#i hope the @ things work under a read more...

[heesdreamer]

Wishful Thinking

PAIRING ➩ jungkook x reader

WC ➩ 20k

SUMMARY ➩ Born and raised in the busy city, you are in for a major life shift when you’re sent to the country side. You imagine the farmers son won’t be much help. (nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter)

AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Marking this as my official leave from retirement. This is the first work since Skin on Skin I feel a genuine connection too and I can proudly say I love it a lot. I hope you like it as much as me! Please check out the playlist and listen as you read if you'd like

Growing up in the city had influenced a few factors of your core development and the way you went about life. You took a second to open up to strangers, had faster reflexes than most people you’d met from other places and could ignore the sound of a horn two feet from your ear. 

What it hadn’t done is making you a spoiled and sheltered brat, although you imagined your father would place some strong disagreement on that statement. 

It absolutely had not made you the type of person that was so ‘out of control’ you needed to be sent to the middle of absolute nowhere to learn a thing or two about respect and taking care of things other than yourself.

This was not an issue you had and you could not fathom the fact you had been in the car for six hours now heading towards your new summer hell. You were in your early twenties and you should have slammed the door in your fathers face when you opened it to his scowl but sadly, his name was on the lease and he probably would have had the door  removed.

Instead you had packed two bags, said bye to your precious cats and dragged your feet all the way to the car.

You imagined your fathers vehicle had never seen so much dirt in its life and even he seemed a bit bothered by the gravel roads that left a cloud of dust all over his doors and windows. Your father had been raised almost exactly the same as you so it felt a bit ironic and hypocritical.

It was not your fault he was a wealthy businessman, stationing his small family in the bustling streets of the city instead of a nice sized home somewhere. Your idea of dinner around the table was grabbing a bite to eat at the local pizza place, your fridge covered in project plans and work reminders instead of toddler art and positive report cards.

Your dad had raised you in a cold apartment suited for a bachelor, leaving you to get your fatherly advice from doormen and paying cleaning ladies extra to change your diapers. He was somehow still surprised to see you standing with a glare on your face as you exited the car and stared at the farm house. 

“Atleast try to be pleasant.” He mumbled under his breath, the familiar expression he had whenever he felt embarrassed by you creeping up on his face. You had seen it your entire life, when you stood too slouched in front of a client or stuttered giving a speech at a company dinner. 

You sent him a stronger dirty look that easily slid off your face when the door opened. 

Despite what he may think, you actually were not a terrible person and you had no intentions of disrespecting the home owners even though you would rather eat the horses hay than have to stay here.

It was actually a beautiful home, grand in size with a large wraparound porch and land full of crops and various sized barns and pens. 

There had been a faint memory of coming here a handful of times when you were younger, listening to your father take a gentle and relaxed tone you had only heard a few times and playing with the farmers boy that was around your age.

That had been a lifetime ago and while the landscape was relatively nostalgic and familiar, you had changed so drastically that you couldn’t feel more out of place if you tried. 

You watched as the large bearded man approached your father, pulling him into a tight hug unlike his friends back home who would greet him with a firm handshake. This man clearly did not care about your fathers hesitance to embrace him, the rim of his cowboy hat knocking your fathers thin framed glasses slightly askew.

You had a hard time holding in a laugh at his dishevelled appearance after the bear hug and the man's sights set on you right as a smile crept up on your face.

“There she is.” He greeted you like he was an uncle you saw frequently and your eyes widened at the realization he was coming to give you a similarly tight hug, knocking the breath out of you as he nearly lifted you from the ground.

“Sorry honey, we are huggers around here.” You hadn’t even noticed the small woman behind his staggering frame and you caught her gentle eyes in your gaze right before she pulled you in for a much softer hug. “Except for my son sadly. He didn’t quite inherit that trait I suppose.”

The boy hadn’t left the porch, a few feet behind his parents as he stared at you and your father with an expression that was much colder than his warm parents held. You could tell he had already built some bias around your visit and you didn’t mind considering you had done the same, defenses building at his sour look.

“I’m sorry but I..” You trailed off awkwardly as you glanced between the bubbly couple, hoping they could understand so you didn’t have to tell them vocally that you had no idea who they were. The woman's face dropped just slightly but the farmer gave you a soft smile as he cupped your arm.

“That’s alright honey.” His gentle tone almost made you want to turn around and jump head first into the car, creeping its way under your skin and making you feel like that little girl that used to sneak branches in her room to use as a christmas tree. “It’s been lifetimes since we got to see you.”

His gaze fell over your shoulder towards your father with that statement and you almost thought it sounded hostile, or however hostile somebody so warm could manage. Your fathers throat clearing behind you confirmed your belief and you looked down at your feet as you were ushered inside. 

You learned from listening in on the conversation silently that he was in fact a bit upset with your father. The man, Minchul apparently as you heard his wife softly calling him, had made a handful of comments about missing out on your life that he was attempting to disguise as jokes.

You had watched enough tense conversations with businessmen to be pretty good at picking up on what people actually wanted to say. Your father responded each time with a different excuse about being busy but you knew he wished he could tell the farmer that he simply outgrew him and whatever this dynamic was.

The woman had told you softly that her name was Nari and you watched as she barely sat down, bouncing between the table and the kitchen whenever she noticed somebody was running low on their drink or the finger foods she had prepared. 

Her tending to you all didn’t feel like the panicked way your fathers cooks would try to keep him pleased and calm but rather like she enjoyed taking care of the people around her, eyes bright whenever you thanked her or took a bite of something she had made.

“Jungkook will be helping her with her chores and duties.” Minchul’s low voice was bringing you back to the conversation, interest spiked as you realized they were discussing your stay there. 

You had very little information about how long you would be here or what exactly you were meant to accomplish but your eyes shifted over to the son at the mention of his name, sitting across from you and also not having spoken a word. 

He was staring at his father as he spoke, gaze unwavering and still as cold as it had been outside. You had realized outside that he was the same boy you had played with when you were a kid but he had clearly changed as much as you had because he no longer had an ounce of welcoming energy to him.

“If she gives you any trouble son, feel free to call me.” Your father was speaking directly to him like you weren’t even there and Jungkook’s jaw shifted at the use of the word ‘son’. 

A smile almost crept back up at the interesting reaction but it faded as soon as he looked at you, curious like he expected you to say something snobbish in return to your fathers jab. You didn’t have any plans to, used to him warning people about you like you were a walking disaster.

“I’m sure we can manage.” His voice was flat and lacking any real care but you hadn’t figured he would reply at all, let alone with something borderlining disrespectful. 

The rest of the table seemed to agree because the room fell silent at his comment and your dad seemed taken back by the fact Jungkook hadn’t immediately agreed with his implication. You barely moved, not wanting to put yourself on the wrong side of things while he was still here.

“Apologize.” Minchul was speaking the word hushed and you looked at him with widened eyes, not even realizing it had been him speaking considering how cold it came out. It was completely different to the tone he used with the rest of you but Jungkook didn’t seem affected at all.

“I’m sorry sir.” He said it easily, practiced and lacking any real apology. It seemed the phrase alone was all his father wanted to hear because his shoulders lost tension and he awkwardly patted the table as he changed the subject to something about your dads car.

You removed yourself mentally from the conversation again but you caught the way Jungkook’s mom rubbed his shoulder soothingly as she passed him on her back to the kitchen.

----

“You are really just leaving me?” Your voice was icy as you watched your father toss your bags out of his car, squinting his eyes at the dirt it brought into the air and glaring at you like it was your fault. “I don’t even know these people.”

“I do.” He said simply as he closed the trunk and watched you with disappointment swirling in his gaze. You could tell there was a lot he wanted to say to you but as always, he left it plain and gave you a firm nod that you knew put an end to this conversation.

You did nothing but watch as he got into the driver seat and pulled off down the dirt road, headlights disappearing behind the trees and fields of corn. You sighed softly and sunk down on the rocky path way, not really caring if they were watching from the window and judging you.

You didn’t know these people and it was hard to even process that this was really happening to you right now. The sun had fully set when you stopped thinking yourself away and you realized you had been outside for a lot longer than you had meant to be. 

Nobody had come out to get you or even check if you were alright but you figured they were just giving you the space to throw your internal tantrum before inevitably accepting your fate and figuring out what to do from there.

Your sigh turned into a dragged out and low groan as you buried your face in your dusty hands, cringing away when you felt the sting of the debris entering your eyes and realizing you felt like you were going to cry regardless of the pain.

“You sleeping out here?”

You jumped at the sudden voice coming from your right, looking sideways at a pair of dirty and ripped boots before trailing up the tall frame and landing on Jungkook and a raised eyebrow. He had been the last person from the family you expected to come outside to collect you and you groaned again.

“I just need a minute okay?” Your voice came out cold but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about his feelings right now. He was unwillingly participating in your banishment but it was still participation in your eyes and for that alone, you disliked him.

“City girls and their minutes.” It was mumbled under his breath but loud enough for you to hear. You didn’t even warrant it with a reaction, staring numbly at the gravel and willing a loose horse to run him over with your mind. 

He didn’t leave the entire time you sat there and you could feel him staring at your back as you practically curled into a ball. Eventually you stood up calmly, dusted yourself off and headed inside the house.

----

Jungkook had silently left your bags at the foot of your door and disappeared down the hall into what you assumed was his own, soft music coming from behind the peeling wood. You left your door open, feeling awkward in the unfamiliar room like you had somehow broken into this nice family's home and crawled into a random bed.

You barely slept at all the first night and the sound of the roosters screeching only two hours after your eyes actually closed was enough to make you consider hitch hiking back to the city. 

The entire family was downstairs in the kitchen to your dismay and you couldn’t fix your face in time, seeing the concern radiating from Nari as she took in your exhausted eyes and closed off demeanor. You mumbled a morning greeting and shifted onto the seat furthest from them all.

“Did you sleep okay?” She asked softly as she placed a glass of orange juice in front of you and you nodded at her, both of you knowing you were being nice rather than honest. She pursed her lips and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder for a second as reassurance that she understood. 

“Good because you have a long day today.” Minchul sounded as cheerful as yesterday but there was an underlying tone to his voice that made you not want to disobey him. He made pleasant conversation with his wife as you and Jungkook ate silently on the other side of the table.

Jungkook hadn’t even waited for you to finish eating, cleaning off his place and kissing his mom on the side of the head before pushing through the front door. You watched in disbelief as he left you behind, scarfing down the rest of your eggs and rushing after him, nearly tripping down the stairs as you followed him to the largest barn.

The smell was assaulting but you didn’t visually react, not wanting to give him the satisfaction considering he was leaning against a slate of wood and watching you for any signs that you were going to complain.

When you gave him a firm and determined stare he was tossing a silver bucket in your direction, both of you tracking it as it hit the barn floor and bounced a few times.

“Seriously?” You remarked, your first real word of the day being forced out due to disbelief. He didn’t answer and instead entered one of the stalls holding a large cow. “Couldn’t just hand it to me?”

There was no reply again and you sighed as you followed him, scowling when you saw the black and white animal staring at you with a bored expression. Jungkook slid a small stool over to you before leaning back again on the wall of the stall. The cow took a step towards him and you flinched back as its large belly almost pushed you over. 

“Am I supposed to do something with him?” You gestured at the stool and cow in confusion and Jungkook raised an eyebrow. 

“She’s a girl.” He said simply and you gave him an incredulous look, feeling like you were going insane from attempting to communicate with him. “You’re supposed to milk her.”

You stared at him silently for a few seconds, trying to figure out if he was joking or not before glancing at the bucket and realizing he was apparently very serious. You took a breath so deep that it moved your entire body as you tried to calm yourself, ignoring the slightly amused look he grew at the action. 

You hadn’t even sat fully on the stool before he was speaking again.

“Wrong.”

You glared at him and adjusted your position, leaning forward hesitantly to reach out to the cow. 

“Wrong again.”

Another attempt, a different section of the utters that looked as foreign as the rest of the large creature. She shifted like she felt as awkward as you did for touching her and you sighed at his lack of interjection.

“Touch her there and she’ll probably kick you in the face.”

You let out a loud and bitter laugh that made the cow grunt softly, standing from the stool and shoving it in his direction. He watched you quietly as the rage built up inside you, even more so at the indifference on his face.

“If you aren’t even going to attempt to help me, then you go ahead and do it.” You spat as you pointed between him, the bucket, and the cow. He didn’t say anything again and the silence was somehow more annoying than him making small comments towards you. 

He wordlessly moved the stool and you sat down with a huff, at first just picking at your fingers and then deciding to actually watch as he milked the cow. It was slightly interesting, especially considering your current options for entertainment.

His hands were gentle with the animal and she seemed a lot more relaxed now that he was the one near her undercarriage and not some strange girl with tense shoulders and shoes that definitely weren’t made for a barn floor. It was intriguing to you to watch the cows body language change so outwardly. 

Jungkook finished up after some time and you followed him to his next set of chores. This time and the next, he didn’t bother trying to get you to do anything. Instead he did them all easily and allowed you to simply watch as he herded the sheep into their pens, poured disgusting sludge into the trough for the pigs and dragged the stubborn horses back into the gated area. 

By the end of the day, you were exhausted without having done much at all.

He didn’t even seem phased by the fact he had spent the entire day in the sun doing hard physical labor and you sighed as he walked ahead of you back to the house. 

You felt like an invisible shadow following him around all day with little to no conversation between you and it pained you to watch the sun set knowing you had wasted your time and learned nothing but the fact Jungkook was a stubborn asshole.

His dad was waiting on the porch as you approached and you watched as Jungkook’s back hardened at the sight of the kind man. He was smiling largely but it was past his son and towards you, clapping his hands in delight as he took in the dirt on your pants and your sweat dried hair. 

“How was your first day?” He asked warmly as you ascended the steps. Jungkook had slowed down to let you pass and he lingered at the patch of grass near the bottom. “Was he a good teacher?”

The shift in his tone made you glance backwards towards the teacher in question and his flat face showed no sense of what he wanted you to say. You felt like you were hesitating too long and you turned back to Minchul with a soft smile.

“The best. I learned a lot actually.” You said gently and he smiled proudly, a large hand between your shoulder blades as he led you inside for dinner. 

Jungkook was as silent as always but he didn’t look as unimpressed with you when you caught his eyes across the table. There was a beat of nothing before he gave you a small nod, enough for you to understand he appreciated you lying to his dad for him.

Dinner was calm and quiet as you zoned out from exhaustion and you barely flinched when his parents asked you to work together to get the dishes washed and dried quickly. You moved on autopilot to the sink and responded with a light mumble as they wished you both a goodnight. 

Jungkook stood wordlessly next to you, taking each wet dish you handed him as he dried them precisely with a towel. It was quiet through the first half of the sink and then he was clearing his throat with a hint of awkwardness. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” He said in a near whisper. You didn’t even glance at him, handing over another dish casually.

“I didn’t do anything but spare myself the awkwardness of watching you get lectured.” Your tone was flat like it genuinely meant nothing to you but you figured you both knew the reason you had done it. He seemed tense at your answer so you sighed softly. “I know what it’s like to have a dickhead for a father.”

He paused his movements when you said that and you wondered if it was the wrong thing to speak into the quiet kitchen before you heard him laugh softly under his breath. 

It didn’t take a psychologist to realize Jungkook had a different relationship with Minchul than most other people would. His cold and harsh tone towards his son seemed to come out of thin air the second he laid his eyes on the younger man and you felt yourself becoming more nosy than you should be.

Their dirty laundry was none of your business and you hurriedly finished dishes. 

----

The next day's chore list actually seemed a bit more lax and you quickly understood that he must do all of the extremely difficult things at the end of the week. 

Monday was more about maintenance and you felt a little guilty for doing nothing yesterday so you were glad that you could actually help with some smaller stuff, both going stir crazy from doing so little with yourself and also feeling useless the more he sweated and moved around.

You helped sweep loose hay from the stables, collected eggs from under the squawking hens and even assisted him in filling up the water barrels with fresh and clean gallons. You were actually feeling a little satisfied with yourself when the day started to come to a finish and you glanced at him to see what you had to do next.

He surprised you when he pulled two small items out of his jean pockets, fidgeting with them until the lighter was producing a flame that he used to light the rolled up paper. You eyed him curiously as he inhaled around the joint before stretching his hand out towards you without so much of a glance or a word.

“Wow.” You breathed out a mocking laugh as you took it from him, studying it before putting it between your lips and speaking around it. “I am genuinely shocked right now.”

He laughed flatly at your tone and looked at you from the corner of his eye. You were sitting on a small hay bale while he leaned against the large wheel of an old tractor, behind one of the barns a bit further away from the house. 

“It’s rude to make assumptions about people.” He said flatly as he took the joint back but you knew he wasn’t serious, lightheartedly replying to you and only furthering your bewilderment.

“What would your dad say if he knew you were getting me stoned right now?” You were only teasing and you hoped he could tell by the tone in your voice, it seemed like he did because he shrugged his shoulders casually. 

“Less what he would say and more what he would do.”

The statement was heavier than he intended it to be and you both fell silent at the darker implication to his words. He passed it back to you and you watched him for a long moment before hitting it, seeing the way he almost winced at himself for saying something so awkward. 

You let it hang in the air for a few minutes as you listened to the sounds of his inhales paired with the animals in the distance as they got ready for bed. EVentually you were sighing and his eyes went to you, almost in anticipation.

“Good thing I don’t tend to make a habit of reporting back to fathers.” You lifted your shoulders like it was a simple thing to say and his face flashed with something heavier again. 

You’d smoked weed before a few times but Jungkook either had some especially strong country grown shit or your tolerance had significantly diminished because you somehow ended up in one of the sheep fields, both flat on your backs as you looked up at the stars.

For once you appreciated the fact he didn’t talk much because you felt a bit ridiculously emotional at the sight of them all. A childhood of light polluted skies had robbed you of star gazing and pointing out made up planets so it was overwhelming to see so many of them above you. 

Jungkook seemed to be thinking similarly despite growing up under this sky, his mouth parted a bit in awe every time you glanced over at his side profile a few feet away from you.

“I get why you guys like it out here now I think.” You said wistfully, voice a little breathier than you realized it was when it was escaping you. He laughed a little at the sudden declaration and it didn’t seem as mocking as it had a few hours ago. 

“Thought it would take longer to whip you into shape.” He joked back, voice a little higher than normal and you figured it was the high having settled in that was making him more comfortable to engage in conversation with you. “Some sweeping and a view was all you needed to appreciate the simple life?”

He was clearly messing with you and almost mocking your fathers reasoning for sending you here but you felt a light sting deep in your chest. 

Jungkook was not the reason for it but he was the accidental messenger of the rhetoric your father had been spewing at you since nearly middle school. He couldn’t fathom a world where you cared about things or paid attention to people other than yourself.

It felt impossibly suffocating to argue with somebody who had a different reality in their head, left wondering how would you begin to correct a version of yourself that didn’t exist? 

There were no number of saved movie tickets and sentimental souvenirs, no hours spent making your friends a sloppy birthday cake instead of buying them something store prepared, and no amount of love and empathy in your heart that could convince him you were a thoughtful person. 

“There's nothing simple about this.” You ignored your heavier feelings as you raised a limp hand to gesture to the endless sky.

“I’m sure the city has its own views.” He retorted and you turned your head to the side when you noticed a hint of longing in his voice. He stiffened like he could feel you staring but didn’t look at you, eyes a bit more shifty. 

“Breathtaking ones. I never get used to it.” You said back softly, wondering if that was something he wanted to hear or if it would fuel the fire to his apparent inner conflict. You were left wondering because he didn’t reply to you. 

The silence didn’t last as long as usual, the intoxication in your lungs making you both a little less awkward and a little more lax when it came to unraveling useless information. He told you about the town's small population and how everyone he passed had probably changed his diapers at some point and you ranted about your cats back home and how guilty you felt for leaving them alone.

“Why didn’t you bring them here?” He said like it was an obvious option, maybe too high to remember that you weren’t exactly on a purposeful vacation. Your silence seemed to remind him of this fact and he kissed his teeth in realization. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

“Your parents?” You said in confusion, rolling over onto your side in the grass so you could face him and groaning softly at the tightness in your back. He glanced at you and nodded, still laying flat and staring at the sky in between looks. “I don’t have anyone who would bring them here for me.”

Your voice barely held any bitterness, it was just the truth. It was a pretty big favor to ask even to somebody you would consider a friend and you didn’t even really have any of those anyways. 

“Assuming you don’t know how to drive a stick.” He said thoughtfully and you shook your head with a light eye roll at his subtle jab. “I can take you.”

“What?” You sat up and he did the same, although avoiding looking at you head on. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal he just offered to drive you twelve hours round trip just to bring your two cats all the way back here. He glanced back towards the house, the warm glow of the porch lights small considering how far out you were, and then back up towards the never ending sky full of stars. 

“Gives me a break from chores.” He said noncommittally like he was offering to do a load of laundry for you. 

You woke up the next morning with a soft knock on the guest bedroom door, opening it to see Jungkook leaning against the side of it with truck keys dangling around his finger. He gave them a little spin when he saw your eyes widen in surprise that he parents had actually agreed to the request he had made this morning after your conversation in the field.

You nod your head in understanding and close the door so you can hurriedly get ready, feeling a bit amused at the fact you’d been arguing only a few hours ago. Jungkook is silent when you find him in the living room and as he shows you to the truck, excitedly climbing into the passenger seat and waving goodbye to Nari who stands on the porch with a concerned look as she clutches a dish towel to her chest.

It felt beyond ridiculous that you were making this trip with somebody you barely knew and even worse, barely got along with.

He was silent for almost the entire first half of the drive, playing music from a rotating stack of CD’s and cursing under his breath whenever the truck made a particularly loud noise. It was comforting to feel the rumble underneath you as he shifted gears and passed miles and miles of barren farmland. 

You had only been there for a couple days and you were already craving new scenery, eyes widening with excitement when you could vaguely make out the city skyline in the distance. You were still probably an hour out but it was undeniable the way your blood felt warmer. 

“Do you see it?” You asked him excitedly, breaking the bubble of silence. You looked at him as you sat up but you didn’t need to hear his answer out loud, seeing it on his face as soon as you saw his expression.

His eyes were bright with awe and interest as you approached the tall skyscrapers and dizzying highways, traffic seemingly coming from every direction as he went from leaning forward to try and see the tops of buildings past the windshield and focusing on not missing the exits you rushed out with poor directional skills. 

“It’s bigger than I thought.” He eventually said and it came out in one singular breath that made you smile, understanding the feeling all too well. 

You let him take it all in so he didn’t get too distracted trying to navigate the busy and tight streets with hsi truck that stood out clearly compared to most of the more compact and practical vehicles around you. 

You eventually managed to make your way to your apartment and he looked slightly surprised as he exited the driver seat and looked up at the building. He had heard stories of your dads lavish lifestyle so he clearly hadn’t been expecting the exposed brick and dirty windows of your building. 

It was hard not to laugh at his expression, shaking your head and walking past him. You felt giddy knowing you would get to be home even if it was temporary and you could hear your cats meowing behind the door before you even pushed it open.

You greeted them enthusiastically as Jungkook closed the door behind you, eyes scanning around your small and homey apartment. 

“Not exactly the penthouse suite.” He muttered and you glared at him from where you were crouching by your cats on the floor. 

“Must to his dismay.” You didn’t need to say you were talking about your father for him to understand what you meant. “He won’t even step foot in this place.” 

It felt especially ridiculous considering how nice and welcoming your apartment was. The walls were full of pictures of your friends and cats, postcards from random beachy cities covering your fridge door and mismatched furniture.

You had decided as soon as you moved in that you would make your place the polar opposite of the studio apartment you were raised in, trading in cold tile and sterile feeling lights for warm toned lamps and fuzzy rugs to comfort your feet. 

“Do you need anything?” Your voice was softer than he had heard it before and Jungkook shook his head as he kicked his shoes off. You watched him quizzically before he gestured towards your clock on the wall. 

“Might as well stay here tonight.” He said simply and your heart lurched at the idea of getting to sleep in your own bed. “I’m fine now but reckon I’d be exhausted halfway through the drive back.”

You weren’t even slightly planning to argue with that or question what his parents reaction would be, quickly standing to your feet to prepare something for him to wear other than his jeans and flannel. He stood there silently as you made him a comfortable bed on the couch, eventually wandering over to stare out your large living room window.

“Breathtaking right?” You spoke from behind him and he jumped a bit before nodding and glancing back at you.

“Yeah it’s beautiful.” He watched you for a few seconds before turning back to study the city and its seemingly never ending skyline. 

Jungkook must have been more tired than he let on because he was asleep almost as soon as he laid down on your couch and you took a few hours to enjoy your space for the last time in a while, preparing your cats and their things both for travel and for extended stay.

It warmed your heart to picture them with so much space to run around, basking in the sun and chasing field mice while you did your chores. Jungkook was clearly being generous with his offer to take you but he really had no idea just how much it meant to you to have them with you in such an unfamiliar place. 

He was just as quiet the next morning and as you brought your cat carriers and extra bags down to the truck but the ride back was a lot warmer and you felt ages less sour as you approached the town this time around. The hushed conversations between you felt smoother as you lost some of the awkwardness. 

His father was sitting on the porch when you pulled back up and he enthusiastically greeted your cats in their carriers, Nari rushing out at the sound of your voices to help bring them inside. 

You watched from the doorway as he gave Jungkook a firm nod and placed a hand stiffly on his shoulder. Jungkook pursed his lips at the action of approval and returned the nod with one of his own. 

“Was that good?” You whispered to him as he passed you in the doorway and he let out a large breath that you imagined he had been holding since he left the truck.

“Yeah, I think it was.” He said back and you smiled at him, glad he had not gotten in trouble for trying to help you out. 

The following week felt a lot easier now that you had a large piece of home with you, bed a little warmer with your cats curling up next to you. The chores were brutal and you were miserable half the time the sun was out but you were getting used to the ache of your body and the burn covering your skin. 

Jungkook was still silent most of the day but he was doing things slower and more exaggerated so you could actually learn the few times he noticed you showing interest and paying attention. There were tasks you could do fully on your own now and you found yourself looking forward to when the sun would set and he'd knock on your door softly, an expectant look on his face as he flashed another joint between his fingers.

It was a nice routine for the two of you to wander out to the field near the sheep barn, smoking until the tightness of your bones faded enough for you to giggle into the grass and tell eachother random tidbits about your life. 

“I heard your dad tell mine that you ran away.” Jungkook said gently one night when your conversation started to borderline on serious and you said nothing for a while. 

“At 22 I thought it would just be considered taking a vacation.” Your voice was half humorous and half bitter, the latter side much more apparent in your tone. You sighed so deeply you felt like you were going to melt down into the dirt. “I’ve been further away for much longer, he only noticed this time because one of his clients saw me while traveling.”

“You went alone?” His questions rarely held so much interest and you glanced at him, finding him staring at the stars with his eyebrows furrowed like he hadn't considered that possible.

“I’m always alone.” You shrugged to yourself. “Aren't you?”

You weren’t trying to make a harsh assumption but you’d been there two weeks and not once did Jungkook leave the farm land other than your trip to the city. His parents went off to town a few times a week or to a friend's house for supper but Jungkook stayed throughout it all, never once hearing mention of a friend of his or seeing a photo somewhere in the house.

He shrugged but it was one of those times where you both already knew what his answer would be. His eyes shifted over to you and you watched curiously. 

“Not so much anymore.” He said plainly but you smiled a bit at the implication, knowing it was probably a change for him to have you following behind his trail all day long. Maybe even a welcomed change now that you were getting along finally. ly.

You and Jungkook spent the next week with the exact same routine and now that you were used to most of it, you felt yourself going stir crazy. Little things were always changing, animals needing more help than usual or storms making it so you had to help around the house instead but for the most part everything stayed exactly the same. 

It was a welcomed assignment when Nari softly asked you to take horses into town and pick up a few things. You didn’t ask why you couldn’t just take the truck even though you were beginning to wish you had as you stared at the large creature.

“You know I can’t ride that, right?” You said simply as you shook your head firmly. Jungkook laughed a little at your fearful tone before gesturing at the single saddle he had pulled off of the wall. 

You were confused for a few seconds before realizing he was insinuating you both get on the horse together, your gaze shifting over to him to see him standing by the horse and clearly waiting for you to reach the same conclusion. 

“You’re joking aren’t you?” Your voice shook a little as you squeaked out the question. 

Clearly he wasn’t because Jungkook had easily lifted you up onto the large horse before swinging his leg over and situating himself naturally. You were left sitting behind him, feeling like you were about to throw up and having no choice but to wrap your arms tightly around his middle.

He was laughing at you when you squeezed your grip anytime you took a turn or the horse sped up to cross a road. It felt a bit ridiculous as some cars passed you but you saw more and more horseback people as you got closer to town and almost all of them enthusiastically greeted Jungkook. 

The stories he had told you about knowing everybody here were clearly true because he couldn’t be more liked if he tried.

It didn’t take long to arrive at the market and Jungkook reached a hand up to you so you could slide off the horse, his hands sturdy above your hip so you didn’t land the wrong way. You eyed him as he tied the large animal to a post outside, petting its nose softly and whispering something you didn’t hear.

A whistle behind you made his hands freeze and both of you turned to see an older man sitting outside the market, a bucket full of loose change infront of him and a brown paper bag around a glass bottle sat on his lap. 

“Pretty little thing.” His accent was even heavier due to the slur in his speech and your eyes narrowed as he scanned down your frame. Jungkook’s mother had left some pretty farm dresses and cowgirl boots outside your door a few nights ago and you had been excited to wear them until his eyes were on your bare legs. “Ain’t from around here.”

It was a statement and not a question and you scoffed at him.

“What gave it away?” You said coldly. You knew you still didn’t carry yourself like somebody from the country even when you wore their clothes and did their labor, the lack of a drawl in your voice really not helping you towards fitting in. 

