. neither did he, really.

his hands dropped from your face slowly, fingertips ghosting down your jaw like he didn’t want to let go. like part of him still didn’t believe it had happened. and honestly, you didn’t either.

you changed in the bathroom, your heart pounding too loud to think straight. your reflection looked the same, but everything felt different. your lips were still swollen from his. your hands still shook from holding him. your heart was feeling things it had never let rise to the surface before.

when you opened the door, all of the lights were off.

he was already in your bed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might tell him what to do next. the blanket barely moved with his breathing.

you climbed in quietly beside him. still managing to keep your distance while also lying on your back.

neither of you spoke for a while.

the air felt heavier than it should have. not tense, just fragile. like if either of you breathed too deeply, it would all break apart.

his voice suddenly came, low and careful. “i’m sorry.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t even look at him.

“i shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said. “i wasn’t thinking.”

your hands curled into the sheets as he continued, not knowing he was shattering everything inside of you.

“i didn’t mean to make things weird.”

you swallowed hard. “you didn’t.”

he let out a quiet breath, but you could feel that he didn’t believe you.

“i shouldn’t’ve done it if i didn’t know how you felt,” he said after a pause. “i just—i don’t wanna lose what we have.”

his words stung more than they should have. because you knew how you felt. and you thought, maybe, he did too.

you forced the words out. “we’re fine.”

you weren’t. but you didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at you, either.

so he didn’t see the way your eyes filled up with tears.

you turned your face toward the wall, biting your lip so hard it bled. the tears came out quietly, soaking into the pillow while he laid there; still, silent, and only a few inches away.

by the time he woke up the next morning, you were already gone.

no note. no text. just the faint hum of the city bleeding in through the half-open window, and the fading warmth on your side of the bed.

he sat up too fast. checked the bathroom. the kitchen. his phone.

nothing.

he texted you more than once.

hunnie: good morning doll.

hunnie: are you okay?

hunnie: where’d you go?

you left them all on read.

he tried again, just a few hours later.

hunnie: not trying to push, just please tell me you’re okay.

you didn’t answer that one either.

you didn’t block him. you didn’t lash out. you just went silent, and in some ways, that hurt more.

because he didn’t know if it meant you were mad, or heartbroken, or maybe regretting it all.

he didn’t know if it meant you just needed space, or if you were already gone for good.

he couldn’t stop replaying it. the kiss. the look in your eyes. the way your hands trembled when you held onto him.

had he imagined it? was he wrong?

he started slipping during practices. forgetting transitions he could normally do in his sleep.

the choreographer called for a five-minute break after he missed the same step three times in a row. he sat on the floor, elbows on his knees, eyes unfocused.

“you good?” jiyong asked quietly.

he nodded. lied. said he was just tired, but he didn’t sleep that night either.

you weren’t doing any better.

you threw yourself into dancing like it was the only thing keeping you upright. stayed hours after everyone else left the studio. bruised your knees on turns that didn’t land, and didn’t care. you pushed yourself until your feet gave out underneath you.

you didn’t cry.

at least, not until the lights were off. that’s when it all came out.

you missed him. not just the version of him who kissed you like he meant it. you missed your best friend. the one who knew when you were spiralling, even before you did.

you almost texted him a thousand times, but what would you even say?

sorry i disappeared.

sorry i didn’t tell you i loved it too.

sorry it scared me.

sorry i thought leaving would hurt less than staying.

you didn’t send any of them. silence was the easier choice.

he left your favourite drink outside the studio two days later. no note. just his name for you on the lid, written in his messy handwriting.

doll.

the sight of the word made your stomach twist. you stared at it through the window long before you stepped outside, picked it up, and took a small sip.

your throat closed around it, and the ache in your chest deepened. it still tasted like love.

you tossed it in the trash without a word.

it was just after midnight when he pulled up outside of your apartment again. he hadn’t even realized where he was going until he turned the corner and saw the light.

that same damn light in the front window. the soft amber glow seeping through the sheer curtain, the one you always left on when you weren’t home.

“it makes me feel safer,” you’d said to him once, curled into the corner of your couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin. “like if it’s on, no one can tell i’m not home.”

he’d teased you for it. called you dramatic. but he still asked what kind of bulb it was, just in case it ever burned out.

he hadn’t knocked. not once this week.

because every time he passed your place, which he'd done more than he wanted to admit, the stupid lamp was on, meaning you weren’t there.

this time, he didn’t just sit there and wait for you to come home. he just turned the car around.

the city passed in streaks of neon, but he barely registered any of it. there was no destination typed in. no music playing. just his hands on the wheel and that hollow pull in his chest, steering him somewhere he already knew he’d end up.

by the time he reached the studio, the parking lot was empty. the building itself loomed in stillness, filled with darkness, except for a single window on the second floor, shining a faint light onto the world below it.

he killed the engine and climbed out without a second thought, barely registering the slam of the door behind him. the air felt electric and charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. every step toward the entrance echoed in his skull, causing his legs to move faster the closer he got.

he knew exactly where to go. didn’t have to think. didn’t even have to look.

he took the stairs two at a time, rounded the corner, and froze.

there it was.

your music. loud and unrelenting. no structure. no rhythm. just pain, vibrating through the floor like it was trying to crawl up the walls and escape.

he stepped closer, and through the thin strip of glass in the door, he saw you.

of course it was you. he knew you would be here. but still, the sight of you nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

you were barefoot, sweat clinging to your skin, hair stuck to your cheeks in damp, tangled strands. your movements weren’t polished. they weren’t even practiced. they were frantic. trembling. like each step was a question you didn’t have an answer for. like if you stopped, it might all catch up to you.

so you continued to do what you do best. you danced.

you danced like it was the only way to keep your chest from splitting open. like movement was the only thing louder than the ache. the way your body hit the floor didn’t sound like choreography, it sounded like heartbreak. like desperation. like the only thing left to say.

he’d never seen you like this. not even close.

and he’d seen it all.

every bruise. every studio meltdown. the night your mom forgot to pick you up from rehearsal so he walked you home. the time you twisted your ankle two days before your first competition and swore your life was over.

he was the one who iced it. the one who stood on the side of the stage with his hands in fists, silently counting beats under his breath like it might help you land the ending clean.

you were still in pigtails when he first saw you cry over a routine. still too small to reach the top of your locker without him lifting you up.

he’d been there through it all. the good, the ugly, the loud, the barely-held-together.

this wasn’t a tantrum. this wasn’t nerves. this was grief, raw and quiet, shaking its way through every inch of your body.

he stood there, just outside the door, like a kid again. too scared to touch anything in case it broke.

his hand hovered at the glass, frozen.

he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until your knees gave out from below you, like your body had finally surrendered.

you didn’t brace for the fall. your palms hit the floor with a dull thud, arms barely catching you, like even gravity had grown tired of asking you to fight.

your head dropped forward as your shoulders caved in.

there was no sob. no scream either. just the kind of silence that rang louder than anything he’d heard all night.

that was what broke him the most.

he moved before he could stop himself, pushing the door open like it hurt to be on the other side of it. the soft click behind him sounded too loud in the stillness, but you didn’t flinch.

he didn’t speak. not yet. just crossed the room in slow, careful steps. like if he moved too fast, you’d disappear.

he sat down a few feet away, knees bent, arms resting on them, mirroring your shape without even thinking. the distance between you was small, but somehow, it still felt like miles.

“why haven’t you answered me?” his voice wasn’t sharp. it was soft and cracked around the edges, like he’d been rehearsing it for days and still didn’t know how to say it right.

you didn’t turn around. your hands were still on the floor. your breathing was still uneven. your eyes didn’t move from the spot on the floor where you’d fallen.

“you’ve left me on read for three days now, doll.”

he wasn’t accusing you. it sounded more like he was trying to figure out how that even happened in the first place.

“is it because of the kiss?”

you shook your head, just once. small and automatic. not enough to mean anything.

“it’s not,” you said. too quietly.

he moved forward. slowly. like he was waiting for you to push him back. “then what is it?”

you didn’t answer.

“you’ve never gone quiet on me. not like this.” his voice was closer now. you could feel it.

“i’ve just been busy,” you muttered.

“don’t,” he said gently. “don’t do that.”

you swallowed hard. “the showcase is in four days. i don’t have time for anything else right now.”

there was a short pause before he continued. “you always have time for me.”

your throat burned as you tried to keep your voice steady. “well. maybe i don’t this time.”

his voice dropped. “that’s bullshit and you know it.”

your jaw clenched. you could feel the weight of him at your side now, but you still wouldn’t look.

“i watched your run-through.”

your stomach sank when those words came out of his mouth. you didn’t realize he’d been watching you.

“you’ve never danced like that before,” he said softly. “it looked like it hurt.”

you swallowed hard as you closed your eyes.

“i said i’m fine,” you whispered.

“no,” he said gently. “you didn’t.”

you hated how steady he sounded. like he wasn’t angry, just wrecked.

your voice cracked before you could stop it. “it wasn’t the kiss.”

he didn’t say anything.

“it was what you said after.” you could feel him flinch. not visibly, just in the way the air shifted between you.

“i figured,” he murmured.

you nodded once, bitter and small. “you said you shouldn’t have kissed me.”

he didn’t defend it. didn’t backpedal either. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “i was scared.”

your voice was thin. “yeah…so was i.” you didn’t even know what you were admitting. you just knew that it was true.

you hugged your arms around yourself tighter. like if you held on hard enough, maybe it would hurt less.

“i don’t know what i thought would happen,” you whispered. “but you kissed me, and for a second i let myself believe it meant something. and then you said you shouldn’t have.”

he didn’t move. didn’t speak either. just let the words sit between you like they were burning through the floor.

“you looked at me like you regretted it,” you said, barely audible now. “like touching me was some kind of mistake.”

“if i ruined everything,” he whispered, “i need you to tell me so i can fix it properly.”

you shook your head, slow but sure. “you didn’t ruin anything.”

his voice broke as he moved closer. “then why won’t you look at me?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t.

your breath had already turned uneven, your shoulders already trembling with the weight of it all. like your body had known that you were going to break before your mind caught up.

you lifted your head slowly, almost unwillingly, like the movement itself might hurt.

when your eyes finally met his, that was it.

your face crumpled instantly, your next breath catching on a sob you couldn’t hold back. the kind that had been stuck in your chest for days. weeks. maybe longer.

his expression shattered right along with you.

“oh,” he whispered. “oh, doll…no.”

his hand hovered for a beat, then reached out, gentle and open, like it always had been. and the second your fingers found his, it was over.

your whole body gave out. not from weakness, but from finally allowing yourself to feel.

you collapsed into him, your hands fisting weakly in his shirt as the sobs came harder and heavier.

he caught you like he always did. like he always would.

his arms around your back, hand cradling your head, like he was trying to piece you back together with his touch alone.

you sobbed into his shoulder, causing him to he hold you even tighter.

“i didn’t mean it,” he whispered. “what i said after—i didn’t mean it like that. i panicked. i thought i ruined everything and i didn’t know if you—”

you pulled back just enough to see him. your cheeks were streaked with tears, your mouth trembling.

“i thought you knew,” you said, and it came out like it hurt.

he stilled.

“i thought you knew,” you repeated, quieter now. “i thought you always knew.”

he opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

you shook your head, trying to breathe through it. “i didn’t say anything because i didn’t think i had to. you’ve been there my whole life. every performance, every birthday, every broken piece—” your voice cracked. “you were always the one who stayed.”

his eyes burned, chest rising unevenly.

“and i kept thinking—if anyone could see it…if anyone could feel it without me having to say it…” you looked at him like it was breaking you open. “i thought it would be you.”

his lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

“you were always there,” you said, barely holding steady. “every time. every piece of my life that ever meant anything—you were in it. so i thought…” your breath caught, “i thought maybe you felt it too.”

he looked wrecked. completely still, except for the way his hands curled at your sides.

“i did,” he said, hoarsely. “i do. i just—” he blinked hard, trying to stay composed. “i was so fucking scared that i made it all up. that if i said something, or did something, i’d lose you.”

you shook your head, hurt flickering through your chest.

before you could respond, his hand cupped your cheek like it was instinct. “i’ve loved you every second of my life,” he said, voice cracking. “i swear to god.”

your chest pulled tight. “then why did you say it was a mistake?”

“because i was terrified,” he said. “because we’ve always had us. and the second i kissed you, i thought maybe i’d ruined the only thing that ever made sense to me.”

you blinked fast. “you didn’t ruin it. you were it.”

he closed his eyes like that hurt more than anything else.

“i just needed you,” you whispered. “and you weren’t there. not this time.”

his forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking. “i didn’t know how to be. you pushed me away.”

“because you made me feel like a mistake,” you choked. “and you’ve never done that before.”

he was silent for a beat before whispering, “i’m sorry.”

he leaned in, but this time he didn’t kiss you. just rested his head against yours. his thumb brushed lazy circles into your palm, like he needed to remind you he was still there. still yours.

“i’m so fucking sorry, doll.”

you didn’t reply. you didn’t need to. he already knew you’d forgiven him. he felt it in the way you didn’t pull away. in the way your fingers stayed curled around his.

for a while, neither of you moved. his hoodie soaked in your tears. your bodies cold against the floor.

the silence, for once, didn’t feel like a punishment. it felt like grief. like history. like maybe, finally, forgiveness.

his hand never left yours. not even for a second.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that, curled into him on the studio floor.

his hoodie still smelled like fabric softener, cedar and whatever cologne he’s used since high school. your fingers clutched it like it could keep the ache from pulling you under again.

“doll,” he whispered, voice close to your ear. “come on. let’s get you out of here.”

you didn’t move right away.

your eyes were swollen, your body heavy, but he shifted anyways, arms wrapping around you, slowly and carefully.

you didn’t stop him. you didn’t even try.

he lifted you easily, like it didn’t matter that he was exhausted too. one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back. your head fell against his chest, and his chin rested on top of it like instinct.

the door buzzed as he nudged it open with his foot, stepping into the soft night with you still in his arms.

the world was quiet.

he didn’t speak as he carried you to the car, just tightened his hold every time your breath hitched, like he could feel it coming before you did.

when he opened the passenger side door, he hesitated.

you looked up at him for the first time in minutes.

and he looked down at you like he was memorizing the moment. not for romance, but for survival. for you.

he helped you settle into the seat, pulled the seatbelt across your lap, then gently shut the door.

you watched him walk around the front of the car, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, head low.

he climbed in and turned the key. the car hummed to life, but he didn’t say anything right away.

the drive started in silence. you didn’t turn on the radio. didn’t say where to go. he already knew.

the windows were down halfway. the air was cool and smelled like nighttime.

you stared out the window with your fingers curled in your lap. his hand stayed loose on the steering wheel. his other hand rested on the gearshift, like always.

you could feel him glancing over at you every few minutes, but he didn’t push.

not until you were about halfway home.

“doll?” his voice was soft. cautious.

you looked over at him, eyes still tired. “yeah?”

he didn’t look back right away, just kept driving.

“you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said. “but i’m not gonna pretend i’m not scared shitless right now.”

your breath caught slightly. “why?”

he let out the smallest laugh. “because you’ve never shut down on me before. not like that.”

you looked down, almost out of shame.

“you’ve been through hell and back,” he went on. “and you’ve never shut me out. not once.”

you didn’t answer.

“i meant what i said earlier. about being scared.” his fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “i’ve never felt anything like that before, and i didn’t wanna screw it up. but i did anyway.”

“you didn’t,” you said quietly. “not really.”

he finally looked over towards you.

“you hurt me,” you said honestly. “but i think, maybe i needed to hear it. even if it broke me a little.”

he blinked, like that hit deeper than you meant it to.

“but i still love you,” you added, quieter. “i never stopped.”

he pulled in a slow breath. “i never wanted you to feel alone,” he said. “and i hate that you did.”

you nodded once. “me too.”

the silence after that didn’t feel as hard.

he pulled up in front of your apartment, but you didn’t move to get out right away. neither did he.

“hunnie?”

he turned toward you, brows pulled slightly.

you leaned your head back against the seat. “what happens now?”

he exhaled, eyes falling to your hand in your lap. his pinky reached out and brushed against yours.