You could feel the presence of Jungkook approaching behind you now that he had gotten the horse situated and you glanced over your shoulder. His face was cold again and he was a lot closer to you than he typically would be, nearly touching your back to his chest. 

“Johnny.” He said simply, addressing the man and making himself known. 

“Oh you’re Jeon’s boy aint you?” He said with an amused smile, looking like he was suddenly reminiscing. Jungkook must have nodded or given him a confirming look because the man was suddenly laughing so hard he was swaying to the side. “Them Jeon’s… are good men.” He pointed at Jungkook as he paused, then laughed loudly again.

You felt yourself reaching back and wrapping your hands around Jungkook’s elbow before you could think about it, going to pull him towards the entrance so you both could leave this conversation and not hear whatever it was he was laughing so hard about. 

The man's eyes flashed with interest when he saw you touching his arm, hugging it to your side in a way that could come across as intimate rather than instinctual. 

“Oh, is this your missus?” He called and you saw an older couple's head turn with annoyance at his loud tone and the outdated phrasing, shaking their heads in disapproval. 

Jungkook’s cheek shifted as he addressed you like that and you sighed at the realization this was going to take you too far off track for you to bother with. You tugged him softly and ignored the obnoxious laughter coming from behind you as you entered the market.

“Just ignore it.” You said softly, not letting go of his arm even when you were deeper into the store. He glanced at you like he was upset you hadn’t let him handle it and that furthered your reasoning for keeping a hold on him. 

“He was disrespectful.” He said plainly, eyes still heated even when you stopped walking and turned to face him. The tips of your boots touched his as you reached into his shirt pocket to pull out the list his mother had given him, catching him stuffing it in there before you mounted the horse. “How can he talk to a woman like that?”

“He was a drunk idiot.” You stated, catching his eye for a second as you stood there before realizing how close you were and taking a step away.

Jungkook still seemed irritated as you shopped, filling a basket full of the ingredients his mom had written in neat handwriting. He took the basket from you when it was more than half full and starting to get a little heavy and you gave him a thankful look. 

It was hard for him to stay annoyed considering the countless older women that stopped to coo at him and ask him how his parents were, remarking on the last time they’d seen him and how tall and handsome he had grown up to be.

This was something you had also noticed, much to your dismay. 

You figured you had been too distracted your first two weeks but your general dislike for your situation and Jungkook himself to realize the devastating fact that he was actually the most attractive person you had been around.

He was now constantly distracting you without even meaning to, tan skin and big eyes so effortlessly lifting things two times your size and controlling stubborn animals. It was a bit ridiculous that somebody with forearms that veiny and strong also looked that good in a stupid cowboy hat. 

Even now, leaning against a fridge as he watched you scan over the list in his washed denim jeans and giant belt buckle. It was something straight out of a cowboy fantasy and you felt like a fool for falling victim to it. 

It didn’t help your new found dilemma that he was also the sweetest person you had ever met now that he was done giving you the silent treatment and glaring everytime you messed something up.

Whether it was natural southern hospitality or his mothers teachings, Jungkook was a well mannered boy down to his core and did not consider opening the door for you or carrying bags for the older women in the store anything other than the bare minimum.

You weren’t surprised that he was so aggravated by the drunk man for eyeing you or calling you his missus, like you were a piece of property because that was just the type of guy Jungkook was. 

“Reckon we are almost done?”

And then there was that.

Your eyes shifted over to him as his voice broke you from your thoughts and you almost outwardly sighed in annoyance with yourself. Never once in your entire life had you considered that a southern accent might bring your heart into your throat but apparently that was just something that happened to you now.

You imagined Jungkook didn’t even think he had an accent let alone realized how heavy it was but the low drawl and phrases he used made you feel like a preteen girl who had just discovered british boy bands for the first time. 

“Yeah pretty much, just…” You trailed off as your eyes landed on a small booth tucked in the back corner of the vendor section.

Jungkook squinted at you before turning around and scoffing a little when he realized what had caught your attention so easily. 

You felt like your feet were magnetically drawn to the rows of pretty farm dresses, lace bandanas and cowgirl hats. Your eyes were wide as you took them all in, already feeling your bank account emptying. The clothes Nari had been bringing you weren’t hideous but they certainly weren’t the most flattering things you had ever worn.

He stood there holding the baskets of groceries while you pointed out everything you wanted to the woman at the booth, smiling happily as you left the store with your arms full. 

“You’re ridiculous.” He said flatly as he shook his head and situated the grocery bags in the saddle bags on each side of the horse. His words lacked any heat and you rolled your eyes as you watched him.

“What I am, is sick of sharing a closet with your mother.” He shot you a look. “No offense.”

A laugh escaped him as he finished, turning to you expectantly. It felt more natural now to step closer to the massive animal and he stared at you as you stood in front of him, making sure you were ready and nodding when you gave him an expectant look.

His hands were back on your hips, confirming to yourself that you were inching into delusional territory when your stomach lit up. He was easily lifting you almost above his head so you could swing your leg over the saddle, further forward than you had been.

You almost scooted back to your place but he was mounting before you could and you quickly realized he had placed you there purposefully, now sat behind you with his thighs on the outside of yours.

“Oh so I’m steering now?” You glanced back at him and he looked amused, taking off his hat and adjusting it before placing it on your head. You squinted at him and his mischievous expression before quickly facing forward when he was kicking his foot and whistling lowly to get the horse to start to move.

“Lucky is good to learn on.” He said simply and you suddenly considered steering you both into a lake when you heard his low voice now behind you and near your ear. “He’s gentle.”

“He’s huge.” You remarked plainly and this time when he breathed out a short laugh you could feel it on the back of your neck.

You rode in pleasant silence and the sun was far less brutal now that it was starting to set, the little bit of shine kept out of your eyes by his hat sitting comfortably on your head. You tried to ignore that flutter in your chest at the fact you were wearing his hat and riding his horse, back pressed to chest even if it was just for safety.

“Does it ever get annoying living in such a small town?” You mused in a calm voice after another group of people waved to Jungkook. “Running into ex girlfriends all the time I bet.”

He didn’t respond right away and you swore you thought you felt him tensing behind you. You glanced over your shoulder at him, hoping to find him wearing an amused expression and instead he was just staring at you blankly.

Your eyebrows furrowed for a long second before you were turning back forward with a mouth parted in understanding.

Suddenly it was awkward and you mentally punched yourself for being the one to bring the uncomfortable air to the conversation. Neither of you said anything and you somehow decided that was worse than whatever was about to come out of your mouth.

“Sorry. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know?” 

“Just stop talking.” He grunted behind you, sounding more pained and embarrassed than angry with you. “It makes it way worse when you say stuff like that.”

You weren’t sure how anything could make it better but you genuinely didn’t think any less of Jungkook for not having a girlfriend before, if anything it felt a bit ridiculous considering what he looked like but you definitely could not say that to him. 

Instead you just fell into a silence that you hoped wasn’t marking the return of your feud. You gave him another apologetic look in the barn after he helped you down and he sighed softly when he saw it, giving you his habitual nod and taking his hat off of your head gently so he could wear it again.

You found yourself unusually bored without the company of Jungkook who had disappeared into his room almost as soon as you got back. 

You ended up sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch, your more affectionate cat napping in your lap while the other brushed against the wood arches. You were attempting to write in your journal but your mind was blanking or rather full of other things.

There was genuine guilt inside of you for accidentally making Jungkook feel embarrassed but you weren’t really sure what to do about it, finding him hard to read when it came to certain things. 

It was easy to tell when he was tired of a particularly repetitive chore, when he felt irritated by his dad more than usual, and when he was getting moody because he was hungry but how did you make him feel better about something like this without making him more humiliated when you brought it up again.

The boy in question was interrupting your string of thoughts and half composed apologies when he was bursting through the front door. 

You sat up quickly, eyes wide from the way it slammed against the side of the house and cracked on its old hinges. You were just opening your mouth to ask him what had happened when Minchul was storming out right behind him, his belt in his hand and an expression that made your blood run cold.

“Do it again until it's right.” He was screaming down the porch at Jungkook’s tense back that didn’t stop moving. 

He didn’t seem afraid necessarily but rather furious as he made his way to one of the barns, shoulders squared and barely giving you a glimpse of the glare on his face before he slammed the large door shut and disappeared inside. 

“That damn boy is useless.” Minchul spat to himself and you stared at him with a shocked and fearful glance. He faltered when he noticed you sitting there and sighed softly, body relaxing just enough for you to narrow your gaze. “Sorry you had to see that honey. You think he would know better by now.”

You didn’t dare respond to him, not trusting yourself to hold back from saying something that would get you or Jungkook in any trouble, or any more in his case. Your eyes drifted to the belt in his tight grip and he sighed again before heading back inside. 

Supper was painfully silent and you felt terrible for Nari considering she had spent hours preparing it. 

You made sure to hum softly after every few bites, exaggerating the noise so she would know you found it delicious. She gave you a knowing look across the table and smiled at you, breaking the quiet with a soft question about how you liked the town. 

It was unlike you to speak at the dinner table but the men were clearly abandoning that role for the night so you and her exchanged gentle small talk while you all ate, trying to make the room feel less suffocating. 

You’d understood after the first few nights that it was expected of you and Jungkook to do the dishes so you hugged Nari goodnight and drifted over to the sink.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t ask him if he was okay in fear of making it even worse. His shoulders were still tense like they had been earlier and the look on his face was bugging you, not used to seeing it compared to his usual expressions.

“I’m sorry.” He surprised you by being the first to speak, a low mutter as he took a wet plate from you and dried it off. “He shouldn’t have done that in front of you.”

You wanted to retort that he shouldn't have done it at all but that felt stupid and obvious, something you both already knew and didn’t need to voice. You just shook your head at his apology, not needing to accept one from him.

“You’re a good man Jungkook.” You finally decided to say plainly, not emotion in your voice so he could take the words as simple and true as they were. 

He faltered with his hand in mid air, only a brief second before he was taking another dish.

When you were done washing you leaned against the counter next to you, watching him and waiting for him to finish up. He wasn’t looking at you  but you knew he felt you staring. He sighed when he dried the last one and finally turned towards you.

“Why are you lookin’ at me like that princess?” He said with exhaustion lacing his words and although the name was mocking, it still sent a jolt through your body. 

“You know you’re handsome right?” You weren’t trying to flirt with him, especially not with this awkward air from what you had seen. You were just genuinely wondering if he had even noticed, unable to tell by the way he carried himself.

Jungkook stared at you with an unchanging expression, like he was waiting for you to say something else or even laugh at him. 

It wasn’t the first time you noticed the sheer size of him, not exactly the tallest man you’d met but certainly making up for it by the width of his shoulders and the broad muscle on his chest. His father was a naturally large man with a round belly and tall stature but you imagined Jungkook could take him quite easily in terms of strength.

“C’mere.” You baited softly, not moving from the counter and just watching him with an almost expressionless face. He took a few seconds but his feet were eventually moving and he was a few feet closer to you now.

Your hand was on his arm, gentle and tracing as you squeezed it lightly but kept your gaze locked on his face. His body was locked with tension as he looked at you, almost curiously. 

“No girlfriends but..” You faded off when you saw the flash of annoyance pass over his face, not liking that you were bringing this back up again. “Have you ever hooked up with someone?”

The question lingered in the air adn you almost wondered if he was planning on rejecting you. He hadn’t done anything that made you think he was necessarily interested in you the way you were becoming interested in him but you knew you were relatively pretty and he clearly didn’t mind your company, showing it in his own stoic way.

“What’s it matter?” He mumbled back, shifting a step or two closer like he hadn’t realized he was.

His lack of an actual answer inside the response told you what you needed to know and he seemed to understand that considering the way he sighed.

“Do you think I’m judging you?”

Your head had cocked as you said it and he let out a humorless laugh at the earnest way you asked it.

“Aren’t you?” He retorted and it was a bit more heated than his voice had been before, defenses clearly up despite the way your hand was still smoothing over his arm as you had this conversation. “I’m not some loser.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the outburst, wondering when he had drawn that conclusion. It wasn’t that surprising that a southern boy would associate sexual experience with masculinity or social class but you shook your head.

“I already told you what I think of you Jungkook.” You answered back, stopping your hand from rubbing his skin and letting it just rest instead. “I think you’re a good man.” Your tone was gentle and smooth so he didn’t have any reason to think you were making fun of him. “And that you’re handsome.”

Your hand moved to sit on his firm chest and you could feel the way his heart raced underneath your palm, fast and pounding as you stared up at him. Jungkook might genuinely be the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, sun kissed skin and scars littering his body from a lifetime of hard work. 

His features were strong and manly but paired with gentle eyes that watched you quizzically and you were sighing softly without even meaning to. You hoped you weren’t overwhelming him with your sudden forwardness but there was only so much time you could spend watching him think lowly of himself before you longer to inform him of the way others viewed him.

You leaned up on your tippy toes while simultaneously bringing his face down so you could kiss him softly, thumb rubbing his jaw and cheek. 

He only hesitated for a second before he was kissing you back, taking a few steps forward until your back was hitting the counter again but this time with his body pressing against yours. Your mouths moved together eagerly and you made a small noise when his hands were on your hips, yours moving to play with the hairs touching the back of his neck.

His height and size was making you feel crazy as he tugged you against him, his strong arms around you and the thought of how easily he had lifted your entire body earlier made you feel warm as you made out desperately. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat was making you jump away from each other and your eyes were both wide with panic as you saw his mother standing at the bottom of the stairs in her nightgown. Your chest was rising and falling both from the intense make out session and embarrassment. 

“I-“ You squeaked out in an attempt to explain but nothing followed and you almost thought his mom looked amused.

“Goodnight.” She said softly before turning back around like she hadn't seen anything. You’d expected to be sent up to your rooms for the night but clearly she was attempting to meddle by leaving you alone again. 

The tension had popped and you awkwardly looked at Jungkook. 

Jungkook let out a shaky breath as he watched his mom go back upstairs, his heart still beating like a drum in his chest. His cheeks were still flushed red with embarrassment, and he ran a hand sheepishly through his hair as he looked at you with an unreadable expression. 

He took a deep breath and the sound made you feel way worse. You shifted on your feet, not really knowing what to do in this situation. It felt so ridiculous that you couldn’t help yourself from bursting out into soft laughter and he gave you a disbelieving look. 

Your forehead fell against his chest as you laughed softly, eyes squeezed shut from embarrassment. You felt his body shaking slightly as he joined you in your giggle fit and you were glad he wasn’t taking this as seriously as you feared he might. 

You could feel his hand in your hair as he brushed it out of your face and your laughter faded off into a warm smile as you looked up at him, rocking onto your tiptoe to press against him in another kiss. It was much sweeter this time, lacking any real heat.

Only until his hands were back on your hips and then you couldn’t stop yourself from parting your lips and pushing deeper, grateful he had understood what you wanted when he pushed you back against the counter and tilted his head with yours. 

It was picking up in pace again and your tongue was moving against his bottom lip, whining softly when he licked against your own and bringing one of your hands back to rub his hard chest.

“You’re a good kisser.” You remarked against his mouth and you could quite literally feel him smirk, the realization making you feel like you were truly going crazy.

“You’re pretty.” He said back in that same monotone voice he always had and you smiled at the now familiar sound of it. His hands tensed against your hips and you quickly got what he wanted, kissing him again with more fever after his compliment towards you. 

You weren’t sure how you went from arguing with him a few weeks ago to making out desperately in his kitchen but it was hard to dislike the change in things when it felt so good, barely able to pull yourself away from him when he was whispering into your mouth that you needed to get some sleep.

He was right and you knew that but he practically had to maneuver you both towards the bedroom hall, stopping to kiss you along the way and laughing when your hands were stubborn in their exploration of his strong arms. 

You’d closed your door and immediately pressed your back against it as you sucked in a deep breath, waiting until you heard his own close down the hall before you were throwing yourself on the bed and screaming into the pillow. 

----

The next morning left you feeling slightly anxious and embarrassed, nervous to face Jungkook with your new development and downright terrified to see his mother.

She was alone in the kitchen when you ventured down and you froze at the bottom of the staircase, considering turning around and booking it back up the stairs until her gentle gaze landed on you and it was too late. 

“C'mon honey, I won’t bite.” She said with amusement lacing her words and your shoulders halfway relaxed. You blushed and walked fully into the room, avoiding the counter she had seen Jungkook pressing you against last night like it was infected. 

“I’m so sorry ma’am. I didn’t mean to disrespect you and your house.” You said quickly with a sigh as you sat on one of the stools, not even planning to address it but unable to stop yourself from feeling foolish. 

She watched you with patient eyes as you spoke it in one breath and then smiled gently. “I haven’t seen my baby smile like that since he was a boy. I know he’s a grown up now and he does what grown ups do.” Your face flushed at the implication and you suddenly wondered if she had already figured this was happening. “I think you’d do him some good.” 

You weren’t sure how to respond to her kind words and you stayed quiet and stiff on the stool.

The floorboard creaking made you turn back to the doorway and you froze even more when you saw Jungkook standing there, his expression alerting you to the fact he had been there longer than you had realized and most likely eavesdropping. 

“Hi.” You instinctively breathed out when you noticed him, ridiculously handsome in the early morning. 

He cleared his throat and entered the kitchen, giving his mother a soft kiss on the cheek as a greeting before placing his hands on the island and looking at you awkwardly. “Hey.”

Nari suddenly decided she had something to do that involved her going out to the chicken coop but you didn’t miss the instigating look she shot him over her shoulder as she left. You almost thought his cheeks were tinged pink as he quickly looked away from her and your lips curled upwards just enough for him to sigh. 

“Listen I-”

“Do you want to do something with me today?” He had cut you off and then froze like he hadn’t even realized you were speaking. 

Your eyes were a little wide as you stared at him, forgetting what you were even trying to tell him, most likely something that would give him the option to pretend the kiss had never happened but you liked his idea a lot better. 

“Something like.. other than chores?” You half teased as you reminded him that you did something with him almost every single day if farm work counted. He was nodding his head swiftly and going between avoiding looking at you directly and staring into your eyes intensely. “Yes Jungkook, I would. That sounds very nice.”

He looked overly relieved that you had agreed and you began to really question his sanity if he actually thought you would reject him after what had happened. 

Jungkook had instructed you that you would need a bathing suit and something comfortable to walk in, not leaving much to the imagination about what he wanted to do but leaving you excited regardless. 

You almost asked him how he had gotten the two of you out of duties but you saw Nari carrying a small bag of hay as you stepped out onto the porch and realized quickly she must have agreed to help out today. 

She was giving you a soft look and you returned it with a small smile and a wave goodbye, hearing the hinges creak behind you as he made his way out of the house and paused next to you to look at his mom as she disappeared back to the nearest barn.

“Ready?” He said softly and you nodded your head at him, glancing to the side and feeling glad to see him smiling subtly. 

The new development between you did not change the fact Jungkook didn’t talk much but it did mean he let you be the one to shuffle through his CD collection until you found something you liked. He actually had a few things you managed to recognize and you put in the back of your mind to request a mixtape of his favorite tracks. 

You preferred the windows down and wind blowing to the cold and sterile AC of your car back in the city, hair in your face and the now familiar scents that the warm air danced through the old truck being things you had grown used to faster than your usual that you had simply tolerated for two decades. 

He was tapping the steering wheel to the music and your eyes scanned over him briefly now that he was distracted. 

He had abandoned his button up flannels for the day in place of a loose shirt that was tucked into his jeans and belt in random places, showcasing his large belt buckle that you had started to think was his signature. 

Clearly you were obvious enough that he caught on to the feeling of you staring because he was sending you a sideways glance that made you laugh. Most guys would probably smirk cockily if they noticed you checking them out like that but Jungkook was certainly not most guys, quickly facing forward again and swallowing hard.

You watched from the side mirror as dust kicked up nearly to your window, feeling him shift gears as he pulled off onto the side of the dirt road. 

There was nothing special about the area he stopped at, a simple stretch of road with trees canopy over the top and giving you a nice break from the sun. You looked at him, curious why he was stopping. 

“Cmon.” He said and his eyes flashed with something bright before he was getting out of the driver's side and gesturing for you to slide across the bench seat of the truck so you could come out his door. 

His hand was reaching out to grab yours, helping you out smoothly and the act made it so you were standing almost as close as you were the night before. He took a few seconds to let his eyes dart over your face before he was stepping back and keeping his hand over yours. 

“It’s through here.” He breathed and you nodded, letting him gently guide you through the trees and brush. 

You could see a faint desired path, dirt in place of grass where people had been stepping and venturing off from the road like you were now. 

Luckily it wasn’t a long walk considering you were not exactly accustomed enough to the outdoor life to enjoy branches in your face but you were glad you had heeded his warning about comfortable shoes. 

You felt his hand squeezing yours as he slowed his pace, leaving you almost stumbling into his back from your lack of paying attention. 

He glanced back at you as you came to a stop beside him, hands wrapping around his arm similarly to the way you had held him at the market. He stepped to the side more so you could see what he was bringing you towards and your mouth parted. 

The quarry was only a little bigger than a pond, surrounded on all sides by trees and tall rock walls that glistened from the water splashed on them by the numerous small waterfalls in various places alongside it. 

The water was a beautiful blue-green shade that looked especially inviting given the heat today and there was a small slope that led to a patch of sand, sporadic bushes of flowers and long hanging vines decorating the empty spaces. 

“Wow.” You breathed out as you stepped out of the tree line, walking along the top of the quarry until you could shuffle your way down the slope towards the beach. 

Jungkook stayed right behind you, silent and squeezing your hand every so often whenever the path got a bit steep. You were grateful considering how little focus you had now that you were presented with such a beautiful sight. 

“Do you like it?” He was asking softly when you made it to the waterline, the area even more breathtaking from down below. Your eyes scanned over the quarry walls around you now and you almost felt emotional. 

You’d never seen anything even remotely similar to this and it was overwhelming you a little bit. It was like an oasis hidden just off the dirty road, untouched by civilization and nurtured by the elements around you. 

“It’s amazing.” You turned to face him and he looked pleased that you were excited, biting the inside of his cheek and nodding as he took off his hat and placed it on a nearby log. 

Your eyebrows raised in question before he was shifting backwards and kicking off his boots, a laugh of disbelief leaving you in a single breath. 

The girlish giggle was leaving you before you could stop it and you didn’t care enough to feel embarrassed about the sound, hurriedly removing your easiest layers before pulling your dress over your head and leaving you in your bathing suit. 

When you emerged from the lacy fabric you were greeted by a shirtless Jungkook and you fully froze, eyes locking on his chest and the full expanse of his tattooed sleeve that you’d been catching glimpses of whenever he wore a shirt. 

You already knew he was strong, easily detectable by his stamina and how much he could move and carry without breaking a sweat. Plus the telling veins lining his forearms that pulses whenever he shifted or gripped something. 

None of these small tidbits could’ve prepared you for the sight of Jeon Jungkook shirtless and you couldn’t even bother to disguise how intensely you were staring at his toned chest and the happy trail wedged between hard ab muscles. 

Jungkook seemed to not even notice the way you were looking at him but that probably had something to do with the fact he was staring at you the same exact way, hair messy from removing your dress that now sat at your feet. 

You imagined at another time it could’ve been heated but instead it was bashful, almost shy as you both came to reality and looked away in sync. Your cheeks felt warm again and you squinted up at the burning sun like it was the cause and not the pull in your stomach. 

It was easier to run towards the water than face him again and he seemed to agree considering you could hear the sound of him entering right behind you. 

The two of you splashed and played for nearly an hour, throwing handfuls of water and filling the echoing quarry with your shrieks and laughter as you did so. Your stomach was aching from how hard you were laughing and your cheeks felt even worse, in the best way possible. 

You’d even begun to wonder if you had ever actually smiled before this exact moment, the happiness rushing through you feeling so foreign. You were completely detached from yourself. 

The wealth of your family name, the cold expressions you both faced daily and learned to force onto yourself and even the heaviness of the city air and its routine were all fading from your mind. Right now you were simply a girl having fun in a beautiful place with a boy that liked you enough to free his day and show it to you. 

Jungkook was either thinking similarly or simply recognizing your melancholy because the play splashing faded into the two of you slowly inching closer and closer in the water until your arms were looped around his neck and his settled warmly on your waist. 

Your eyes were scanning over the parts of his chest that were not under the hazy water, cold fingers lightly tracing over the scars and marks littering his tan skin.

He was simply watching you, eyes on your face and only shifting away briefly whenever you made eye contact. 

“Where'd you get this one?” Your voice was a whisper and it felt like the first time you’d talked in a while, smoothing over a particularly large mark spanning across his left collarbone all the way to his shoulder. 

“Got bucked off Lucky when I was fourteen.” He said in a low voice, referencing the large horse you’d taken into town together. “Landed wrong on the wired fence.”

You nodded softly as he recounted the story, feeling a deeper warmth when you thought about teenage Jungkook and his mishaps as he grew into the practiced country man he was now. His hands squeezed your waist as your hand crept up to his cheek and you shifted closer.

“This one?” Your tone was more hesitant when you saw the look on his face at the touch, already knowing he’d be explaining that especially deep mark next. 

“I was seventeen.” He started off slowly and you watched him, hand moving to cup his cheek and obscure the scar from your vision. His face instinctively pushed against your palm and he sighed. “Accidentally tipped a barrel of feed we were transporting to the neighbors. My dad sent me flying into the wall and I guess there was an old nail or something.” 

It was the first time he had outwardly voiced what you already assumed and although you knew, it didn’t make it any easier to hear him say it.

“Has he always done that?” You whispered and he shook his head. 

“Just when I became a teenager.” He said simply, like it wasn't a big deal to him. It probably wasn’t anymore and you couldn't help but frown softly, feeling worse when his eyes flashed with concern. “Happens less now.”

Another thing you didn’t need to hear out loud to understand. Jungkook was bigger now, stronger and harder to push around even if he allowed it up to a certain point. You had a feeling that he'd never lay a hand on his father to test the theory but you had full confidence he could lay him out if needed and you imagined Minchul had realized something similar.

You felt the words leave you, not exactly sure if that was what he needed anyways. There was nothing you could say that would make it stop and you figured he had thought of any reassuring phrases you would’ve come up with anyways.

There was only one thing that made sense to you and you hoped it was the right choice when you kissed him softly. 

It was so gentle he barely felt it and then you were pulling back and pressing your forehead against his. His gaze was softer now and you could feel the wet droplets from his hair on your skin, his large hand leaving your hip underwater to hold your face and bring you into him again. 

This time there was some heat behind the action, mouths moving together as you wrapped your legs around his middle to be as close as possible. 

Jungkook kissed you deeply, a low noise sounding from his chest when you were tugging softly at his lower lip. It felt like a habit to tangle your tongue with his and you sighed against his mouth, one hand on his jaw with the other resting on his chest as he held you weightlessly in the water. 

“Have I mentioned you’re a good kisser?” You breathed against his mouth and he made a low noise, used to your antics and teasing comments by now. His hands were under your thighs to keep you supported around his waist and you sighed as you fell back into a kiss. 

It felt utterly ridiculous, disbelief still clouding your mind when you felt the butterflies in your stomach and the way your skin felt tingly wherever his hands traced. You had barely felt anything before you got here and suddenly your days were full of satisfying muscle aches and electric glances across the room with a boy who was holding you like he actually managed to care about you. 

You felt like a fool for putting so much weight behind kissing him, behind being somewhere he considered special and laughing like little kids together. 

“I am so happy you are here.”

All of your concerns faded away when he whispered the words against your lips, unable to keep kissing him but loving the way he pecked your mouth a few times before realizing you weren’t responding anymore and looking at you heavily. 

Maybe he could tell it was something you needed to hear because one of his hands left your leg in favor of pushing your wet hair behind your ear, thumb tracing over your swollen lips. 

“You mean that?” You accidentally whispered it and that felt much more vulnerable than you had meant it to come across, not able to stop yourself from seeking confirmation. You’d spent your entire life feeling like you were taking up space, a ghost in crowded conference halls and an investment only worthy of funding. 

Jungkook had nothing to take from you, you had nothing to offer him here in this new version of you that you had barely begun to understand yourself and yet his eyes were soft and genuine as he nodded. 

“I was just going through the motions before you.” He responded right when you needed to hear it most and the rare show of vocalized honesty from him hit harder. You could tell it was difficult for him to say these things out loud without feeling insecure and you appreciated it even more. 

You kissed him eagerly and barely processed the way he was standing out of the water and easily carrying you to the shore, only recognizing your new location when your back touched the warm sand and you gasped softly.

It was swallowed by his mouth as he placed himself over you, holding his weight up with his left arm so he wasn’t exactly pressing against you. He felt even better in this position and your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him down and keeping his mouth moving with yours like it was the only way you could function.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there like that, going between kissing heavily and whispering sweet words to each other that made your chest tighten so much it felt like it was going to explode.

The sun had started to set and you felt slightly chilled in your damp suit, flushing when he noticed your shiver and silently moved to help pull your dress back over your head. He stood from the sand, offering a hand to lift you up and steadying you before finding his discarded shirt. 

It was silent on the way back to the farm but welcomed. You had abandoned the passenger seat in favor of sitting in the middle, laying your head on his shoulder and smiling every time his hand moved from the gear stick to rest on your bare knee. 

He had his left arm out the window as he tapped the top of it occasionally along to the music but he quickly withdrew it when you pulled in the long driveway and saw the porch light still on. It was dark by now but not quite late enough to cause any suspicion, sky a dark blue as the sun fully set. 

You were glad you had enough sense to scoot back into your seat because you passed the scattered trees and could now clearly see Minchul stood on the porch, not at all trying to pretend he wasn’t waiting for you.