“we survive this week,” he said. “you dance your heart out. the boys and i debut. and after that…” he shrugged. “we'll figure it out.”

you nodded. “okay.”

he gave you a crooked, tired smile. “still best friends, though?”

you let out a soft giggle. “forever.”

“damn right.” he grinned.

your hand found his this time, fingers laced together. you didn’t kiss. didn’t say anything else.

just held on for a second longer before you finally opened the door and stepped out into the night.

he waited until you were inside before driving off.

you watched the taillights disappear from your window with your heart still aching, but beating a little steadier than before.

you didn’t sleep much that night.

not because you were upset, but because the silence felt too loud without him.

you kept picturing him parked outside, his pinky latched onto yours. you kept hearing the way he said “we’ll figure it out,” like it was a promise, even if it didn’t actually fix anything.

he called the next morning. and that night. and again the next day. always soft, always just checking in.

he didn’t ask to come over. didn’t try to see you. he just talked. about your day, your rehearsals, your routine, your nerves. anything to hear your voice.

whenever you asked about the debut, he always downplayed it; said it was hectic, yeah, but good. said they were still running through everything. said he missed you. said they all missed you

it felt mostly normal after that, but not fully.

because even when the calls felt easy, when your laughter slipped out more than once and when he called you ‘doll’ like it was muscle memory, there was still something in the pauses.

something in the way neither of you brought up friday night again. not the kiss. not the aftermath. not the ache of almost losing each other.

and maybe it was for the best; after all, your showcase was today, and so was his debut.

your chest had been aching since you woke up.

you were sat at your makeup table, already dressed, but it didn’t feel like you’d gotten ready at all.

the mirror reflected someone composed; curled lashes, cheeks dusted pink, ribbons crossed just right at your ankles, but the stillness in your body gave it away to anyone who really knew you.

you weren’t even performing, and yet, you were still putting on an act.

your tutu fanned out around you like a shield. your leotard clung too tight across your ribs. every inch of you looked like it belonged here, like it had done this a thousand times before.

but your hands stayed folded in your lap, unmoving and unsure.

it felt like you were holding your breath in reverse. like something was pressing into your lungs from the inside out.

you wondered how he was feeling.

you wondered if he felt it too, that tightness that in his chest that had nothing to do with nerves, and everything to do with you.

you wondered if somewhere, right now, he was thinking about you too.

you could almost see it.

him backstage, shoulders loose but eyes scanning the crowd, like he was hoping you’d somehow be in it.

maybe running a thumb over the mic in his hand the way you smoothed the ribbons on your shoes; a quiet ritual before stepping into the light.

you imagined him leaning towards his manager, pretending to listen, mind somewhere else entirely. somewhere with you.

for as long as you could remember, he’d been in your crowd. grinning, clapping, waving the flowers you’ve never once had to ask for.

just like how you’d been in his, screaming the lyrics no one else knew yet, camera shaking in your hands.

but tonight, the seats you normally saved for each other would remain empty.

no matter how many lights hit you, no matter how loud the applause, it wouldn’t feel quite right without him there to see it.

he was your other half. your anchor. your constant. and now, you have no choice but to take the stage without him in the crowd.

a knock sounded at the door.

“five minutes.”

you didn’t move.

behind you, another dancer asked gently, “are you okay?”

you nodded, barely.

you were, but you weren’t.

your body was ready; stretched, warmed up, knew every step like muscle memory. but your chest was still aching.

regardless of the pain, you stood up, because you knew he’d want you to.

and even if he couldn’t be there, even if this was the first time you had to cheer for each other from opposite ends of the city, you’d still dance like he was watching.

and you prayed to yourself that he’d perform like you were listening.

what you didn’t know was that he was already in the audience, and had been for almost an hour.

sitting in the sixth row. pink lilies in hand. his tie a little crooked from how fast he’d changed.

he didn’t tell you the debut got pushed to tomorrow. instead, he just showed up.

the boys were with him too, crammed into the row like they had no idea how theater seating worked.

“this seat’s so tiny,” daesung whispered, squished between armrests.

“why are you wearing sunglasses?” youngbae hissed at jiyong, already pulling them off of his face.

“no one’s gonna see me anyways,” jiyong argued. “don’t kill my vibe.”

“they’ll see you if we get kicked out,” seunghyun muttered, not looking away from the stage.

the others stilled at the sound of his voice. it was steady, but sharp. almost like he was trying not to feel too much and was already failing.

a moment of silence passed, but it never lasted long with them around.

“…how long’s her piece again?” jiyong asked, voice lower now. “seven minutes?”

“twelve,” seunghyun said without thinking.

daesung blinked. “did you memorize the program?”

“he memorized the choreography,” jiyong smirked. “he’s been pacing through it in the living room for days now, i swear.”

seunghyun didn’t deny it.

“yo, does she even know we’re here?” youngbae asked, glancing around.

“nope,” jiyong said, popping the p.

“you really didn’t tell her?” daesung asked, quieter now. “about the debut being rescheduled?”

seunghyun just shook his head.

“damn,” jiyong muttered. “that’s kinda romantic.”

“it’s not romantic,” seunghyun said, voice taut. “it’s…hers. this night’s hers. i just wanted to be here for her.”

they didn’t tease him. not this time.

the lights dimmed before anyone could say another word, and a hush fell over the crowd.

well, maybe not the whole crowd.

the second the first dancer stepped onto the stage, the three boys, who had sworn to seunghyun they’d behave, immediately started whispering critiques to each other like they were seasoned professionals.

“is she supposed to be a swan?” daesung whispered, squinting.

“looks more like a confused goose,” jiyong said.

youngbae leaned in. “what is this song? it sounds like elevator music, but if the elevator was broken.”

“she’s doing the arms wrong,” jiyong added. “y/n looks way cooler when she does that.”

“her foot just slipped,” daesung said. “minus points.”

“you’re not a judge,” youngbae hissed.

“clearly i should be,” daesung argued.

seunghyun didn’t say a word. just exhaled slowly and adjusted the bouquet in his lap.

the next dancer came out.

“wait, is her tutu lopsided?” jiyong asked.

“yes,” youngbae nodded, serious. “and it’s distracting me spiritually.”

“she looks nervous,” daesung whispered. “i’d be nervous too if y/n was going after me.”

“they saved her for the end for a reason,” jiyong added. “she’s the ringer. the finale. the fan favourite.”

“she’s literally the youngest one here,” youngbae whispered. “and she’s still the best.”

“boys,” came a sharp voice from in front of them.

they froze.

a mom had turned around in her seat with narrow eyes. she didn’t even tell them to be quiet. she just gave them the look.

jiyong sank into his chair. daesung covered his mouth. youngbae folded his hands like he was praying.

when your name was finally announced over the speakers, they all sat up straighter.

seunghyun didn’t move. he sat there with his heart thudding so loud he was sure the others could hear it.

the moment you stepped out, everything else around him disappeared.

you didn’t see him. you didn’t know he was there.

but god, if you danced any harder, he swore the floor would’ve cracked open beneath you.

you moved like the music was stitched into your skin. like you weren’t just performing it, you were remembering it. feeling it.

every turn, every extension, every single line of your body said what your mouth never could.

grief. joy. ache. defiance.

it was all there. raw, clear, and devastatingly beautiful.

his chest hurt. not in the poetic, romantic kind of way, but in the real, physical, aching kind of way.

he knew how much this piece had cost you.

he just hadn’t realized how much it would cost him to watch you give it away like this.

you were the youngest one in the program. the only one still nineteen, surrounded by juniors and seniors with polished resumes and expensive training.

but none of that mattered now.

not when it was only you moving on stage, taking up all of the air in the room.

not when even the spotlight seemed like it was holding its breath.

he couldn’t look away. he barely registered the boys beside him.

didn’t hear jiyong whisper “holy shit” under his breath, or feel youngbae nudge him, as if to say ‘are you seeing this?’

he didn’t even notice daesung blinking too fast, almost like he might cry without knowing why.

he only saw you.

you, dancing like this stage had been waiting for you your entire life.

like your body remembered something your heart hadn’t even realized it had lost.

when you reached your final pose, chest rising quickly and arms still trembling from the hold, he stood.

not because he thought he should, but because his body moved before his mind could catch up.

you didn’t bow right away.

you just stayed there, still and breathless. your arms softened a second too late, like they didn’t want to let go. like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that it was over.

in the silence between the last note and the first clap, seunghyun could have sworn the whole world had paused just for you.

it didn’t take long for the crowd to erupt. not politely. not because they were supposed to. but because they had to.

because something in them recognized what you’d just done, even if they couldn’t name it.

you bowed once, quickly and cleanly, before walking offstage.

the second your feet disappeared behind the curtain, seunghyun exhaled like he hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

he didn’t sit back down, just turned towards the boys. “let’s go,” he said, quiet but final.

jiyong blinked. “wait what?”

“we’re leaving?” daesung whispered, looking around like someone might stop them. “but the show’s not over.”

“i don’t care,” seunghyun murmured, already stepping towards the aisle. his voice wasn’t sharp, but it was full.

full in the same way his chest felt whenever he looked at you. “i just need to see her.”

the bouquet was still in his hand, crumpled slightly from how tightly he’d been holding onto it. his tie was off-centred, hair a little messy from the rush to make it in time, but none of that mattered.

he didn’t care about the rest of the program. the applause. not even the fact that they’d probably get side-eyed for sneaking out mid-performance.

he just knew his entire heart was already backstage, and he wasn’t going to wait any longer to catch up to it.

they slipped out the doors without a sound.

no one stopped them. no one even noticed.

the hallway outside of the auditorium was quiet in comparison, dim and echoey under too-bright fluorescent lights.

seunghyun didn’t stop walking. not until he felt a hand tug lightly at his arm.

“hyung,” jiyong said, just behind him.

seunghyun turned impatiently, until he felt jiyong’s fingers brush lightly against his collar.

“your tie,” jiyong mumbled, fixing it without hesitation. “you’ll thank me later.”

seunghyun didn’t say anything. just stood there, breathing a little too hard, bouquet still clenched tightly in his fist.

a quick tug, a gentle press at the knot, and it was done. it wasn’t perfect or precise, but it was enough.

jiyong gave his shoulder a small squeeze and fell into step beside him again.

the hum of the other performances faded behind them, swallowed by the stillness of the hallway. their footsteps echoed softly against the linoleum, but none of them said a word.

he didn’t know what he expected to see when he turned the corner, but it definitely wasn’t you.

you were standing near the backstage door, still in costume, sweat cooling on your skin. your body hummed with leftover adrenaline, but your chest felt heavy, like all of that dancing had only packed the ache in tighter.

you’d missed him before, but never like this.

your phone was in your hand, thumb hovering over the call button. the numbers blurred on the screen. you told yourself you’d press it in a minute. you just needed one more minute.

someone laughed down the hall. a door closed. footsteps passed. none of it mattered. you kept staring at your phone like if you looked long enough, it might tell you where he was.

you were still staring when a voice cut through the noise. not loud. not questioning. just steady, and certain, like it had been meant for you all along.

“doll.”

your gaze lifted slowly, almost afraid you’d imagined it.

but there he stood, only a few feet away; breathless, eyes locked on you, and a bouquet of pink lilies clutched in his hands. the same exact kind he’d been bringing you since you were four.

jiyong was right behind him, wide-eyed, and already attempting to take the bouquet from seunghyun’s hands like it was second nature. daesung and youngbae were there just behind them, dressed up like they’d been scolded into it, which, knowing them, they probably had.

none of that mattered right now, because all you could see was him.

“you—” your voice cracked. “how—”

you didn’t say anything else. you couldn’t. your body moved before your brain could catch up.

you ran straight into him, arms flying around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist, tutu flaring out so dramatically that the boys had to duck to keep it from smacking him them the face.

seunghyun stumbled a little, laughing under his breath, but he still caught you like he always did.

his hands braced under your thighs as jiyong quietly slid the bouquet out from between you, muttering something about ‘saving the tradition.’

seunghyun wasn’t paying attention to any of that. he was only looking at you.

you pulled back just enough to see his face, hands now cupping his cheeks, as your thumbs brushed the corners of his smile.

that’s when the tears hit, much faster than you could stop them.

you buried your face in his shoulder. “you’re not supposed to be here.”

his arms tightened around you. “i know.”

“i thought—” your voice broke again. “i thought you were debuting tonight. i thought—i missed it.”

“you didn’t,” he whispered, mouth against your temple. “they moved it. it’s tomorrow.”

you pulled back again, eyes wide. “what?”

“i didn’t tell you,” he admitted, brushing a stray lash from your cheek. “i wanted you to focus on your moment. not mine.”

“hunnie,” you breathed. “i’ve been crying about this all week.”

“me too,” he said softly. “but for different reasons.”

you huffed a laugh through your tears, forehead falling against his. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah,” he smiled. “but i’m your asshole.”

your laugh was wet and breathless, your arms still locked around his neck like you might float away if you let go.

“you are,” you whispered.

he grinned, proud and a little breathless too. “and i always will be.”

you kissed his cheek before you could think twice about it. not just once, either. three quick ones in a row, just like you used to do when you were little.

the boys stood back, letting the moment breathe. but eventually, jiyong quietly stepped in holding the lilies with both hands like they were sacred. “yah,” he murmured to seunghyun. “do it now.”

seunghyun glanced at him, then back at you. his smile softened.

he let out a breath and gently tapped your thigh. “okay, miss ballerina. down for a second.”

you whined, dramatic as ever, but loosened your legs. as soon as your toes hit the ground, jiyong passed him the bouquet again like it was a an olympic torch.

seunghyun didn’t even blink. he took the lilies, and just stared at you. wide-eyed. quiet. almost overwhelmed.

you blinked up at him. “you good? you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“i’m fine,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound very convincing. he glanced down at the bouquet, then held it out with both hands. “these are for you.”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t want them, but because you hadn’t expected them.

you hadn’t expected him.

your fingers curled around the stems, and the second the weight shifted into your arms, your chest caved in.

“i thought—” your voice broke. “i thought i wasn’t gonna get any this time.”

he frowned. “what? why?”

“because,” you said, breath catching, “you weren’t supposed to be here.”

“hey,” he whispered, stepping closer. “you really thought i’d let you dance without these?”

you tried to laugh, but it dissolved into another sob. “i didn’t want to think about it.”

“you won’t ever have to,” he said. “i’ll be here. always.”

he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb, then took a shaky breath, and suddenly you realized his eyes were glossy too. he kept blinking, like he was trying to force it back, but it wasn’t working.

“there’s something i’ve wanted to say,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “for a really long time now.”

you stared at him, waiting. your grip tightened slightly around the bouquet.

he looked like he might fall apart.

“do you remember when we were five?” he asked. “and you told me you were never gonna get married?”

you furrowed your brow, sniffling. “vaguely.”

“you said that boys were gross, and that you were gonna be too busy being a ballerina.” he paused to let out a small laugh. “and because you and i do everything the same, if you weren’t getting married, that meant i couldn’t either.”

you bit your lip, suddenly shy. “…that sounds fair.”

he laughed softly, but it cracked halfway through. his voice was breaking.

“i was so upset,” he admitted. “i remember just…standing there, kind of frozen, and then it hit me. i didn’t want to not get married because i wanted to marry you.”

your eyes widened, watery and stunned.

“i didn’t even know what that meant back then,” he went on, rubbing his thumb along the edge of your hand. “i just knew that you were my favourite person in the whole world. and the idea of not being allowed to stay with you forever made me lose it.”

your heart cracked open.

“and i guess you must have noticed,” he said softly. “because after that, you got real quiet…and then you told me that i could marry you. but only if i bought you a big ballerina ring with all of my famous rapper money.”

you choked out a laugh through your tears, shaking your head.

“you said it had to sparkle,” he smiled, though his voice trembled, “and it had to be big enough so that everyone would know it was real.”

he reached into his pocket slowly.

his hand was shaking when he pulled it out, a tiny white box tucked in his palm, and the second you saw it, your breath hitched.

“what is that?” you asked, voice quiet.

his eyes darted to yours, then down again, thumb nervously brushing over the lid.

“i…bought it last week,” he said. “right after we kissed. when you weren’t talking to me.”

your eyes were already starting to water again.

he turned the box slowly in his hand. “i saw it in the window. i wasn’t even looking, really. just walking by. but it stopped me.”

he opened the lid, and the world seemed to still.

a thin band of gold cradled a marquise diamond, so brilliant it almost looked like it was dancing. it was delicate and luminous, like it had been spun from the light of a stage.

it looked exactly like what a ballerina’s ring should be. elegant. timeless. impossibly soft in its beauty.

like it had been designed with you in mind; with every curve, every shimmer, every quiet detail whispering ‘this is hers.’

your free hand flew to your mouth, both in shock and awe.

“i don’t know if it’s considered a ballerina ring,” he said softly. “but it looked like the kind of thing you would wear. it reminded me of you.”

you blinked fast, but the tears still fell. “hunnie…”

“i know it’s dumb,” he said quickly. “i know we’re not—like, we’re not even dating yet and this is probably the most backwards way anyone’s ever done this and i’m already fucking it up—”

“you’re not,” you whispered, gently setting the bouquet down as you stepped in closer.

you took his free hand into both of yours.

he looked at you like you’d just given him air. like the second you touched his hands, the panic started to settle.

you held onto him gently. “breathe, hunnie.”

he gave the tiniest nod, eyes shining. “okay. okay, i’m—” his voice wobbled. “i’m okay.”

your thumbs rubbed over his knuckles.

“i’ve been trying to get this right,” he said, barely above a whisper. “but i don’t think i can. not really.”

“it’s just me,” you said softly.

he exhaled. “that’s the thing, though. it’s you. i’ve never wanted to get something more right in my whole fucking life.”

your heart cracked in your chest.

he looked down, then up again, a little steadier this time.

“you’ve always been everything to me,” he said. “my first memory is literally you stealing my graham crackers and then hugging me so i wouldn’t be mad.”

your laugh broke on a sob. “they were mine first.”

“they definitely weren’t.” he smiled through the tears. “but i let you have them anyways”

you were already crying again, but he kept going, voice still trembling, but stronger now.

“you’ve always been my best friend. my safe place. the one person who’s always known what i’m thinking before i even say anything.”

his voice cracked. “you’ve always seen me as something good. even when i didn’t.”

your heart stopped for a moment.

“you were the first person i ever wanted to impress,” he said. “the first person i trusted. the first person i wanted to be better for.”

you could barely see him through the blur of your tears now. “hunnie…”

“i don’t know when it shifted,” he whispered. “maybe it never did. maybe it’s always been this.”

he reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek.

“i love you, doll,” he said. “i’m in love with every version of you that’s ever existed. i love you when we’re laughing, when we’re fighting, when you’re dancing, when you’re exhausted, when you’re mad at me. especially when you’re mad at me.”

you choked on a laugh as he continued.

“and i know this is backwards,” he said, gesturing a little wildly. “i bought the ring before i even asked you to be my girlfriend and i know that’s stupid but i saw it and—i just knew. it felt like you. like us.”

“it is us,” you whispered.

he looked down at your joined hands, knowing your touch was the only thing holding him together.

his thumb brushed over your knuckles, and his voice cracked as he started again. “doll…” he blinked, hard. swallowed.

“i don’t have it all figured out,” he said. “i don’t know how to say it right, and i know i messed a lot of things up recently, and i know i probably should’ve waited or planned it better—”

you shook your head, gently.

“but i love you,” he whispered, tears slipping down. “i’ve always loved you. i…i don’t wanna do this halfway anymore,” he said, voice shaking. “so if it’s okay with you…if you’ll let me…can i be yours? like—officially? finally?”

you didn’t answer right away. you just stepped into him, your arms around his neck, your face buried in his chest as you laughed and cried all at once.

“yes,” you choked, burying your face into his neck. “yes, yes, god hunnie, yes.”

he laughed through the sob that broke out of him, wrapping you tighter, swaying slightly in place like it was the only way he could stay grounded.

behind you, the hallway broke into noise.

a sharp sniffle. a strangled “fuck,” followed by a slap that definitely landed on someone’s arm.

“you’re crying too!” daesung blurted, voice cracking mid-accusation.

“shut up, i am not,” youngbae snapped, wiping at his face aggressively.

“he totally is,” jiyong said, grinning through watery eyes. “oh my god—dude. so am i. what the fuck.”

seunghyun didn’t let go of you, not even as you both laughed through your tears. not even as you turned your head slightly to glance at the chaos unfolding behind you.

the boys were a mess. daesung was blinking way too fast, youngbae was clearly trying not to outright sob, and jiyong was biting his lip so hard it was probably already bruising.

“are we supposed to clap?” jiyong asked. “should we clap?”

“do not clap,” seunghyun said, without looking back. his voice was thick. “i swear to god.”

you laughed again, soft and muffled into his shirt.

seunghyun tilted his head toward yours, his palm sliding up your back, holding the base of your neck like it kept you real.

then, gently, he pulled back just enough to reach for your hand.

his fingers trembled as he slid the ring on.

“it’s not a proposal,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, “but it’s a promise. for everything that’s coming.”

he paused, breath hitching.

“and a thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking, “for every version of you i’ve ever been lucky enough to love.”

taglist: @mayakahlo @crvshedpetals @teardoong @kyrasworldd @authorscurse @jajabro @moonqz @letstakeabowimoutthedoor @vynn30

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seungttttop · 2 days ago

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OMG this is a genius idea!🧠 I can't wait🤤😏😈🩷

yall please hear me out on this

hockey player seunghyun ????

this idea literally came out of nowhere while mid convo about something completely different but now i genuinely cannot stop thinking about it.

like i’m thinking i could either make the reader a figure skater or maybe not know how to skate at all and make it fluffy ?? OR we can go a completely different direction and make him have like that cocky hockey player energy and maybe an enemies to lovers type of vibe ???

also the thought of dad!seunghyun teaching his son how to skate ?? i actually cannot handle this rn

the possibilities are ENDLESS imo. i’m canadian so hockey players make me absolutely weak in the knees. it’s genetic atp

ANYWAYS I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS & OPINIONS ON THIS !!

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seungttttop · 3 days ago

Note

🙆🏻‍♂️🫰🏼💜

Choi Su-Bong x fem!reader

Best friens to lovers to parents

Anything you want ❤️🩷

A journey

Characters: Choi Su-Bong X fem!reader

Summary: Your life with Su-Bong🩷

Warnings: No Game AU

You never remembered the exact moment you met Su-bong. It was probably in that dimly lit hallway by the vending machines, somewhere between English and chemistry class. He was that guy who always seemed to be running late but never looked stressed about it. You, on the other hand, clutched your textbooks like a lifeline and triple-checked your assignments.

"Hey, you’re in Ms. Park’s class, right?" he’d asked one day, leaning against the lockers. His smile was easy, like he didn’t have to try. "Yeah. Why?" "You dropped your pen yesterday. Thought you might want it back." You looked down. Sure enough, there it was — your favorite pen with the little sunflower sticker on it. He’d kept it.

From then on, you just… gravitated toward each other. You studied together in the library, shared your lunch when he forgot his, and walked home along the same cracked sidewalk after school. You learned he loved drawing comics, that he hated soda, and that he could never remember where he put his keys. He learned you hummed when you concentrated and that you could recite every line from your favorite drama.

College & Growing Pains College was different. You went to the same university but different majors, and suddenly there were other friends, other interests, and other people to date. There was a semester where you barely saw each other, both busy and stubborn, not realizing how much you missed the other until the silence felt heavy.

One rainy night during exams, you found him sitting on the campus bench, hair plastered to his forehead. You sat next to him, holding out a paper cup of hot coffee. "We’re bad at keeping in touch, huh?" you said softly. "Yeah," he murmured, "but I don’t like it. I… don’t want to be bad at this with you."

That was the night things shifted. The touches lingered longer, the jokes became softer, and you both stopped pretending the feeling wasn’t there.

Marriage — The Day You Said Yes He proposed on a random Tuesday evening, in the kitchen, while you were chopping onions. No grand gestures, no fancy restaurant — just the two of you, in pajamas, your hair messy, and his hands shaking as he pulled a little velvet box from his pocket. "I can’t wait for some perfect moment," he said. "I just… I want to do life with you. Forever. Even when we’re wrinkly and grumpy."

You said yes, tears mixing with the sting of the onions. He kissed you right there between the sink and the fridge.

Kids & Chaos Life with two kids was loud and sticky. There were mornings you woke up with someone’s tiny foot in your face, nights when the laundry pile looked like it was plotting against you, and countless afternoons where Su-bong would burst into the living room, hair a mess, declaring, "They’re your children today!"

But there were also moments — your daughter’s first wobbly steps toward him, your son’s proud grin when he showed you the lopsided birdhouse they built together, family picnics under a sky so blue it hurt. You caught each other’s eye across the chaos, sharing a look that said, We built this. We’re in this together.

Growing Old — Still You and Him The years passed in quiet increments. The kids grew up, the house grew quieter, and you found yourselves back to long walks and late-night talks like in high school. Your hair silvered, his hands grew lined, but his smile never changed.

One evening, sitting on the porch with mugs of tea, you leaned your head on his shoulder. "You know," you said, "I think we did okay." He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "We did better than okay. We got a lifetime."

You stayed there until the sun slipped behind the hills, holding on to the warmth between you. Because after all the years, all the changes, you were still best friends — just with more wrinkles, more memories, and more love than you ever thought possible.

#squid game 2 #squid game netflix #squid game #thanos x y/n #thanos squid game #choi subong #thanos

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seungttttop · 3 days ago

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🤤😏😏😏🌸

Another sneak peek of beautiful flower??

eventually he starts to drown the pain with more drugs and alcohol, he asks for harder shit that lasts longer, party’s all day an night, fucks any girl that looks even remotely like y/n. Thanos practically moves in with nam-gyu, he can’t stand being in his and y/ns apartment without her anymore, but he also can’t bring himself to move out of it fully. Whenever he is at his apartment, he doesn’t eat or sleep, just takes as many drugs as possible and writes lyrics, now starting to sound more angry then sad.

😏😏

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seungttttop · 4 days ago

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The Last Target

Pairing: Vick x Fem!reader

Summary: You’re assigned to kill him — but when you finally get the chance, he’s already there, gun pressed to your back. Instead of killing you, he proposes something worse: work for him, and your life will be spared. You agree, but every mission pushes you deeper into his orbit.

Warnings: mdni, implies dark themes. slow-burn, violence and threat of death, firearms use and gun-related threat, Blood, injury descriptions, and implied torture, ark themes: coercion, moral ambiguity, manipulation, power imbalance / controlling dynamics, mentions of killing and assassination, brief alcohol use. implied past trauma, reader gets easy manipulated.

Note: Decided to write about our beloved yet underrated Vick. Literally haven‘t seen any fanfics with him so I decided to write about him. Its not proofread I‘m sorry. I tried to do this as accurate as I can even tho i dont have any idea of these things. 😅

The first time you saw him, it wasn’t across a sniper scope. It was in a crowded hotel lobby in Bucharest, where he moved through the chaos like a shadow disguised in bespoke wool and midnight. You didn’t know his name yet — not the one whispered through intelligence channels, not the one etched in red across your assignment file — but you knew the way he carried himself. Men like him didn’t have to raise their voices.

Men like him never had to run.

He moves like the world bends for him, though he never rushes. There’s a precision to every step, a surgeon’s patience layered over a predator’s instinct. Tall, immaculately tailored, with a gaze that feels less like eye contact and more like a calculation — as though he’s measuring not just the weight of your presence, but the value of your life.

His voice is low, steady, the kind that cuts cleaner than a blade when laced with command, but can curl into something silken and lethal in the same breath. You never hear his gun until it’s too late. You never see him flinch, even with blood on his hands — whether it’s yours or his is almost irrelevant.

Beneath the steel, there’s something unreadable. Not softness — never softness — but an undercurrent of thought, a flicker in the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long. As if you’re not just a target, but a puzzle.

And Vick has never once left a puzzle unsolved.

Since then, the encounters had been almost comical in their frequency — if not for the fact that you were meant to end his life. A private auction in Prague. A dim-lit baccarat table in Macau. A rain-slicked rooftop in Istanbul where you’d almost had the perfect shot, until the black-clad ghost below had tilted his head, just slightly, as if hearing you breathe through the scope.

You didn’t look away when his eyes found you.

Neither did he.

It was always like that with Vick — an unspoken dare hanging in the air, neither of you willing to be the first to blink. He didn’t threaten, didn’t lunge, didn’t even move with the urgency of a man being hunted. No, he just stood there in the rain, looking up at you as if you were the one trespassing in his story.

And then, as though the city itself conspired in his favor, the floodlights below snapped on — washing him in gold and shadow — and you lost him. Not because you blinked, but because he wanted you to.

You found him again in Berlin, leaning against the bar of an underground club, smoke curling lazily from between his fingers. His eyes tracked you through the shifting bodies on the dance floor before you’d even reached him. “Starting to think you’ve developed a crush,” you said when you were close enough, your tone dipped in mockery.

He smirked, slow and knowing, like he could see the way your pulse betrayed you in your throat. “If I had, you’d already be in my bed instead of my crosshairs.”

“Too bad for you,” you replied coolly, brushing past him toward the other end of the bar. “I don’t sleep with men I’m paid to kill.” His hand caught your wrist — not hard, but firm enough to halt you mid-step. “And yet,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted against your ear, “you’ve had plenty of chances… and I’m still here.”

It wasn’t a taunt. It was an observation. And that made it infinitely worse.

It had become a pattern neither of you seemed willing to break.

Moscow, late winter. You’d cornered him in an alleyway slick with ice, the barrel of your gun pressed between his shoulder blades. One step, one twitch of your finger, and the contract would be fulfilled. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just let the silence stretch until the sound of your own breathing felt too loud in your ears.

Then — as if the city had bent to his timing — headlights flooded the alley, blinding you for a split second. By the time your vision cleared, the space in front of you was empty.

Only his voice lingered, low and unhurried from the shadows: “You aim like you’re already hesitating.”

Paris, spring. The rooftops were yours this time, the distance perfect, the shot clean. He stepped into the frame of your scope — black coat catching the wind — and paused, as though sensing the crosshairs kissing his temple. And then he looked up. Found you again, without effort, without surprise. That was when your finger stilled on the trigger. When you realized that the weight in your chest had nothing to do with the rifle.

The closest came in Marrakesh. The bazaar was a living thing — heat and noise and color pressing in from every side. You’d tracked him through the crush of bodies, the scent of cardamom and dust thick in the air, always just a step behind. When he finally stopped, it wasn’t in surprise. It was invitation.

He turned into the shadow of a spice merchant’s stall, the light cutting across his cheekbones in sharp angles. You meant to pass him, to keep the distance, but his hand moved faster than your breath. Not a grip. Not force. Just the slow drag of his knuckles along the line of your jaw, like he was committing the shape of you to memory. His thumb hovered near the corner of your mouth — close enough that you swore you felt the heat of it.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“Cross my path again,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it over the market din, “and I won’t be this forgiving.” It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The threat in his tone was threaded with something worse — a certainty, an unshakable promise. And yet, when he stepped past you, brushing your shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd, your pulse was already betraying you.

Hong Kong was rain and neon — the streets slick with light, the air thick enough to drink. You’d told yourself you were here for the mark, the man in the penthouse with too much money and not enough sense to stay off your radar. But you felt him long before you saw him. He was leaning against the bar when you entered, suit jacket cut sharp over broad shoulders, a glass of something expensive balanced loosely in his hand. As if he owned the room. As if he owned you.

You didn’t approach. He did.

The crowd seemed to fold around him as he closed the distance — that same unhurried pace, the one that felt like he was walking toward you in a dream. When he stopped, he was close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, warm spice under the faint trace of gunpowder.