Jungkook was tense and his face was dark in a way that pulled a pout onto your face, hoping you didn’t have a sour end to such a beautiful day.

He sighed as he parked the truck and you reached your hand over to grab his, his eyes darting to you quickly like he had forgotten you were sitting there with him. You watched as his shoulders dropped as they lost their tension and he gave you a soft smile and squeezed your hand in his. 

You were both exiting the truck and you gave Minchul a small wave, only slightly surprised that he didn’t return it. He was still keeping up the charming and friendly persona with you but clearly it didn’t matter when his hard gaze was locked on his son. 

“How were the Johnsons?” He said lowly and you knew better than to respond or showcase any confusion on your face even though you had no idea what he was talking about. 

“The Johnsons?” Jungkook’s voice was casual as he walked, barely faltering at the question and not even glancing at his dad as he stepped onto the porch. You stayed on the yard and watched them, breath held as it almost seemed like they were sizing each other up. You weren’t used to seeing any defiance from Jungkook and it worried you. “We were at the Lee’s. Mary said hello.”

He went inside, sending you a glance as he did and you stood there silently.

Minchul scoffed and you saw his jaw clench in annoyance, clearly wanting to test Jungkook and catch him in a lie. Nari and him must have come up with a cover story beforehand about where you two were the entire day, something you stupidly hadn’t even considered. 

His gaze fell on you and while it wasn’t as icy, it still didn’t look thrilled to see you. You were glad you had become so accustomed to having a flat expression because the last thing you wanted was to be the one who fucked it up and got the both of you in trouble.

“Thank you for letting us have some time off.” You said softly, tone as polite as you could manage and he stayed very still for a few more seconds before giving you a small smile and nodding. You stayed there as he turned to head inside, finally letting out the breath you were holding.

----

It was difficult to know Jungkook was so close yet also understanding spending unnecessary time with him could get you in trouble potentially. You knew you were both adults but it was his fathers house and clearly he didn’t have sound reasoning for his hatred towards Jungkook.

As much as you wanted to lounge in his room with him and listen to music, you settled for opening your door and letting it float down the hallway towards you as you journaled.

You were back to chores the next morning like normal and you couldn’t help the shy smile on your face when you saw him in the kitchen. He returned it and you felt his foot nudge against yours when you slid onto the stool beside him, side eyeing him playfully as Nari brought you both a plate of breakfast.

There was a welcomed silence as you ate rather quickly and then you were both slipping out of the house, soft giggles escaping you at the fast way he walked towards the barn. He glanced behind you towards the house and must've determined the coast was clear because he was scooping you off of your feet to get you there quicker.

“You’re insane.” You laughed and slapped against his shoulder as he bridal style carried you into the barn, rounding the corner and setting you down when you were out of sight. 

“Is that a bad thing?” His eyebrow went up and you narrowed your eyes jokingly, a bright smile on your face as you stared up at him. “Maybe I just missed you.”

You still weren’t used to the quiet boy you had grown accustomed to being able to say the most devastating things like he didn’t even realize what they did to you. You sucked in a breath at the statement and it wasn’t long before he was kissing you again.

There seemed to be a mutual addiction to the action now that you’d done it a few times and you were glad you weren’t alone in that, not sure what you would do if he wasn’t so willing to kiss you all the time. 

Kissing you didn’t seem to be the only thing on Jungkook’s mind because it wasn’t long before he had you laid back against a blanket over the hay, making you half wonder if he planned this or if it was just a spontaneous decision. Either way you appreciated the gesture, not sure you could enjoy the way he was kissing down your neck as much if you had scratchy grass poking you back.

“Jungkook.” You gasped his name out when his teeth brushed over your collarbone and his back hardened at the sound for a second before he was humming, low and sensual as he questioned the reason for your call. “More.”

He picked his head up long enough to look into your eyes, scanning over your face with a dark expression you hadn’t quite seen from him. It was similar to the way he looked when he was particularly focused on a hard task but there was something deeper there and you suddenly felt flustered. 

“Tell me what you want.” It was a soft instruction that subtly reminded you he didn’t really know what he was doing.

“Anything, just…” Your hands were in his hair and you kissed him softly as you tried to collect yourself, distracted by the way he was looking at you and the weight of his body on top of yours. “Just you. I just want you.”

That seemed to be enough for him to forget his inexperienced based hesitance because his mouth was back on yours, sloppy and hot in a way that made a shiver go down your spine. His hands moved under your dress, pushing it up so it sat under your ribs and exposed your lower half.

He went back to kissing down your neck and this time he didn’t stop at your dress, skipping your covered section and shifting his body further down so he could have his mouth on your stomach. You sucked in a gasp at the sensation, keeping your hands in his hair to keep yourself grounded under the illusion of some control.

It was a world changing sight to see him down between your legs like that, eyes darting from your lace panties back up to your face to make sure you were feeling okay. You imagined he was being met with a very eager expression on your face, nearly pleading as you took in his messy hair and doe eyes. 

The first press of his lips alongside your inner thigh was almost enough to ruin your life and you whined softly, shifting your knees further apart so he had no issue getting where he needed. 

“Quiet down princess.” The already low drawl of his voice had taken an even deeper tone and you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut like you were pained at the idea of silence. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful baby.”

He had no idea the way he was wrecking you with the pet names, made even more clear by the way his mouth was on your core through the thin wet fabric of your underwear. Your hips bucked as you made a strangled sound and his hand was shooting up to hold you down, pressing against your stomach and kissing his teeth at you like you were an animal he was trying to settle. 

The instinctive way he attempted to tame you made your head spin, not even realizing how sexy you would find that until he did it. 

“Jungkook.” You were breathing again and shifting your hips upwards, heat surging through you when you realized you weren’t even able to move under his strong hold. He was easily pressing you against the blanket with one hand and one of yours moved from his hair to pull at the waistband of your panties.

He didn’t need you to explain that to him, hurriedly sitting up enough that he could pull them down your thighs and grunting a little when you kicked them away, settling back between your legs and taking a deep breath at the sight of you bare.

“Please.” You pleaded and he looked back up at you.

“You want it baby?” He said lowly, a whole new persona to him you hadn’t even begun to fantasize about and you nodded eagerly, eyes a little glassy. “Want me to taste you?”

You made another high pitched impatient sound and he laughed a little, breath hitting your wet folds making your body tighten for a second. 

He was finally done teasing you and you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet like he requested as soon as his mouth was on you, hands moving to your knees to keep your legs from clamping around his head as he licked against you. 

“Oh fuck.” You whined and he closed his eyes at the taste of you, tongue slow and testing as he explored what areas brought the biggest reaction out from your lips. He was clearly a good kisser in more than one way because you felt like you were going to pass out just from the way his mouth moved, getting more eager the more comfortable he got. 

Your hips rocked forward against his face as much as his grip allowed, searching for friction and finding it when his nose brushed against your sensitive clit. His mouth quickly followed, tongue working your bud and bringing noises out of you that you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“Feels so good.” You mewled and he groaned against you, sending another wave of pleasure and longing through you. 

“It’s good princess?” He was breathing heavier from the lack of oxygen considering he hadn’t taken his mouth off of you since he got down there and you almost laughed at the sound of it. You weren’t sure if he was dirty talking or genuinely looking for reassurance but you nodded eagerly regardless, hands tangling back in his hair and pressing his face back between your legs. 

“Make me cum.” You said the order softly, more of a plea than anything and he took it easily, practically making out with your cunt in his desperation to give you what you wanted. Jungkook was clearly a pleaser and you found it even more stupid nobody had jumped his bones yet, although a possessive flare surging through you every time you remembered you were his first. 

You did a terrible job keeping quiet as he ate you out and you figured the rough way he was squeezing your thighs was meant to be reminders but you ignored him in favor of rolling your hips along with his mouth, biting your lip to keep from outwardly screaming when you realized you were about to cum.

Your grip in his hair tightened almost painfully and your breathing picked up, chest rising and falling in heavy pants as you got closer. Luckily Jungkook knew enough to not stop, pressing his tongue against your hole with his nose nudging your clit and bringing you to release so suddenly you felt dizzy.

“What the fuck?” You felt almost startled by how fast and intensely he made you finish and he slowed down, eyeing you curiously and almost looking like he was smiling. He kissed your thighs a few more times softly before he was coming back up on top of you.

You moaned when he was kissing you out of nowhere, not even slightly disgusted at the idea of tasting yourself and instead eagerly licking into his mouth.

“Wait.” You gasped into it and he barely slowed, only pausing to kiss the corners of your lips and let you speak. “What about you?”

Your hand was inching between your bodies to feel his hard length but you faltered when you felt the wet patch on his pants instead. His body tensed on top of yours and your eyes went back to his face, taking in his embarrassed expression and feeling a million different types of warmth rushing through you suddenly. 

“Fuck.” He said in one breath, eyes shutting tight for a second like he was willing himself to disappear. 

“That might be the hottest thing that has ever happened to me.” You said far too loud for the quiet barn and he looked at you like you were crazy, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks turning pink when he processed the dazed out look returning to your face. “You came in your pants from eating me out? Are you even real?”

He was frozen for a long few seconds with that same expression before he was pushing out a singular disbelieving laugh and resting his head on your shoulder. You giggled as he groaned into your hot skin, hand coming back up to his hair to pet it gently this time.

You didn’t move for a bit, kissing softly until the heat was beginning to feel too intense now that you didn’t have a mind numbing distraction. 

“We have to do our chores.” You whispered against his lips and he sighed softly, knowing you were right. 

He was gentle as he helped you stand up, sitting you back on a wood slate so he could pull your underwear backup and adjust your dress. His hands were smoothing through your hair to help control it, picking loose pieces of grass and straw as you watched his face. 

The barn was quiet as you reached up to cup his face, pulling him in for another kiss and sighing softly when you felt him smiling. 

“What are you doing to me?” You almost groaned as he pulled away again, tugging you off of the wood so you were standing in front of him. You were close enough for your chest to press together and you craned your neck to look up at him. 

“It’s mutual.” He responded easily and you felt like you were really going crazy. 

Luckily he had more sense than you and was backing up a few feet to pop the tension filled bubble and help keep you focused. It was almost impossible to watch him do chores now that you knew what was hidden under his shirt, and became familiar with those grunts in a different context. 

You worked through the day together and kept your shy smiles and loaded glances to as much of a minimum as you could manage. 

Supper was much more pleasant today and you felt like things were starting to really flow nicely around here, your heart feeling content as you and Nari joked around over the meal and the men listened with fond smiles.  

Your gaze went to Jungkook for the hundredth time today and you found him already watching you, eyes bright and a smile on his face that you usually didn’t see at dinner time. He must have felt similarly to you about how good the day was because he didn’t look away, holding your eyes affectionately. 

When you finally blushed and looked away, your line of sight landed on Minchuk and you froze. 

He was staring at you with an expression of understanding, like he had just figured something out. His jaw tensed as he looked towards Jungkook and you felt red hot fear in your chest. 

Jungkook had started conversing calmly with his mother and didn’t seem to notice the expression on either of your faces. 

It wasn’t until your time to do the dishes that you even dared to look at him again, breathing a sigh of relief when he sunk against you for a hug. 

You wrapped your arms tightly around him, stretching on your tiptoes and burying your face in his neck as he circled his against your lower back. The fact it was overly sappy didn’t miss you but you couldn’t really care anymore, longing to be near him after any amount of time. 

“I feel crazy.” His voice was slightly muffled by your hair and you smiled at the sound of it and the warm tone he only seemed to take when he spoke to you. “How did I miss you so bad when you are right here?”

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak without saying something even more ridiculous but he hopes he knows what you mean, what you want to shout into the quiet kitchen. 

No, you aren't crazy. No you're not the only one feeling like this. No you don't understand it either. 

You only see a glimpse of his eyes before you are kissing and you can’t even remember who started it, if you went on your tiptoes or if he bent down to your level to catch you in something so feverish it felt like you had gone a year apart. There was no way of knowing who backed your bodies up against the counter, whose hands explored the other's frame first and who decided completely abandoning the dishes was somehow a good idea.

The only thing you could pinpoint was the exact moment it ended and he was suddenly ripped from you in a way that was so jarring you felt your knees go weak like you were going to collapse without him.

It took you a few seconds to track his body, stumbled across the kitchen like he had gotten thrown. The icy expression on his face made you realize he had been, your eyes darting to Minchul standing only a few feet away with his chest puffed and his eyebrows pulled together in a way that made your mouth part in shock.

“What the hell do you think you are doing boy?” His voice was venomous and he made another move in Jungkook’s direction that had you covering your mouth, lips still wet from kissing him. 

Jungkook didn’t move a muscle, not even slightly flinching or faltering his hardened expression. You wanted to shout at him that now was not the time to challenge his father, not after such a good day and certainly not over you. The look on his face told you that there was no point in trying to diffuse the situation, his shoulders squaring as he shifted his body defensively. 

“Oh.” Minchul looked genuinely surprised under all the rage until a bitter laugh slipped out as he stared at Jungkook mockingly. “You’re tough ain't you. A real man now?”

“Minchul.” You said slowly, taking a step away from the counter and trying to put yourself in their peripheral vision. You had a light amount of hope that seeing you in the room might be enough to humble the angry man and also calm Jungkook down enough to at least hold this off. You had wondered if you should call out for Nari but you decided against it. “We.. we were just-”

“I know what you were doing.” He spat as he turned to look at you and the way he stared at you stole all of the hope from underneath you. It was the exact same way he looked at Jungkook and you knew that any effort he was putting into faking a charming persona was no longer applied to you. 

“Watch it.” Jungkook was speaking for the first time and both of you snapped your gazes over to him.

His voice had never sounded like that and you felt a wave of fear run over you, not towards him necessarily but towards the outcome that would be caused by this level of anger coming from both of them. He clearly had no intention of pushing away his feelings and fauxing respect to get his dad off of his back, combative and aggressive now that you were being spoken down to. 

“Y/N.” Minchul was speaking calm and slow but the way his glare never left Jungkook’s taut frame sent a shiver down your spine and your eyes widened. “Go outside honey.”

“I-” You went to object but he sent you another look that left no room for argument and you turned desperately to Jungkook. He was clenching his jaw and looking pained as he finally looked at you just long enough to give you a confirming nod. His face barely softened but it was noticeable to you, a silent act of reassurance that he would be okay.

You felt beneath yourself as you stumbled outside, not really sure what else to do with your body once you got out there. You got the strange urge to call your father even though he would never help you, even to call your mother who had been dead for most of your life.

Your brain was just searching desperately for solutions and even more so when you heard crashing from inside the house, tears springing to your eyes as you took a few more shaky steps away to try and put some distance between you and the grunts of anger and pain.

The sensible part of your brain noticed a light switching on upstairs as the volume increased, realizing Nari must have woken up and would most likely be rushing down to the kitchen and putting a stop to whatever was happening. 

It was a power you clearly did not have and you felt so overwhelmingly useless.

You felt like you were outside for hours alone like that even though it was only a few breathless minutes before Jungkook was coming outside. He was walking fast and storming right past you, similarly to the way he had been the other week when Minchul brought out the belt on the porch.

“Jungkook.” You called out to him and your hands reached for his arm, heart clenching when you made brief contact before they were slipping off as he refused to stop. You started to chase after him without really thinking about it, needing to speak to him before you exploded. “Wait please.”

He whipped around at the crack in your voice and you faltered when you saw the blood on his lip and redness surrounding his eye and cheek. You were sure there were more marks you’d be able to pinpoint tomorrow and you were suddenly grateful for the moon lighting him up. 

Your hands were coming up to cup his face instinctively as a wounded noise left you and he winced at the feeling of your hands on his injuries. Your mouth was opening and closing as you searched for the words to say, head shaking as you felt like you were about to cry or throw up or both. 

“Did you know?” His voice was hoarse and your eyebrows automatically furrowed in confusion. It was asked softly but he scoffed at your expression and repeated it in a much harsher tone. 

“Know what?” You almost begged, wanting so badly to understand him and be able to help in some way. You took a step closer and he looked pained by the action, your stomach turning at the way he avoided looking directly at you. “Did I know what Jungkook? What happened?”

He was quiet for a long time and you felt like the dirt underneath you was slipping away and finally waking you up from this dream you’d been living in. You half wanted to sink with it and wake up in your warm bed worlds away from here with vague visions of a beautiful cowboy and the other half was clawing at the collapsing ground and pleading for the dirt under your nails to stay until morning. 

“Your dad owns the farm.” He said it so simply like it didn’t take the air out of your lungs and you shook your head, both in denial and confusion on what he was saying. His eyes were cold as he stared at you like he wasn’t sure if you were the enemy or not anymore. “He owns everything. You own everything.”

He emphasized the pronoun like he was trying to make it really clear to you that you played some type of role in this situation and you shifted away from him.

It suddenly made so much more sense to you, the way Minchul and your father interacted like they were forced to and the memories of coming here as a child feeling so foreign and locked away. How kind the Jeon’s had been to you and the pure fury towards you and Jungkook for getting involved, it was all a result of your father placing his polished shoe on another aspect of your life. 

This time it wasn’t an apartment back in the city or your daily schedule, not even your name on the important document that locked you into the family business for life if anything tragic happened to him. Your father had managed to put his greedy hands on something you had deemed untouchable.

Jungkook had created a world for you that didn’t allow the bad stuff to exist, that blocked out every memory you had that was grey and cold. He had brought the sun to you and now you were learning your father had already staked his flag on its surface. 

“What are you talking about?” You didn’t know what else to say and you could feel hot tears on your flamed cheeks now. You had never felt adrenaline like that, pure emotion and panic as your chest started to rise and fall quickly. 

Jungkook was quiet as he watched you like he was conflicted about what to do. Once a particularly rough breath ran through your body he was softening his shoulders and gaze simultaneously, pulling you against his frame as you wracked with a heavy sob. 

You hadn’t had a panic attack in years, since you were a teenager who could barely stand the sight of a crowded crosswalk or a presentation. There was no doubt in your mind that you would not be able to get out of the strong grip of it easily on your own and you sunk against him. 

“I’m sorry.” He breathed and you pushed your face into his chest, muffling the strangled noise that left you. “Of course you didn’t know. I know you didn’t know.”

“I want to go home.” Is what you eventually breathed out even though you realized as soon as you said it that you weren’t sure what you were referring to. The thought of your apartment was only comforting until you remembered he didn’t even exist there and you sunk lower against him.

“We can go there.” He said back hurriedly like he had already considered that as an option. You felt terrible for not being in the state to talk to him properly, to ask him if he was okay and if he could face his father again. “I’ll take you, we can go home.”

You weren’t sure he knew what that meant to you but he was gently lowering you on the stairs and going back inside before you could tell him. His back was tense and you had half a mind to yell out for him to come back, to not go in and to stay with you where you could pretend you could keep him safe.

Instead of sitting there and feeling useless, you stood to your feet and chased after him.

He was already on his way back out and you bumped into each other, a startled sound leaving him as his hands reached out to grab your arms and steady you. You were still breathing heavily and now confused by how quickly he had returned, eyes going over his wide shoulders.

Nari was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a dim look on her face, stealing her of her usual warmth and soft glow. Minchul was nowhere to be seen but you could tell by the damage to the room that it had been a full blown scuffle between the two of them. 

You felt devastated for her, knowing how much love and pride she held for her kitchen and the things she created. There were shattered plates and disarrayed decorations, a large hole in the wall that you had a bad feeling was created by Jungkook’s back. She met your eyes over his frame and you felt relief when she softened slightly at the sight of your swollen eyes and remorseful stare.

“Go on, honey.” She said in a voice so gentle it broke your heart, Jungkook’s hands tightening on your arms at the sound of it. “I’ll be alright here.”

He was shifting and you could hear the sound of the keys in his fingers now, only just feeling the cold metal pressing against your skin. You nodded swiftly at her and gave her one more heavy look that you hoped she would understand despite your lack of words, her smile in return making you believe she had.

Jungkook and you were quick to leave the house and you felt another sob go through you when he spared one last look towards the barn where Lucky and the other horses were most likely asleep for the night, knowing there was no certain timeline he would be able to see them again any time soon. 

He was opening the passenger door for you and making a soft noise with his teeth to get your attention through your devastation, closing it softly once you were sitting on the bench seat. 

You waited until he was sat and finished taking a few deep breaths, until you were squealing out of the driveway and pretending the light wasn't still on upstairs. Only after you were on the dirt road and heading towards uncertainty did you scoot over into the middle seat. 

This time around you weren’t damp from the quarry water and your cheeks were not sore from smiling so hard you felt euphoric. There were no shy glances and no toeing the line between unlikely friends and something more. But there was the feeling of his hand wrapped around your knee like he was scared to forget you were there and the soft kisses you were laying on his bruised face as he drove. 

Going back the same way you came but with your heart full of adoration and something much more real that you were too afraid to name just yet. You felt like your fantasy world was finally mixing into reality and the colors mixing with your cold gray was a lot less jarring knowing he was the one braving it all with you. 

Jungkook released a soft breath when your head landed on his shoulder and you felt the weight of it all go with it.

[cheftsunoda]

Heyy! I love all your fics, they are soooo good! Could you maybe write one where y/n is max fewtrells little sister and landos race engineer but media is being mean to her and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. So lando has to step in and then they fall in love. If you don't like this you could just ignore it but I'd love to read it:)

not on my watch — ln4

smau + blurbs

lando norris x !race engineer reader

it started shortly after the mclaren announcement was posted— 'yn fewtrell has been named lando norris’ race engineer for the 2025 season.' the internet erupted—accusations of nepotism, blatant sexism, and outrage that they’d hand the job to a 24 year old woman. they don’t know you built half the strategy software they rely on. they don’t know you graduated at 19 and haven’t made a wrong call since. they don’t know lando trusts you more than anyone else on the team. this season, you’re done staying quiet. you’re going to prove them all wrong. even if it means falling for the one person you were never supposed to.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : hellooooo mi vida <3 thank you for the love on my work! i appreciate you sm. sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy 🧚🏻

also i love writing like the engineering side of things. my dad is a retired race engineer and he taught me everything i know and is the reason for my love of the sport. there is your fun fact of the day;) enjoy !

—

mclaren & yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, zbrownceo & 7,110,011 others.

mclaren : Please welcome YN Fewtrell as Lando Norris’ new race engineer for the 2025 season. Brilliant, fearless, and ready to lead from the pit wall. Let’s go win some races. 🧡

—

view 772,000 other comments.

username000 : ok but she’s actually a genius? she BUILT half their strategy models. stay mad.

username00 : this is history and y’all don’t even know it yet. she’s gonna run the whole grid one day.

username0 : nepotism is alive and well I see 😐

username1 : she’s 24 and in charge of race strategy?? lmao. hope Lando likes DNFing.

↳ lando : keep my wife’s name out of your FUCKIN mouth.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

↳ lando : i literally begged her to take the job. she had about a dozen offers for other teams. she is smarter than the whole paddock put together.

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

zbrownceo : Brilliant mind. Cool under pressure. Unshakable. Couldn’t be prouder. Let’s do this.

liked by mclaren and yn_fewtrell

↳ username5 : you’ll regret this 2 races into the season.

oscarpiastri : I thought I knew the science behind F1…and then I met YN…and she made me question everything. Congratulations, YN! We are happy to have you.

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

maxfewtrell : Such a proud big brother moment. Go show them just how genius you are, sis! 🤧🧡

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell and lando

pietra.pilao : literally the most intelligent person in the world! no one deserves this more🥺 I LOVE YOU YNNNNN

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

lando : no one can wrangle me like this one. let’s make history together bub!!

liked by yn_fewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

username17 : Hiring women just to look good, not to win races. Disgraceful.

↳ yn_fewtrell : funny how the people questioning my ability never mention the races i have helped win. maybe instead of whining about my gender, you should learn how to actually win. see you on the podium—if you can keep up. 🧡

liked by maxfewtrell, lando, mclaren, pietra.pilao and oscarpiastri

↳ maxfewtrell : ATE

liked by lando and yn_fewtrell

username37 : Just here to watch her fail and disappear. It’s not like she’s actually qualified.

↳ lando : talk shit get hit. you’re out here bullying a woman behind a keyboard while she stays winning and getting paid.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

username45 : Bet she got the job ‘cause Max begged, not because she earned it.

↳ maxfewtrell : lando doesn’t even like me that much, if I would’ve asked he would’ve said no.

↳ lando : TRUTH

username55 : This is why F1 is a joke now. Giving a 24-year-old woman a crucial race engineer role? Please. Next, they’ll have kids driving cars.

↳ maxfewtrell : This comment is exactly why she’s needed. You clowns scream about F1 being a joke, but the real punchline is you thinking your fragile ego matters more than her qualifications. She’s 24, a genius, and running circles around engineers twice her age. Stay pressed.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

You’re not sure why your palms are sweaty. You’ve given technical presentations in front of FIA directors. You’ve rebuilt a predictive model with zero sleep and one cracked laptop. You’ve told grown men twice your age their simulations were wrong—and then proved it. But this? Sitting across from Zak Brown and the McLaren technical director with your name printed at the top of an official offer letter? This feels different.

“Relax,” Zak says, grinning like he’s already picturing you on the pit wall. “You’re not in trouble. Unless being a genius is suddenly against the rules.”

You crack a smile. Just a small one. The technical director slides the contract toward you. You already know what it says. But seeing it in writing makes your heart skip anyway.

“We want you in the role officially,” Zak says. “You’ve been running the backend strategy models, fixing everyone’s messes from behind the curtain, and honestly? It’s long overdue.”

“I thought I was too young,” you say carefully. “Too… controversial.”

Zak leans forward, elbows on the table. “You graduated at 19. You built the race strategy AI we still use today. You predicted the Qatar safety car last season three laps before it happened. You’ve saved Lando’s race more times than we can count. If you were anyone else—any guy, with ten more grey hairs—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d already be in that seat.”

Your throat tightens a little. You swallow it down.

“We know what people are going to say,” the tech director adds. “The media will be brutal. The ‘nepotism’ headlines, the ‘diversity hire’ comments. It’s coming.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But they’re wrong.”

Zak nods. “Exactly. And I want them to say it. Loudly. So we can prove them wrong. Publicly.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where everything shifts—where it all becomes real.

“Lando asked for you, by the way,” Zak says, almost offhand. “Said he’s never trusted anyone more with his race or his car.”

That stops you. You blink. Look back down at the paper. You knew you’d earned this. But hearing that? It hits different. You pick up the pen. And for the first time since walking into the room, you let yourself smile—full, bright, certain.

“Let’s go win some races.”

—

Dinner at Max’s flat was always a bit of a circus. Pietra’s voice filled the kitchen as she narrated her sauce recipe like a cooking show. Max was burning the garlic bread while insisting he knew what he was doing. And Lando? Lando was sitting at the end of the counter, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, stealing olives out of the bowl you were supposed to be using for the salad. You’d missed this.

The normalcy. The teasing. The fact that no one was looking at you like you were about to become the most talked about person in the paddock.

“You’re being suspicious,” Max says, pointing a fork at you as he slides into his seat at the table.

“I’m literally just existing,” you reply.

Pietra hums. “No, he’s right. You’ve had a look all evening. Like you’re hiding something.”

You glance at Lando. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. He’s been patient with you the last few weeks. Supportive, even while everyone else kept asking what team you were going to sign with. Mercedes had called. Ferrari had emailed. Even Red Bull made an offer. You’d kept it to yourself, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was the right moment.

You take a slow sip of your wine. “So… I signed.”

The room goes silent. Max straightens in his chair like you just told him you were pregnant. “What?”

Pietra claps her hands. “With who?!”

Lando freezes. The olive he was about to eat drops back into the bowl. “Wait. Seriously? You signed?”

You nod slowly, drawing it out. “Yep.”

Max leans forward, eyes wide. “Okay, well—Ferrari?”

You shake your head.

“Mercedes,” Pietra tries, gasping dramatically. “You’d look hot in silver.”

You smile, still silent. Lando’s eyes haven’t left your face. He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“I signed with McLaren,” you say finally. “Race engineer for Mr. Norris.”

And then—Chaos. Pure Chaos.

“YESSSSS!” Pietra screeches, nearly knocking over her wine.

Max throws a napkin in the air like it’s confetti. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D STAY!”

Lando lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for three years. He covers his mouth with one hand and laughs.

“You’re joking,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re actually serious?”

“I signed the contract this morning,” you reply, grinning. “Zak just let them put out the announcement.”

Max is on his feet in seconds, pulling you up into a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, voice suddenly a little thick. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Pietra joins the hug, wrapping her arms around both of you. “We’re going to make shirts that say ‘fewtrell dominance could bore fans.’”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

When you finally break away, Lando’s still sitting, eyes soft, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is.

“You okay over there?” you tease.

He stands, coming to stand just in front of you. “I’m great. I’m—actually, I’m really happy.”

You nod, trying to keep your voice even. “You sure you can handle me screaming strategy in your ear every Sunday?”

Lando grins. “Only if you promise to keep calling me out when I whine on the radio.”

You roll your eyes. “Deal.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything. Just you, standing a little too close to Lando in the middle of Max’s kitchen, your heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. Max breaks the silence.

“So… do I need to have the talk now, or can I just trust that Lando will behave?”

Pietra gasps. “Max!”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “What?! Nothing’s even happening!”

You try to act innocent, but you’re smiling now—bright and open and a little bit full of something terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yet,” Max mutters, grabbing the garlic bread off the counter. “I’m watching you, Norris.”

You roll your eyes and steal a piece of bread. Because the truth is, you’re watching him too. And you’re not sure who’s more in trouble—you, for finally taking this job. Or Lando, for falling a little harder every time you say his name.

—

Later that night, the laughter fades into tired giggles, and the plates are mostly empty, wine glasses scattered across the table like a celebration that never wanted to end. Max and Pietra are curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket and pretending they’re not eavesdropping. Which leaves you and Lando in the kitchen—cleaning up, sort of. Mostly moving things around and trying not to look like you’re just avoiding saying something.