“Still following me?” His voice curled around the word, more taunt than question. “Or maybe you’re following me,” you countered, meeting his gaze head-on. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. His fingers brushed the rim of your glass where it rested on the bar, slow enough to make your breath catch. He leaned in — not so close that anyone watching could call it intimate, but enough that the heat of him broke through the cool air-conditioning.

“You keep chasing me like this…” his voice dropped, barely audible over the music, “you’ll forget which one of us is the hunter.” The world narrowed to the space between you, to the faint gleam of water on his jaw from the rain outside. His eyes flicked to your mouth. For a heartbeat, you thought he’d close the gap — thought you’d let him.

But then he stepped back, the spell broken, leaving nothing but the echo of his cologne and the ghost of a smile you wanted to erase with your own teeth.

The chase had been relentless.

Three days of shadowing him through alleyways and glass-fronted hotels, watching his reflection pass like a ghost in every window you trailed behind. You knew his stride now, the cadence of his cigarette breaks, the way his hand always hovered near his jacket pocket — close enough to a weapon to make your own trigger finger itch.

When you finally found him here, on a slick rooftop overlooking the Bucharest skyline, you were ready.

Perfect shot. Perfect angle.

No crowd. No excuse.

You stepped forward from the shadows, gun raised, the city’s damp wind catching the hem of your coat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even reach for his weapon. He just turned, catching you in his periphery — and for the briefest second, the corner of his mouth lifted like he’d been expecting you all along.

He closed the distance without hesitation, boots striking slow, measured beats against the rain-slick concrete. “Persistent,” he murmured, his voice almost drowned by the hum of the city below.

You kept your aim steady. “Prepared to finish it this time.” That faint smirk widened just enough to make you want to slap it off his face. “You’ve been carrying this weight for so long,” he said, taking another step forward, “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “Save your pity. I’m not the one looking over my shoulder every night.” “Mm,” he hummed, tilting his head like he was dissecting you. “But you are the one who hesitates when I’m close.”

The words landed heavy — and then his hand was on your wrist, lowering the barrel by inches, not with force, but with a deliberate gentleness that unsettled you more than if he’d ripped it away. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly. “I’m not.” You held his gaze, jaw tightening. “You are.” His voice was smooth, unhurried, but there was a weight in it, as if he were cataloging every twitch, every breath. “Funny, isn’t it? You’ve been chasing me across continents, and the moment you finally have me, your hands… hesitate.”

You pulled your wrist back — but he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he traced the edge of your palm with the pad of his thumb, an infuriatingly slow line, like he was learning the shape of you.

Don’t flatter yourself,” you bit back. “I don’t need to. You do it for me.” The smirk was too calm, too confident, and it made your blood run hot. You stepped in, closing the space between you, the gun still angled low but your voice sharper. “One day, I’ll stop hesitating.” He leaned in until you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, his tone dropping to a whisper only for you. “No, you won’t. Because you like this. The chase. The almost.”

For a second, the rooftop felt too small, the city too far away. Then he stepped back just enough to break the pull, his gloved hand sliding from your wrist to the edge of your coat, straightening it like he was the one who’d dressed you.

“Walk with me.”

You should have refused. You should have put a bullet in him and been done. But instead, you followed — down the rain-slick stairs, into the private elevator, the sound of your breathing louder than the hum of machinery. When the doors opened, the suite swallowed you in gold light and expensive silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows bled the skyline into the room, rain painting trails down the glass.

He moved like he owned the place, shedding his jacket over a leather chair, his movements smooth, calculated. “Wine?” he asked, already pouring. “Who does this room belong to?” you countered. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and amused. “Tonight? You.” The glass was in your hand before you could refuse, his fingers brushing yours again — deliberate, claiming.

You didn’t drink. “You planning on keeping me here?” A slow, almost imperceptible smile. “Only as long as it takes.”

“To do what?” He stepped closer, the distance between you collapsing until the city lights haloed his silhouette.

“To make you admit you’ll never kill me.”

His words hung between you like a dare.

You should have laughed in his face, tossed the wine back at him, and walked out. Instead, you stood there — still holding the untouched glass — as he stepped in close enough for the faint scent of his cologne to cut through the sterile hotel air.

“You think you know me,” you said, lifting your chin. “I do.” His voice was soft, but it carried the kind of certainty that scraped against your ribs. “Better than you want me to.”

“And yet, here I am. Still breathing. Still aiming for you.” His hand ghosted over the curve of your waist, not quite touching — until it did. Slow, deliberate, like testing the lock on a door.

“You could aim right now. Pull the trigger. No one would stop you. But you won’t.” You hated the fact that your pulse stuttered at the weight of his touch. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the perfect moment.”

“That moment doesn’t exist,” he murmured, his eyes dragging over your face like a map he’d memorized. “Because every time you think you’ve found it… you remember this.”

Before you could ask what this was, his mouth was on yours — not tentative, not searching, but claiming. The kiss was hot, unyielding, his hand curling around the back of your neck as if to anchor you there. You told yourself to push him away, to break it — but the press of his lips only deepened, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with something far more dangerous.

The glass slipped from your hand onto the carpet, forgotten. His fingers slid into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and he took the opening without hesitation, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that made the whole room tilt.

“This is why you won’t kill me,” he said against your mouth, breath warm, words sharp. You gripped the lapels of his suit jacket, dragging him closer even as your mind screamed at you to stop. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” His lips found the line of your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing skin just enough to make heat bloom low in your stomach. “Or are you just afraid I’m right?”

You pushed at his chest, finally breaking the kiss — but his hand stayed at your waist, holding you in place, his eyes locked on yours like he could read every thought you were trying to bury. “You should leave,” you said, voice uneven.

He smirked — slow, knowing.

“You first.”

The door clicked shut, but he didn’t move.

He stood in the center of the suite, one hand in his pocket, the other still tingling from the heat of her waist. Outside, the city hummed low and distant — a background score to the victory still coiling through his chest. She thought she’d left on her own terms. He almost smiled at that.

The truth was simpler, and far crueler: he had let her go.

He replayed the moment — the sharp catch of her breath when his fingers slipped into her hair, the way her lips had parted under his without hesitation, the faint tremor in her voice when she told him to leave. Fear wasn’t what he’d seen in her eyes. It was defiance, yes, but threaded with something warmer.

Something she didn’t want to name.

He’d kissed countless women before, but this… this was different. Not because it meant more — it didn’t — but because it was useful. Every second of contact had been another thread wound tighter around her. And she had let him.

The next time she had him in her sights, she would remember the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against her skin, the unshakable certainty in his voice when he told her she wouldn’t kill him.

And she wouldn’t.

Vick walked to the window, looking down at the city’s spill of lights. Somewhere out there, she was probably telling herself she hated him more than ever. That she was still in control. That she’d find another chance, a better one.

He took a slow sip from the glass of wine he’d poured her and smirked.

Let her believe it.

The moment she pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t be the bullet that killed him. It would be her — and she wasn’t ready to live with that. Not yet.

The velvet auction house was the kind of place where every smile was a loaded weapon.

Gold light spilled over crystal glasses, gloved hands, and whispered numbers passed between people who could buy countries if they wanted. You weren’t here to shop. You were here for him. You’d told yourself, This time, I’ll be the one to get under his skin.

And there he was.

Leaning against a marble column like he belonged there, the black of his suit sharp enough to cut, a half-empty glass of champagne in his hand. His gaze was sweeping lazily across the room, but the moment it found you, it stayed. He didn’t blink. Didn’t even sip his drink. Just watched you, like he’d been expecting you all night.

You crossed the floor without breaking eye contact. “Vienna suits you,” you said lightly, letting your mouth curve just enough. “Still hiding behind rich men and prettier women, though, I see.”

He laughed — a low, indulgent sound that rolled down your spine like warm smoke. “Careful. Compliments like that almost sound jealous.”

You tilted your head, closing the space between you until the line of his shoulder was a breath from yours. “I almost had you in Istanbul.” Your voice was silk over steel. “A shame about the company you keep. They always seem to get in the way.”

His gaze dropped — not to your eyes, but to your mouth. It was a calculated move, meant to shift the ground under your feet. And damn it, it worked.

“You won’t,” he murmured. You smiled — sharp, poised. “Won’t what?” “Kill me.” He didn’t say it like a challenge. He said it like he knew something you didn’t.

You turned to leave. His hand caught your wrist. Not hard, but deliberate. The same way he had before — the same heat, the same quiet claim.

“Do you want to know why you won’t?” His voice had lowered, deep enough that it vibrated in your ribs. “Because somewhere in that perfect little plan of yours… you’ve already decided I’m worth keeping alive.”

You pulled your hand back, but you didn’t move away. He didn’t either. From the auction hall, a round of applause broke out — some painting selling for a number you couldn’t care less about. He leaned in, breath warm against your ear.

“Walk with me.”

You should’ve refused. Should’ve put a bullet in him right there and ended the game. Instead, you followed, again.

The balcony was cold, the marble under your heels slick from mist. City lights glittered below. His presence was heat behind you, filling the air. “You think you’re dangerous to me?” he asked finally. “I know I am,” you said.

He stepped closer, slow enough to make you feel every inch of the distance disappearing.

“I’ve been waiting for you to become a danger,” he said, watching you like you were already in his hands. “Because that’s when you’ll be mine completely.”

You were about to tell him exactly where he could shove that promise — but his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up. His mouth hovered over yours, close enough to steal your breath… and then he pulled back, smiling like he’d just won a bet. He left you there — furious, breathless, and hating the way your pulse was still chasing his.

The hotel suite smelled of dark leather, expensive whiskey, and the faintest trace of rain off the balcony doors. You told yourself you weren’t here because he’d told you to be — you’d followed him again because you wanted to. That was the first lie.

He poured two glasses without asking. The amber liquid caught the light, swirling like molten gold. When he handed one to you, his fingers brushed yours — brief, casual, but enough to make you aware of how close he was standing.

“You shouldn’t trust a man who makes his living the way I do,” you said, letting your voice keep that calm, detached edge. His mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “And yet, here you are.” You took a sip, letting the burn sharpen your thoughts. “Only to see how far you’ll push.”

He stepped closer — not in a rush, not like he was hunting, but like he already owned the space between you and was simply reclaiming it. “You think I’m pushing?” he said softly, his eyes dragging over your face like a caress. “No, sweetheart. I’m letting you.”

The words were oil-slick, meant to slide past your guard and sink in deep. “You’ve had chances,” he went on, voice low. “Rooftops, stairwells, empty streets at three in the morning. You could’ve ended me a dozen times over.” His head tilted, gaze locking with yours. “But you didn’t. You won’t.” You forced a laugh. “Maybe I just like to watch you squirm.”

Something shifted in his expression — not anger, but amusement edged with something darker. He set his glass down, then yours, the clink loud in the stillness. “That’s the thing,” he murmured, “you want me alive. And that means I can make you do whatever I want… because you don’t want to lose me.”

The truth of it scraped against your pride, and you hated that a part of you couldn’t deny it. When his hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, you told yourself to step back. You didn’t.

The touch lingered, fingertips trailing down the line of your jaw, the pad of his thumb barely grazing your lower lip. “Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

His mouth met yours like it had been waiting — slow at first, coaxing, testing, before heat took over and the kiss deepened. His hand slid to the back of your neck, anchoring you, while the other pressed against the small of your back, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

The taste of whiskey and something sharper filled your mouth. Your own hands betrayed you, finding the solid heat of his chest, the smooth line of his collar. You felt his smirk against your lips when you pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.

It was messy now, breath catching, teeth grazing, his fingers curling just enough to make your knees threaten to give. His mouth trailed along your jaw, down to the line of your throat — not tender, but claiming.

Then he stopped. Just like that.

He pulled back enough to look at you, his breath still uneven, his voice dangerously calm. “See? You’ll never kill me.”

The words landed harder than the kiss. Because you knew — in that moment — he was right.

His words were still hanging in the air when he moved again — no pause, no warning — and his mouth found yours in a second, more urgent kiss. This one wasn’t coaxing. It was possession, all heat and sharp edges, the kind of kiss meant to leave a mark.

You gasped against him, and he took the chance to deepen it, his tongue brushing yours, coaxing you into the rhythm he set. One hand fisted in the back of your shirt, the other pressed flat to your spine, holding you so close you could feel his heartbeat against yours.

It was impossible to think — and that was the point. Every deliberate press of his lips, every graze of his teeth was erasing the reasons you had for being here, replacing them with him.

When his mouth left yours, it wasn’t to pull away. It was to drag down the side of your neck, slow enough to make your breath stutter, his lips brushing over the place where your pulse pounded. His teeth scraped lightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your body tense.

“Still think you’re in control?” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm, his tone mocking in that quiet, confident way that made you want to hit him and pull him closer all at once.

You didn’t answer. Your fingers had curled into his shirt, sliding up over the solid heat of his chest, skimming the line of his collar before trailing lower. His breath caught — just for a second — when your hand slipped beneath the fabric.

That was all the invitation he needed. His own hands moved, pulling at the hem of your shirt like he was seconds from baring you completely. The kiss that followed was rougher, messier, a clash of teeth and tongues, your back hitting the wall as he pressed into you.

It was too much — and not enough.

Your head tipped back when his mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, along your collarbone, to the edge of your shirt. He stopped there, lifting his head to look at you.

Your breath caught. You hated that he noticed.

“You’re trembling,” he said again, almost fondly this time, and then his mouth found yours. The kiss was harsher now, as if he’d decided patience was overrated — teeth catching your lower lip, drawing you in until your back arched into him.

You didn’t remember moving, but suddenly the backs of your knees hit the bed. His jacket was already gone; yours followed, your hands tangled in his shirt, pulling it over his head before you could think twice.

The sight of him — all lean muscle and old scars, shadows cutting across his chest in the low light — hit you harder than it should have. He watched you look, and for a moment, the air between you turned molten.

“You see?” he said quietly. “You’ve already chosen.”

You didn’t have the strength to answer before he was kissing you again — harder this time, pushing you down onto the mattress, his weight braced over you. One of his knees slid between your thighs; your body betrayed you, tilting toward him.

When his lips left yours, they trailed lower — along your jaw, the hollow of your throat, down to the delicate line where your shirt met the band of your bra. His fingers hovered there, just enough to make your breath stutter.

And then they didn’t hover at all.

Fabric slid away. Cool air rushed over skin you hadn’t meant for him to see. His mouth followed, slow and deliberate, branding you with each press of his lips, each scrape of teeth.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured against your ribs, the words vibrating through you. “Don’t lie.”

You hated the truth of it — hated that you were already pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Shirts became nothing. Then his belt, the sharp click echoing louder than it should have in the quiet. Every touch blurred the edges of your resolve, until there was nothing left but the heat of him, the sound of your breath tangling with his.

It happened like the rest of him — calculated, controlled, but with just enough hunger to make you believe you were undoing him too. You weren’t. You knew that. And still, you let him take.

When it was over, the room was thick with the scent of him, the taste of him still on your tongue. You lay tangled in the sheets, heart still trying to remember its rhythm, and for one fractured second, it felt almost… safe.

By morning, the sheets were cold where he’d been. A single note sat on the pillow, written in a hand you could picture all too clearly:

‚You’ll come back.‘

And you hated that, deep down, you already knew he was right.

You didn’t see him again for months.

Not in the blurred photographs on your desk from the agency. Not in the reports that crossed your screen at two a.m. Not even in the half-shadowed corners of the cities where you knew he had business. It was almost worse that way — no sightings, no near-misses, nothing. Just silence.

You told yourself it was over, that maybe someone else had gotten to him first, or he’d simply vanished into whatever quiet place men like him went when they wanted to disappear. But the truth was simpler.

He was letting you breathe.

And he was letting you think it was your choice.

The mission remained the same: eliminate Vick. But the part of you that used to taste the satisfaction of the kill in advance was muted now. You worked other jobs, filled your calendar, chased marks that bled easily when cornered — none of them were him.

You’d almost convinced yourself he was nothing more than a shadow in your rearview.

Until tonight.

The alley was slick with rain, neon bleeding from the signs above into the puddles underfoot. You moved like muscle memory — one hand brushing the edge of your coat, fingers curling around the cold steel of your pistol. The target you’d been tracking for weeks was only a corner away.