He’s rinsing dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messy from running his hand through his hair too many times. You dry the plates beside him, stealing glances when you think he’s not paying attention. Of course, he is.

“You really had us going,” Lando says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Thought you were off to Ferrari or something.”

You shrug. “I could’ve. But… it never felt right. They wanted the title on my resume. McLaren actually wanted me.”

He smiles at that—wide and full of pride. “We’re lucky to have you. I mean that.”

There’s something heavy under his voice now. Not just pride. Something else.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, rinsing the last glass. “I asked for you.”

You glance over at him. “I figured. Zak doesn’t subtlety drop things like that.”

Lando laughs under his breath, then grows quiet again. “It wasn’t just because you’re smart, or talented, or scary good at reading data. It’s because I trust you. And that’s rare for me.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you too.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where the air shifts. Where you both feel the question neither of you has dared to ask.

He looks over at you, searching. “Are you scared?”

You nod slowly. “A little. Not of the job. Just… everything else.”

His gaze softens, and he takes a step closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, “we figure it out together.”

You blink at him. Your breath catches, just a little.

“Even if Max threatens to murder you?” you joke.

Lando smirks. “Especially then.”

The moment hangs there—close, careful, charged. You want to kiss him. You have for years. It is definitely not the time now. But the thought is there, sitting between you, unspoken and inevitable.

Instead, he nudges your shoulder gently. “Come on. You’re off duty tonight. I’ll finish up.”

You hand him the towel and roll your eyes. “Don’t screw up the glassware, Norris.”

He grins, watching you walk out of the kitchen. And when he turns back to the sink, he’s still smiling—because for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

—

Australia. Testing Day.

The paddock is humming like a heartbeat—fast, sharp, electric. You walk toward the garage with your headset in hand, credentials swinging around your neck, papaya polo fitted perfectly like it’s been yours all along. People glance as you pass, some with confusion, others with curiosity. You hear your name once or twice in passing—low whispers, half-question, half-gossip. You ignore all of it.

Because you’re not here to be liked. You’re here to run a car. McLaren’s garage is already alive when you step in. The smell of oil and tire rubber hits you first, followed by the warm buzz of quiet chaos. Engineers, mechanics, data analysts—moving like they’re part of a living machine.

Lando’s sitting in the car, helmet off, half-zipped race suit and that usual lazy grin stretched across his face.

“Morning, boss,” he says into the radio, teasing.

You settle into your seat on the pit wall like you’ve done it a thousand times. Calm. Focused. Headset on.

“Morning, Norris,” you reply coolly. “Try not to crash. I just got here.”

A soft laugh crackles through the comms. “No promises.”

Zak appears behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “This is it,” he says, smiling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

You nod once and focus on the screen in front of you. Live telemetry scrolls across the monitor. Tire temps. Fuel load. Weather variance. You track it all with sharp, trained eyes.

Your voice is calm when it hits the radio. “Okay Lando, we’re doing a 12 lap run, softs, with gradual pace increase. I want full feedback on braking stability by lap 4. Let’s go.”

“Copy that,” he replies, voice lighter than it probably should be. “Lead the way, genius.”

And then the garage clears as the engine roars to life. He pulls out of the pit lane. The screens flicker to life, and the data begins to pour in. Sector times. Tire degradation. Wind resistance. The other engineers glance over at you—quietly impressed. By lap 5, you’re already adjusting the run.

“Box at the end of 8. Temps are creeping up faster than expected. Want to save the compound.”

“Copy,” Lando says immediately, without question.

By lap 9, he’s back in the garage. You’re waiting with a bottle of water and a raised brow.

“You’re .03 seconds off your previous best in Turn 11,” you say, casually handing it over. “What are you doing in there, admiring the desert?”

Lando takes the bottle, grinning. “Maybe I just like hearing you call me out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smile. The truth is—you’re in your element. The voices in the paddock might still whisper. The media might still doubt.

But on that pit wall, with your headset on and Lando behind the wheel, you’re exactly where you belong. Every call you make is sharp, every number you read makes sense, and the car? The car is singing. And by the end of the day? McLaren tops the timing sheets. Because this time, it’s not just about the car or the driver. It’s about you—and him—and the strategy that only the two of you can build together.

—

The garage is humming with the kind of energy only a race day can bring — tightly wound nerves, soft radio checks, the heavy scent of tire compound, and pure adrenaline wrapped in papaya orange. This time, it’s louder. Bigger. More intense. Because this is your first race. Your race. On the wall. Running the strategy. With the whole world watching. And they’re not just watching Lando. They’re watching you.

You barely hear the murmurs from the media pens—Let them talk. You’re too busy building a strategy that’ll make them eat every last word.

In the garage, Max and Pietra are chaos in human form.

Max is pacing in his McLaren cap like he’s the one driving, and Pietra is waving around a mini flag like it’s actually helping anything.

“Can she even breathe up there?” Pietra asks, looking up at the pit wall nervously.

“I don’t think she is breathing,” Max replies. “She’s calculating.”

Five minutes to lights out. You clip your headset on. Your screen shows Lando’s live data feed. Heart rate slightly elevated, but steady. Tire temps in ideal range. Track temp rising faster than expected.

“Alright, Norris,” you say into the mic, voice cool and even. “We’re sticking to Plan A. Clean start, protect the tires. You hold position in Turn 1 and don’t get spicy until after Lap 10. Copy?”

Lando’s voice crackles through the radio, playful even under pressure.

“Copy, boss. I’ll behave. Ish.”

The lights go out. And so does the paddock. Lando has a flying start.

Shoots past Leclerc like it’s personal, glues himself to P2 before Lap 2, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. You monitor everything. Grip levels. Crosswinds in Sector 2. Fuel consumption. Brake temps. Max is screaming into Pietra’s shoulder behind you. Pietra’s crying by Lap 5. “HE’S DRIVING SO WELL.”

You smile despite yourself. By Lap 17, you see it.

The Ferraris are chewing through their tires. The Red Bulls are too conservative on power. You run the numbers twice. Then a third time. You flick on the radio.

“Box this lap. Undercut window is open.”

Lando doesn’t question you. “Copy. Let’s do it.”

He dives in. The stop is flawless. 2.3 seconds. And when the others finally pit? He comes out in the lead. P1. The garage explodes.

Max is on his feet, yelling something incoherent about “NEVER DOUBTED HER FOR A SECOND.”

Pietra is crying again, but this time she had acquired a hat to cover her face. You stay calm. Mostly.

“Alright,” you say over the radio. “Lead car. Twenty four laps to go. Clear track ahead. I want clean air and zero drama. Think you can manage that, Norris?”

Lando’s voice is steady, but there’s a grin buried in it.

“For you? Anything.”

The last 10 laps are torture. DRS threats. Virtual safety car. A rogue yellow flag that nearly throws everything. Your hands are shaking, but your voice is steady. Every call is precise.

“Brake bias forward by 2 clicks.”

“Harvest more in Sector 3.”

“Hold them off. This is your race.”

And Lando? He drives like he’s on rails. Like every word you say is gospel. Lap 58. Final sector. You stand, fingers white around your headset, eyes locked on the monitor.

Lando crosses the line—

P1.

The radio crackles—

“WE DID IT!” he screams. “YN! WE FUCKING DID IT!*”

Your heart explodes in your chest. You cover your mouth with one hand, tears burning in your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You press the button, voice breaking just slightly.

“You were perfect, Lando. That was all you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No. That was us.”

The garage is mayhem. Mechanics hugging. Pit crew chanting your name. Zak running in from somewhere with champagne already in hand.

Max is sobbing into Pietra’s shoulder. “I KNEW SHE WAS A GENIUS. I KNEW IT.”

Pietra’s recording you with tears in her eyes and yelling, “YOU JUST BEAT HALF THE GRID WITH YOUR BRAIN.”

You take your headset off slowly, still stunned. And then you feel arms around you. Lando’s. He’s still in his fireproofs, sweat-soaked and grinning like he’s never smiled before. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He lifts you slightly off the ground as he hugs you.

“You were magic,” he whispers. “You made that happen.”

You pull back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “And you made it look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dare to make a move. But his hands linger at your waist. His smile is soft. His eyes are only on you. And in that moment—surrounded by champagne, chaos, and the disbelief of everyone who ever doubted you—you know—This is only the beginning.

—

yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietra.pilao and 4,708,003 others.

yn_fewtrell : aus was fun, onto the next (p)one🫶🏻

tagged : pietra.pilao, maxfewtrell and lando

—

view 192,005 other comments.

lando : stole my french fries and my car, huh?

liked by yn_fewtrell

↳ yn_fewtrell : that is the price you pay when I lead you to a race win😁

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

↳ username00 : bitch one won race and made it her whole personality already. can’t wait to watch her fail.

mclaren : engineering excellence powered by french fries and gyros🧡

liked by yn_fewtrell

oscarpiastri : leave lando and be my engineer. i will give you all the french fries you want

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

↳ lando : not happening oscarino. she is staying with me 🤭

username10 : how are you THIS smart, THIS cool, and still relatable

liked by yn_fewtrell

username000 : There are people with decades of experience who deserved that role. But sure, let the influencer do strategy.

username11 : If she really cared about the job, she wouldn’t be flirting with her driver. Unprofessional af.

username50 : She’s more concerned about photo dumps and outfits than race data. No wonder people think women don’t belong here.

username33 : Funny how she was handed this position and still makes it all about herself. Typical influencer behavior.

zbrownceo : Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

It’s been eight weeks since Australia. Five races. Two wins. Three podiums. Zero strategy errors. One woman behind the radio. And somehow — none of it is enough.

You’re walking through the paddock before FP2, headset looped around your neck, data tablet pressed to your chest like armor. The McLaren polo clings to your skin in the heat, but you don’t notice. You’ve been sweating for hours, and not because of the sun. Every few steps, your name follows you like a curse. Not in congratulations. Not in respect. Just low, biting whispers.

“She only sounds smart on paper.”

“She’s riding Lando’s success like it’s hers.”

You walk faster. You don’t let it show — but God, it’s wearing you down. Quietly. Brutally. You haven’t opened Twitter in weeks. You scroll past Instagram comments like they’re burning. You stopped reading your tagged posts the day someone told you to “go back to fashion school” and said your first win was “handed to her.”

It’s not the media. Not even the sexist podcasters with cropped beards and buzzwords. It’s everyone else. The silence from your colleagues when your name is mentioned. The sideways looks from rival teams when McLaren beats them on strategy. The fans who scream for Lando and ignore you completely — or worse, call you a distraction. And still, you show up. Every day. Every race. Every session. You make the calls. You hit the targets. You win. But today? Today feels thin. Like the ground beneath your feet is giving way just a little.

You take a long breath as you pass the Sky Sports camera crew, nod politely, hoping to keep walking — until one of them turns just slightly and says it loud enough for you to hear— 

“There goes Norris’ lucky charm.”

You stop. It’s not just the words — it’s the tone. Patronizing. Dismissive. Cruel in its casualness.

“Smart of McLaren to hire someone for optics. Keeps the headlines clean while he does the real work.”

Something cracks. Quietly. Deep in your chest. You turn your head — slowly, expression unreadable — and meet the reporter’s eyes.

“I suggest you rethink who’s doing the real work,” you say coolly, though your throat is tight. “I’m the one keeping his car in the points.”

Before he can respond, before he can smirk or backtrack or say something worse— A voice cuts in. Sharp. Dangerous. Familiar.

“Is there a problem here?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You feel him before you see him. Lando. Still in his fireproofs, still flushed from the car, eyes hard and jaw tight.

The reporter chuckles, uncomfortable now. “Nothing at all. Just—complimenting your engineer.”

“Really? ‘Lucky charm’ doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. You are patronizing her.”

Lando steps between you and the reporter without hesitation, his voice low and lethal.

“You don’t get to belittle her work because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to reduce her to some narrative you can sell. She’s the reason I’m winning. She makes the calls. She reads the race like it’s written in a language only she speaks. And if you can’t handle that—maybe you should just get the fuck out.” 

The silence is deafening. The reporter stammers something, but Lando doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns to you gently, expression shifting — still sharp, but soft in a way he reserves only for you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You want to say yes. Want to tell him you’re fine. That it doesn’t matter. But your hands are trembling. And you’re so, so tired. He notices. Of course he does. Lando doesn’t say anything more — just steps closer, hand resting briefly on your back, shielding you as he leads you away. Out of the cameras. Out of the noise.

And even as your eyes sting, even as your chest aches with the weight of it all — there’s something steady about the way he walks beside you. Like a lifeline. Like a promise. You don’t say it yet. But you know. He’s in your corner. And when you can’t fight for yourself — Lando will.

—

It starts with the silences. Not the good kind—the ones you used to share in the garage after a long session, exhausted but grinning. Not the quiet that existed between looks and smirks and inside jokes that didn’t need explaining.

This silence is different. Colder. Heavier. Lando notices it first in the little things. The way you leave the debrief as soon as it ends. How you sit at the other end of the table during meals. How your messages have gone from memes and chaos to nothing but numbers and fuel loads. Professionally, you’re sharper than ever. Flawless. But the rest of you?

You’re fading.

He sees it. He’s been seeing it. And it’s not until the night before the Spanish GP, when you skip the post dinner team drinks without a word, that he makes a decision. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock and wait. He uses the keycard Zak made everyone take for security reasons, pushes into your suite quietly, and hears it immediately—

Not music. Not the TV. Just the soft rustle of curtains and the distant sound of you trying to breathe quietly. He finds you on the balcony.

Sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, forehead pressed against your arms. Shoulders shaking. The city lights stretching below you while the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks finally pour down your face. You don’t hear him at first.

Until the sliding door opens behind you and a soft voice says, “Hey.”

You flinch. “Lando—shit. I—I didn’t know you—”

You wipe your face furiously, still refusing to look at him.

“You should go,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. Just needed air—”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, stepping onto the balcony. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to joke. Deflect. “You’re not exactly dressed for an emotional breakdown—”

He sits beside you anyway. Cross legged, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Warm and present and so painfully there.

There’s a long silence. And then, softly—

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Lando.”

Your voice cracks. Finally.

“I do everything right. Every call. Every number. Every strategy. We’re winning, and I’m still losing.”

He doesn’t say anything—just waits.

“They’re never going to see me as more than your little sidekick,” you whisper. “Or Max’s sister. Or the girl who ruined the sport. And I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Your hands are trembling in your lap. He watches you struggle for air, for composure, for the strength you’ve worn like armor for months.

“I feel like I’m screaming into a void and smiling while I do it,” you admit. “Because if I stop being the girl who can handle it, then they win, right?”

Lando doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—

“I don’t want you to be the girl who can handle it,” he says quietly. “I want you to be the girl who’s allowed to feel it. Who’s allowed to break down on balconies. Who doesn’t have to carry it all alone.”

You look at him. Finally. And what you see isn’t pity. It’s rage. And hurt. And love—undeniably, plainly, terrifyingly there.

“Do you have any idea how much I admire you?” he asks. “Not just for what you do. But for how you survive in a world that tries so hard to push you out.”

Your eyes fill again.

“But I hate watching you shrink. I hate watching you pretend like the comments don’t get to you when I know they do.”

“I can’t let it show,” you murmur.

“You can,” he says. “With me, you can.”

He takes your hand. It’s not romantic. Not yet. It’s grounding.

“I need you to know something,” he continues, voice low and sure. “None of this—none of what we’ve built this season—works without you. Not the wins. Not the podiums. Not me.”

You press your lips together, fighting another wave of tears.

“But I need you to work too,” he says. “Not just the engineer. You. The person. And she deserves rest. And softness. And someone to sit with her on a balcony when she forgets how incredible she is.”

Your heart aches at how gently he says it. Like you’re made of glass. Like you’re allowed to fall apart.

“I don’t know how to let go,” you whisper. “I’ve been holding it all for so long.”

He squeezes your hand, his voice breaking just slightly. “Then let me help. Please.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder. You let the tears fall without apology. You let someone see you—not just as the brilliant, capable, unshakeable engineer they all expect—but as a person who’s tired and hurting and desperately in need of grace.

And Lando?  He doesn’t move. He stays beside you until the sun starts to rise. And when you finally speak again, voice hoarse but steadier than before, you say—

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

And he replies, without missing a beat. 

“You won’t have to.”

—

Race Day. Mid season. High pressure. Everything on the line. The garage is tight with tension. Dry air. Sharp voices. You can feel it pulsing through your headset like a storm trying to form. Lando’s in P3. The strategy is clean. You’ve run every scenario.

“Stick to Plan B,” you remind him calmly.

“We wait. The softs will come back to us. Hold position, and we pounce after lap 38.”

“Copy,” he says. But you can hear it — the edge in his voice. The hunger. The itch. Lando wants more. Too soon. You hear the switch in his tone by Lap 30. He’s pushing harder. Ignoring lift points. Going aggressive on the straights. And then—he says it.

“Box now. I’m undercutting.”

You sit bolt upright. “No. Lando—no. Tires aren’t ready. The window’s not open yet—”

Too late. He dives in. Pit crew scrambles. The stop is clean. But the re-entry isn’t. Traffic. Cold tires. He rejoins behind a cluster of midfield chaos. Loses time. Loses grip. Loses everything. You stand frozen, eyes on the screen as he drops from P3 to P9 in four laps. The garage is silent.

Your hands are clenched. You barely hear the commentary echoing from the monitors.

“That’s a brutal call from McLaren. Early stop puts Norris behind heavy traffic… was that a misread from the pit wall?”

Your headset is still on when the post-race headlines start posting in real time.

“MCLAREN STRATEGY ERROR COSTS NORRIS BIG FINISH.”

“YN FEWTRELL UNDER FIRE AGAIN AFTER RISKY CALL.”

“Norris’ engineer strikes out — questions rise around her future.”

You don’t even feel your legs as you pull off your headset. Don’t feel Zak’s hand on your shoulder. Don’t hear the apology Lando doesn’t say. You just walk out of the garage.

—

His hotel room. Just the two of you.

“I told you not to pit,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to shake.

Lando looks at you like you’re the one who ruined it.

“I felt the grip dropping—”

“You disobeyed strategy. You disobeyed me.”

Your voice breaks, brittle and sharp. “And they’re blaming me for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” You snap. “I have spent every race protecting you. Protecting this team. Taking the hits so you don’t have to, and you go rogue the second it doesn’t feel perfect?”

“I’m the one in the car!” he fires back. “It’s my instinct—”

“It’s your ego, Lando.”

Silence. The kind that cuts. You look at him, really look at him — and it hits you. Hard. Too hard. You love him. You love him, and it’s eating you alive. And maybe the worst part? He doesn’t even see it. Not through the anger. Not through the noise. You turn toward the door, needing air. Needing anything.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could balance it all — the job, the team, you. But I’m drowning.”

Lando takes a step forward. “YN…”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I need space.”

And this time, you mean it.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,570,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Fewtrell in talks with Red Bull??! Lando’s race engineer was seen meeting with Christian Horner this afternoon. She has faced a lot of criticism and backlash working with Mclaren. Will she stay with them?

—

The room is silent, save for the faint ticking of a sleek analog clock and the soft shuffle of pages as Christian Horner flips through your printed track performance portfolio like he’s browsing specs on a new wind tunnel component. He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. Just let the numbers speak for themselves. You see your call sheets. Tire offset modeling. Degradation analysis. Win probabilities. All the things that made people outside the team mock you — and made people inside the paddock terrified of you.

“This,” Christian finally says, tapping a finger against your Australian GP strategy sheet, “was the best pit call I’ve seen in three years. And I’ve worked with Hannah for over a decade.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He smiles. “We see what you’re doing, YN. Some people only see Lando’s wins. I see who’s putting him in the position to take them.”

Your stomach turns slightly. You should feel proud. Grateful. Validated. But instead, it just makes your chest ache.

He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers. “If you come here, you’ll be given autonomy. No headlines. No internal politics. No fighting for respect. Just results. And trust.”

You nod, slowly, unsure what to say. His voice is steady. His words, deliberate. Everything you thought you wanted—finally offered. And yet, there’s a pit in your stomach that only gets heavier.

The folder with your name on it sits in front of you, untouched. Contract terms. Role title—Head of Race Strategy.

It would be a promotion. A salary jump. A career-defining move.

But all you can think about is a voice in your headset saying “we did it.”

A hand brushing your back on the podium. A boy with a crooked smile and a voice that only ever softened for you.

—

Lando is exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since the race. Since the fight. Since you walked out of his hotel room without a backward glance and took all the air with you.

He’s meant to be reviewing simulator data with the McLaren techs, but his head isn’t there. It hasn’t been for weeks. It’s back in that garage. That balcony. That hotel room. He runs a hand through his curls and turns a corner—And nearly bumps into Max Verstappen.

“Jesus—sorry, mate,” Lando mutters, distracted, already half past him.

Max doesn’t miss a beat.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down, “You might wanna keep your eyes up today.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a dry, amused look. The kind that says I know something you don’t.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Max says, casually taking a sip of his drink. “Horner’s in a meeting right now with your engineer. Could be the last time you call her yours.”

Lando’s whole body stills.

“What?”

Max shrugs. “I mean… she’s good. We all know it. Wouldn’t blame her for jumping ship. You guys made it easy, yeah?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Max is already walking past him, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

“She looked serious, by the way. Folder and everything.”

Lando’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t call Zak. Doesn’t wait for security or clearance or logic. He just runs.

Through the Red Bull corridors. Past the press room. Past engineers and assistants who do double takes as he flies by in his team hoodie, looking like he’s chasing something he should’ve protected weeks ago. And he is. Because this time, he might be too late.

—

The contract still sits unopened in front of you. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Christian is mid-sentence again — something about finalizing negotiations after the summer break — when the door slams open so hard the glass rattles. You jolt in your seat. So does Horner. And then you hear it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You look up and your heart stops. Lando. Flushed. Breathless. Hair a mess. McLaren hoodie halfway unzipped, curls damp with sweat. His eyes are locked on you, not even acknowledging Christian.

You push your chair back, stunned. “Lando—”

He doesn’t wait. He walks straight across the room, past the Red Bull logo, past the executive folders, straight to you.

“Come with me,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second, glancing at Christian. Christian sighs, clearly already over the dramatics. “Take your time.”

You follow Lando into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. The second it closes, he rounds on you.

“Why?” he says, voice sharp with confusion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why would you do this? Why would you just leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Was I that awful to you?” he continues. “After everything—after what we’ve built—do I really make it that easy to walk away?”

“Lando, it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s begging now. And you can’t hold it in anymore. Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. Your hands are trembling.

You swallow hard. “Because I’m in love with you.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “Because I’ve been in love with you and pretending not to be for months. Because the second anyone even suspects we’re close, the hate triples. Because every race I sit beside you and make calls that win championships and people still say it’s all because I want your attention.”

Your voice is shaking now.

“And if I stay—and if this gets out—I know what they’ll say. That I seduced my way into the headset. That I only win because you let me. And I can’t—I can’t survive that, Lando.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Until he speaks. Softly. Carefully. Completely undone.

“You think I care about any of that?”

You shake your head, eyes blurring. “You should.”

“I don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids and I’ve been waiting for you to see it.”

You stop breathing.

“I have let people talk. I’ve watched them rip you apart online, in meetings, in commentary boxes. And you just kept showing up. Not for the glory. Not even for the team. For me. Because you believed in me.”

He’s in front of you now, so close your hands could just—reach.

“So if you’re scared, I’ll take the heat. If they want to come after us, let them. But don’t run away from what we’ve built just because they can’t handle a woman being better than all of them.”

You blink hard, the tears finally falling.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” you whisper.

He reaches for your hand.

“Then stay. Not for McLaren. Not for the team. For me. Stay and let me love you out loud.”

You don’t say anything. You just fall into him. And this time, when he catches you — he doesn’t let go.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,100,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, McLaren is making it very clear that their engineering goddess will not be making the move to Red Bull. 😌

Last night’s Women in Motorsport event, hosted by YN Fewtrell herself, was equal parts groundbreaking, glamorous, and papaya coded power move. McLaren not only doubled down on their support of their youngest ever lead race engineer—they literally built an entire collection around her. Yes, you read that right.

The new McLaren x YN capsule drop—which happens to be co designed by YN, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri—blends garage grit with streetwear genius. 

Oh, and Zak Brown? Sources say he stood off stage during the launch with the expression of a proud dad. One thing’s for sure—McLaren isn’t just protecting YN—they’re elevating her. With the performance she’s delivered this season and the cultural pull she’s building off track, any team who thought they could poach her might want to rethink. 

—

time skip- end of season

Race 24. Sunset. Victory. The pit wall erupts. Headsets fly. Crew leap from their chairs. Someone screams. Someone sobs. Champagne is already spraying even though it hasn’t even been five minutes since the checkered flag waved and everything changed. McLaren are Constructors’ Champions. Lando Norris is a World Champion. And you? You’re frozen. Still seated, staring at the final sector times like they might dissolve if you look away.

It’s done. You did it. You were the voice in his ear all season. Through every win, every late brake, every risky undercut. You built the strategies. You held your nerve. You called the shot that sealed the title. And suddenly—arms are around you.

Oscar’s the first to tackle you, practically dragging you out of your seat. “YOU DID IT! WITH THAT BIG BRAIN,” he yells, voice cracking as he yanks off your headset.

Then Zak’s pulling you into a bear hug, shouting, “You genius, you absolute weapon—you just made history!”

And then there’s chaos. Cameras. Journalists. Engineers hugging. Lando doing donuts on track with the British flag trailing out of his halo. Mechanics crying. Oscar waving his P3 trophy like it’s a lightsaber.

And somewhere in the madness, someone shouts—

“WHERE’S Y/N?! GET HER TO THE PODIUM!”

You’re still breathless when they drag you through the garage. Your McLaren polo is soaked in champagne before you even reach parc fermé. You trip over a cable. Someone shoves a bottle in your hand. You’re laughing and crying and blinking back tears as fans chant your name from the grandstands.

“FEEEEW-TRELL! FEEEEW-TRELL!”

And then you see him. Helmet off. Eyes wild. Hair flattened with sweat. Lando stands on the car, arms in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the team swarms around him. But the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like the world narrows. He jumps off the car and runs. Straight into you.

The impact nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you wrap your arms around him as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, screaming nonsense into your neck. He’s shaking. You’re crying. And neither of you care who’s watching.

“You did it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “We did it. You got me here. You held me together. This championship has your name all over it.”

You want to say something witty. Something cool. But the only thing that escapes is a broken, soft.

“I love you.”

His whole face crumples. Like he’s been holding that in too.

“God, I love you too.”

And he kisses you. Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the grid. In front of the entire fucking world. And instead of boos, instead of backlash, there’s only cheering. Because finally — finally — no one can deny you. You’re not a PR stunt. You’re not just Max Fewtrell’s sister. You’re not Lando Norris’ distraction.

You’re the architect of this championship. And tonight, the world knows it.

You stay on the podium stage for the celebration, champagne in your eyes, Lando’s hand in yours. Oscar flings his trophy in the air. Zak is pretending he isn’t crying. The team is lifting mechanics onto their shoulders. Pit crew are dancing. Someone starts singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key.

And you? You look around at the chaos, the joy, the sheer disbelief that you finally made it here. And for the first time all season— You feel loved. Not just for what you do. But for who you are.

—

lando

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and 11,010,290 others.

lando : FUCK ALL YOU BITCHES THAT DOUBTED MY PRETTY BIG BRAINED GIRLFRIEND. SHE SHOWED YOU AND WON ME A CHAMPIONSHIP

tagged : yn_fewtrell

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[yukkiji]

i js wanted to drop in and say ur writing is some of the best here on haikyuublr right now and u have such a talent <3 loved ur iwa and atsumu fic and greatly loking forward to reading more of ur stuff after writing this. thank u for sharing ur stuff and excited for whatever else u decide to write!!! ALSO i would love to request something longer with suna if thatd be possible,, maybe something where reader's feeling insecure bc its been a while since theyve done anything? when in reality suna's js exhausted from work and accidentally neglected her T-T if u dont wanna do this i dont mind at all anything with sunarin is fine <3 love ur writing againnn

still here, still yours

after weeks of exhaustion and unintended neglect, pro volleyball player suna gently reassures his insecure partner through tender, praise-filled intimacy—reminding her she's always wanted, never forgotten, and deeply loved.

starring. suna rintaro x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, light angst, smut

warning: 18+ mdni., smut, nsfw, praise kink, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, dom!suna, emotional neglect, reassurance, light spanking, shower scene, soft aftercare, verbal praise, body worship, unprotected sex

wc: 11.8k

author's note: long overdue but here it is! i hope you enjoy reading this hehe

it’s subtle at first.

the distance.

not a storm, not a blowout, not even a sharp word. just… a creeping quiet. the kind you don’t notice until you’re already sitting in the dark, wondering when the lights went out.

you chalk it up to exhaustion—the kind that’s expected from a professional athlete grinding through mid-season. rintarou comes home past midnight most nights now, his footsteps dragging, his voice low. the door opens, then closes with a tired sigh. his bag hits the floor, and he exhales like the weight on his shoulders is just too much.

he always greets you. always. a soft, automatic “hey,” murmured against your hair as he walks by. sometimes a kiss on the top of your head if he remembers. sometimes, if he isn’t too far gone, he pulls you against his chest for a minute, just holding you in that quiet, liminal hour between exhaustion and sleep.

but more often lately, he heads straight to the shower. a ten-minute rinse, the door left cracked open so the steam doesn’t fog the glass. when he returns, towel slung low on his hips, he drops into bed beside you with a grunt, kisses your shoulder if he’s awake enough, and passes out before you can even finish whispering, “welcome home.”

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

because technically, nothing’s wrong.

you still laugh at the memes he sends you at 1 a.m. from his side of the bed. you still hear him humming under his breath when he makes you tea in the morning. he still saves your leftovers when he eats out with the team. he still picks up your favorite snacks at the corner store without you asking.

but something’s missing.

something deep.

and you don’t even realize what it is until the third night he doesn’t come home at all.

no warning. no messages until after midnight, just a tired update: [rintaro]: staying at the facility tonight. too tired to drive back. love you.

you believe him. of course you do. you never doubt him. suna may be many things—dry, aloof, chronically low-energy—but he has never lied to you. never once gave you a reason to question his loyalty, his commitment. he’s yours. fully.

and still—you ache.

you lie in bed in one of his old shirts, the fabric stretched soft from years of wear, and your hands wander. you trail your fingers down your ribs, over your hips, part your thighs and slip under your panties.

you try.

you really try.

but your hand doesn’t feel like his.

your fingers don’t curl with the same hunger, don’t slide with the same deliberate slowness that he always used when he wanted to wreck you slowly. they don’t press firm and steady on your clit the way he does, the way that always made your legs shake. they don’t fill you the way he does—long fingers that crook just right, mouth murmuring praise between licks as you unravel under him.

you moan, trying to conjure him. you imagine his voice, low and thick with sleep, telling you what a good girl you are. how sweet you taste. how soft you feel. you remember the way he used to breathe harder when he got close to making you come, like your pleasure turned him inside out.

but it’s not the same.

your own touch feels foreign. lonely. hollow.

and when the heat finally builds and fizzles out, you lie there unsatisfied, eyes burning, chest aching more than your thighs.

not because you’re angry. not because you don’t trust him.

but because you miss him in a way that makes your body ache.

you miss the way he used to need you.

now it feels like he needs rest more than he needs you.

you know he’s tired. you know he’s overworked. you’ve seen the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winces when he peels off his tape, the dark circles deepening under his eyes. you know that every match, every practice, every press event chips away at the energy he has left.

but still—you miss him.

and more than that, you miss feeling wanted.

not just loved. not just adored in the passive, every-day kind of way. but craved. desired. claimed.

you can’t even remember the last time he touched you like that. not out of obligation. not for routine.

but because he couldn’t not.

because his body had to be on yours, had to taste you, had to feel you wrapped around him.

you pull your hand back and curl into yourself, frustrated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. you’re not mad. you’re not suspicious. just…

lonely.

quietly, devastatingly lonely.

and you don’t know how to bring it up without sounding like you’re asking for too much.

without sounding like one more thing he doesn’t have the energy for.

but this quiet?

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

you wipe your hand on the hem of your shirt and breathe in deep—once, then again—trying to convince your body that the tears pooling in your eyes are just from frustration. not sadness. not rejection. just a fleeting ache. something that sleep will solve.

except, sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.

not when the bed feels too cold on one side. not when the sheets still smell like him, and your fingers ache from trying to replace a warmth that only he can give.

so you sit up.

pad into the kitchen. open the fridge. close it. not hungry.

you scroll your phone, rereading old messages from months ago—selfies he used to send from the gym, photos of his legs iced up and flexed after a match, paired with a lazy “you like this, don’t lie” and a smirking emoji. voice memos of him mumbling how much he missed you after a long away game. a grainy video of him shirtless in the locker room, whispering a low “wish you were here” against a backdrop of noisy teammates.

that version of him feels so far away now.

not gone. but buried. like a season passed, and no one told you it wouldn’t come back the same.

you curl into the couch with a blanket over your lap, eyes on the clock.

12:46 a.m.

then 1:22.

then 1:37.

no update.

he’s not home.

again.

you check your phone just to be sure, even though there’s no buzz, no badge.

nothing.

you think about calling. about asking if he’s okay. about whether he ate dinner, or if he remembered to put on the muscle rub that helps with his back. but then you imagine him in the locker room, tired eyes barely open, chin tucked to his chest as he tries to survive the day, and guilt gnaws at your resolve.

you don’t want to be a burden.

but when the door finally creaks open at 2:04 a.m., your body jolts upright before you even realize you’ve moved.

he looks… drained.

dark circles. damp hair. eyes dull like a storm cloud that never opens up. he kicks off his shoes without looking up, his bag thudding against the door.

“hey,” he mumbles, like always.

suna walks toward the couch, still shrugging off the weight of the day, and bends just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. the press of his lips is warm—familiar—but distant, like a habit rather than a want.

"why are you still awake, baby?" he murmurs, voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by exhaustion.

you stare at the muted tv for a beat too long before answering.

“i couldn’t sleep.”

he hums absently, his hand brushing the top of your head in that same distracted way he always does lately. like he means to be comforting but doesn’t linger long enough to make it count. then he turns, already peeling off his hoodie as he makes his way down the hall.

"don’t wait up for me,” he says, voice fading as he walks, “i’ll head to our bedroom after i shower, okay?”

you don’t answer.

because if you do, you’re scared it’ll come out as a sob.

so you just nod, even though he can’t see it, curling in tighter on the couch as you listen to the bathroom door click shut. the sound of running water soon follows—soft at first, then rushing.

you stay where you are.

wrapped in silence. in soft cotton and worn-out longing. your body curled like muscle memory, trying to make yourself small. the blanket's gone cold now, and the cushions beneath you are sunken with the weight of waiting.

you think about getting up. think about brushing your teeth and sliding under the sheets like nothing hurts. think about pretending you didn’t cry earlier, about slipping into bed beside him and offering your back like a silent invitation he probably won’t take.

but you can’t move.

not yet.

because even now—after he’s home, after he kissed your temple, after he said he’d meet you in bed—there’s still a hollow ache in your chest that hasn’t quieted.

you hear the water shut off.

moments later, the door opens. his familiar steps thump softly against the hallway floor.

you expect him to go straight to the bedroom like always.

but instead—

“…babe?”

his voice comes from behind you, confused. not panicked. but uncertain.

you blink slowly, still curled up on the couch, and turn your head just enough to see him standing there, fresh from the shower.

hair damp, sticking in dark strands across his forehead. a towel slung loosely around his hips, clinging low on his hips. water still glistening down his chest—broad, lean, the kind of frame built from quiet discipline and relentless training. his hand clutches a shirt he probably meant to put on in the bedroom.

but he never made it that far.

because you’re still not there.

and he notices.

“…why’re you still out here?” he asks quietly, his brows drawing together.

you don’t answer at first.

you just look up at him.

and that’s when he really sees you.

the tired set of your shoulders. the way your lips are pressed together like they’re holding back a flood. the way your eyes glint—not from the tv light, but from the tears you refuse to shed a second time tonight.

his expression falters.

he drops the shirt in his hand, chest still rising and falling slowly from the heat of the shower—and maybe now, from something else.

he crosses to you without a word, crouches beside the couch, and touches your knee with gentle fingers.

“talk to me,” he says, softly. genuinely. “please.”

and that’s when your voice cracks.

“did i do something wrong?”

you don’t mean for it to come out like that.

small. fragile. broken around the edges.

but there it is—bare and trembling in the air between you.

“did i do something wrong?”

suna’s breath stutters, his hand tightening just slightly on your knee. not out of anger. out of heartbreak. it’s written all over his face now—the pieces finally clicking into place, sharp and clear and cutting.

“no,” he breathes. “no, baby, you didn’t.”

you look away, ashamed, eyes blinking hard as your throat constricts. but he doesn’t let you pull away—not even in silence. he gently climbs onto the couch beside you, still shirtless, still warm from the shower, and wraps an arm around your shoulders like he’s trying to shield you from the weight you’ve been carrying alone.

“i just…” your voice trembles. “you haven’t touched me in weeks. you don’t look at me the way you used to. you barely come home anymore. i thought maybe—maybe i wasn’t enough for you anymore.”

“hey—hey.” he pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, to make you look at him. “don’t say that. don’t even think that.”

you try to hold it together, but your bottom lip quivers.

“i trust you, rin. i do. i never thought you were cheating, or that there was someone else, i just… i miss how it used to be. i miss how you used to be with me. i miss you.”

he lets out a quiet sound, like it physically hurts to hear.

and then his forehead is pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face with aching care.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers. “you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re still everything i want. everything i need. you always have been.”

“then why…?” your eyes flicker shut, voice barely a breath. “why did it start to feel like i wasn’t?”

“i got caught up,” he admits, voice hoarse. “with the team, and travel, and press—and i kept telling myself i’d make it up to you after the season, or the week after, or the next time i had energy. but all that time, i didn’t notice i was slowly… fading out of us. and i didn’t realize how far i’d drifted until i looked up tonight and you weren’t in bed. you were still out here, waiting.”

“i wasn’t waiting,” you say, barely.

he nods. “i know. i mean—i know you were done waiting. i should’ve come home to you weeks ago. i should’ve noticed that i was holding you at arm’s length when i should’ve been holding you close.”

he pauses, then says quietly:

“you never stopped being enough. i just stopped showing you that i saw it. that i saw you. and that’s on me.”

you blink again, this time letting the tears fall.

“rin…”

he wipes them with his thumbs, leaning in to kiss your cheeks—once, twice—then your nose, then your forehead.

“i love you,” he murmurs. “i love you so fucking much. and i’m sorry for making you feel anything less than wanted. i hate that you thought you had to question how much i still want you.”

your voice comes out cracked. “it’s been hard.”

“i know.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and slow. “let me make it easier again.”

you hesitate. “i don’t want you to do it just because you feel bad.”

“i’m doing it because i miss you,” he says, firmer now. “because i’ve been starving for you and too fucking tired to reach out. but i’m reaching now. if you’ll let me.”

you nod slowly, and he presses his lips to yours fully this time—gentle at first, then deeper, like he’s pouring every apology and longing into the kiss. like he’s been aching too. like he finally remembered how to hold you.

he kisses you like he’s starved for it—like he’s been standing in the doorway of himself for weeks, unable to find the key, and tonight you finally let him in.

his hand slides up your thigh, warm and steady, until his fingers dip just beneath the edge of your shorts. his knuckles brush your inner thigh, and you shiver, gasping softly into his mouth. the heat that floods your body is instant—dizzying—and he groans as you squirm in response, like your reaction only feeds him.

“come here,” he murmurs, already tugging your hips toward him until you're lying flat on the couch cushions, head tilted back against the armrest.

he drops to his knees between your legs, and the moment he looks up at you—wet hair falling over his eyes, mouth already parted like he’s hungry—your breath catches in your throat.

“you okay?” he asks, softer now.

you nod, eyes half-lidded.

“i just… i missed you,” you whisper. “so much.”

his jaw clenches.

“i know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “i’m gonna make it up to you, baby. just lay back. let me take care of you.”

you lift your hips obediently when he starts to tug your shorts down—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. he kisses your inner thigh first, just barely grazing his lips over the sensitive skin, then drags his mouth higher.

when he sees how wet you are—already slick, glistening under the dim light—he pauses.

his eyes flick up to yours, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“i touched myself earlier,” you admit, cheeks burning. “it didn’t feel the same. i—i needed you.”

his jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

still kneeling between your thighs, his gaze drags down slowly—over your flushed cheeks, your heaving chest, the soaked curve of your panties stretched tight against your pussy. and he just stares.

his voice drops, low and edged with heat. “you know i hate it when you touch yourself, baby.”

you shiver.

“but…” he leans in, nuzzles your inner thigh, his lips brushing hot against your skin, “…i wasn’t there for you, huh?”

you nod faintly, biting your lip. “i tried. it just… didn’t work.”

he hums against your skin, one hand trailing up your thigh, splaying wide over your hip. “because this pussy doesn’t open for anyone but me.”

your breath catches in your throat.

then—he hooks his fingers into your panties and drags them down excruciatingly slow, eyes locked on your glistening cunt. you swear you feel his breath hitch when he sees how wet you are.

“fuck,” he breathes, like it punches the air out of him. “you’re soaked.”

he leans in without hesitation, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and moans.

loudly.

like the taste of you alone nearly makes him lose it.

“missed this,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “missed you.”

then he dives in.

his mouth seals over your clit like he’s starved—tongue warm and wet, flicking in tight, steady circles that make your thighs twitch. you gasp, back arching, and he groans again, like your reaction turns him on more than anything.

his tongue flattens and licks broad and slow, then tightens again to flick quick patterns over your clit. when you whimper, he slides his hands up, pressing your hips down with his forearms to keep you in place, to stop you from squirming away.

“you don’t get to run,” he says against you, voice muffled. “you wanted this—missed this. let me give it to you.”

and god, he gives.

he moves like he’s memorized every sound you make, every tremble, every part of you that begs to be touched. his tongue works your clit in perfect rhythm—slow, steady, precise. he moans every time you gasp his name. and when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, gripping, he growls into your cunt like he wants to drown in it.

“rinnie—” you gasp.

that name. that soft little plea.

it makes something snap in him.

he pulls back for a second, lips slick, panting, and stares at your ruined expression.

“say it again.”

“rinnie,” you whisper, voice shaking.

his mouth crashes back to your clit and he slides two fingers into you with practiced ease. they stretch you open—deep, slow, curling perfectly against your sweet spot.

you cry out, body arching. “oh my—rin—!”

he starts fucking you with his fingers—deep and unrelenting. his pace is slow, but brutal, curling on every thrust. paired with his tongue flicking your clit again, your whole body starts to tremble.

you’re drenched. you hear it. every wet drag of his fingers, every slick suck of his lips over your clit.

“so fucking tight,” he rasps against you. “this pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

“y-yes—!”

“this is mine,” he growls. “say it.”

“yours! it’s yours—rinnie, please—!”

his fingers speed up.

his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking harder now—his tongue flicking faster, relentless. the combination builds fast—pressure curling, tightening, cresting under your skin like a wave you can’t stop.

“i wanna feel you cum, baby,” he pants against your pussy. “you gonna let me taste it?”

you’re too far gone to speak.

so you moan, and moan, hips bucking, thighs trembling.

and then—

you fall apart.

your orgasm rips through you—sharp and hot and overwhelming—your walls fluttering around his fingers, your cries echoing in the room.

suna moans into your release, drinks it down like it’s holy. he doesn’t stop. not until your body jerks from oversensitivity, and your hand pulls weakly at his hair.

then, slowly, he eases his fingers out and kisses your inner thigh like he’s thanking you.

you’re a mess—panting, legs trembling, chest heaving with every shaky breath. your skin is flushed with heat, overstimulated and glowing, and slick glistens between your thighs, dripping onto the couch cushions beneath you.

and him—suna—he’s still kneeling there, shirtless, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly, his chest kissed with droplets from his earlier shower. the towel around his waist has loosened just slightly, dangerously low on his hips, and his cock strains against the fabric, hard and heavy.

his chin glistens with your release, his lips swollen and pink. his eyes—dark, glassy, starving—drink you in like he’s imprinting every ruined inch of you into his memory.

and then—

he raises his hand.

two fingers glistening with your cum. slick and shining in the low light.

and without breaking eye contact—

suna brings those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

slow. leisurely. obscene.

his lips wrap around them and he moans low in his throat, tongue dragging up to savor every last drop of you.

your breath catches hard in your throat.

you feel it.

another gush of heat between your legs—like your body’s responding all over again, already throbbing with fresh want.

he notices.

the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and lazy, but his eyes are still hazy with need. still dark.

“you’re wet again,” he says quietly, fingers slipping from his mouth with a soft pop. his voice is low—dangerous—but wrapped in velvet. “that turn you on, baby?”

you can’t even deny it. not when your thighs press together involuntarily, chasing the friction. not when your skin burns under his gaze like he’s touching you with his eyes alone.

your voice comes out breathy. “rinnie…”

and that name—that sweet, submissive lilt—makes his towel tent even more.

he growls, climbing up onto the couch, crowding over your body.

“you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your mouth, kissing you again. “and you’re gonna let me fuck you now, yeah?”

your breath hitches.

he presses his forehead to yours, thumb caressing your cheek.

“let me make love to you slow, baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked with reverence. “let me remind you what it means to be mine.”

you barely nod before his arms are sliding beneath your back and thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the couch. the shift makes you gasp, but he holds you close, your bare chest pressed to his while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. the towel is bunched between you now, loose and useless, your slick center brushing against the rigid outline of his cock.

you can feel him—hot, thick, already throbbing.

suna walks with slow, steady steps toward the bedroom, eyes fixed on you. he nudges the door open with his foot, never once faltering in his hold. the hallway light hits just enough to cast the sharp lines of his jaw and the soft gleam in his eyes.

you’re both half-undressed, your body flushed and still twitching from your orgasm, but your need spikes again just from feeling him so close—so hard. you grind against him instinctively, rolling your hips forward to chase the friction.

he hisses under his breath, arms tightening around you.

then—smack.

his hand lands firm and hot against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt.

“behave,” he mutters, voice dark now. his lips graze your ear, and you can feel the warning in his breath. “you wanna cum again tonight, don’t you?”

you bite your lip, nodding wordlessly.

“then wait,” he says, his palm smoothing over the sting he just left. “be good for me. i’ll give you everything. just let me get you to bed.”

you whimper, the heat between your legs pulsing at the way he speaks to you—firm but reverent, like you’re something precious and his.

on the way to the bedroom, his hoodie and your bra are discarded along the hall—rushed, messy, fevered. the moment you reach the bed, he lays you down gently, almost worshipfully, like you’re breakable and holy all at once.

he looks down at you.

bare. breathless. glowing.

and he lets the towel drop.

it pools at his feet, but your gaze doesn’t follow it. your eyes are locked on the heavy line of his cock—hard, flushed, thick, the tip glistening with arousal. he’s already leaking, already twitching as if your soaked body alone is enough to ruin him.

your thighs instinctively fall open, legs parting like muscle memory, inviting him in. suna watches the motion with a soft inhale, his eyes hungry, dark with something primal.

“look at you,” he murmurs, climbing over you slowly, like he’s savoring the view of your bare body spread out just for him. “dripping for me already.”

he leans down, kissing your collarbone first—slow, open-mouthed—then drags his lips across your skin until he reaches your mouth. and when he kisses you again, it’s warm and deep and wet, the kind of kiss that swallows everything.

he kisses you like he’s been dying of thirst and you’re the only thing that could ever quench it.

his hips dip lower, cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in your slick. he moans softly into your mouth when he feels how ready you are—how wet and swollen and clenching at nothing.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough, hips rocking gently to tease your clit with the thick, aching head of his cock. “your pussy’s begging, baby.”

you whimper into his kiss, hips rising to meet his.

then—finally—he pushes in.

the tip eases past your entrance, stretching you open so slowly it makes your eyes roll back. he doesn’t rush it. he keeps kissing you, swallowing your shaky moans as he fills you inch by inch. his tongue slips into your mouth with the same lazy intensity, syncing perfectly with the slow, deliberate slide of his cock.

“fuck,” he hisses against your lips. “so tight. so warm. still the best thing i’ve ever felt.”

you break the kiss with a gasp, head tilting back into the pillow. he follows, mouthing down your throat, your jaw, the edge of your lips. you’re trying to breathe, trying to think, but he’s barely halfway in and your body already feels like it’s burning alive.

your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in when his hips roll forward again, pushing deeper.

“r-rinnie,” you moan, voice breaking into a whisper. “it’s so much…”

he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper.

“i know, baby. you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs against your mouth. “just like that. let me in. let me fill you up.”

his hand cups your thigh, spreading you wider. his pace never quickens—never—he sinks in slow, thick inch by thick inch, kissing you through the stretch, through the way your body tightens around him like you’ve been waiting to be whole again.

you whine against his lips, body arching, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and sweetness of it all.

when his hips finally press flush against yours, he doesn’t move.

he just holds himself there—buried to the hilt, twitching inside you—his lips brushing yours with a reverent sigh.

“there,” he whispers. “finally.”

you nod, dazed, barely able to speak.

“you feel me, baby?” he murmurs. “deep inside you, where i belong?”

“yes—rinnie, i feel you, i feel everything—”

he kisses you again, swallowing the way your voice trembles, and he doesn’t pull out yet. instead, he rocks his hips gently, barely moving—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the thickness, the stretch.

“gonna take my time,” he promises, voice thick with emotion. “gonna love you so good you’ll forget all the nights i wasn’t here.”

your hands cup his face now, lips brushing his as your eyes flutter closed.

“just don’t stop,” you whisper. “don’t leave me empty anymore.”

his expression softens like he’s about to break.

“i won’t,” he says. “never again.”

and then—he pulls out just an inch, then slides back in, kissing you harder now.

and finally, finally, suna starts to move.

his hips roll into you with a lazy, deliberate rhythm—each thrust slow, smooth, like he’s memorizing the way your walls flutter around him. there’s no urgency, no rush. just the deep, steady grind of his cock inside you and the weight of his body pressed so perfectly into yours.

his lips never stray far from your skin. he peppers soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, then down to your shoulder, lingering at the dip of your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself there. every kiss is slow, reverent—matched to the way he moves inside you, the way he fills you with every deep, perfect stroke.

“feels so good,” he whispers against your skin. “so warm. so tight. you always take me so well.”

you gasp softly, fingers threading through his hair as you tilt your head, giving him more of your throat. he takes it, mouthing gently at your pulse point, his breath hot and ragged.

“missed this. missed you.”

he thrusts again—deep, slow, the kind of pace that makes your toes curl and your breath catch.

“i never got tired of you,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady. “not once. never stopped wanting you, baby.”

you whimper his name—“rinnie”—and his hips stutter, just slightly.

his hand slides down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he rocks into you again, a little deeper this time. your body stretches around him perfectly, molding to every slow, grinding thrust like he was made for you.

“not your body,” he continues, kissing below your ear, “not your voice, not the way you look at me when you’re falling apart.”

his words settle deep, like warm honey sinking into cracked skin.

“fuck, i missed this sweet little pussy,” he groans into your shoulder, voice husky. “i’ve been so out of it i forgot how fucking good it feels to be home.”

you choke on a moan, clinging to him tighter as your hips roll up to meet his—chasing his rhythm, desperate to be even closer.

“rinnie—please, don’t stop.”

“not going anywhere,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth again. “you hear me? i’m not gonna stop. not until you believe how much i still love you.”

his thrusts stay deep, measured—his cock dragging perfectly along your walls, kissing that sweet spot inside you with every roll of his hips. you feel so full, so cherished, your body buzzing under the slow build of heat.

and all the while, he never stops touching you, kissing you, talking to you.

“you’re everything to me.”

“you’re the best thing i’ve ever come home to.”

“i’m sorry it took me so long to show it.”

your heart squeezes painfully, eyes brimming with tears as you breathe out his name again.

and he kisses the corner of your mouth, whispering against your lips:

“let me stay here. let me love you right this time.”

the words linger in the air, wrapped in the heat of your skin and the tremble of your breath. your legs are still wrapped loosely around his waist, your arms clinging around his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again if you let go. but he doesn’t. suna stays right there—inside you, above you, around you—thrusting slow and deep, like he’s in no hurry to reach the end.

his palm smooths along the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as he presses another kiss to your lips—soft, warm, home.

it’s quiet for a beat.

just your bodies moving together.

your soft moans swallowed between kisses.

the slick sound of him sliding in and out of you.

the weight of weeks of longing melting between the sheets.

but the ache is growing—coiling low in your belly. the slow rhythm is beautiful, addicting—but it’s not enough anymore. not with how full you feel. not with how much you need him.

your voice is barely more than a whimper.

“rin… faster, please.”

he freezes, eyes flicking down to meet yours.

and just like that—his expression shifts.

from tender to something darker. more possessive.

his lips curl into a quiet, knowing smirk. “could’ve just asked, baby.”

then his hands slide down—gripping the backs of your thighs as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion.

the mating press.

his favorite.

because this is the position where he feels the most connected to you—where he can press every inch of himself into you, watch the way your face contorts with every thrust, feel your pussy tighten around him with nowhere to run.

where he can fuck you deep enough to hit your soul.

“you know i love you like this,” he grits out, adjusting his hips until the angle is perfect, until he’s buried even deeper.

you cry out at the stretch, the sudden change, your hands clutching at the sheets.

and then he starts to move.

harder. deeper.

his hips snap into yours, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. every stroke punches a moan out of you, your legs trembling where they’re pinned against his chest. he doesn’t let up—he won’t.

then—he leans down, shifting his weight so your thighs are still pressed high but his chest meets yours again. his mouth finds your breast, warm and wet as he wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks.

your head falls back with a moan. “rinnie—!”

he groans around your skin, tongue swirling slowly, then fast, then pulling off with a soft pop before switching to the other.

“can’t get enough of you,” he pants, voice muffled against your chest. “wanna be close. wanna be inside you when you cum.”

your nails dig into his back as he fucks you deeper, faster, rougher—his mouth latching onto your nipple again like he’s drinking from you, like it grounds him.

“rin, i’m—! i’m gonna—!”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice cracked with the effort of restraint, his hips stuttering just slightly from the way your walls are already fluttering around him. “cum for me. milk my cock. show me how good i make you feel.”

and then he shifts—just barely—but enough to slip one hand down from your thigh and press it between your bodies. the way he moves, the way he always knows exactly what you need, even now with his cock buried deep inside you, makes your heart swell.

his fingers find your clit instantly, already slick and swollen from how thoroughly he’s worked you up.

and then—he touches you.

a single, perfect swipe.

your back arches, a cry tearing from your throat before you can even bite it back.

“rinnie—!”

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, low and reverent, eyes flickering from your trembling body to your face as his thumb begins to rub slow, tight circles over your clit. “i always do.”

his thrusts stay deep and unrelenting, grinding into your cervix with each push as your thighs shake around his waist, pinned wide in his favorite position. the mating press makes you feel so full, so claimed, so his. and with his fingers teasing your clit—just right, just perfect—it’s too much.

you sob beneath him, pleasure threatening to snap loose like a wire pulled too tight.

every thrust hits your sweet spot dead-on, his cock dragging against every oversensitive nerve, while his thumb massages slow circles that have your vision going blurry, breath leaving your lungs in shuddering gasps.

“you gonna cum, pretty girl?” he pants, lips grazing your jaw. “gonna cum all over my cock while i’m this deep inside you?”

you nod frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it feels.

“yes—yes, rinnie, i—oh my god, i’m gonna—”

“then fuckin’ let go.”

he leans in close, pressing his mouth to yours, and the second you moan into the kiss—your entire body breaks.

your orgasm hits like lightning—hard and hot, making your thighs twitch violently and your core clamp down around him in pulsing waves. your back lifts off the bed, body arching against his as you cry out his name over and over again, voice raw and ruined.

“fuck, yes—cum on my cock, just like that,” he growls, watching your face, eyes nearly wild as he feels you squeeze and throb around him. “god, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. so perfect. this pussy was made for me.”

you can’t even speak—only sob, gasping as his cock continues to grind deep, his thumb slowing its circles now as your orgasm washes through you in long, drawn-out tremors.

your body collapses against the bed, boneless and overwhelmed, every nerve ending still buzzing.

but he’s still hard. still inside you.

and still fighting his own edge.

suna groans above you, his pace beginning to falter, a different kind of urgency taking over his movements now. his hand leaves your clit to grip your thigh again, pushing your legs even higher, even tighter to your chest.

“so fuckin’ tight when you cum,” he growls, hips snapping harder now, chasing his own release. “can’t hold it anymore—gonna fill you up, baby—gonna cum so deep inside this pretty pussy—”

his breathing shudders as your walls continue fluttering around him, your body still wrung out and gripping him like you never want to let go.

you manage to lift your arms, wrap them around his back, anchoring him to you.

“please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “cum inside me, rinnie. want it so bad.”

that’s all it takes.

he plunges deep one last time—so deep it punches the air out of your lungs—and cums.

he moans your name as he spills into you, thick ropes of heat flooding your cunt, his cock twitching inside you with every wave of pleasure. his face buries into your neck, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other curled into the sheets beside your head as he rides out his orgasm in long, slow pulses.

you feel it. every drop. every throb.

and it only makes you hold him tighter.

he stays like that for a moment—breathing hard against your skin, chest rising and falling with yours, cock still buried deep, not ready to let go just yet.

“i needed that,” he breathes finally. “i needed you.”

you nod, lips brushing his temple, still trembling beneath him from the high. your heart pounds against your ribs, the slow stretch of afterglow sweeping over your limbs, but beneath it all—you're still pulsing. still needy. still not ready to let go.

and neither is he.

suna’s still inside you, his cock softening slightly from his orgasm, but the way your body stays wrapped around him—warm and wet and clenching gently with each little aftershock—has him breathing unevenly against your shoulder again.

his voice is rough, thick with the hint of a groan. “you’re gonna get me hard again if you keep squeezing me like that.”

you smile softly, tilting his chin up until your eyes meet.

“then let me take care of you now.”

he blinks, eyes fluttering, a little caught off-guard by the shift in your tone—no longer pleading or aching, but devoted. steady.

still straddling his waist in the mating press, you slowly slide off of him—every inch leaving you makes you both moan softly, the sensation almost too much, too bare. your thighs tremble as his cock slips free with a wet sound, followed immediately by the warm, slick spill of both your releases—his cum and yours—dripping from your swollen folds down onto his lower abdomen.

it’s messy. sticky. intimate in the way only lovers who’ve been through everything can be.

you try to move, try to shift off him gently, but suna catches the motion. his eyes drop immediately between your legs and he groans—deep and low in his throat, like he’s trying to keep it in but fails.

your mixed slick is coating your thighs, still trickling slowly down onto his stomach, and the sight wrecks him.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening again. “look at the mess we made…”

you don’t even get the chance to respond—not when you feel it.

him.

hardening again beneath you.

you glance down, eyes wide, as his cock, flushed and glistening, twitches back to life against his stomach. he’s already half-hard again, his breathing uneven just from the sight of you still soaked, your folds glistening and dripping with his cum.