You stepped forward.

And froze.

The press of metal against your lower back was silent, certain. The safety was already off. “Still think you can sneak up on me?” His voice was quieter than you remembered, but no less sharp. „You didn’t turn. “You’ve been following me.”.

Your breath caught, pulse lurching. “Been a while,” his voice murmured, low enough that it curled into your ear. There was no rush, no panic — just that quiet, deliberate control that made him infinitely more dangerous than anyone else you’d hunted. “Missed me?” you managed, though your tone came out sharper than you intended.

“I never lose track of what’s mine,” he said. Your jaw tightened. “I’m not yours.” The barrel shifted, pressing harder — not enough to hurt, but enough to make the threat clear.

He leaned in, the faint scent of smoke and expensive whisky curling around you. “You can keep telling yourself that,” he murmured, almost like he was comforting you. “But you’ve had more than one chance to pull the trigger on me. And here we are.”

You swallowed hard, the months of near-misses flashing in your mind — Prague. Macau. Istanbul. Every time, his eyes finding you, stopping you cold. “Move,” he said quietly. You didn’t. “What, you gonna kill me in an alley?”

His chuckle was low, humorless. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have heard me coming.”

Something in your chest twisted — not fear, not exactly, but the sick, undeniable awareness that he was right.

“Then what do you want?” you asked. He shifted closer, his voice dropping to that bittersweet, knife-edged tone you remembered too well. “I want you where I can see you. I want you working for me.” You almost laughed. “So you can keep pulling my strings?”

A pause. Then, almost gently, “No, sweetheart. So you stop pretending you can cut them.”

The rain pattered harder, dripping from the edge of your coat, and you realized with a cold clarity — this wasn’t a negotiation. It never had been.

The gun didn’t leave your back.

Not when he guided you toward the mouth of the alley, not when the slick hum of tires on wet asphalt cut through the quiet. “You’ve been using me,” you said, your voice steadier than the tremor in your hands. “Mm,” he hummed, as though you’d commented on the weather. “I’ve been keeping you alive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” he said simply, steering you with a light touch at your elbow. It wasn’t rough — that made it worse. The gentleness was deliberate, the kind that blurred the line between restraint and something that almost felt… intimate. A black car slid to a stop beside the curb. The driver didn’t look at you, didn’t need to — this wasn’t his business.

“I would have killed you,” you said, almost to yourself. “No,” he replied, and you could hear the curve of a smirk in the word. “You’ve had months. Every opportunity. And every time… you chose me instead.”

You stopped short, his body brushing against your back when he closed the space. “That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.” He dipped his head, voice low and velvety against your ear. “Tell yourself it’s hesitation. Tell yourself it’s strategy. But we both know you like being this close to me.”

like splinters. You hated that he wasn’t entirely wrong. The door opened behind you, the faint smell of leather and warmth spilling into the rain-cooled air. “I don’t work for you,” you said, more force than truth in your tone. “You do now,” he answered. No hesitation, no rise in his voice — just certainty. The kind of certainty that didn’t need to shout.

He lowered the gun, but his hand stayed on you, guiding you into the car like he was offering you a seat at dinner. As if this wasn’t abduction. As if the betrayal you felt wasn’t the point all along.

And when the door shut, the locks clicking into place, he finally turned toward you, studying your face the way someone studies a priceless painting — not to appreciate it, but to memorize the flaws.

“You’ll thank me eventually,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

You weren’t sure if you could.

The car was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the soft percussion of rain against the roof. She sat rigid in the back seat, her gaze fixed on the blurred neon lights outside, as if the streets themselves might open up and swallow her whole.

He watched her from the opposite side, not directly — but through the reflection in the tinted glass. Her jaw was set, lips pressed into that stubborn, infuriating line he’d seen the night she’d hesitated to pull the trigger.

“You’re angry,” he said, voice low, smooth, almost bored. It wasn’t a question. Her eyes didn’t move from the window. “You lied to me.”

He shifted slightly, the leather creaking under his weight. “I never lied. I just didn’t tell you everything.” That made her turn, finally, her gaze cutting into him like a blade. He didn’t flinch. He wanted her to look at him like that — sharp, unguarded, alive.

“Everything you said… everything you did…” Her voice faltered before sharpening again. “It was all just to make sure I wouldn’t—”

“Kill me?” His mouth twitched, the faintest shadow of a smile. “Of course it was. And it worked.”

Her shoulders tensed, the silence between them turning heavier. He leaned in, closing the space until his fingers were brushing her chin, turning her face toward his. The touch wasn’t rough, but it was deliberate — an unspoken reminder of who held control here.

“You’re not angry because I used you,” he murmured, his eyes tracing the lines of her face like he was studying a piece of art. “You’re angry because you let me.”

She pulled back abruptly, but not before he saw it — that flicker of something behind the fire in her eyes. Not fear. Not hatred. Something worse.

Interest.

The car turned down a narrower street, streetlights flashing briefly through the windows. His hand rested on the back of her seat, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “You’ll understand soon,” he said, almost to himself. “Why I keep you close. Why you can’t walk away.“

She didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the rain. But in that silence, the truth sat between them — she might hate him, but she was still here.

And he would make sure she stayed.

The rain had stopped by the time the car rolled to a slow halt, tires crunching over gravel. Outside, the night smelled of salt and rust, the docks stretching in shadowed silence. She glanced at him, suspicion narrowing her gaze, but he only opened his door, stepping out with the ease of someone who belonged anywhere.

Inside the warehouse, the air was cooler, the echo of their footsteps amplifying the distance between them. He moved ahead, his silhouette framed by slivers of moonlight cutting through the high windows.

“You could’ve killed me months ago,” he said without turning around. “Prague. Istanbul. Macau.” His voice carried effortlessly in the cavernous space, each word measured, deliberate. “But you didn’t.” She crossed her arms, chin lifted. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

That earned her a glance over his shoulder — brief, but laced with that knowing look that always made her skin feel too tight. “You think I was the one squirming?” When she didn’t answer, he closed the distance between them, slow enough to let her decide whether to back away. She didn’t.

“You’re going to work for me,” he said, the words low but absolute. “And if I don’t?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. His hand came up — not fast, not rough — brushing his fingers along her jaw until his thumb rested just beneath her chin. It wasn’t tender. It was possession disguised as care.

“Then I’ll make you.”

Her breath caught, not from fear, but from the sheer audacity in his tone. That confidence. That unshakable certainty that he would get what he wanted. “You don’t get to decide for me,” she said, each word laced with frost.

He leaned in slightly, enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “I already have.”

Her jaw stayed tight, even as his hand lingered at her chin. He studied her like she was one of his marks — a puzzle to be solved, a weapon to be turned.

“You think you’ve been hunting me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “But every time you saw me… every time you aimed at me…” He tilted his head, his eyes locking on hers, “I was letting you.” The warehouse seemed to shrink around them, the air growing heavier.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His fingers trailed along her jawline, sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear with surgical precision. “Or is it easier to believe you’ve been in control?”

She wanted to slap his hand away. She wanted to step back. She didn’t move. “You used me,” she said, the words sharp enough to cut. His mouth curved, slow and deliberate — not in amusement, but in something darker. “No. I’m still using you.”

The truth of it hit harder than any threat. He let the silence stretch, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone, almost affectionate if not for the iron in his gaze.

“Here’s how this works,” he continued, lowering his voice until it was almost intimate. “You walk away tonight, you don’t live to see another sunrise. You work for me… you live. And maybe,” his eyes swept her face, “you’ll finally figure out which side you belong on.”

When he stepped back, it felt deliberate — like a leash loosening just enough to remind her she could still run, even if it was pointless. “Think about it,” he said, already turning toward the door. “But not for too long.”

The echo of his footsteps faded into the night, leaving her in the cold hollow of the warehouse with the sharp knowledge that whatever choice she made, it would be his from the start.

She didn’t follow him.

Not at first.

The warehouse was quiet now, save for the hum of the streetlamp outside filtering through the high, dust-coated windows. Her pulse hadn’t slowed. Every word he’d said replayed in her head, each one sinking deeper, coiling around her ribs until her breath came shallow.

Work for me… or die.

It was less a choice than a sentence. And she hated — hated — that a part of her still remembered the heat of his hands, the low cadence of his voice, the way his presence filled every inch of space. By the time she stepped outside, he was gone. Not a trace left behind but the faint smell of gunpowder and the cold press of the reality he’d left her with.

Somewhere in the dark, she knew he was still watching.

And when they crossed paths again — and they would — she wouldn’t know whether she was walking into a job… or back into his hands.

a/n: okay that one was a long chapter i suppose. perhaps i‘ll write a second part of this! 🥲

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seungttttop · 4 days ago

Text

The Collectors Rule

Pairing: Choi Seunghyun x Fem!reader

Summary: You wander into his private collection without permission. Every wall is lined with priceless art.. expect for one section that´s covered entirely in photographs of you. Not candid in the street. Not from events. Intimate ones. Moments you didnt know he was there for. When you turn to confront him, he is already watching you from the doorway.

Warnings: implies dark theme of obsession/possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of alcohol use & cigarettes, dark romance themes (blurring lines between affection and control), stalking (implied through intimate photograhps).

Note: This is a work of fiction. The behaviors depicted do not reflect the way the person would act in real life & should not be romanticized outside of a fictional context! Yet, enjoy. :)

The house was a labyrinth of wealth. Not the kind meant to impress dinner guests or show up in glossy magazines, but the kind that whispered power in every shadowed corner. Even the hair here seemed heavier - scented faintly with cedar and aged wine, as though time itself had been bottled and stored for him alone. You had only meant to wander while he took a call, tracing the long, quiet hallways lit by slivers of late-afternoon sun spilling through high windows. The velvet runner muffled your footsteps, swallowing the sound so completely that it felt like you were trespassing in a place meant for no one else.

Then you saw it - an arched doorway left slightly ajar, the faint glint of gold leaf and oil paint catching your eyes. The private collection. The room beyond was silent expect for the slow tick of a clock you couldnt see. Every wall bloomed with decadence - potraits with eyes that seemed to follow you, landscapes the size of doorways, sculptures that looked as if they could still breathe. Here was the life he had built in shadows: stolen centuries, frozen on canvas and marble.

But it was the far wall that stopped you. Not gilt frames. Not auction house trophies. Photographs. Dozen of them, some framed, others simply tacked to the wall with an intimacy that made your throat tighten. And all of them... you.

Not posed. Not prepared. Here, your head tilted in the half-light of a cafe. There, your hand suspended in the air mid-gesture, a smile threatening to break. Your reflection in rain-slick glass. The curve of your bare shoulder in the glow of your apartment´s lamp.

Moments no one should have been there for - moments you were curtain no one had been there for. Your pulse tripped over itself, the air thinning as the realization crawled across your skin.

And then you felt it. The weight of eyes on your back.

You turned, and there he was - leaning against the doorway, a glass of deep red wine balanced lazily in his hand. No surpise on his face. No guilt. Just a slow, deliberate study of you, as though you were merely another piece in his collection.. the most valuable one he owned.

The gallery hummed with quiet conversation, the kind that lived in the space between champagne flutes and expensive laughter. You´d drifted towards the far side of the room, cornered - in a pleasant way - by a man whose name you only half-caught but whose cologne came on like an announcement. He was talking about an upcoming showing in Paris, and you were smiling, not because you cared much about Paris, but because you knew how to be polite.

Seunghyun saw you before you saw him.

From his place near the bar, glass of something deep red in hand, he watched you move through the room. Not in any obvious way - he was too practiced for that. His gaze drifted like it was lazily taking in the gallery´s curated shadows, but every time it settled, it was on you. You stood in front of a piece that didnt deserve the way you were smiling. Not at the art - at the man beside you. The two of you leaned in sightly towards each other, your shoulders nearly brushing. You laughed at something he said, and Seunghyun´s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass.

It was ridiculous, he told himself. But it didnt matter - his mind had already gone there. Already imagined stepping in, standing too close, erasing that man’s existence with the turn of your head. Instead, he let his mask slip over him like a well-tailored coat. Smooth, unbothered. When he approached, it was with a slow, deliberate pace, his expression the same polite neutrality he wore in interviews and business dinners. You noticed him first, your posture straightening in that way it always did when he was near.

“Seunghyun,” you greeted, a flicker of something you didn’t name passing through your eyes. He glanced at the man beside you, then back at you. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” he said lightly, as though he hadn’t been standing in that corner watching you for the last ten minutes. “I could say the same,” you replied, your tone teasing. He let his gaze linger on you a beat too long before answering. “You free later?” The question felt casual, but there was nothing casual in the way his eyes held yours—like the answer had already been decided.

Before you could respond, the man spoke up, shifting his stance. “Actually, we were talking about grabbing a drink after this.” Seunghyun’s head turned toward him with the kind of measured slowness that could almost pass for disinterest. Almost. “Were you?” His tone carried no sharp edge, but something in it still made the man hesitate. He looked back at you, not the other man, as he said, “I’ll pick you up.“ The man gave a small, awkward laugh. “She already—”

I’ll pick you up,” Seunghyun repeated, softer this time, but with a weight that pressed the rest of the words out of the air. You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to. The corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest smirk, as though he’d already won. What you didn’t know yet was that he wasn’t just taking you home. He was leading you straight into the quietest, most dangerous part of his world.

He was early.

When you stepped out of your building, Seunghyun was already there, leaning against the sleek black frame of his car, cigarette in hand. The glow at the tip flared as he drew in, his gaze following you from the moment the door clicked shut behind you.

“You’re early,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Didn’t feel like waiting,” he replied, flicking the cigarette away before you reached him. His eyes swept over you—your coat, the way your hair caught the streetlight—lingering just long enough for it to feel deliberate. He opened the passenger door for you, his palm brushing your lower back as you slid in. Not by accident. Never by accident.

The drive was quiet at first. The city slipped by in blurred streaks of neon and shadow, the low hum of the engine filling the space between you. You could feel his glances even without turning your head—the way he’d shift slightly at a red light just to look at you longer. Halfway to his place, his hand left the wheel. It found your knee, warm and steady, fingers curving just enough to feel like a claim. “You looked… busy earlier,” he said, eyes fixed on the road.

“Busy?” you asked. “With him,” he said simply. You exhaled a soft laugh. “Jealous?” His grip on your knee tightened almost imperceptibly. “No. Just making sure you know where you belong.” It wasn’t a question, and you didn’t answer it.

When he pulled into the underground garage, he didn’t bother to park far from the elevator—just slid the car into the nearest space and killed the engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the drive.

He stepped out first, came around to open your door again. This time, his hand found yours as you got out, thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go.

But when the elevator doors slid shut behind you, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you that fraction closer. “You’ve been to my place before,” he murmured, “but tonight… I want to show you something different.” You didn’t know what he meant yet.

You didn’t know the walls you were about to see.

The elevator doors slid open into the quiet luxury of his apartment—a space so pristine it could have been lifted from the pages of an architecture magazine. Clean lines, muted tones, glass and steel softened by the warmth of low amber lighting.

He took your coat before you could set it down, hanging it neatly on a curved brass stand by the door. “You can sit,” he said, nodding toward the sunken living room, his voice easy but threaded with something that felt heavier in the air. On the glass coffee table, two crystal glasses waited. He filled them himself from a decanter of deep red wine, the kind that caught the light like liquid garnet. “You drink?” You arched a brow. “You’re asking me that now?” A faint curve ghosted over his mouth. “I like to hear you say yes.”

He handed you a glass, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary, before stepping back just enough to watch you wander the length of the room. You trailed past his low shelves lined with art books, past a piece of abstract sculpture that seemed to shift with the light. His eyes followed you the entire time—not hurried, not shy. He studied you the way some people study brushwork on a priceless canvas. “You’ve redecorated,” you said, settling onto the deep charcoal sofa “Pieces come and go,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair opposite you. His legs stretched out casually, but the stillness in his posture told you he was all attention.