“rinnie…” you murmur, somewhere between breathless and shy, “again?”

“i can’t help it,” he groans, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back. “you’re still dripping, baby. fuck, i didn’t even get to watch it all spill out properly…”

you tremble, heat spiraling through your core again despite the exhaustion in your limbs.

“you do something to me,” he murmurs, sitting up so you’re straddling his lap again, chests flush. his cock presses right against your slit now, nudging between your folds, still slick with everything. “you make me insatiable.”

he leans in, kissing you—slow and greedy—his fingers sliding down to spread you open again, groaning into your mouth when he feels how soft and wet you still are.

“and you’re still ready for me,” he adds, voice rough. “still warm. still fucking perfect.”

you whimper into the kiss, rocking your hips against him again, helpless to the way your body responds.

your pussy’s still sore, stretched, and yet—his need for you, the heat of his voice, the mess between your thighs—has you wanting him again already.

“you think you can ride me now, sweetheart?” he murmurs, thumb grazing your clit with a featherlight touch. “wanna see you take me like you missed me.”

and you nod, breathless, already sinking back down—ready to remind him that no matter how many times he fills you, no matter how much he takes, you’ll always want more.

always want him.

your body aches, your thighs tremble, and your pussy’s still throbbing from everything he’s already given you—but none of that matters. not when he’s looking up at you like this. not when his touch is soft on your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself in your warmth.

suna leans back slightly against the pillows, legs spread, his toned chest rising and falling with each breath as he watches you from beneath heavy lids. his cock stands hard again, already flushed and leaking, the head slick from your shared release earlier.

“come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with need. one of his hands slides down between you, wrapping around the base of his cock as he guides you toward it. “i’ll hold it. just take your time.”

you shift your hips, positioning yourself over him, your hands braced against his chest. slowly, carefully, you lower yourself down—letting the thick, aching head stretch you open once more.

both of you groan.

the feeling of him sinking into you again—after already being fucked so thoroughly—makes your head spin. he’s hot, thick, deep, and every inch feels like too much and still not enough.

“that’s it,” he pants, watching your face, his grip tightening around the base as you inch down farther. “take all of me. let me stretch you out again.”

you moan, breath hitching as your body accepts him—slowly, completely—until your hips finally meet his. you’re seated fully now, and you can feel everything. the stretch. the twitch. the fullness that has your pussy fluttering helplessly around him.

“fuck, you feel unreal,” he groans, both hands now gripping your waist. “look at you—already squeezing me like that.”

you begin to move—shallow bounces at first, your thighs trembling slightly with each rise and fall. his hands guide you, steady you, and soon your movements grow bolder—more confident—grinding down against his pelvis with every bounce.

the sound of slick skin meeting skin fills the room again, the wet heat of your cunt wrapping him so tightly that suna’s jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opens them again—locked on you.

“come here,” he growls, sitting up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer until your chest is pressed to his.

and then—his mouth finds your breast.

he sucks in your nipple hungrily, moaning around the soft skin as he tongues it, teeth grazing lightly before he switches to the other with a wet pop. his hands never stop guiding your hips, helping you ride him in rhythm, pushing you down harder each time he thrusts up into you.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your hands tangled in his hair as you arch into his mouth, pleasure building again too fast. “that feels so good…”

“yeah?” he breathes between kisses and licks, lips shining. “these pretty tits missed me too, huh?”

he lavishes each nipple with attention—sucking, licking, pulling with just enough force to make your back arch and your pussy clamp down around him.

your rhythm grows messy, your moans louder, the coil in your belly winding tighter again as he thrusts up to meet every bounce of your hips, his cock dragging along all the right places inside you.

“don’t stop, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you now with more urgency. “wanna feel you cum again—ride me just like that—show me how much you missed this cock.”

and you do.

you ride him like your body was made to fit his. like his cock was crafted just for you—thick and deep and angled so perfectly that every bounce forces the air from your lungs and sends shocks of pleasure through your spine.

every time you drop your hips, he thrusts up to meet you, and the head of his cock kisses your cervix with an aching precision that leaves you trembling. it’s deep. devastating. the kind of depth that makes your vision blur and your breath come in stuttered moans.

“rinnie—fuck—it’s so deep,” you gasp, head falling to his shoulder. “i-i feel lightheaded…”

“i know, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and full of praise, his hands gripping your hips tighter, helping guide your rhythm. “you’re taking it so well. so fuckin’ good for me.”

his mouth finds your neck again, pressing kisses beneath your jaw, tongue flicking against the heat of your pulse point. one of his hands slides up, fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you steady as he bucks up harder, faster, the sound of your bodies meeting growing louder, wetter, messier.

your thighs burn. your clit rubs against the ridge of his pelvis with every movement. and your pussy—slick, swollen, fluttering—clings to him so desperately you swear you can feel the outline of every vein.

weeks. it’s been weeks.

weeks of aching. of waiting. of touching yourself in the quiet of night and hating how empty it felt.

but this?

this is everything.

his heat. his hands. the way he fills you up and stays there, panting against your skin like he needs you just as badly.

“missed this pussy,” he groans, voice cracking as your walls squeeze around him again. “so tight. so warm. no one gets to have you like this—just me.”

your thighs quake where they straddle him, your nails leaving crescent-shaped dents in his chest as your movements begin to falter. the rhythm you kept moments ago—desperate, steady, purposeful—is now stuttering into something sloppy and slow, hips barely rolling, your muscles too spent to keep up.

your head dips forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your mouth falls open in a soft, breathless moan.

that’s when he notices.

the way your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers.

the way your body trembles like it’s overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

and suna grins.

a slow, knowing smirk curls against his lips as he looks up at you, the flush on your cheeks, the faraway haze in your eyes. his hands slide down, gripping your hips tighter, keeping you perched on his cock like a doll about to fall apart.

“ohhh,” he murmurs, voice deep, lazy, almost playful. “is my baby going cock dumb?”

you whimper, too dazed to even respond properly, only nodding against his neck as your pussy flutters around him again—wet, sensitive, clinging to every inch of him like your body can’t bear the thought of him pulling out.

“yeah?” he coos, a note of pride in his tone. “that’s what i thought.”

he doesn’t wait. he shifts beneath you, adjusting his position just slightly, and then—he starts to fuck up into you from below.

you sob, your fingers flying to clutch his shoulders as his cock punches into you over and over again, so deep, the tip brushing your cervix with every sharp thrust. the slick mess between your thighs makes the glide obscene—wet, hot, perfect.

“you were riding me so good, baby,” he pants, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “now look at you. barely holding on. just sittin’ on my cock like a dumb little bunny, letting me do all the work.”

his hands move to your ass, gripping tight, guiding your hips to grind down in rhythm with his thrusts. your clit rubs against his pubic bone just right—enough to make your entire body twitch.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your jaw. “so deep. so full. this what you missed while i was gone, huh?”

“y-yes, rin—please, it’s so much—”

“you can take it,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “you always do.”

then his mouth finds your nipple again—wet, hungry, greedy—sucking hard as he fucks you harder. his tongue flicks over the sensitive peak while one hand slips between your bodies again to rub tight, deliberate circles over your clit.

the stimulation is blinding.

his cock fucking up into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into your body.

his mouth at your chest.

his voice whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

his fingers never stopping.

“cum for me again, baby,” he grits, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper. “wanna feel that pretty pussy gush all over me again. i need to feel it.”

your back arches. your thighs start to shake again. and your orgasm builds fast—white-hot and overwhelming, swelling inside you like pressure about to burst.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your entire body going taut. “i—i’m cumming—!”

and then it hits.

your walls clench hard—tightening around him like a vice, squeezing his cock so perfectly it draws a strangled moan from deep in his chest. your climax rips through you like a tidal wave, crashing fast and furious, leaving you breathless as your moans dissolve into shattered whimpers. your entire body trembles in his lap, thighs quaking, nails digging into his shoulders as your release gushes from you uncontrollably. it hits hard—sharp, hot, overwhelming—and then your body reacts.

you squirt.

the pressure releases all at once, sudden and messy, and your slick spills out of you in wet pulses. it covers both your thighs and his abs, drenching his lower stomach, soaking his cock, the bed beneath you already ruined. you gasp, head thrown back, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pleasure peaks and doesn’t let go.

“fuck,” suna groans, watching it happen with parted lips, jaw slack. “you squirted, baby—fuck, look at that. look what i do to you.”

you can’t even answer. you’re still shaking, barely able to hold yourself upright, your thighs limp where they straddle his lap. you feel like you’ve melted, like you’ve unraveled entirely. and still—still—he’s hard inside you. still thick, still pulsing, twitching against your oversensitive walls. he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even think about stopping.

instead, he grips your hips tight, lifts you slightly, and drives up into you again.

your cry is sharp and wrecked, fingernails dragging down his back as your overstimulated cunt clamps around him again, your whole body jerking from the intensity.

“s–suna—rinnie—please, i—” you gasp, but the words fall apart when he thrusts again, deep, slow, and deliberate.

“oh, you’re not done,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and feral. “you think you can cum like that and not get fucked through it?”

you try to speak again, try to find something to cling to, but then he rolls his hips up—his cock dragging against every too-sensitive nerve ending inside you—and your hands fly to his shoulders, digging in hard. your nails scratch down his back in helpless, shaky arcs, and he groans, head falling to your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“mark me, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you harder now. “go ahead. scratch me. bite me. let me feel how good it is.”

you do. without even thinking, you sink your teeth into the skin of his shoulder, muffling your moan as another wave of pleasure slams into you. he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking up in response, his cock pressing even deeper—filling you in a way that has your body arching, your head spinning.

“you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, the sound of your soaked pussy squelching around him with every thrust. “this pussy’s so messy for me. so fuckin’ perfect. you like it when i fuck you after you cum, huh? when you’re too sensitive and still can’t stop squeezing me?”

you nod against his shoulder, still biting down, your moans breaking through your clenched jaw as he picks up the pace. he’s relentless now, hands holding your hips in place as he uses you—drives up into you with hard, deep thrusts that have your breath catching, your entire body lit up from the overstimulation.

each drag of his cock makes you twitch. each grind of his hips against yours sends another electric shock through your system.

you’re sobbing now—too much, too full, too fucked out—and he’s still praising you through it.

“take it, baby,” he breathes. “take all of it. you’re doing so good. let me fuck you dumb. let me make you forget your own name.”

your pussy flutters again, clenching down on him like a vice, and he groans so loud it vibrates through your chest. his rhythm stutters, hips bucking more erratically now, breath catching.

“gonna fill you up again,” he growls, voice wrecked. “wanna cum so deep, make you feel me for days.”

you nod again, eyes rolling back, body giving in completely.

“please,” you whisper. “please, rinnie, cum inside me. want all of it.”

that’s what does it.

he lets out a low, broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts deep, deeper, then stills—his cock twitching violently as he spills inside you. thick warmth fills you again, flooding your sore, stretched walls as he holds you tight, arms trembling around your waist, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

he stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing, groaning softly as you twitch around him—still trembling, still so full, your walls fluttering weakly with every aftershock. his cum leaks out in slow, warm trails, dripping down between your thighs and smearing across both your bodies in the tangled mess you’ve made together.

but even after everything—after you squirted all over his abs, after he came deep inside you for the second time, after your entire body is limp and trembling in his arms—you feel it.

him.

still hard.

still inside you.

and when you whimper, shifting just a little on his lap, the slight movement makes his cock twitch again, still thick and rigid despite how thoroughly he just came. your head lolls against his shoulder, dazed and barely able to think straight.

“rin… you’re still… hard?”

he chuckles low in your ear, the sound deep and smug, his hands stroking slowly down your back.

“told you i missed you,” he murmurs, voice rasping with the weight of his lust. “i’m not done.”

you don’t even have the strength to respond—not with words. but your pussy clenches weakly around him, your thighs twitching, and that’s answer enough.

he shifts you gently, guiding your hips again, and groans when the motion makes your swollen, used cunt squeeze down on him with resistance. you’re sore, so sore, but the sensation of still being stretched open around him, of still feeling his cock twitching inside you, has heat building in your gut again.

“i’ve been away too long,” he mutters, lifting you slightly before thrusting back in—slow and deep, making you moan softly against his skin. “weeks without you. you think i’m gonna stop at two rounds?”

you cry out softly as he starts to move again, dragging his cock in and out of you with slow, grinding thrusts, letting you feel every inch. it’s not rushed this time—it’s deliberate. heavy. sensual. his hands cradle your hips, guiding your body to meet his rhythm.

“you deserve more than that,” he whispers, brushing his lips along your cheek. “deserve to be fucked so good you can’t walk tomorrow.”

you bury your face in his neck, moaning weakly, body already starting to melt again as overstimulation gives way to something new—slower, deeper, a third round wrapped in pleasure that borders on worship.

suna leans back against the pillows, shifting you slightly so your knees are spread wider, your chest pressed close to his, his cock sliding even deeper from the angle. he kisses you then—soft and possessive—while his hips roll up into you again and again, stretching you slowly as your slick mixes with his release and drips down his shaft.

“you gonna let me make up for all that lost time, baby?” he whispers against your lips, voice husky. “gonna let me fuck you again? take it like the good girl you are?”

you nod helplessly, barely coherent now. every inch of your skin feels fevered. your heart pounds. your body burns for him again.

and he gives you everything.

he proves himself over and over again.

with every deep thrust that leaves you gasping.

with every kiss that lingers on your skin like a promise.

with every time he brings you to the edge and pulls you back in.

and long into the night—until you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve cum, how many times he’s filled you—he holds you close, bodies still joined, proving that you were never too much to want.

he just needed time to remember how much he missed everything about you.

now here he was, kneeling at the edge of the bed with a towel in hand, wiping your thighs with slow, deliberate care.

the room is warm with the scent of sex and sweat, heavy with the afterglow of everything that’s just unraveled between you. the sheets are a soaked mess beneath you, tangled and clinging to your body, while your limbs lie slack, trembling, utterly spent. your skin is flushed, glistening in the low light. your chest rises and falls in unsteady breaths, and your thighs twitch involuntarily every time he touches you—still reeling from that final climax.

suna is quiet now, all of that teasing energy faded into something softer, something intimate. his hands move gently over your legs, wiping up the slick trails of cum and arousal that have dripped down to the backs of your knees. his thumb strokes just beneath the crease of your thigh, and even that has you flinching.

“easy,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with tired but affectionate eyes. “i’ve got you.”

you nod weakly, your voice hoarse from moaning his name all night. “i know… i’m just still—sensitive.”

he smiles at that. “yeah, i know.”

you watch as he folds the towel, his brows furrowed in concentration as he leans back in, wiping again, slower now.

and then, because he’s always been a little selfish when it comes to you, suna leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

“rin—” you start, a soft warning in your voice, but it’s too late.

his tongue is already dragging up your overstimulated slit, collecting the last remnants of his cum and your release, and you gasp, your hips jerking upward as your hand flies to his hair.

“i’m just cleaning you up,” he murmurs with a devilish smirk, but the way his mouth moves against you is anything but innocent. it’s slow, tender, savoring.

and somehow, even after everything—your body responds.

your legs twitch again, a sharp tremor crawling up your spine, and you shake your head, breath catching.

“rinnie—please—i can’t—” you whisper, but you’re already grinding against his mouth without realizing it.

his arms snake around your thighs, holding you open as his tongue dips into your entrance again, licking you through it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

one long stroke, then another.

and your body gives up.

you squirt again.

it’s sudden and messy, a wet gasp tearing from your throat as you soak his face with a hot rush of release. it pours down your thighs and splashes across his chest, some of it dripping to the floor beside the bed, and you collapse fully into the sheets, eyes fluttering back as your body convulses one last time.

he groans into you like it’s the best gift he’s ever received, letting the warmth of your release soak him as he finally pulls back—face dripping, lips parted, his abs slick and glistening.

“shit, baby…” he pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks at you with pure disbelief. “you really missed me.”

you can’t even answer. you just groan, turning your head into the pillow, utterly ruined.

he laughs, breathless and fond, and reaches for a clean towel, dabbing your thighs again, this time with a reverence that makes your heart ache. he doesn’t rush. he wipes gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your knees, your hips, the swell of your stomach.

“okay,” he murmurs, voice low now, soothing. “let’s get you in the shower. you need to be warm and clean. i’ll help you.”

you don’t protest. you can’t. your body’s heavy and sore, but when suna lifts you into his arms bridal-style, everything in you goes quiet. safe. anchored. he carries you down the hall, bare skin against bare skin, your arms looped around his neck as your head rests on his shoulder.

the bathroom light is soft. the water’s already running—warm, with the faintest scent of lavender from the body wash you both share.

suna sets you down carefully on the shower bench and steps inside with you, guiding your body beneath the spray. he stands behind you, shielding you from the pressure of the water, and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his cheek against the back of your head.

you sigh. the water rolls down your skin like peace itself, soothing the soreness blooming in your thighs, the ache between your legs, the raw tremble in your muscles from being thoroughly and lovingly ruined. you lean back against suna’s chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as the steam rises around you both.

but the silence—the warmth—the intimacy—it's not enough.

not when he’s right there.

not when your body still remembers the stretch of him inside you. not when your skin is still buzzing with the echo of every touch, every kiss, every praise-soaked thrust.

"rin…" your voice is quiet, a bit raspier than usual, fragile and needy, "i want more."

he doesn’t move right away. you can feel his lips curve into the faintest smile against your wet shoulder.

then his arms tighten around you.

“baby…” he hums, low and indulgent. “you’ve cum how many times tonight?”

you pout, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder, eyes fluttering open lazily. “i don’t know. a lot?”

he chuckles, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, his breath warm and teasing against your damp skin.

“exactly. you squirted so many times i lost count. you’re spent,” he murmurs. “and i’m not about to let you pass out in the shower just because your pussy’s greedy.”

you flush, both from the warmth of the water and his words, and you squirm a little in his hold, grinding back against where you can already feel him half-hard, heat pressed up against the curve of your ass. you’re too sensitive to do anything serious, but even the faint contact has both of you groaning quietly.

still, he tightens his grip immediately, stilling your hips with a firm hand across your stomach.

“hey,” he warns, voice suddenly stern against your ear. “what did i just say?”

“but—”

“no buts,” he mutters, mouth brushing along your jaw as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “don’t make me bend you over this bench and hold your thighs open while you cry from overstimulation.”

you shiver—not entirely from fear.

he smirks again, knowing exactly what he’s doing, before softening as he kisses your temple.

“i mean it,” he murmurs. “you’ve been so good for me tonight. let me take care of you properly. you’ll get more tomorrow—hell, you’ll get everything tomorrow.”

you lean back into him, huffing softly, your bottom lip jutting out as you whisper, “promise?”

suna kisses the pout away, slow and deliberate.

“i promise,” he breathes. “wanna see you on your knees. then ride you again. want to fuck you in front of the mirror. all of it.”

you moan into the kiss, but when your hips twitch again—another teasing grind—he growls softly and slaps your thigh gently under the water.

“behave,” he murmurs against your lips.

so instead, you melt into him, letting him tilt your chin toward his, his mouth finding yours again with no rush, no heat—just long, tender kisses beneath the stream of water. the kind that say i’m not done with you—not even close—but right now, i love you too much to fuck you again when your legs are already trembling.

your arms loop around his neck, fingers carding into his wet hair as he kisses you deeper. you moan softly when his tongue slides into your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you all over again.

his hands roam your back, slow and reassuring, massaging out the tension in your shoulders. he kisses you again and again, coaxing you down from the edge you didn’t even know you were still standing on.

and even though he doesn’t take you again in the shower, that kiss—the way he holds you against him, strong and steady, murmuring soft little praises between each press of his lips—it feels like more. more than sex. more than lust. it’s him saying: i love you. i missed you. i see you.

when the water is turned off and the steam begins to settle, he wraps you gently in a towel and dries you off like you’re something fragile—like he’s afraid to lose you again to the space that had grown quietly between you these past few weeks.

suna hums under his breath while helping you into your favorite sleep shirt, one that’s oversized and soft, one that used to be his. he slides on his boxers, still damp around the edges, then gently combs his fingers through your damp hair, tucking it behind your ears like it’s second nature. there’s no rush in any of it—just tenderness, care, and quiet devotion.

back in bed, the sheets have been changed—he did that too, while you rested your head against the bathroom counter, legs too weak to stand fully. now the duvet is clean and warm, the lights dimmed low, and when you climb into bed beside him, his arms are already waiting to pull you into the curve of his body.

you curl into him like muscle memory, your leg tangled over his, cheek pressed against his chest. his hand strokes your back lazily, up and down, grounding you.

“you’re so good to me,” you murmur, voice soft and sleepy.

“not as good as you are to me,” he replies without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

there’s a pause, a silence filled with his fingertips tracing shapes into your spine.

“rinnie,” you whisper, “you’re not… tired of me, right?”

his hand stills.

he shifts slightly, tilting your chin up so you’ll look at him, even in the low light.

“never,” he says firmly, his voice low and hoarse from everything—sex, emotion, everything. “i’d never get tired of you.”

you blink slowly, lip quivering just slightly. “even if we don’t do stuff like tonight all the time?”

“baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your temple, your cheek, then your lips. “i didn’t fall in love with you because of what we do in bed. i fell in love with you because you’re you. the way you always know when to check on me. the way you always leave the hallway light on because you know i hate coming home to a dark apartment. the way you still get nervous when i kiss your neck like i didn’t already make you mine years ago.”

his voice gets softer, more serious.

“i got exhausted. i let the world outside this apartment wear me down, and i forgot how much you were waiting for me. that’s on me. but being with you? coming home to you? touching you, holding you, just lying here like this? i crave it. i crave you. always.”

you bury your face into his neck, pressing a slow kiss to his skin, holding him tighter.

“i wanna sleep with you still inside me,” you whisper.

he tenses just slightly, then sighs into your hair with a low chuckle.

“you’re insatiable,” he murmurs, voice fond. “you really want me to stay inside you while you sleep?”

you nod against his neck. “you said you missed me…”

“i did,” he groans. “i still do. i always do.”

another sigh, this time heavier, but laced with nothing but surrender. he shifts onto his side, nudging your thighs apart as he settles behind you, one hand guiding himself back to your entrance—still slick, still warm.

he slides in slow, careful, groaning low in his throat as he buries himself inside your sensitive cunt one last time.

you gasp, body relaxing immediately at the feeling of being full again—of him, deep and slow and safe.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, one hand cupping your breast, the other holding your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“happy now?” he mumbles sleepily.

“mhm,” you breathe, already drifting. “perfect.”

and that’s how you fall asleep—his cock still nestled inside you, his arms wrapped tight around your body, your heart steady again in the rhythm of his presence.

for the first time in weeks, the bed doesn’t feel cold.

it feels like home.

[doiliedaze]

Pretty Thing

Warnings: somno, dub-con, restless/trouble sleeping reader, reader shaking ass, established relationship, Sevika makes reader smoke (weed), play wrestling turns to man handling, Sevika orders reader around, fingering (r! receiving), groping, praise (r! receiving)

Genre: smut, fluff

A/n: DARK FIC!! Thank you @bambishaven hope you enjoy this!!

───────┈ · ·

You know that when you feel your thoughts swarm your head that you aren't gonna be able to sleep. This the fifth time this month and you don't even know how many times in general you've felt like this! Regardless you're fucking exhausted and want some damn sleep.

So instantly you jump into your routine and hope to fall asleep! Setting up affirmations and soft music on the laptop while doing some skincare.

Although the lighting is dim and the music is soft you can still feel your brain full force! While your mochi face mask dries you decided to get into some comfort pajamas and check on your hair under your strawberry bonnet knowing you probably shifted something already.

The mix on your laptop ended and a suggested playlist started to play. You were tryna keep everything low energy but when you heard "Freak Hoe" flow through your speakers you had to shake some ass!

You scurry from the bathroom to the floor length mirror in your room as look back at it. The movements of your ass eating up them shorts!

It definitely took your energy but wasn’t enough to make you sleepy, just huff and puff.

You open the window and let the cold air hit your face calming you down!

In your heart of hearts you know the one thing that’ll put you to sleep: Sevika.

The sensual scent of smoke and mocha. Her luring voice and big hands. Her natural confidence all of her just makes you relax.

The clock reads 2:00 am so you know she’s up but you don’t wanna bother her!

Fate was on your side because she called two minutes later, asking to come over. So now you wait patiently by the door.

You didn’t have to as she has a key but it gave you and advantage to jump on her when she entered!

“Woah? There’s no need for this much energy I thought I’d find you in bed wallowing at least.” She chuckles as she adjusts you in her arms.

“Nope had to wait for my Vika! And I can’t sleep but it’s more so about you!”

Her grey eyes soften as she notices the restlessness behind those pretty brown eyes.

“Lemme make you something” she whispers as she pecked your nose. “Only if you want”

“Well I do so just sit and relax for me okay?”

Silently you walk to the couch as you relax your body and watch her get to work. Zoning in on her back muscles when she takes her jacket off. Her wife pleaser hugging her just right!

The smells in the kitchen start to flow into your nose and your heart swoons. Your big bad girlfriend is making you Khichdi.

“Here” she states as she places it in front of you.

“Did you poke a smiley face into it?”

“Thought you’d like it…” she grumbles slightly flustered.

“I do! Thank you vika” you kiss her flesh knuckles then her metal ones.

Honestly sleep was starting to seep into you especially after the meal and Sevika carrying you to bed. But there is something itching to keep you up and it’s almost 4 am!

“Take this” she whispers as she hands you the pre-roll. Never opposed to a puff here and there you take it.

You were expecting the weed to lull you at least a little but it gave you an energy of sorts.

“Alright we gotta do something to tire me!” You whine feeling bad about keeping your girlfriend up but you need this!

“I could fuck you to sleep”

“That was so corny” you laugh and with a half smile she says, “can’t be so corny if I’ve done it before!”

“Girl no you haven’t!”

“Oh really?” She says as she snatched you up. Instinctively you push her away with her feet. That put some distance between y’all but she ends up slamming you into the bed.

“Okay she-hulk!”

“Fuck you” She snorts then clears her throat, “let me help you fall asleep though”

“Just thirsty for it huh?” “Shut the fuck up before I leave!” She says letting your wrist go and your hands shoot up to grab her torso, “please don’t go!”

“Why not you’re being a brat?”

“I’ll be good, I promise” you say as you take another hit of the blunt finally feeling the smoke in your head take over.

Her eyes lock onto yours as she leans in for a kiss and you just blow smoke onto her face.

A smile twitches on Sevikas lips as she takes the blunt. “Can’t keep your promises for shit huh?”

Before you could respond she pushes you off the bed, “damn!” You laugh as you lay sprawled out on the floor.

“Get the fuck up.” When you heard her tone you pop up, wobbly but quickly!

She was laid back against your bed frame and her eyes narrowly stare at you. Her pointer finger beckons you over and you listen.

She makes you wait like a dumb puppy before she pats her lap. Eager you sit down and let your back sink into her chest, craning your neck to look up at her.

Her scent and the need not to piss her off makes you relax in her embrace, stressing your little mind out on how to be good for her.

Sevikas hand caresses your inner thigh as she sees you drift off to sleep.

“Finally” she mutters to her herself as she moves those flimsy excuse of sleeping shorts out her fingers way so she can enter your welcoming cunt!

Her mechanical hand gliding under your shirt to play with your nipple. Squeezing and pulling them. You sleepily moan her name causing her to smile, “such a good girl when you wanna be” she whispers.

She uses her foot to open you leg up more to give her fingers a deeper access.

Her middle and ring finger beginning to pick up the place.

“Got you all to myself—fuck you’re such a pretty little thing” she mutters as the squelches of your pussy makes her clit throb.

“Vika” you moan, big brown eyes looking up at her through your lashes.

“Yes baby girl?”

You mutter incoherently and she just smiles, “be quiet okay?” Sleepily you nod, “good job” she snickers, enjoying how reliant you are on her.

Sevika speeds her fingers up and your hips shake but your jaw is slack against her. “This is my pussy yeah? Mine to take…fuck you keep sucking me up.” She groans as the sensation of you clenching around her heightens as you reach your orgasm.

Quickly her fingers retract to rub circles on your clit to help you ride out your high and to kneed the plush of your breast.

She sucks on her fingers as he head rests against the headboard while she calms herself down. Gently she rolls you off and on your side, hand never leaving your boob.

Sevika drifts off into sleep holding you tight as the cool night air flows into the room from a forgotten open window.

Next time you’ll cut the chase and call Sevika the moment you can’t sleep.

───────┈ · ·

A/n: wait dolls outta all the somno fics i wrote i think this one and Abby’s are my favorites! I hope y’all loved it and honestly I need this irl LMAOOOO

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss @milanyas @highnfemme @5seos @artemisdreamfairie @ellabswife

Dividers- @dollywons

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari sniffled, looking into her papa's eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks as she just sniffled and listened. She looked down for a moment, processing what the hero said and gave a nod while her eyes narrowed a bit in thought. "I... Think I get it." She muttered, voice still slightly trembling as she spoke. She looked back at the projection and sighed. The child slowly backed away from Hawks and went back to look at the journals again, one last time.

There she read a few more journals from her mother. A few from when she was pregnant with her siblings.

"Today is September 29th, I gave birth to my little boy Kitearo a few days ago. It's been exhausting but he's worth it. Lynx has been a huge help in taking care of our son. I looked into Kite's future and I saw he was going to have a lot of siblings. Not my first choice honestly. If you asked me five years ago I would have said two or three kids would be enough, not seven. But it feels right at the same time. While I saw his whole life unravel I couldn't help but feel helpless... But a part of me knows it can't be messed with, even though I want to save my son from an early grave. I'll have to wait until all my kids are born to get the full picture."

Kari frowned, figuring out pretty quick that her mother knew the whole time, or at least had an understanding.

"It's Febuary 23rd. Flo and Fino are a few days old now. I got a bit more of the picture since seeing Kitearo's future. They meet a similar fate. It hurts, but seeing them work hard to protect their youngest sister, a little girl with white hair, something isn't adding up. I know I can't stop it but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a whole lot."

"It's been a rough few weeks, Shade has been a bit of a handful. Always curious but always quiet which is a bit unnerving. Sure she cries and makes noises but she's more quiet than not. The doctor says she has nothing wrong with her but I still worry. I was able to see into her future. Lynx has his work cut out for him that's for sure. So far I know all my kids and my husband die on the same day, doing the same thing. I can't say for sure where I am but I can make a few guesses. Again that little girl with white hair makes a big appearance. I'll name her Kari. Kari Kana Lee Himura, long name but it looks like it suits her. When she's born I'll hopefully get all the answers and try to write them down."

"Another pair of twins. I'm not super surprised, Lynx had twin younger brothers after all so I think that runs in the family. That and I saw them while looking into their siblings' futures. These two look mirrored, it's kinda cute. I've named them Boom and Beats cuz the symbols on their cheeks are cute music notes. They are the loudest that's for sure, it's funny. I've had so many kids and all of them are so different even though they're under the same roof and have me and Lynx as their parents. I know why they look so different and why their quirks are different, it's a side effect of my quirk after all. But their behaviors and personalities aren't tied to it, I don't think. It's so fascinating to watch them grow and develop... I know I probably only have a few more years to live. I've concluded I die in child birth when giving birth to Kari. I know I'll be leaving behind my family and my friends... But I noted that my nephew is the one responsible for the deaths of everyone, under the control of my sister given his pupils... Something isn't adding up but I'm guessing Kari develops my quirk. If that's the case then she needs to exist. It strengthens our quirk and hopefully she'll be able to help others like I did, in someway. Though that's her choice and I don't want to force it onto her. I'm glad dad talked me into writing that one entry about my quirk, I hope she can read it one day so she can meet me... Well, a snap shot of me. It won't be the same I know but it's better than nothing. I just hope she doesn't hate me or get mad. It's kind of a selfish reason but there's so much going on... I just hope she understands."

Kari sniffled, rubbing her eyes. "I... I don't hate you mom." She whispered after a few moments of silence, hugging herself. "I just wish I knew you." The child gulped and moved to look back at the journal about All of the Above and began taking notes. "But yea, I'm glad grampa talked you into writing about your quirk too... It's gonna help me a lot." She muttered then looked at Hawks. "You think we can go somewhere I can train? I... I wanna try doing this thing mom talks about. I'm not sure if I can get back into that weird mind space thing but... But if I can maybe you can meet my siblings, well a snap shot of them... This is kinda confusing." Kari puffed out her cheeks then went back to writing. "But we don't have to do it today if we can't."

Hawks didn’t speak at first. He just let Kari cry. He didn’t try to hush her or pull her away. He dropped down to one knee so she could lean into him easier, wrapping his arms around her small frame like he could shield her from every painful word she had just read. His wings even curled in slightly, a quiet gesture of shelter.

He held her gently as the sobs came out in waves—her pain wasn’t small, and it didn’t deserve to be treated like it was.

After a long moment, his voice finally came—soft, steady, low enough it didn’t try to overpower her crying but just… sat with it.

“I know, kiddo. I know it hurts. It’s not fair. None of this is. You didn’t get a choice in any of it.”

He tightened the hug slightly, one hand cradling the back of her head.

“But I need you to hear me when I say this next part, okay?” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his own golden ones steady and full of something more than just compassion—it was conviction. “She didn’t die because of you. That’s not how this works. She died for you. And that’s something only someone who loves their kid more than anything in the world would do.”

His thumbs gently wiped her tears.

“Your mom knew the risks. She was a top pro. She wasn’t someone who walked into things blind. She fought to bring you into this world anyway, Kari. That means she wanted you here. She made a choice—and that choice was you.”

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ eyes on me ( lhs ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 13.7k ⤷ based on this and this by my lovely anons ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — as promised, here it is, i fear this might be one of my best works yet… and definitely the longest. part 2? i’m already writing it as we speak. the last fight between heeseung and the reader was heavily inspired by moonstruck (iykyk), and i really poured so much into this one. enjoy reading, loves—i hope it hits all the right places in your heart 🤍

⤷ warnings — idol au, idol!heeseung, dancer!reader, slowburn, enemies to lovers trope-ish, emotionally awkward heeseung, emotionally constipated reader, cold!reader, loser!heeseung, whipped!heeseung, heeseung’s down bad, reader does not care that he’s famous, miscommunication (so much miscommunication), hurt/comfort undertones, fluff (eventually), heavy angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as a rising dance prodigy, you're no stranger to idols—you’ve trained with them, performed behind them, and watched some fall from grace when the spotlight turned harsh. so when you’re cast as one of the dancers for enhypen’s newest comeback, you already know what to expect: long nights, hard work, and an idol or two trying to get in your pants. lee heeseung, you decide, is exactly that kind. smiles too easily. stares too long. he sees you once and falls all at once—messy, quiet, and stupidly soft. or, where you think he’s everything you should avoid, and he thinks you’re everything he’ll never deserve—but still wants anyway.

You were panting, chest heaving, sweat trailing down your temple as you leaned against the mirror—fingertips grazing the cold glass to keep your balance.

The song you’d been replaying for nearly an hour echoed faintly from the speaker still running in the corner of the room, but you’d long tuned it out. The only thing you could really hear now was your heartbeat and the silence that always came after giving everything.

It wasn’t even your scheduled session.

Not really.

With Le Sserafim on pause before their next comeback and your calendar suspiciously clear, you found yourself gravitating to HYBE’s third practice room on the fifth floor.

Same old lights. Same scuffed flooring. Same drawer in the corner where you kept your charger and your lip balm—your unofficial locker in a room that wasn’t really yours but somehow felt like home.

You pushed off the mirror with a sigh and padded across the studio, footsteps soft against the wooden floor as you reached the familiar drawer.

Your phone sat inside, screen lighting up with two messages from Yunjin and one chaotic selfie of Chaewon in the groupchat you never muted.

yunjin [8:00 P.M.]: tell me why i just heard you’re at the building practicing again, girl sleep

chaewon [8:00 P.M.]: we miss you bitch come downstairs after ur possessed dance session

You cracked a grin despite yourself.

Being under HYBE was never the dream—but dancing was. Always had been. And when Le Sserafim debuted and you got scouted as part of the core backup team, something clicked.

Not just because the girls welcomed you like you’d grown up with them—dinners after rehearsals, borrowed hoodies, inside jokes—but because for the first time, your work felt like it belonged to something bigger.

“Should’ve debuted,” people often said. “You’ve got the talent. The look. The stage presence.”

Maybe you did.

But the contracts? The rules? The never-ending line of expectations and media training and image polishing?

You loved the spotlight, not the cage it came with.

So you danced. You lived. You stayed free.

Grabbing your phone, you wiped the back of your hand across your brow, tying your hair back into a loose bun and tossing your water bottle from one hand to the other as you headed toward the center of the room again. Just one more run-through. You weren’t tired—you were wired.

You tapped the playlist again.

Until—the door clicks open.

You pause mid-step, halfway through a turn.

Your brows furrow, already annoyed. This room was empty for a reason—booked by staff, reserved for registered dancers. If someone forgot to check the schedule again, you were not in the mood.

But then the door swings fully open, and Lee Heeseung walks in.

Baseball cap, all black sweats, and a water bottle tucked under his arm like he owns the place.

You recognize him immediately, not because you follow ENHYPEN—god, no—but because you’ve seen him around enough. Stage rehearsals. Passing glances in the hallway. One of HYBE’s golden boys.

The second he steps inside and hears the track echoing through the speakers, he freezes.

Eyes wide. Shoulders stiff. Like someone just pressed pause on his whole system. His gaze slowly scans the room—until it lands on you.

And for a second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights.

You glare instinctively. “This room’s booked.”

“Oh,” he says, like he’s only now realizing you’re real and not part of some fever dream. His voice is soft, almost breathless—like you startled him more than you should’ve.

He doesn’t move.

You shift your weight onto one hip, fixing your posture as you cross your arms over your chest. His eyes follow every movement, slow and wide-eyed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Your brow arches higher.

“…Are you lost?” you ask coolly, tone laced with dry amusement. “Or are you just staring for fun?”

Heeseung blinks again, visibly short-circuiting. “What? No—I mean—uh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still using the room.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed, turning your back to him as you stride toward the speaker setup. Your phone’s still tucked into the little drawer beside it. You tap the screen to shut the music off mid-chorus, and the room falls into a painfully loud silence.

From behind you, his voice comes again—hesitant, awkward. “You were… practicing, right?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “No shit.”

He flinches slightly—not from offense, but from the sheer tone. Like he’s never been spoken to like that in his life. Like no one’s ever looked at him like that—like he was in the way.

His lips part, stunned. You watch his mouth open, close, open again like he’s buffering.

You sigh. “Do you need something?”

“I just—uh. I have practice. After this. With the group. Here.”

You stare at him flatly. “…Congrats.”

Your phone finally detangles from the charger and you tug it free, slinging your towel across the back of your neck as you gather your things without urgency. You don’t rush, but every move says this conversation is over.

Heeseung doesn’t move out of your way.

He just stands there, eyes tracing the motion of your hands as you zip your bag shut.

His gaze follows your every motion, like your movements are a routine he can’t quite catch the rhythm to. There’s something almost boyish in the way he stands—hands at his sides, weight shifting between his feet, unsure if he’s allowed to speak again.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

You feel his stare burning into your back, heavy and annoyingly curious, as if he’s trying to figure you out like a puzzle someone dared him to solve. But you’ve played this game before. With idols who smile too easily. With eyes that linger too long.

You toss your bag over your shoulder, grip your phone in one hand, and walk past him without a glance.

The scent of his cologne barely reaches you—a subtle, clean warmth—but you ignore it like you ignore everything else about him.

Heeseung turns slightly as you brush by, part of him wanting to say something—anything. Maybe an apology. Maybe a compliment.

But you’re already out the door.

And behind you, Lee Heeseung stands frozen in the center of the practice room, watching the space you left behind like he’s never been dismissed that fast in his life.

The steam from your ramen curled lazily into the air, untouched and slowly going cold as you sat hunched over the dining table, poking at the noodles with your chopsticks.

The soft chatter of your friends buzzed from your phone, propped up on a half-empty water bottle in the center of the table.

Yunjin was in her usual spot on her bed, animatedly talking with her hands as she ranted about the upcoming concept, while Chaewon nodded along beside her, munching on what looked like a rice cracker.

“…and if they make us do that choreography again, I swear to god I’m filing a complaint,” Yunjin groaned dramatically, falling backwards onto the mattress. “My knees weren’t made for this. I’m an idol, not a gymnast.”

“You’re just mad you have to wear those boots again,” Chaewon snickered.

Yunjin gasped, pointing at the screen. “Don’t expose me like that!”

You didn’t respond.

You barely even blinked—chin resting in one hand, the other absentmindedly swirling your chopsticks through the broth.

You weren't even listening, really. Your mind was still in that practice room, rewinding and replaying something you refused to admit got under your skin.

“…Hello?” Yunjin’s voice cut through your fog. “Earth to (Y/N)?”

Nothing.

“(Y/N),” she called again, louder this time, leaning closer to the camera. “Are you even with us right now?”

You blinked and finally looked up. “Huh? Oh—sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t—yeah.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shook your head quickly, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, it’s nothing. Just… tired, I guess.”

Yunjin raised a perfectly sculpted brow, not buying it for a second. “That didn’t sound convincing at all. Spill.”

You sighed and dropped your chopsticks, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not even a big deal.”

“That’s what people say right before they drop the good shit,” Yunjin said, crossing her arms.

Chaewon chimed in, “Come on. You’re never like this.”

You hesitated, then finally muttered under your breath, “…I just—bumped into someone earlier.”

Yunjin perked up. “Who?”

You sighed, scrunching your nose as if the memory physically pained you. “That deer-looking member from ENHYPEN.”

Chaewon immediately burst out laughing, nearly dropping her snack. “You mean Heeseung-sunbaenim?”

Yunjin’s eyes lit up like a fire had been lit under her. “Wait—Lee Heeseung? That Heeseung??”

You groaned, dragging your palm down your face. “I didn’t even do anything. He just… walked in. Stared at me. Looked like he forgot how doors work. And then tried to talk like he wasn’t mentally glitching the whole time.”

Chaewon snorted. “That’s so specific.”

“I thought he was gonna pass out when I asked if he was lost,” you muttered, slumping forward dramatically. “Why do idols act like no one’s ever spoken to them like a normal person?”

Yunjin snorted. “Because they’re so used to everybody praising them and giving fake smiles. One real sentence and they malfunction.”

You laughed, dry and amused. “Amen to that.”

Chaewon, who’d gone quiet for a moment, suddenly spoke up. “Well… I mean, Heeseung-sunbaenim’s pretty notorious around here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean by ‘notorious’?”

Yunjin clicked her tongue and shot Chaewon a look. “Unnie.”

Chaewon just shrugged with a guilty smile, like she realized a little too late that she opened a door you were definitely going to walk through.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did she mean by that?”

Chaewon held her hands up innocently. “Nothing! I mean—I just meant… well, it’s really not my story to tell.”

You stared at her flatly. “You already started the story, might as well finish it.”

She sighed dramatically and leaned in closer to the camera, as if anyone was around to overhear. “Okay, fine. But lower your expectations—it’s just… you know how it is in the building. People talk.”

You nodded once, wordlessly. She took that as her cue.

“Well,” she began slowly, her voice dropping a little, “he’s kind of… known to be a—I don’t know—player, I guess?”

Yunjin shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt this time.

“There was this whole thing a while back,” Chaewon continued, eyes flicking down like she didn’t want to make it a big deal. “Rumors said he used to date one of the backup dancers from a different group. And, um… it didn’t end well.”

Your expression didn’t change, but your fingers stilled against your water bottle.

“Didn’t end well?” you echoed.

Chaewon bit her lip. “Word is he ghosted her after a few weeks. Left her totally heartbroken. Like—treated her like she never existed.”

You raised a brow. You weren’t one to believe in gossip, but… these weren’t just random trainees or building buzz.

These were your girls. They never lied to you. Never exaggerated unless it was for comedic effect. And they weren’t even speaking with drama in their voices—just quiet caution.

Yunjin finally sighed and folded her arms. “Look, we’re not saying he’s evil or anything. But just… be careful, okay?”

“Careful?” you scoffed. “Yunjin, I threatened his life with a single look. I think I’m good.”

“Still,” she said, chin propped on her hand. “Guys like that? They love a challenge.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You hated that they might be right. Hated more that part of you had noticed the way he looked at you—like you were choreography he couldn’t quite learn but desperately wanted to.

Chaewon tilted her head. “So… are you gonna see him again?”

You blinked. “God, I hope not.”

You reached for your water again, swirling the bottle absentmindedly. “I mean—I just bumped into him. Literally. Once. So yeah, I hope not. Let’s leave it at that.”

Yunjin leaned in closer on camera, resting her chin in her palm. “Well… you’re contracted to us. Technically. So unless Heeseung-sunbaenim suddenly joins Le Sserafim, I think you’ll be safe.”

You snorted. “Right? If he pops up in our choreography, I’m quitting.”

“Bold of you to assume he wouldn’t volunteer for that,” Chaewon said under her breath.

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “Okay, can we not do this? He was barely in the room for five minutes and he was already glitching like I punched him with my eyes.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “You kind of did.”

You rolled your eyes, slumping back in your chair. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see him again. I’ve got enough going on.”

Yunjin tilted her head knowingly. “You’re only this defensive when something’s getting to you.”

“Getting to me?” you scoffed. “I’ve dealt with idols before. He’s not special.”

“Mm-hm,” Chaewon hummed, clearly not believing you.

“I’m serious,” you insisted. “He’s not even my type.”

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in this situation.

One minute you were running choreography drills for Chaewon’s solo part, and the next, you were seated stiffly in a cold conference room across the HYBE annex building, sipping on watered-down coffee like your future wasn’t being casually decided in front of you.

You sat silently as two managers—one from Le Sserafim’s team and one from ENHYPEN’s—talked over each other across the glossy table, voices overlapping in between manila folders and open schedules.

“We’re short one female dancer,” ENHYPEN’s manager said, flipping through pages.

“It’s a center piece too. A lot of exposure. We need someone who can hold their own without relying on the main members to carry the dynamic.”

“She’s perfect for it,” your manager added without hesitation. “She already has chemistry with the camera, she’s sharp, precise—and she’s worked alongside the girls long enough to adapt fast. She’s ready.”

They kept talking like you weren’t even there.

Your elbow was propped up against the table, chin resting on your hand as you tuned them out somewhere between “urgent casting call” and “we’ll handle the paperwork.”

All you could think about was this:

You were about to work with hormonal male idols. For a solid month.

And one of them just so happened to be the infamous deer-eyed flirt you had the misfortune of meeting barely 24 hours ago.

You’d heard the rumors. You weren’t new to this industry. You just never thought you’d be getting paid to be around them.

But god, the paycheck.

ENHYPEN wasn’t just big—they were everywhere. If you signed on, it would double your rate. Triple it, even. And it’d look good on your record. So good.

You sighed, finally tuning back in to the sound of your own name.

Both managers had turned to look at you, expectantly.

You blinked, eyes flitting between the two of them. Their faces were hopeful. It wasn’t like you had a million options.

You mumbled, “Yeah… I’ll do it.”

Cheers erupted immediately. The ENHYPEN manager clapped his hands together, standing to shake yours. “Knew you’d say yes. Great call—seriously. You’re saving us.”

You gave him a tight, polite smile, shaking both their hands with the enthusiasm of someone who just signed a deal with the devil. You adjusted your blouse, brushing invisible wrinkles from your skirt as your manager smiled at you.

“You can go now,” she said warmly. “We’ll finalize the transfer.”

You bowed slightly. “Thanks.”

As the door clicked open, your shoes echoed lightly against the tiled hallway floor—and you stopped short.

There they were.

Seven heads turned the moment you stepped out. ENHYPEN, all seated against the wall outside the conference room like they’d been waiting for their turn—or your decision.

You didn’t even let your gaze linger long enough to tell. You simply dipped your head in a short bow and kept walking, barely glancing their way.

But you felt it.

The same eyes from last night locked on your back again like a magnet—quiet, unblinking, and far too curious for your comfort. You pretended not to notice, walking right past like he was part of the wallpaper.

As soon as the door swung closed behind you, the hallway fell into silence.

Jake leaned over, nudging Heeseung with an elbow.

“Hey,” he said casually. “What was that?”

Heeseung blinked like he was just coming out of a daze. “Huh? Sorry—yeah. What?”

Jake raised a brow. “You good?”

Heeseung cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Jake didn’t believe it for a second, but he let it slide, leaning back against the wall with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right. Tired.”

Heeseung only smiled in return—soft, distracted—and fiddled with the rings on his fingers as if his thoughts were too loud to sit still.

His thumb brushed over the silver band on his index like it could help him, but it didn’t help much. Not when his mind was still stuck on you.

The manager’s voice called out, sharp and professional, “ENHYPEN, let’s go. We’re starting the prep meeting.”

Heeseung stood, brushing imaginary lint off his jeans before quietly following the others into the room—head down, heart louder than it should be.

You, on the other hand, were on the verge of a very quiet breakdown.

Your steps echoed through the hallway of the HYBE building as you made your way toward Le Sserafim’s practice room. You pushed the door open a little too fast, and the moment it swung wide, five sets of eyes snapped toward you like you’d triggered some kind of alarm.

“Whoa,” Yunjin blinked. “You good?”

You ran a hand through your hair and didn’t answer. Instead, you walked straight past the mirror and started pacing near the center of the room, your brows furrowed in thought.

Kazuha stood up first, moving toward you with a gentle hand reaching for your arm. “Unnie… are you okay?”

You blinked down at her, lips parted, and then forced a tired smile as you licked your lips and sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—I have another schedule right after this stage, so…”

The girls exchanged glances, the air shifting with curiosity.

“What do you mean?” Eunchae asked, already scooting closer beside you on the floor like she was preparing for a full story.

Kazuha guided you to sit in the middle with them, and you gave in, sinking onto the practice mat as you exhaled again, hands resting on your thighs.

“I was offered something,” you said slowly.

Chaewon’s eyes narrowed slightly, protective by nature. “Offered what?”

You looked at her, then glanced down. “I was hired… for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback.”

A chorus of squeals and gasps broke out instantly.

“Unnie, what?!”

“No way—”

“That’s huge!”

“You’re gonna be in the center??”

Sakura clapped her hands together. “Isn’t that a great thing? That’s such a big opportunity!”

You gave her a pout. “Unnie, won’t you miss me?”

She laughed, crawling over to drape her arm across your shoulder. “Of course I will! But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud.”

“You’re gonna kill it,” Yunjin said, pointing at you with certainty.

“I mean, we’re still in the same building,” Eunchae added with a small giggle. “It’s not like you’re moving countries.”

You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically as you let your hands fall into your lap. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be working with Heeseung.”

Sakura blinked. “Is that… such a bad thing?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

You just slowly turned your head and sent a pointed look toward Chaewon, one brow raised like a silent accusation.

Sakura’s eyes widened instantly. “Wait—you told her?”

Chaewon raised both hands in mild defense. “Okay, well—she bumped into him last night! Practically had him shaking in his boots. What was I supposed to do, not say anything?”

Yunjin leaned back on her palms, letting out a low sigh. “To be fair, it’s just a rumor. About Heeseung-sunbaenim, I mean. No one really knows what happened with that backup dancer. It could’ve been blown out of proportion.”

Sakura sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was the only adult in a room full of unhinged daughters. “Still… Heeseung-sunbaenim? That’s not exactly the kind of name I like hearing next to yours.”

You exhaled loudly, falling back onto the wooden floor with a light thud. “What am I even gonna do?”

“You’ll survive,” Chaewon said, grinning down at you as she leaned forward on her knees. “You hate male idols. So I’m guessing you’re safe.”

You gave her a flat look from where you were sprawled out. “I do.”

Yunjin shrugged. “She really does.”

“I mean,” you went on, dragging your hand over your face lazily, “they’re loud. They reek of fabric softener and expensive cologne. And most of them only train hard when a camera’s on.”

“Damn,” Eunchae muttered with a small laugh.

“And they all flirt like it’s their job,” you added for good measure, removing your hand off your face and staring at the ceiling. “Which, I guess… it kind of is.”

Chaewon raised a hand in mock prayer. “May the gods protect Heeseung-sunbaenim.”

You sat up slowly, shoulders sagging. “I mean, it won’t be that bad. Right?”

Kazuha patted your back gently. “That’s the spirit.”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “I’ve worked with guys before. I can be civil. Just gotta stay professional.”

But beneath all the teasing, all the nervous tension, and the semi-unfounded panic, you were trying your best not to wonder what working beside him would really be like.

Because no matter how much you insisted otherwise—the look in his eyes—the way he’d stared at you like you were some kind of glitch in his system.

You remembered it a little too well.

You sat cross-legged on the polished floor of the massive HYBE practice room, surrounded by six other girls—all dancers like you, all chatting quietly as they stretched, refilled water bottles, or scrolled through their phones between warmups. Despite only meeting earlier this week, you already liked them.

Maybe it was the familiarity in movement. Maybe it was the shared exhaustion.

Or maybe it was the way everyone kind of understood how tiring it was being in the shadows of the spotlight without actually resenting it.

You leaned back on your palms, listening to one of the girls, complain about her past contract. “I used to be assigned to TXT for their last few comebacks,” she sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

“But with ENHYPEN blowing up like this? I couldn’t even breathe during rehearsals.”

Another dancer, laughed. “Girl, be serious—it’s not even TXT’s fault. You just like sleeping.”

The group chuckled and you smiled, nodding along. “No, I get what she means though. These kinds of projects get intense. One delay and everything collapses.”

“Exactly,” One of them said, holding up a triumphant finger. “See? She gets it.”

Even one of the choreographers nearby, who was mid-conversation with another coach across the mirrors, looked over and grinned. “She couldn’t survive another world tour. This is her redemption arc.”

That earned more laughs from the dancers, and the room softened with warmth again.

Then a new voice piped up from your right. “So, (Y/N), who did you used to work with?”

You glanced over. Another dancer, tilted her head curiously. “Like… which group?”

You shrugged, casually stretching your arms. “Ah—I was with Le Sserafim.”

Immediately, someone gasped. “Wait, really? Is it true they’re super kind? Like, off-cam too?”

You smiled automatically, fondness slipping into your voice before you could filter it. “Yeah. They’re honestly the sweetest. Super hardworking. It was… fun working with them. Like, really fun.”

“Aww,” someone said, and another sighed dreamily. “See, I knew they were angels.”

You laughed under your breath, tucking your hair behind your ear—just in time for the door to swing open with a solid click.

The entire room paused.

And in walked the seven boys you were assigned to work with for the next four weeks.

The same boys you’d passed in the hallway. The same ones from all the stages, the headlines, the insane fan energy. And the same group that just so happened to include him.

You stood automatically with the others, muscles tight from both habit and something else.

“Good morning!” their manager called behind them.

“Good morning!” the dancers and choreographers chorused back, all polite smiles and tiny bows.

The boys followed suit, each dipping into a respectful bow before scattering around the mirrored room—bags being dropped, jackets shrugged off, water bottles set down with practiced ease. You bowed too, forcing your body to stay neutral.

Your eyes found him immediately.

Lee Heeseung.

He moved like he belonged in the center of the room. Not because he demanded attention—but because his presence pulled it. Effortless, fluid, camera-ready even in joggers and a hoodie.

His hair was silver now.

Freshly dyed. Still glinting slightly under the overhead lights, strands catching the soft fluorescent white like moonlight turned solid.

He was scanning the room—just like you were—and the moment your gazes met, it was instant.

Sharp. Heavy. Lingering just one second too long.

You blinked.

So did he.

Then he quickly looked down, fumbling with the strap of his bag like it suddenly became a Rubik’s cube. You rolled your eyes to yourself and turned away, muttering under your breath as you took a step back toward the center.

“Well. This is gonna be great.”

You muttered it mostly to yourself as you adjusted the hem of your loose tee, tucking it into your joggers while quietly making your way to stand beside the other dancers near the wall.

The mirrors across the room stretched from end to end, reflecting the hum of quiet excitement as both groups began gathering in clusters.

And even from across the room, Heeseung’s ears burned. Because even if you weren’t looking anymore—he still was.

You stuck beside one of the girls you’d spoken with earlier, both of you choosing to hover just slightly farther from the others—close enough to listen, far enough to not be the center of attention.

Not yet, at least.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Jungwon’s voice rang out gently over the low murmurs, ever the natural leader. “Hyung, they’re all here.”

One of the choreographers clapped his hands together in the center of the mirrored room, stepping forward with a wide smile. “Perfect. Good morning, everyone!”

A chorus of polite greetings echoed back.

“We’re all here today to begin blocking for ENHYPEN’s upcoming comeback performance,” he continued. “Congratulations to the group, by the way—this one’s big.”

Everyone clapped.

The dancers. The choreographers. Even a few stylists and managers along the back wall clapped and grinned, nodding toward the boys with pride.

You clapped too. Briefly. Quietly. No emotion behind it—but polite enough.

“Let’s start with greetings,” the second choreographer said, motioning toward the group. “Boys first. Formalities matter, okay?”

With that, Jungwon took half a step forward, his signature dimple flashing as he smiled like it was second nature. “Okay, okay. One, two—connect!”

The rest of the group snapped in sync: “We are ENHYPEN!”

It earned a few amused reactions from the dancers around you—some cooing at the professionalism, others just watching with quiet admiration. They really were idols through and through.

“I’m Jungwon,” he said warmly. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”

“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”

“Jay,” came the next, a sharp bow and his eyes flickering briefly toward you and the other girls. “Thank you for working with us.”

“Sunghoon,” said the next, voice cool, expression unreadable.

Then came: “Sunoo! I’m looking forward to dancing with you all.” followed by his signature grin.

“Ni-ki,” the youngest nodded, already swaying slightly like he couldn’t stand still. “Please take care of me.”

“…Heeseung.”

You didn’t realize you’d turned slightly until your eyes locked on him—and once again, he was already looking.

Hard.

You could see the tightness in his jaw, the awkward twitch of his fingers as he bowed slightly, his voice just a pitch softer than the rest. “Nice to meet you.”

Heeseung’s eyes trailed after you long after the boys stepped back into line.

His ears were burning.

He couldn’t even pretend to look somewhere else. Not when you were standing like that—posture sharp, head high, exuding confidence like it was woven into your skin.

The way you carried yourself—like you already owned the room. And maybe, maybe that was what made him feel like he forgot how to stand.

“Your turn, girls,” one of the choreographers said, gesturing toward your side.

The girls began one by one. Bowing politely, offering soft greetings.

“Hi, I’m excited to be here.”

“Looking forward to working with everyone.”

“Hope we’ll all get along well.”

You stepped forward, just enough. Bowed once—sharp, respectful, effortless. When you lifted your head, your voice was even, steady.

“I’m (Y/N),” you said. “Please take care of me.”

Simple.

Straight to the point.

And Heeseung was gone.

He stared—eyes wide, lips parted ever so slightly. Your name hit him like it echoed, like it attached itself to his spine and rewrote his posture.

“(Y/N),” he mouthed, almost unconsciously.

His fingers moved without thought—tugging at the top of his ear where the skin felt like it was on fire. He rubbed the shell of it, trying to focus, to breathe, to not look like a complete idiot.

But it didn’t help.

Jay, standing next to him, leaned in just enough to whisper without breaking formation. “Dude.”