The silence between you wasn’t empty; it was full—like the quiet before an orchestra starts. He sipped his wine, eyes never leaving you, and before you were about to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, he was already leaning forward. His hand brushed it away properly, fingertips grazing the curve of your neck before he smoothed it down over your back. The warmth from his touch lingered even as his phone began to ring—a muted chime on the table beside him. He glanced at the name on the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he answered.

“I’ll be a minute,” he said to you, voice low, before turning slightly away in his seat to speak into the phone. Left to yourself, your gaze drifted toward the far end of the living room—toward a door you didn’t remember from before. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling through the gap.

You rose, glass in hand, drawn by the quiet pull of curiosity. And when you crossed the threshold, you realized at once: this was no ordinary room. Every wall was lined with priceless art… except for one section. That section was covered entirely in photographs of you.

He’d known you would wander.

You always did.

It was in the way your eyes never stayed still—always catching on the smallest details, the ones most people missed. A crack in the frame. The faint scent of oil paint still clinging to an antique. He’d watched that instinct in you from the first day you met, and tonight… he’d made no move to stop it.

He heard the faint click of your heels across the marble as he ended the call, his voice clipped to get it over with. The moment the line went dead, the apartment felt too quiet. Too… empty of you. When he turned, you weren’t on the sofa. Not by the shelves. Not anywhere you were supposed to be.

A slow exhale left him as he spotted the open door at the far end of the room.

Of course.

He moved toward it with unhurried steps, each one deliberate, the muted thud of his shoes against the floor a measured rhythm. He could already see you from the doorway—standing in the center of the room, wine glass still in hand, your posture rigid. Your gaze was fixed ahead, scanning the wall that had stopped countless people in their tracks.

But you weren’t looking at the Monet. Or the Degas sketch.

No, your eyes were on you.

Row upon row of photographs—some as small as passport pictures, others large enough to cover a frame—spread in precise, deliberate arrangement. Not a single image taken by chance. Every one chosen. Every one… kept. Moments you thought were private. That smile you gave to your reflection while fastening an earring. The look on your face when you leaned out of a window in summer. Your hands mid-gesture, telling a story to someone else.

He didn’t speak right away. He let you feel it—his presence at your back, the way the air subtly shifted in the doorway when he filled it. When you finally turned, your expression was a tangle of disbelief, caution… and something else he could read in a heartbeat, even if you wouldn’t say it.

He stepped inside, closing the distance one measured pace at a time. A glass of wine dangled casually from his fingers, but his eyes never wavered from yours. “You weren’t supposed to be in here,” he said softly—not as a reprimand, but as if the fact itself was… intimate. Your grip on the glass tightened. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

A faint smile touched his mouth, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because some rules are better broken slowly.” He set his glass on the nearest surface, moving close enough that you could see the reflection of yourself in his dark irises. “Do you know what every piece in this room has in common?”

Your silence stretched. “They’re mine.” His voice lowered, almost a murmur. “And you—” his gaze flicked toward the wall of photographs before returning to your face “—you’ve always been my favorite.”

Your voice is the first thing to break the silence.

Low. Cautious. “This… this is insane.” He tilts his head, studying you the way he might study a canvas he’s owned for years but never stopped examining. “Is it?”

You set your wine glass down harder than you meant to, the crystal chime cutting through the thick air between you. “Photographs, Seunghyun. Of me. Of my—” your breath stutters, “—private moments. You followed me.”

He steps forward, deliberate, unhurried. “I didn’t follow you.” His gaze doesn’t leave your face. “I was already there.” You take a step back. He matches it, closing the space again. “Do you hear yourself?” you push, your voice sharpening. “You can’t just—”

His hand comes up—not to touch, but to brush past you, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The sound makes your stomach tighten. “You think I can’t?” His tone is calm, but something in it pulses with heat. “You think I don’t already know where you’ll be before you even go there?”

Your pulse spikes. “That’s not normal.”

“No.” His mouth lifts in the faintest curve. “It’s devotion.” When you move to sidestep him, his hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to stop you mid-motion. You try to pull free. He lets you, but only after his thumb grazes the inside of your pulse. “I don’t want this,” you lie, the words stumbling out too quickly. He studies you for a long beat, as if weighing the taste of your denial. “Your eyes,” he says finally, “say something else.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already stepping closer again. You feel the heat of his presence, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the deeper scent of wine. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes—an unspoken admission he doesn’t even bother hiding. “Why?” you ask, the question sharper than you intended. “Why me?”

For the first time, his expression shifts—something raw flickering under the control. “Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever seen that makes the rest of the world feel… replaceable. The words hang heavy between you, too close to dangerous. You step back again, needing space, needing air.

This time, he lets you go—watching you retreat toward the door with the quiet patience of someone who already knows you’ll return.

You’re halfway to the door when the air shifts — heavier, charged — and you feel him before you see him. His footsteps are soundless, but his presence fills the room, shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows yours whole. Fingers curl around your wrist. Not tight. Not painful. Just deliberate — a hold that says you’re not leaving until I let you.

“Running off already?” His voice is low, almost calm, but there’s a thread beneath it — something simmering, something that’s been building since the moment you stepped into his home. You turn to meet his gaze, ready to tell him off, to demand answers — but his eyes are molten, fixed on you like you’ve just wandered into his orbit and he has no intention of letting you leave it.

You move to step past him, but his fingers catch your wrist again, firmer this time. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice quiet but heavy enough to halt your escape.

“I’m leaving,” you say, though it comes out thinner than you’d like. His gaze darkens, his head tilting just enough to make you feel examined, as though every twitch of your expression is a page in a book only he has the right to read. “You always run when I get close. Do you even realize how much that hurts?”

It’s almost laughable — he’s the one who’s been shadowing you, pulling you closer when it suits him — but the way his voice dips, husky and raw, disorients you. Like he’s peeling himself open for you, even if part of you suspects it’s just another way to make you stay.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he continues, stepping closer until his chest nearly brushes yours. “I let you see more of me than anyone, and you… walk away.” Your throat tightens, because there’s something in his eyes — desperate, unblinking — that feels too much like truth.

You take a step back. His hand doesn’t loosen.

“I’m not yours,” you tell him, and it’s meant to be final.

His fingers slide from your wrist to the line of your jaw, cupping it, holding you still. “Not yet,” he murmurs — and then his mouth is on yours. It’s not soft. It’s not searching. It’s a brand — hot, unyielding, his mouth pressing into yours like he’s marking you. The faint taste of red wine lingers between your lips, along with something darker — the quiet satisfaction of a man who’s wanted this far longer than he should have.

One hand cradles your jaw, the other finding your waist and drawing you against him until your breath tangles with his. There’s no space left — not for words, not for thought, only for the pounding in your chest and the steady, controlled pull of his mouth over yours.

The kiss is deep, searing, a calculated mix of heat and ache. His thumb brushes your cheek, his body leaning in just enough to feel the weight of him without trapping you — as though giving you the illusion of choice.

Your fingers curl against his shirt, not to push him away this time — but to hold him there. His lips are warm, urgent, tasting faintly of wine and something darker you can’t name. You don’t mean to kiss him back. It just… happens. The heat of him, the steadiness of his hand cradling your jaw, the way his breath hitches like he’s been waiting forever for this moment — it’s all too much, too close.

For a second, you let yourself sink into it. His mouth moves with a kind of hunger that’s almost reverent, like he’s memorizing you. Your pulse stumbles, your knees threaten to give. And then — the image comes, uninvited. That wall. Those photographs. His eyes watching you from the doorway like you were already his before you even stepped foot inside.

The taste of him turns bitter. You jerk back, chest heaving, and his hand lingers a second too long before it falls away. “I can’t—” you start, but your voice fractures. You take a step back, then another.

“I’ll let you leave,” he says softly, almost kindly, “but you’ll come back.” When he finally lets you go, it’s not because he’s finished — it’s because he’s decided to.

You step back, pulse thrumming, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin. Your glare only earns you the faintest curve of his lips — that unreadable smile that promises this isn’t over.

“See you soon,” he says simply, like it’s not a question. And you walk out — not because he’s let you, but because, for now, you’ve decided to go.

You don’t look back when you leave. You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to see his face — not when your own feels like it’s been stripped raw.

The night air bites at your skin, sobering you in ways the wine couldn’t. You keep walking until his street disappears behind you, until the click of your heels is the only sound you can hear over your own pulse. You think about calling someone, anyone, just to anchor yourself. But the truth is, you don’t know what you’d say. You’re not sure anyone would understand. You’re not sure you want them to.

And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, you can feel his eyes. The way he looked at you — not with hope, not even with lust, but with a certainty that made your stomach twist.

You get home, lock the door, and tell yourself that’s the end of it. You don’t see the car parked two buildings down.

You don’t see the man inside, leaning back in the driver’s seat, watching the light in your apartment window flick on.

He doesn’t need to follow you inside.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it’s enough for him to know exactly where you sleep.

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seungttttop · 5 days ago

Text

so close to what | masterlist

hi my loves!! as promised, here is the writing event to celebrate hitting one hundred followers! i’ve asked some of my favourite writers to help me out with this, and i couldn’t be more excited!

the stories will be released anytime between now and the end of august! each one is inspired by a song from tate mcrae’s newest album ‘so close to what’, and will be centred around bigbang ot4!

once again, i am SO thankful for each and every one of you, and for all of the love and support that you’ve shown me throughout these past few months. i honestly don’t know what i would do without you guys! also, a huge thank you to everyone who is participating! ♡

this post serves as the masterlist, where you’ll be able to find all of the stories in one place!

miss possessive ꕤ (@breakmeoff)

☆ choi seunghyun

revolving door ꕤ (@jiyongsangel)

★ kwon jiyong

dear god ꕤ (@slut4kwon)

☆ kwon jiyong

purple lace bra ꕤ (@wcnderlnds)

★ choi seunghyun

sports car ꕤ (@steponupbabe)

☆ kwon jiyong

i know love ꕤ (@gdinthehouseee)

★ choi seunghyun

no i’m not in love ꕤ (@moonqz)

☆ choi seunghyun

means i care ꕤ (@igorluvr)

★ kang daesung

2 hands ꕤ (@serenadeonacanoe)

☆ kwon jiyong

siren sounds ꕤ (@ldydeath)

★ kwon jiyong

110 notes · View notes

seungttttop · 6 days ago

Note

hiii, can u do some thanos head canons? sfw or nsfw whichever you’d like i love your fics btw <3

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ᡣ𐭩 | thanos (player 230)

warnings | explicit content, nsfw, mention of drugs, power dynamics, toxic relationship?

Being with Thanos is like living under a constant aura of greatness. It makes you feel small in comparison, but not in an unpleasant way. It's as if he were teaching you to look at the world from his perspective, with his ideas.

He is always attentive to your well-being, ready to intervene at any moment to ensure you are not in danger.

It's not easy to win their approval. Every step you take is under their critical gaze, but that forces you to be better.

The effects of the drug sometimes make him more introspective, and in those more vulnerable moments, he shows you unexpected gestures of tenderness, as if he were seeking comfort in you, even if he doesn't admit it.

Being with Thanos is an emotional rollercoaster. Sometimes, his spontaneity is what attracts you the most; you never know what to expect. He makes impulsive decisions, but that gives him a unique energy, even though it can be a bit exhausting.

He can go from the height of euphoria to a state of deep sadness in a matter of minutes. While that can be confusing and complicated, it makes you feel closer to him because you know his vulnerability is there, even if you don't always understand it.

He defends you from everything that threatens him, even if sometimes you are surprised by how strong or unpredictable he becomes.

When the drugs have him in a calmer state, he approaches you as if he needs you to feel balanced. He hugs you, looks at you intensely, and in those moments you know that all that really matters to him is you.

He is not afraid to take risks and, although sometimes he makes you feel insecure, he drags you along with him on his adventures. Even though his impulses scare you, you always have the feeling that in the end, everything will turn out fine.

Thanos is unpredictable even in intimacy. Sometimes he is incredibly passionate, while other times, his emotional attitude makes him more distant or even indifferent.

Under the influence of drugs, he becomes more raw and direct. He is not interested in playing games; he just wants to feel something genuine, something that makes him escape from his emotional confusion.

He takes you in an almost ferocious way, as if he needs to make sure you are completely his, although his desire is uninhibited, it is not always gentle. There are moments when it seems like he marks you, and he enjoys it.

Sometimes it pushes your limits, seeking something new or different. It can be risky, but the tension it creates between you both is palpable, leaving you in a state of total vulnerability.

He is a man who wants to know all your desires, your most hidden fantasies, and he encourages you to express them without fear.

If he wants it, he gets it. You can't resist his kisses, his caresses.

He's a beast in bed, but outside of it, he's a sweet man who only thinks about your pleasure.

And no matter what you wish for, he always fulfills it.

Do you like oral sex? Great. It will leave you trembling with pleasure as it licks you clean.

Do you want me to whip you? He knows exactly the point where you need to be.

Would you like to be fucked animalistically, without any reservations, just feeling? Perfect. He'll make you feel his cock and his teeth on your neck.

Do you want to be possessed like a slut, without him letting you breathe? He will. He will fuck you without stopping to caress you, without stopping to kiss you.

If you just want to feel the pleasure of being with a man, for him to caress you, kiss you, and speak sweet words to you. Well, he can do it too. He will do it gladly.

And if there's something he doesn't know how to do, he'll learn it just for you. Because the only thing that matters to him is your pleasure and your orgasms.

But he always takes care of your feelings. If something scares you, if you don't want him to do it, he won't insist.

And if you don't want anything else, if you just want company to talk and do something, that's fine too.

But... Don't be surprised if on a normal night, without thinking, he grabs you by the arm, takes you to the bedroom, and fucks you like an animal.

Not even during the day, he approaches you from behind and slaps your butt while whispering in your ear that he's going to fuck you as soon as you get home.

146 notes · View notes

seungttttop · 6 days ago

Note

can you write a story like this for thanos/t.o.p he meets a woman who owns an art gallery and they start a relationship where they inspire each other one day the female reader gets a homosexual assistant for the gallery but he doesn't understand this so he gets jealous of his lover and the female reader is enjoying this jealousy boyfriend I wanted to read a story where they have a sweet and entertaining lovemaking while being a bit opposite to each other

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 | thanos (player 230) × fem!reader

summary | the request

warnings | is a different topic from thanos in squid game, jealousy, possessiveness, control

word count | 1.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You never thought that an art gallery could be the place where your life would change completely. Although you had worked your whole life on your art and creating a space for others, you never imagined that someone like him would cross your path.

He was an enigmatic man, powerful, with a presence that could almost crush you if you let it. From the moment he walked into your gallery, he captivated you. Not only by his striking appearance but by the way his gaze lingered on each painting, each sculpture, as if he could see something beyond the physical. And that was something that intrigued you deeply.

Weeks passed since that first encounter. Over time, you became inseparable. You found yourself eagerly awaiting the nights spent with him, exchanging ideas about art, philosophy, life, and everything that could shake your world. He disarmed you with his mind, but also with the tenderness he showed you, despite his intimidating demeanor.

One afternoon, you decided to hire an assistant for the gallery, someone who could help with the more mundane tasks while you focused on new exhibitions. You didn’t want to burden him with your daily worries, as he had his own commitments. Therefore, when you introduced Kevin, your new assistant, you didn’t think much about it. Kevin was outgoing, friendly, and had a unique energy. But there was something about him that made you feel you had made the right decision.

What you didn’t expect was that he wouldn’t react well to his arrival.

On Kevin’s first day at the gallery, he arrived at your space. As always, his presence was noticed before you even saw him, his tall shadow and erect posture immediately filling the room. However, when his eyes met Kevin’s, something shifted in him. His usual calculated and cold expression tensed for a moment before he tried to hide it behind a mask of indifference.

"Hello," Kevin said with a bright smile, extending his hand.

He didn’t immediately respond, only observed the extended hand before shaking it briefly. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with a tension you hadn’t noticed before.

Kevin, for his part, seemed completely unaware of the air that had become thick between the two of them. As if it were all an innocent game, he continued speaking to you, showing you his ideas for the gallery.

But you couldn’t stop noticing his gaze. He was watching, evaluating, and a small spark of jealousy shone in his eyes.

"Are you sure you need an assistant?" he asked, his deep voice sounding slightly rougher than usual, though he tried to mask it.

"Yes," you said, keeping your composure. "It would help a lot. We’ve already talked about this. Kevin is perfect for the job."

His gaze hardened for just a second more before he nodded slowly. "Whatever you need," he murmured, and with a turn of his body, he headed for the door, leaving the air still thick with his presence.

From that day on, you noticed small changes. Kevin seemed to try harder to be close to you, maybe too close, but in an innocent way. His enthusiasm for art made you laugh, and it was nice to have someone to share ideas with without it being too serious. However, every time he entered the gallery, his eyes couldn’t stop drifting toward Kevin, and the tension was palpable.

One day, after a long day of work, you found yourself alone in the gallery, reviewing some works you had decided to exhibit. Kevin had left early, and he hadn’t arrived yet, or at least you hadn’t seen him. When he walked in, his gaze immediately fixed on you.

You approached him, wanting to show him something new, but before you could speak, he interrupted you.

"I don’t want him being around you so much," he said, his words quieter but filled with an intensity that made your heart race a little faster. "I don’t like it."

You were surprised by his frankness. "Kevin?" you asked, almost incredulous. "He’s just an assistant."

"I know," he replied, his tone tense. "Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t like seeing the way he looks at you. It’s... strange."

For a moment, you watched him, realizing that what he was really saying was that he couldn’t stand seeing another man paying attention to you, even in a professional manner.

You felt strangely amused by his jealousy. You liked seeing him, so sure and dominant, show such a vulnerable side. But you also knew you had to set boundaries.

"What happens between Kevin and me has nothing to do with you," you said, gently but firmly. "You’re very jealous, you know that?"

He made a grimace, as if he didn’t want to admit it, but finally approached you. His large, strong hands wrapped around your waist as his eyes looked at you with an intensity you had never seen before.

"I know," he murmured, "But I can’t help it. You’re mine."

The declaration took you by surprise, but before you could respond, his lips landed on yours in a fierce kiss, as if his need for you had exploded. The kiss was a whirlwind of repressed desire, jealousy turned into something much deeper. He claimed you with every movement, with every brush of his lips, as if he wanted to mark you in some way, proving that, despite everything, you were his.

You gave yourself to him without reservation, feeling how the connection you had built intensified in that moment. The soft brush of his tongue against yours, his breath ragged as his hands explored your body, all of this took you to a place where words didn’t matter anymore. Only he and you mattered, the heat between the two of you, the desire to be together, to experience everything life had to offer.

The kiss became more intense, more passionate, as if you were both fighting for control, but without losing the rhythm. It was a game of power, emotions, physical and emotional needs that only the two of you shared.

Finally, when you both pulled away, breathing heavily, he looked at you with a satisfied expression, as if he had claimed something that belonged to him.

"You know you’re the only one for me, right?" he whispered against your lips, almost like a promise.

You smiled, knowing that, although he was jealous and sometimes possessive, his love for you was real. "I know," you replied, "And I’m yours."

53 notes · View notes

seungttttop · 6 days ago

Note

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii :D

I'm sorry if this request is super long and detailed, but I was wondering if you could write a story with (hear me out) Thanos notices reader he thinks she's cute like a rabbit but reader is in a relationship with player 333 she enters the squid games trying to help out her bf but finds out he also joined and that he used to go out with player 222 and that 222 is pregnant with his baby. She feels hurt and asks him to justify himself he tells her he will, but "now is not the time" and he keeps trying to get closer with his ex she feels hurt but tries to be cool abt it. And that's when Thanos tries getting closer to her he convinces her to join his group and 333 is annoyed at her asking to justify her actions and that's when Thanos tells him to "f off" and he gets annoyed at him.

So Thanos to piss him off even more he kisses the reader in front of 33 and starts getting a little handsy with her then tells him to excuse him and his new gf and then boom NSFW with reader asking Thanos to tell her he loves her or what he likes abt her (just reader trying to know if she's rlly loved or not)

It's okay if you don't want to!!! Also, thank u if you read this!!! ＼(^^)／

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 | thanos (player 230) × fem!reader

summary | the request. betrayed by myung-gi, you find unexpected comfort and passion with thanos

warnings | implicit and psychological violence, mention of survival, infidelity and betrayal, emotional tension, smut, explicit content, oral sex (fem!receives), p in v, semi-public

word count | 2.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The smell of blood and fear permeated the air of the shared dormitory as the players tried to sleep amidst watchful vigilance and distrust. You sat against the wall, watching as Myung-gi, your boyfriend, argued with a nearby group about strategies. Your relationship with him had been a beacon during your financial struggles, a reason to keep going when everything seemed to fall apart. Yet, something about his behavior lately had changed.

You didn’t realize someone else had been watching you from across the room. Thanos, the chaotic rapper with a silver tongue, kept his eyes fixed on you, his thoughts flowing as quickly as his improvised rhymes.

"She’s cute," he murmured to himself, running a hand through his messy hair. There was something about the way you bit your lower lip while deep in thought that made him pause. Something different. Something real.

That night, after the next game was announced, you tried to approach Myung-gi. You had entered the game for him, to save him from his mistakes and arrogance. But when you found him, he was whispering something to Player 222, a young woman with a round face and tired eyes. You stopped as you caught a fragment of their conversation.

"Why didn’t you tell me before?" Myung-gi asked in a low voice.

"Do you think it was easy for me?" she replied, visibly emotional, her hand stroking her belly.

A chill ran down your spine as you understood what that meant. The confrontation was inevitable.

"What’s going on here, Myung-gi," you asked, trying to stay calm as your eyes darted between him and Player 222.

He sighed, visibly uncomfortable.

"She and I… we had something before this. It’s not what you think."

"It’s not what I think? What’s that supposed to mean? Why didn’t you tell me she’s pregnant?" Your voice rose, but you tried to avoid drawing the other players’ attention.

"I’ll explain everything, but now’s not the time."

"You always say that. What am I supposed to do while you…?" You trailed off, unable to continue as you saw his attention shift back to 222. He was worried about her, not you.

The pain in your chest was unbearable, but you decided not to show it. You walked away, finding a corner where you could breathe.

That’s where Thanos found you. He sat down next to you with the confidence of someone who had always relied on fast-talking to survive.

"That guy’s an idiot," he said softly, almost a whisper, but filled with conviction.

"Stay out of it, Thanos," you tried to sound firm, but he just laughed.

"Come on, girl. I’m good at reading people, and he’s not worth it. Join my group. I promise I won’t betray you like he did."

His words, as ridiculous as they seemed, carried weight. There was something refreshing about his unfiltered honesty, something that made you consider his proposal. When you nodded slowly, he grinned widely, as if he had won the most important game.

Later, when Myung-gi saw you with Thanos, his face darkened. He approached quickly, crossing the room with long, aggressive strides.

"What are you doing with this clown?" he snapped at you, glaring at Thanos with disdain.

Thanos stood up, positioning himself between you and Myung-gi.

"Clown, huh? At least I don’t have secret babies running around."

"Shut up!" Myung-gi shouted, stepping forward, but Thanos didn’t back down.

"Why don’t you go to hell instead?" Thanos shot back with an insolent grin. Before Myung-gi could respond, Thanos turned to you and, without warning, kissed you.

The kiss was brief but intense, a declaration as brazen as he was. Myung-gi stood frozen, his fists trembling with rage.

"Forgive us," Thanos said, wiping his mouth with his thumb as he looked back at him, "me and my new girlfriend."

The air in the room grew tense, the other players watching in silent interest. You were speechless, caught between Myung-gi’s humiliation and Thanos’s defiant attitude. Although you hated to admit it, a small part of you felt vindicated.

When Myung-gi walked away, muttering something you couldn’t hear, Thanos shrugged and glanced at you sideways.

"See? Problem solved."

"You’re an idiot," you said, but you couldn’t help a faint smile.

Thanos noticed the curve of your lips and, as if he had received the green light, leaned in toward you again. This time the kiss was longer, deeper, more intentional. You felt his hand gently glide across your cheek, and despite the chaos surrounding you, the world stood still for a moment.

When his lips parted from yours, he looked at you with that spark of amusement and audacity that never seemed to fade.

"Want to get out of here?" he whispered.

You nodded without much thought. Something in the intensity of his eyes made you forget everything else.

The two of you walked toward the bathrooms, ignoring the curious gazes of the other players. As soon as you crossed the door and he closed it behind you, he gently pinned you against the wall. His lips found yours again, and this time there was nothing to hold back the electricity between you.

"You know you drive me crazy, right?" he murmured against your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Thanos... this is insane," you said, but your hands were already gripping his shirt.

"My whole life has been insane. You’re the only thing that makes sense now."

Your breath quickened when his hand slid over your chest. The fear and adrenaline of the game mixed with the heat spreading through your body. You wanted him to take you to the limit, you wanted him to make you forget everything that had happened.

"Talk to me," you pleaded, arching your back as his fingers found your nipples.

"I want to see you," he whispered, caressing your skin through your clothes.

You nodded with a moan when he moved aside to take off your blouse and bra. His gaze fixed on your breasts, his breathing visibly quickening.

"So beautiful..." he murmured, biting his lips. His fingers caressed your nipples again, this time without the barrier of clothing, and the pleasure made you moan.

"Go on" you pleaded.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?" he said, removing your pants and panties in one swift motion.

Before you could respond, he knelt in front of you and kissed your sex. Your body shuddered in surprise, but the surprise was quickly replaced by desire. His lips and tongue traced circles over your clitoris, sending waves of heat through your body.

"That's how I like it" he gasped, raising his eyes to meet yours. The intensity of his gaze made you feel as if your entire body was on fire.

"Say it again," you pleaded in a whisper.

"Like this. Me. Like." he repeated softly, each word accompanied by a kiss on your sex.

You felt on the edge, about to burst. Your breathing was shallow, but his fingers wouldn't let you stop. They caressed you firmly, quickly, until you could no longer bear it. Your body tensed, the muscles tightening in waves that coursed through your entire body. The orgasm was so intense that it enveloped your entire body from head to toe.

He stood up while you were still swaying in his arms, watching you with a satisfied smile.

"Do you like it this way?" he asked in a soft, almost inaudible voice.

"Yes" you answered without thinking. "Yes, yes..."

"Yes?" repeated Thanos, caressing your thighs with his fingers. His hands moved slowly, but his gaze was burning and dark.

"Yes, Thanos" you moaned, going to kiss his lips fiercely.

He responded with equal passion, kissing you breathless. His fingers caressed your thighs, moving up towards the sex that was still trembling with pleasure.

"Do you have any idea how much I desire you?" he whispered, kissing your breasts with an intensity that made you gasp.

You nodded, wanting more from him. Thanos responded by quickly removing his clothes, showing you his erection. You felt wet at the sight of him, wanting to feel him inside you.

"I want to feel you," you pleaded in a low voice.

Thanos nodded, positioning himself between your thighs. Your sex tensed in anticipation of the contact. He kissed you with a hoarse whisper as he penetrated you. The pain of the first contact mixed with pleasure as he began to move inside you.

"I love how you feel," he gasped, caressing your thighs as he penetrated you.

The sight of his face flushed with pleasure was the last straw. You couldn't take it anymore, and a second orgasm enveloped you. Your sex closed around him, enveloping him in waves of pleasure. Thanos shouted your name as he came inside you, his body trembling against yours.

The room seemed to spin around you as your breathing normalized. Thanos held you firmly against his body, kissing your forehead with a satisfied whisper.

"It was incredible," he said. You make me feel alive, like I've never felt before.

You nodded silently, feeling the warmth of his embrace against your skin.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he promised, his eyes shining with a conviction that surprised you. I swear.

331 notes · View notes

seungttttop · 6 days ago

Text

𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐭 | thanos (player 230) × fem!reader

summary | Thanos constantly harasses you until you stand up to him

warnings | strong language, drug use, physical confrontation, kissing

word count | 1.6 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me thanks ᡣ𐭩

It all started with a look—one of those glances people give you when they underestimate you. Of course, you were used to it. Here, no one expected much from a girl like you: small, quick, and quiet. And Player 230, whom everyone called Thanos, was no exception.

From day one, that jerk had decided you were his personal entertainment. He provoked you whenever he could, shoving you as he passed, making sarcastic remarks about how "weak" you looked, and making it clear that if he ever had the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate to crush you.

You put up with it because there wasn’t much choice. In this place, showing weakness was a death sentence, and an open confrontation with someone like him could be just as dangerous. But today, something inside you snapped.

It was the fifth game, a test of endurance and precision. Everyone was tense, including the guards patrolling the room. You focused on your strategy, ignoring the murmurs and stares. Then, as always, he showed up.

“Look who’s here, our little rat. Ready to run away when things get tough?”

His voice echoed behind you, and you could hear the smug grin in his tone. You didn’t bother turning around.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, 230?” you replied, trying to stay calm.

He let out a laugh. “No, not really. Watching you fail is the only entertaining thing here.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, a gesture that was anything but friendly. You swatted it away, turning to face him.

“You know what? That’s enough. I’m sick of your crap.”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he quickly recovered his mocking expression. “Well, well. The little rat has claws.”

Your heart was pounding, but you weren’t going to back down. Not this time.

“And what about you? What do you have? Besides a big mouth and a small brain?”

A murmur rippled through the room. The other players were watching the scene unfold with interest, some even smirking. It was rare for anyone to stand up to Thanos, let alone in public.

For a moment, you thought he was going to hit you. He stepped closer, and you could feel his heavy breath, mixed with the unmistakable stench of something chemical. Drugs. You’d noticed it before—his dilated pupils, his slightly clumsy movements.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, leaning toward you. His voice, usually loud and commanding, sounded almost… confused. Like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh at you or with you.

“What?” you snapped, not breaking eye contact.

“I like your attitude.” The grin on his face widened, but this time it didn’t seem mocking. It was different, disoriented.

What happened next took you completely by surprise. Before you could react, his hands grabbed your arms—not forcefully. He looked at you as if he were seeing something new, something he didn’t fully understand, and then… he kissed you.

It was quick, clumsy, and so unexpected that for a moment, you didn’t know how to react. Your brain took a few seconds to process what was happening, but when it did, you shoved him away with all the strength you had.

“What the hell are you doing?” you yelled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He stumbled back, a satisfied smile plastered across his face.

“You’re sexy when you’re angry, you know?”

Your blood boiled. The air in the room seemed to freeze. The other players stared at you—some horrified, others trying to stifle their laughter. The guards, as always, did nothing, letting the chaos unfold on its own.

“You’re insane,” you said, not bothering to lower your voice.

He took a step toward you, but this time, you stepped forward first.

“No. I’m warning you—don’t come any closer.”

Something in your tone must have reached him because he stopped. He blinked a couple of times, as if trying to process your words, and then let out a low, almost raspy laugh.

“You know, I think I like you more than I thought.”

You couldn’t believe it. This idiot was definitely high and didn’t seem to have any idea how inappropriate his behavior was. But instead of feeling intimidated, a wave of fury surged through you.

“If you ever touch me again,” you said, pointing a finger at him, “I swear you won’t walk out of the next game.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. And then, to your surprise, he nodded.

“Fine, little rat. But don’t be surprised if you change your mind someday.”

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seungttttop · 6 days ago

Text

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 | thanos (player 230) × fem!reader

summary | thanos finds you in a private moment

warnings | smut without plot, explicit content, masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex

word count | 0.7 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You are in your room letting the sensation of your fingers between your folds consume you, the moment you touch the erogenous zone of your thighs your breathing quickens and your lips begin to tremble. You sigh heavily as your fingers sink between your lips, entering you. Your neck is thrown back as your mouth forms an "O" and your eyebrows arch. You have your eyes closed and your breath is ragged. You are at the peak of sensation, a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Oh my God" you whisper.

You keep pushing them in and pulling them out of you with force "Damn... Thanos" you say, and your fingers quicken their pace. The sensation is so strong that you think you're going to explode "Damn it, Thanos!"

The door to your room swings open suddenly, and you are so surprised that you remain motionless. You have to open your eyes and look towards the door. The image of your friend on the threshold.

Thanos has his hand on the doorknob and his eyes are very bright. As his pupils dilate, you can see the color of his irises. You have a strange feeling that he is watching you there, so open and exposed. That feeling makes you blush and your cheeks are very red. He lets go of the doorknob and steps towards you.

"Are you enjoying it?" he asks, and his voice is very deep. You can feel the sensation of the sound of his voice. He leaves his hands on your shoulders and begins to unbutton your blouse. He lets it fall to the floor and his fingers go to the clasp of your bra. "Would you like me to help you?" his voice is so close to your ear that you can feel his breath on your skin.

Your fingers are paralyzed inside you, waiting for a response to what he just asked — Tell me — his fingers touch and caress the back of your neck. His lips move closer to your ears and he begins to kiss your ear. His breath is so strong in your ear.

"Tell me!" he sighs "Do you want me to help you?"

Your breathing is very rapid "Yes!" you whisper and your fingers leave the path.

Thanos unbuttons your bra and takes it off. You can hear it fall to the floor. His hands touch your shoulders and he turns you around. Your body sways on the mattress. He touches your waist and caresses you with his palms. You can hear how his fingers are rubbing your skin. His eyes roam over your breasts, and you can see his lips harden. They begin to move towards them. He touches one of your nipples and starts to twist it between his fingers.

"Oh my God..." you whisper and lean your head back.

His fingers move along your ribs and touch the tattoo on your pelvis "Oh..." he whispers and touches you harder "I like this tattoo" and his fingers keep moving "And this one?" he asks while touching your thighs. His voice is very deep, and you can hear how his breathing is very heavy. His hand touches your belly and you can feel his fingers moving up your thighs "This... This tattoo is..." his breathing is quick as he moves towards your legs "It's perfect..."

He touches you with his fingers and you can hear the sensation of them sinking between your thighs.

"Yes..." you whisper and your breasts harden and push outwards.

Thanos caresses you from the waist down. He grabs one of your legs and places it on his hips. His fingers touch your thighs and your legs open a little more. You can see how the erection of his penis rises through his pants.

"Do you want me to continue?" Thanos asks, his fingers rubbing your skin.

"Yes..." you whisper as you spread your legs a little more.

Thanos starts rubbing your thighs with his fingers "Damn..." he sighs.

You can see how he is relaxing and his breathing is very strong. You can see how his fingers are touching you very firmly.

"Damn, you are so beautiful..." he sighs and his fingers touch your groin, and you can hear the sound produced by touching your folds.

"Oh, fuck..." you whisper with your eyes closed "Oh!" you scream as his finger enters you.

Thanos pushes his finger deeper "Ohh..." you whisper as you can hear Thanos's voice getting closer to your breasts.

"Do you think of me when you touch yourself?" he whispers. His fingers begin to swirl inside you "Is it me you call out to while you touch yourself?" he asks.

"Yes... Yes!" you shout and your hips rise a little.

"Why?" he asks with a very deep voice and his breath on your breasts "Why do you call me?"

You can hear his fingers rubbing your fold more forcefully. Your hips begin to move in sync with his fingers. Her breasts are very firm and you can see the sparkle in her eyes. You can feel how her breath caresses your skin.

"Because I desire you! I want to have you inside me!" you shout with very bright eyes.

Thanos pulls his finger out of you and sits on top of you. He takes your legs with his arms and crosses them behind his neck. He touches your breasts with his lips "Hm..." you whisper "Damn... Damn..." and your fingers touch his hair. His teeth sink into your nipples and he sucks hard.

"Fuck!" you shout.

225 notes · View notes

seungttttop · 6 days ago

Text

⌞ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⌝

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thanos x black!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: squid game, ooc!thanos, angst, enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, implied substance use, implied unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), mature language, mentions of pregnancy, violence, & death

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

‧₊˚ ✦ ༉‧

the walls of the dormitory are dizzying as you sit down on one of the beds, trying to catch your breath. your heart is pounding in your ears, body already overworked from the first and probably easiest game: red light green light. gi-hun stands beside you, his brave guidance during the game being one of the main reasons you survived.

he catches your tired glance and inches even closer, gently nudging your head to rest on his side.

you close your eyes, sweat dripping from your brow as you finally draw a full breath. the guards enter shortly after, initiating a round of voting. even after your turn is over, tunnel vision pins your eyes to the screen above.

when the last vote is done and it’s determined that the games will continue, your shoulders deflate. gi-hun pats you softly, reassuring you that he’ll put an end to this.

you nod, fighting tears as you sit back down on one of the beds, awaiting dinner.

you feel someone’s gaze on you.

it pokes into your back like a pin pressed to bare skin, just shy of pain. you don’t turn right away, you’ve learned not to, in a place like this.

every move matters.

the weight of their gaze—heavy, scalding, unnerving—pulls your spine taut. when you finally pivot, slow, careful, neck as stiff as rusted hinges, it’s like he’s looking through you.

thanos stands apart from the others, leaning against a steel bed frame with an expression like the atmosphere offends him. his posture is careless but his eyes are anything but.

they rake down the length of you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

they stall on your stomach, his jaw twitching just barely.

your green tracksuit clings to the small curve of your bump, stretched just enough to be unmistakable. it’s not just visible, it’s obvious.

the softness of it contradicts everything else in this brutal room: the sterile steel, the bodies reeking of hunger and fear, the dizzying scent of sweat and blood.

but you—your skin glows warm in this ghastly light, and you don’t shrink. you’ve made a home in your own body, and for the first time, he is the one who looks unsteady.

you don’t blink. he does.

you can see it happening, recognition calcifying across his face like frostbite. the math is too easy: you + him + one drunken night + an empty hotel bed in the morning = this. you, standing in a death match with his child blooming quietly beneath your ribs.

he takes a step toward you and that’s when you speak.

“don’t.”

your voice slices through the air like wire.

he freezes.

there’s a tremble in his fingers, so slight it could be imagined, but you know him too well. or maybe just enough.

“i don’t want to hear whatever apology you spent the last four months rehearsing in your head,” you continue, your tone cold enough to match the room. “i didn’t ask for you to find me. and i don’t need anything from you now.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again.

you’ve seen him sneer at people for less. watched him carve opponents apart with nothing but boredom and precision. but here, with you, he’s—quiet. like he’s trying to pick the right words out of a landmine field.

“you’re…” he starts, then shifts his weight. his voice is gravel, worn and disbelieving. “you’re pregnant.”

you arch a brow. “very good. gold star.”

his eyes flick down again. not with lust, though you remember how they once did, but with something stranger.

something like awe. or guilt.

“why are you here?” he asks, and the question sounds like it hurts him to say.

you stare at him for a long moment.

“same reason as you,” you murmur. “money. desperation. and the mistake of trusting the wrong people.”

your gaze sharpens.

“present company included.”

he flinches, just slightly, but you don’t let him look away.

the next day, they assign teams for the next game. of course, you’re stuck with thanos and his minions.

fate loves a sick joke.

when the doors lock behind you, the silence inside the playroom feels unnatural, like the world’s holding its breath.

you don’t face him. not yet.

“don’t get any ideas,” you say coolly. “if it comes down to it, i’ll kill you myself.”

“i know,” he says, and there’s something almost fond in it.

you finally turn to look at him, and his face is unreadable again.

“you threw me away,” you say.

“i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

he closes his eyes.

“i woke up and you were gone,” you continue, your voice low and blistering. “no note. no call. not even a fucking ghost emoji. i get it, we weren’t friends to begin with but after how close we were that night, you could’ve at least said goodbye. and now you’re standing here like you’re owed a second chance.”

he says nothing, fidgeting with the cross draped around his neck.

“you’re not,” you add, venom soft as silk. “you’re not owed anything. your little fans may suck up to you but i never will.”

your hands grip into tight fists, your nails digging into your skin like teeth.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

you laugh, humorlessly.

“please. as if you would’ve wanted to know.”

a guard comes over to your group, binding your ankles together.

there’s no resets. no retries. if one of you falls behind—you all do.

“you’re slow,” thanos mutters without looking at you, jaw clenched.

“i’m pregnant,” you shoot back. “what’s your excuse?”

he meets your eyes then. for once, he doesn’t try to win the stare.

“just keep a steady pace. i’ll guide us through.”

“don’t pretend to care.”

“i don’t,” he lies, too fast. “i just don’t want you dying on my leg.”

you’re ushered to the start line. the smell of rust and sweat reminds you this is anything but innocent.

a buzzer blares. the games begin.

you run in sync, somehow. former enemies bound together by panic, timing, and something unspoken.

his hand clutches your wrist harder than it needs to, but you don’t shake him off.

luckily, your teammates aren’t incompetent, breezing through the first two obstacles easily. you all walk in sync, breathing deeply as you try to focus on not tripping. still, you stumble slightly, thanos’s grip is impeccably tighter.

“careful,” he mutters, and you hate that his voice sounds almost tender.

the third obstacle is gonggi, it’s your time to shine.

thanos kneels beside you, watching you intently as you cradle the pebbles in one palm. you catch them as they arc through the air with perfect rhythm, no drops. your hands move like clockwork.

“look at me,” he murmurs, just before the last toss. he notices the tremble in your hands and the hesitance to continue.

you do.

his eyes are steady, sharp. and terrified. not for himself. for you.

“we do this together,” he says. “you fall, i fall. we’re a team whether we like it or not.”

you nod once.

the pebbles land in your hand.

by the end, you’re panting, clutching your belly.

thanos turns to you quickly, pushing your hair back with unsteady fingers.

“you okay?”

you nod, breathless.

you think you mean to keep walking. instead, you look at him. and for a moment, there’s nothing else.

not the stench of blood.

not the cheering from the other players.

not the weight of everything he’s done wrong.

the moment shatters at the sound of the clock running out. you flinch at the sound of gunshots, letting him pull you just slightly closer.

something changes after that.

he walks beside you more often. not close, but not far. always half a step behind. like a shadow. like protection disguised as indifference.

you sleep on opposite sides of the dorms, but when you wake up crying from the cramps or nightmares, he’s always awake.

he doesn’t speak. just watches.

it should unsettle you, but it doesn’t.

you sit alone one night, legs drawn up to your chest, arms looped around your bump. the others talk (or argue, you’re not sure) quietly nearby, loud enough to hear, yet soft enough to ignore.

thanos clears his throat beside you, startling you out of your daze.

when he sits beside you, you don’t move.

he says nothing for a long time.

then, so low it might not be real—

“i think about that night all the time.”

you keep your eyes forward.

“do you think that makes it better?”

“no.”

“good.”

he exhales. it sounds like he’s been holding it in since the games began.

“you hated me,” he says.

“i still do.”

“then why did you let me touch you?”

you turn to him, slowly.

“i could ask you the same.”

he looks at you pointedly, awaiting a truthful answer. you sigh.

“because you looked at me like you were starving. and i was stupid enough to want to be devoured.”

silence.

your eyes meet, searching each other’s.

and for one terrible, aching moment, you remember the way he kissed you—like his mouth was the only place you’d ever be safe.

the next day arrives quicker than you would’ve liked it to.

as you enter the arena, your eyes wander across a large carousel and dozens of small rooms.

“the game you will be playing is mingle.” the robotic voice you’ve grown accustomed to begins its introduction.

thanos turns around, a playful smile on his face.

“hey, we’ll be mingling together. doesn’t that sound like so much fun?”

nam-gyu, whose influence on thanos you hated even before the games, laughs maniacally.

“when the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number,” the voice continues, mechanical and smooth. “you must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within thirty seconds.”

you can’t help but feel queasy. you don’t like the name. you don’t like the rules either.

you glance at thanos.

his jaw is now set like stone.

once everyone has found their footing on the carousel, the game begins.

all too soon, there’s a stampede of bodies, limbs tangled and slick with panic. you’re jostled immediately, shoulder slammed into a wall, hands reaching past your belly, never touching it but close enough to make your skin crawl.

you try to move fast, but your center of gravity has shifted. you’re not quick—not like the rest of them. not anymore.

by the third round, you’re falling behind.

you hear the countdown echoing through the room.

seven. six. five…

you’re pushed from behind, hitting the floor hard, palms scraped, knees burning. tears sting your eyes.

and that’s when you see him. thanos.

he barrels over like a wrecking ball, shoving the man who knocked you over.

“watch where the fuck you’re going,” he snaps.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but urgent, and pulls you upright, his body shielding yours as the timer ticks.

three. two—

he shoves you both through the door.

just in time.

just barely in time.

your breath comes in ragged gasps, your aching hands running protectively over your stomach.

thanos stares at you like you’ve been pulled from wreckage.

“you okay?” he asks.

you nod, dizzy.

“say it,” he breathes.

you blink. “what?”

“say you’re okay. i need to hear it.”

your throat aches.

“i’m okay.”

his shoulders sag, just slightly. like you’ve loosened something inside him he didn’t know was knotted.

he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the game. in the final round, he waits, just long enough to make sure you’re safe behind a door before he finds his own.

that night, you’re horrified to learn about a special game called lights out.

they don’t warn you. the overhead bulbs flicker, dim, then die, plunging the barracks into a suffocating dark.

it starts slow: whispers. footsteps. the sharp breath of someone striking first.

then screaming.

screaming and metal and blood.

you curl into yourself on your bed, hand protectively over your stomach.

thanos’s hand finds yours.

“don’t open your eyes,” he whispers.

he’s close. closer than he’s ever dared to be since that night at the hotel. his breath brushes the shell of your ear.

“just keep still,” he says. “i’ll handle it.”

you tremble.

“i promise,” he murmurs, softer now, “i’ll keep you safe. both of you.”

something breaks in your chest. not all the way, but enough to let a little warmth in.

morning comes with stale light and silence. there’s more bodies covered with sheets than you can count.

you sit in a corner, hunched over breakfast with hyun-ju, geum-ja, jun-hee, and a few of the others. they talk in hushed voices, the way people do after funerals.

jun-hee, glowing in that weary, third-trimester way, leans over her tray and smiles kindly at you.

“it was kind of romantic,” she says lightly. ��him protecting you like that.”

you snort, but there’s a flicker in your chest. a softness you don’t want to name.

you glance across the room.

thanos is sitting by himself, sleeves rolled to the elbows, bruised knuckles gripping chopsticks. he chews slowly, blank expression, but you know better.

he’s watching everything.

you don’t mean to look for too long.

but he notices.

he rises, making your heart skip.

and then he’s beside you, cool as ever, setting down some of the contents of his tray into yours without asking.

“eat,” he says. “you’re carrying our child.”

the way he says our—you feel it. it doesn’t sound like a confession. it sounds like a vow.

your breath catches.

“you didn’t finish your eggs,” you murmur, unable to help it.

“didn’t want them,” he says. “i wanted to bring them to you.”

around you, the others catch the moment and politely, awkwardly, start to drift away.

jun-hee gives you a wink before she goes.

you swallow hard. your heart is thudding so loud it drowns out the buzz of fluorescent lights.

he gives you a short nod and makes a move to walk away, but you catch his wrist in your hand.

“stay,” you whisper.

his eyes flick over yours. they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“yeah?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

he sits beside you again, but this time, he’s not made of stone. he’s warm. steady. unsure, but present.

you’re holding your breath as he tentatively reaches a hand towards you, hesitating just before it comes into contact with your stomach. your eyes hold his gaze.

you hope he understands what you’re trying to tell him.

when it’s still stuck in midair, you grab his wrist once again, directing his palm to rest on your bump.

his eyes widen slightly at the warmth.

suddenly, it’s just the three of you in the room, no curious or judgmental eyes.

you’re not sure what’s become of you, this magnetic pull draws you into him. he seems to feel the same because slowly, like a man asking for permission to breathe, he kisses you.

his lips brush yours, featherlight, and when you don’t pull away, he leans in a little more.

you don’t know if you’ll survive this place.

you don’t know what comes next in your relationship with thanos.

but with his hand resting against your belly and the taste of his lips lingering on yours, you can’t help but revel in the fact that the ache in your chest is quieter now.

and for a moment, the suffering doesn’t feel so lonely.

maybe that’s the art of it.

___

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