Heeseung blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re staring like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

“I’m not—”

Jay snickered, looking ahead again. “Your ears are literally red.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with his earring, swallowing once. Twice.

Then, like even that felt too revealing, he let his hand drop to his side and instead started tugging at the sleeves of his oversized sweater. The cotton bunched in his fingers as he pulled them low—hiding his hands, letting the ends fall just enough to brush against his palms.

His gaze never found you again. Not directly.

He kept his eyes somewhere safe—like the mirrors. Or the floor. Or the vague corner of the room that wasn’t currently occupied by the girl who now had a name. A name that rolled around his head on loop like a song he couldn’t shake off.

You raised a brow at his odd behavior.

Heeseung wasn’t exactly subtle. It was like watching a deer try to pretend it wasn’t cornered.

Before you could dwell on it, one of the choreographers clapped their hands sharply, recentering everyone’s attention.

“Alright! Let’s jump in,” she said, spinning back toward the room’s center. “We’ll be starting with the title track first—‘Bite Me.’”

There were a few audible reactions to that.

Jake nodded, lips quirking.

Sunghoon crossed his arms, unreadable.

“Oh no,” he whined, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s another dark concept. I was made for cuteness!”

One of the other choreographers laughed. “You’ll survive, Sunoo.”

“Barely,” he muttered.

“We’re leaning heavy into the vampire theme,” the choreographer continued, pacing slowly as she spoke.

“Dark, dramatic, a little seductive. Think… elegant, but dangerous. Intense, but controlled. It’s a visual-heavy piece, so expression work is just as important as the movements.”

Another coach jumped in, voice sharper, more technical. “Blocking and formations will start today, but we’ll ease in. Dancers—you’ll be working close. Touching will be part of this. We’re not going cutesy here.”

You blinked, processing.

“Did she say seductive?” one of the girls whispered beside you, stifling a laugh.

You sighed, arms crossing as you tried not to react, eyes flicking briefly toward the group across the room.

Heeseung was still fiddling with his sleeves. Still avoiding your gaze. Still pretending to be very, very invested in the floor.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

“This comeback’s all about energy,” the choreographer said firmly. “That tension between danger and desire. We want chemistry. We want heat. If it doesn’t feel electric, it’s not working.”

Fantastic, you thought dryly.

Someone from the staff behind you quietly passed out water bottles and printed choreo maps.

“Partners will be finalized in a few minutes,” the head coach added. “But today, we’re just learning formations. Take mental notes of who moves where—chemistry’s part of the selection process.”

You nearly flinched.

Because just the word partners sent something uneasy crawling up your spine.

You didn’t know if it was nerves or dread.

You exhaled slowly, reaching up to move your hair from your shoulders, pulling it back into a loose ponytail as if the movement would also push away the anxiety building in your chest.

“Alright,” Jungwon clapped his hands once, the sound clean and polite. “Let’s find space so we can stretch first. Coach said to keep it light for now.”

Around you, everyone shuffled into place.

The music started low, steady from the mounted speakers—an instrumental beat pulsing soft but cold, fitting the vampire concept too well.

You padded toward a space near one of the other dancers, taking your mark as your arms loosened at your sides. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Jay and Heeseung stepped into the spot diagonally across from you.

A few feet away.

Just far enough to notice.

Silver hair. Pale under the lights. A tall frame you could not ignore if you tried—and you really, really tried.

Heeseung moved precisely, even when doing something as simple as a forward fold. Every stretch, every posture, even the subtle turn of his wrist as he reached upward, had the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of muscle memory.

And fine, maybe the way the hem of his sweater rose a little to reveal the curve of his waist was—not an eyesore.

He bent forward, long legs folding in near-perfect symmetry, and you hummed to yourself in thought as you copied the motion, fingertips brushing your sneakers as you leaned into the stretch.

You closed your eyes briefly.

He’s not ugly, your brain offered helpfully.

But it wasn’t about looks. Never was.

You didn’t trust the type. Not the idol charm. Not the carefully curated appeal. Not the ones who knew they were beautiful and acted like it was a favor to the world.

Still, you found yourself peeking again, through the fall of your lashes, just in time to see Heeseung adjust his sleeves and glance up—and this time, his eyes nearly caught yours.

You turned away before they could.

You reached upward on cue as Jungwon led the next stretch, voice light and encouraging from the center.

“Arms up,” he said, demonstrating. “Inhale, and—fold. Let’s warm up your legs and lower back.”

You followed the rhythm, letting your body fall back into instinct.

Jungwon’s voice carried steady through the room as he guided the group through the last stretch. “And exhale slowly—come back up.”

Everyone rose from their positions in a wave of motion, quiet exhalations filling the space like a shared breath.

The choreographers moved to the front again, clapping once to gather attention.

“Alright, now that everyone’s loosened up,” one began, “let’s talk a bit more about the concept before we get into teaching.”

You rolled your shoulders back, settling into a comfortable stance, arms crossed loosely as you listened—nodding every so often, even if most of it passed over your head like background noise.

“‘Bite Me,’” the head coach repeated. “We mentioned earlier—vampire concept, but we’re going deeper. Think power. Think seduction. There’s a desperation to the choreography, like you’re drawn to each other, pulled in and pushed away again.”

You blinked slowly.

“Now, before we assign partners,” another choreographer chimed in, “we’re going to teach the first part of the chorus. Just to see how the movement flows. Chemistry matters—and it’s easier to feel that when we see you do it alone a few times first.”

Alone.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Everyone, shift to formation, please,” the head choreographer instructed. “We’ll teach the base steps first, no pressure, no full-out yet.”

You moved into place with the other dancers, falling naturally into a slot near the right. The ENHYPEN boys were mirrored on the other side of the room—learning the same steps, taught by a different coach with half the mirrors angled toward them.

The music started again.

Slower this time. Stripped. Just beat and breath.

And then the first movements were demonstrated—an arch of the back, a turn on the heel, a downward drag of your hand down your neck and chest. A flick of the wrist. A step forward with intent.

You weren’t a stranger to dancing in close contact—but this was different. Every move screamed tension.

Everything about it screamed closeness, heat, the kind of near-touch that burned more than actual skin-on-skin.

Still—you adapted fast.

Even without a partner, your movements flowed smoothly. The twist of your body, the precise lines of your arms, the slight drop of your head when instructed to lean back with your neck exposed—

“Nice, (Y/N),” one of the choreographers called out, eyes sharp as she passed you. “Try leaning your head back just a bit more. Let it feel surrendered.”

You nodded quickly, making the adjustment as you repeated the movement again from the top. Fingers ghosting your collarbone, chin tilted higher this time, lips slightly parted with the breath it took to move like that.

You caught your own reflection in the mirror.

And for a moment, even you did a double take.

You hummed under your breath and went back to hitting the formation, silently wondering how the hell you were going to do this with actual physical contact involved.

And across the room, Lee Heeseung was spiraling.

He couldn’t look away.

Not really.

He tried—god, he really tried—but you were in his peripheral vision like gravity, like something pulling him in every time you moved with that sharp, fluid control.

There was no faltering in your rhythm. Every drag of your hand, every arch, every twist of your body—it was like your bones knew the beat before the music even dropped.

And it was doing things to him.

His jaw clenched. So did his hands, tightening into loose fists at his sides as the choreographer called out the next set of steps.

Heeseung had a half-mind to listen. The other half was firmly rooted in the sight of you dragging your palm over your throat with your eyes closed.

Jake, next to him, didn’t even look up as he sighed. “Stop acting like it’s the first time you’ve seen a girl besides your mom,” he muttered under his breath.

Heeseung whipped his head toward him with a scowl, voice low. “Shut up.”

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re being so obvious right now.”

Heeseung glared for another beat before turning back toward the mirror. He adjusted his footing, shook out his arms, and tried to fall into formation again—but it was impossible.

Because now the music was picking up, and the choreographer’s voice cut across the room sharply—

“Focus! Don’t just mark it—move like it means something.”

He bent his knees slightly, timed the flick of his hand to the beat. But then came the next count—hips sliding forward, one arm curling behind the neck as if gripping something—or someone.

And his eyes flicked to the other side of the room.

To the way your neck tilted back like surrender. The way your lips parted ever so slightly with the breath it took to dip into the move. The sheer ease of it.

He blinked.

His thoughts were so loud he nearly missed the cue to step again. He silently begged the universe to make it stop.

Or not.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore—does he want to be paired with you or not?

Because, on one hand, if he was—he’d combust. On the spot. Sweaty palms. Shaky voice. Couldn’t make eye contact for days.

On the other hand—if he wasn’t, he might die anyway.

The thought made him exhale sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his face as the song faded out and the choreographer’s voice came in again, too chipper for the tension in his bones.

“Alright,” they said. “I think we’re ready to try that with partners now.”

A collective groan passed through the room.

Everyone drifted from their positions, regrouping in the center of the studio. The casual chatter returned—water bottles uncapped, someone fixing a hair tie, another adjusting the waistband of their sweatpants.

“Actually,” the assistant choreographer interrupted, stepping forward, “line up by height first. Let’s just get a visual.”

Sunoo blinked. “Are we back in high school?”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as a few dancers giggled around you.

But when you realized where you were standing once the line shifted into place—right at the front—you frowned almost instantly.

You exhaled slowly, arms folded over your chest as the choreographers paced the length of the line, murmuring notes between each other.

Occasionally, one would glance up, pointing briefly at a pair as if mentally bookmarking the duo. Once they reached the end of the line, the head coach nodded.

“Alright, back to the side please. We’ll start pairing off.”

Everyone shuffled away again, some more eager than others, some already whispering guesses. You stayed quiet.

“Let’s get this over with,” the choreographer continued, scanning the clipboard in their hand. “The sooner we find working chemistry, the better. We’ll try each pairing for a few counts, take notes, and go from there.”

You leaned against the wall, towel over your shoulder, fingers nervously tracing the hem.

“Heeseung.”

Your head turned.

He stepped out from the crowd smoothly, all quiet confidence and long strides. His silver hair glinted faintly under the studio lights, and despite the way his sweater clung to his back with sweat, he moved with ease.

He stood in the center of the room like he was born there, and maybe he was.

The choreographer tilted their chin. “Let’s see the male part from the top. Just walk us through it alone.”

Heeseung nodded, rolling his shoulders out as the music cued.

He moved like water—sharp but fluid, clean but emotional. Every movement was deliberate, every beat executed with the kind of skill that only came from years of muscle memory. You couldn’t deny it.

He was good. Really good.

The choreographers scribbled something down as he finished the last beat, chest rising and falling lightly.

You hummed under your breath.

“(Y/N).”

Your eyes flicked up. You pushed off the wall without a word, making your way toward the center as Heeseung stepped aside instinctively, giving you enough room to take your mark.

You dropped your towel, exhaled, and rolled your wrists once.

Your steps hit beat-for-beat with the track. Smooth twists, steady isolations, a sharp flick of the wrist here, a dragged palm across your jaw there—every motion etched in muscle and instinct. When you tilted your head back for that final count, eyes fluttering shut, it felt like electricity humming down your spine.

Even Heeseung blinked.

The choreographers paused. Whispered again. “Heeseung. Step in.”

He did. Hesitantly. Carefully. At least three feet away from you.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the room.

Jungwon scoffed playfully. “Hyung, what is that? A long-distance relationship?”

Heeseung scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, the tips of his ears already red. “Just… giving space.”

“You won’t be giving space when you’re doing the actual choreo,” one of the choreographers said dryly. “Move closer.”

Heeseung inched forward—half a step. Barely noticeable.

“Closer.”

Another half-step.

Heeseung’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “…Right.”

You nodded once, sharp and simple, then turned your attention to the choreographers. You needed to keep it together—focus. You’d done harder routines than this. You’d worked with idols before.

But none of them had stood next to you like this.

None of them had made your skin crawl in a way that felt more like heat than discomfort.

You barely registered Heeseung fidgeting again, fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves like they might hide the way his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. You didn’t even look at him.

The choreographers, clipboard in hand, were murmuring something. Their voices low, but not low enough.

“She’s a full foot shorter, but I think it looks great on camera.”

“Yeah, there’s contrast—but not awkward. They match. Perfectly.”

“I think this could work.”

You said nothing and let it slide.

Because if you were going to do this—you had to act like Lee Heeseung’s existence didn’t crawl up your spine like static. That his height didn’t make you feel cornered. That the word match didn’t make your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You straightened your posture.

Heeseung cleared his throat softly beside you.

The choreographer clapped once, “Alright. Let’s walk through it slowly first—no music yet. Get into your first position.”

You both nodded. You stepped back into formation, facing each other with about a foot of space between. Heeseung took one breath in—then another. You didn’t dare look at him.

“On my count.”

One. Two. Three.

You started slow, like instructed—bodies circling, moving around each other.

The first few steps had you moving away from him, then pulling close again. As the count hit, you slid your hand up—just under his chin, fingers hovering at the edge of his jaw. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching the slightest flicker of hesitation in his.

Heeseung inhaled—shallow and sharp.

Still, he leaned in, just like he was supposed to. The distance between your faces cut down to mere inches. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of cologne and fabric softener and nerves.

You dropped down—one knee softly touching the floor.

Your hands moved slowly up from his hip to the hem of his shirt, grazing the fabric there, before trailing higher, across his abdomen, tracing a path to his chest.

His jaw clenched, but his arms remained at his sides like he was afraid to move too early.

You heard the choreographer’s voice again, distant but present.

“Nice. That’s good. Keep going.”

Heeseung finally reacted—just in time for the next cue.

He moved his hands to your waist, gentle but firm, fingers curling against your sides as you rose slightly from the kneel.

The contact startled you more than it should’ve, even though it was expected. You glanced up instinctively—only to find him already looking at you.

His gaze dropped immediately, like he got caught.

You cleared your throat and placed both hands on his shoulders, grounding yourself, letting the last beat echo in silence between your bodies.

You could hear everything—the beat of your own pulse, the slight shift in his breath. His fingers still rested on your waist, not too tight, not too loose. Just there.

Holding you like he was still figuring out if you were real.

The choreographers finally broke the silence.

“Alright, not bad. Let’s do that one more time. Try to make the connection feel more intentional.”

Heeseung beat you to a response.

“S-sorry,” he muttered quickly, bowing slightly. “That was on me.”

The second choreographer chuckled under her breath. “You’re being too careful, Heeseung. This is a dance, not a bomb you’re diffusing.”

Heeseung gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Got it.”

His ears were already red.

You just raised a brow at the way he looked everywhere but at you.

“Places,” the coach clapped once.

You rolled your shoulders, exhaled through your nose, and stepped into formation again. Heeseung followed, a breath deeper this time.

The beat kicked in, and this time—he was different.

Gone was the awkward fumbling. Gone was the frozen posture and hesitant touch. He moved with rhythm. With ease. With intent.

Every shift of his body matched yours, every brush of his fingertips felt steadier. More confident. The moment your hand ghosted up his chest again, his jaw clenched—but not from hesitation.

He arched into it this time. Deliberately.

When you circled him, he matched the pace with a slight smirk playing on his lips, eyes sharp. There was no sign of the awkward boy from five minutes ago.

Only the performer. The idol. The center.

Your hands slid across his shoulders. His gripped your waist—not tentative, not light—just firm enough to make your breath hitch for half a second.

You weren’t expecting that. You were not expecting him to suddenly be good at this.

The last beat hit. Your chest close to his. Breaths heavy. The song faded out.

And just like that, Heeseung stepped back. Not far. Just enough.

Enough to breathe again. Enough to stop looking at you like he forgot how to speak.

The choreographers clapped slowly.

“That,” one of them said, beaming. “That was it. Excellent. You two have great chemistry. This might be a breeze.”

You nodded politely, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Thank you.”

Heeseung did the same, his voice calmer this time. “Thank you.”

But when you turned to walk back to the side of the room—Heeseung followed.

Not close enough to be weird, but close enough for you to hear him exhale softly when he caught up. Close enough for your skin to still remember the imprint of his hands on your waist.

You sat down without looking at him.

Lee Heeseung was everything you didn’t like about male idols: too pretty, too confident, too adored. You’d heard the whispers, the quiet little stories shared in half-jokes around company dinner tables.

The dancer he used to date.

The heartbreak. The ghosting. The way she supposedly cried in the hallway of the studio one night before switching agencies altogether.

You shook your head. You had no business even thinking about the way his grip had felt—firm, steady. Like he’d done it a thousand times but had only now started to mean it.

You didn’t care how steady his hands were. Or how he watched you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your silhouette.

You didn’t care.

Except he was still looking.

You could feel it—his gaze hot on the side of your face. Not cocky, not smug. Just curious. Like he didn’t understand what just happened either.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Sunoo plopped down next to Heeseung with all the grace of a cat, glancing between him and you like it was nothing.

Then, casually, he patted Heeseung on the back.

“Hyung, you didn’t trip,” he said, voice light. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, barely registering the words. His reply came on a delay. “I, uh. Yeah.”

You kept your expression unreadable. Your towel still pressed to your neck. The choreography hadn’t even reached the hardest part yet, and already—your limbs felt heavier than usual.

This was going to be a long month.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks of long rehearsals. Late nights. Sweat-slicked skin and sore muscles. Two weeks of fine-tuning footwork and syncing counts to the breath.

Two weeks of him.

Two weeks of Lee Heeseung glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Two weeks of him acting like you’d shatter if he so much as stepped too close.

Two weeks of slow, stuttering hands on your waist when the choreography required it—and apologies mumbled under his breath every time your eyes met.

You were in the middle of running through his solo transition in the second verse—just before the chorus kicks in again. It was one of the more intimate moments in the choreography. One that required connection. Chemistry. Conviction.

Which was currently nonexistent.

You stood in position, the rest of the dancers fanned out behind you in a wide semi-circle as the music paused.

In front of you, Heeseung exhaled hard.

His hand fell from where it should’ve rested on your hands, and the choreographer clapped once to cut the tension.

“Heeseung,” one of them sighed. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his palms on his sweats. “I just—can we run it back one more time?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Barely.

The choreographer waved a hand at the sound tech, who restarted the instrumental from the top of the chorus.

As everyone began shifting back to position, you crossed your arms and turned to him.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice flat but biting.

Heeseung flinched at the way your words landed—like ice across his skin. Your voice wasn’t harsh, but it held no warmth either. No softness. Just clean, sharp indifference.

Heeseung blinked at you, startled. “What?”

You stared at him for a beat longer. His silver hair was tied up today, loose strands sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he was mid-marathon instead of just missing a step.

“Because I’m not going to carry this part on my own,” you added, voice still calm. Cold. “This is your choreography.”

He blinked, jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I never said you had to.”

“Then act like it.”

That made something in his face shift—like the words cut deeper than intended. His smile dropped entirely. A faint frown formed between his brows as he looked down at his shoes.

But you were already walking back to your mark, not sparing him another glance. Ignoring the way his eyes followed you.

Jay nudged him lightly with an elbow, “You’re overthinking it, bro.”

Heeseung didn’t answer. Just inhaled. Exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.

The music started again—bass thumping low, count-off syncing everyone back into motion.

He moved with more control this time. You could tell he was trying. His footwork was cleaner. Timing sharper. But the second verse solo was his moment. And he knew it.

So when the cue came—the one where you stepped behind him, hands skimming lightly down the length of his arms—he stepped forward too early.

Not by much. Barely half a beat. But it was enough to throw off the rhythm. Enough that your hand missed his shoulder completely and hit air.

The head choreographer raised a hand, halting the music mid-beat.

“Take five,” they said, sighing as they turned to the sound tech.

Everyone scattered instantly, water bottles and towels in hand. Some of the other dancers stretched quietly in the corner, a few whispering about the mistake under their breath.

You pressed your lips together, jaw tight as you reached for your towel.

Heeseung hadn’t moved from his spot.

Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s fine.”

But Heeseung didn’t look relaxed. Hands on his hips, sweat lining his jaw, hair a mess from the constant movement—and still, his eyes flicked to you.

Just once.

Just long enough to catch the way your gaze slid past him like he didn’t even exist.

He swore something cracked in his chest.

Heeseung looked at himself in the mirror—chest rising and falling, expression pulled tight with something he couldn’t name. Was it disappointment? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it felt heavy.

He walked away slowly, grabbing his phone off the floor and padding out of the room with barely a sound. His head hung low, lips slightly parted as he exhaled shakily.

He turned the corner and made his way to one of the vending machines stationed near the end of the floor. Neon lights flickered faintly above as he crouched slightly, scanning the QR code on the machine’s screen with his phone.

A soft beep.

A second later, a familiar thunk as the bottle of banana milk slid down the chute.

Heeseung grabbed it, twisting the cap with one hand. He took a long gulp, only to cough right after—choking slightly from the rush of cold liquid.

“Are you seriously an idol?”

He turned, startled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You were leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The pale gray concrete made your figure stand out sharper, fiercer.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean. I guess. Practice kept getting held up because of me so I just—needed a break. I’m… sorry.”

You scoffed, pushing off the wall with one shoulder.

“Stop apologizing and focus,” you snapped. “You’re dragging everyone down with you.”

He blinked, stunned by your bluntness—still unused to anyone speaking to him like that. Not his members, not the managers, never anyone outside his circle.

“I’m trying, okay?” he muttered, voice lower now, like the words hurt to admit.

Your brow twitched.

You stepped toward him—slowly, purposefully.

Heeseung tensed, eyes wide. You stopped just a few inches away, close enough that he could see the slight sweat sheen on your cheekbones, the fire in your gaze.

Heeseung was tall, but the way you looked up at him made him feel small.

“Then try harder,” you bit out. “People are just trying to do their jobs. People who actually care.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself—but the words caught in his throat as your finger jabbed into his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re tired, or nervous, or whatever this is,” you snapped. “If you’re gonna be in the center, then act like it. Earn it. Not just for yourself.”

You stared at him a second longer. Heeseung didn’t even breathe. And then you pulled away with a scoff, shaking your head as you turned on your heel.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there—silent and still, banana milk cold in his hand.

And only when you were completely gone—your footsteps echoing down the hall—did his head drop again, shoulders slumping like the weight finally cracked through.

He blinked fast, hoping to stop it. But his eyes were already stinging.

Jaw tight, thumb absently fidgeting with the plastic bottle cap as his other hand wiped at the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Heeseung sniffed once.

He was the center of the comeback. And he was falling apart over one dancer who probably hated his guts.

And yet, all he could think was—you’re right.

Heeseung sniffed again, the burn behind his eyes finally dulling as he blinked rapidly and wiped at them with his sleeve. Another shaky exhale. Then another.

Until he felt composed enough to not look like he’d just had a breakdown beside a vending machine over a girl who barely said two nice words to him.

He dragged himself back to the practice room, the hallway suddenly feeling too short, too bright, the hum of the aircon too loud in his ears.

The moment the door slid open, all heads turned.

Heeseung kept his gaze down, refusing to meet any of their eyes. Not Jay’s. Not Jake’s. Not yours.

Especially not yours.

He padded in quietly, setting his half-finished banana milk and phone down beside his bag like nothing happened. His face was mostly hidden behind the sleeves of his sweater again, his silver hair falling slightly over his forehead, damp with sweat.

“Positions, everyone!” one of the choreographers called out cheerfully, clapping their hands twice as they stood near the mirror.

You watched him move.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

He stepped into the center of the room, right where he belonged. His jaw was set now. Shoulders straighter, feet firmer, like he was holding himself together with everything he had.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you took a step forward, trailing behind the others who were getting into position. Your eyes didn’t leave him.

Not once.

You watched as he stood there silently, hands flexing and unflexing by his thighs. Like he was waiting to be told what to do. Like he was afraid to mess it up again.

And then his eyes flicked up—just briefly. Not even a full second.

But they met yours. Red-rimmed and soft.

Your heart twitched against your will.

“Alright,” the choreographer said, clapping again. “From the top of the chorus. Everyone ready?”

You nodded along with the others and moved into place, still watching him.

Still unsure why it suddenly felt like you couldn’t breathe right.

As the music began to hum from the speakers again, you shifted forward, placing yourself behind Heeseung—just like the choreography required. You noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. The way he inhaled through his nose like he was bracing himself.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t have felt anything at all.

But you leaned in slightly and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, “Don’t mess this up.”

It wasn’t mean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

But Heeseung didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t say anything in return.

Just gave the smallest nod—like he was afraid even that would be too much. His eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders rigid but steady, jaw ticking faintly as the music started again.

And this time, he didn’t stumble. He remembered the counts. The shifts. The way your hand was supposed to trail across his chest, the way he was supposed to hold your waist just tight enough to keep the tension.

Heeseung danced like he had something to prove. Like proving it would mean something to you.

The second the last beat hit, a wave of cheers erupted from the room.

“Nice! That’s it!”

“That’s the energy!”

But not a single sound came from Heeseung. Not even the usual, breathless laugh he let out when he nailed a routine. Not even the bright smile that usually curved his lips when he got praised.

Instead, he let go of your waist slowly, barely brushing your arm as he stepped back.

Eyes still downcast, expression unreadable.

He reached for the hair tie at the back of his head, quietly tugging it free. His silver bangs fell into his eyes again, and he swept them back absently with one hand, a habit so practiced it didn’t even look intentional.

Then he turned without a word.

Heeseung walked across the floor, sneakers making barely any sound on the hardwood as he crouched beside his things.

He grabbed his phone, sat down with his back against the mirrored wall, and stared at the lockscreen like it would give him something to focus on.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you watched from a few steps away, towel still hanging from your neck. The cheers died down, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were still on him.

Not because he was Heeseung, but because he looked—small.

Small in a way that didn’t make sense on someone so tall. Small in the way someone looks when they’re trying not to feel something too loud.

And you hated it.

You hated the way your hands twitched at your sides. You hated that he wasn’t smiling. That he wasn’t doing that dumb, nervous laugh anymore. That he didn’t even look proud of himself for finally getting it right.

"Why does he have to look like a kicked puppy," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes before wiping at your face with your towel.

Because you didn’t feel bad.

You didn’t, right?

“Alright, take five and we’ll break down the transitions,” one of the choreographers called. “If anyone needs water, now’s the time.”

You made a move to walk toward your own bag, but your eyes—again—betrayed you.

Heeseung was still sitting. Same spot. Same posture. Thumb hovering over his phone but never typing anything.

Jungwon passed by him with a water bottle and a small pat on the shoulder. “Good job, hyung.”

Heeseung looked up with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He didn’t smile for real, and that’s what got you.

Because Lee Heeseung always smiled.

Until now.

And it was all because of you.

It was nearly midnight.

The halls of the HYBE building had gone still, that hushed kind of silence reserved only for the end of long days and overworked idols.

You were curled into one side of one of the couches in the lounge area, legs folded underneath you, your bag slumped beside you like it was just as tired.

Your phone glowed in your hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. Not liking anything. Not even looking, really. Just passing time. Trying to breathe.

The last two weeks had been a lot. And you didn’t know how to feel about any of it anymore.

You were about to shut your phone off when someone cleared their throat gently nearby. You looked up, blinking at the figure that stood in front of you.

Sunoo.

Ginger hair bouncing lightly, a hopeful, careful smile on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, his voice sweet and just a little unsure. “Can I sit here?”

You blinked once. Twice. Then nodded, gesturing to the empty space next to you. “Yeah. Of course.”

He plopped down beside you with a soft huff, his hoodie sleeves slipping down to his hands as he leaned back into the cushion.

“Hi, (Y/N)-noona,” he greeted, brighter this time. “How are you?”

You couldn’t help but smile a little—his energy was just that infectious.

“I’m fine,” you answered, voice softer than usual. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be at the dorms? It’s late.”

Sunoo laughed, brushing a bit of his hair from his forehead. “I stayed behind. Had to re-record some of my lines for Karma. I think I messed up a vowel or something—Jake-hyung said it sounded like I was crying.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. “Well, at least you got it done.”

He nodded. “Barely.”

For a moment, it was quiet again. Your phone dimmed in your lap, screen turning black.

Sunoo glanced at you from the corner of his eye, fingers fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. And then—very softly: “Noona… can I ask you something?”

You turned your head to look at him. His brows were drawn in slightly, lips pressed into a pout that made him look younger than he already did.

You nodded. “Sure.”

He hesitated.

“Do you hate us?”

The question landed like a pin drop in a silent room.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He looked at you this time. Really looked at you. “Me. The guys. Heeseung-hyung especially. You kind of… look like you do.”

“I mean,” Sunoo rushed to explain, hands flailing slightly, “it’s not that we want you to like us or anything! Well—I mean—it’d be nice, I guess, but—”

He huffed. “I just mean that you always look like you’re ready to run the second practice ends.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t hate you,” you said eventually. Quiet. Honest. “I just don’t know you.”

Sunoo nodded slowly, looking like he was trying to understand. “And Heeseung-hyung?”

You paused.

Then shook your head. “I don’t know him either.”

“But you… don’t like him.”

You let out a breath, turning your gaze away. “I don’t trust him.”

Sunoo’s mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to ask why—but something in your expression must’ve warned him off. Instead, he just tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and nodded slowly.

“That’s fair,” he said. “I just… I think he really wants you to.”

You looked at him, startled. “Wants me to what?”

“Know him,” Sunoo said, shrugging. “He sucks at it, obviously. Like really, really bad. But I’ve never seen him get so quiet around anyone before.”

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you didn’t have anything to say—but because you didn’t know what to do with that.

“Heeseung-hyung’s usually…” Sunoo twirled a finger in the air, searching. “I don’t know—composed? Effortless? He walks into a room and owns it. Like, even when he’s being a dumbass, he’s a confident dumbass.”

You snorted quietly despite yourself.

“But with you?” Sunoo tilted his head. “He gets all… careful. Like he’s afraid he’ll breathe wrong and piss you off more than he already has.”

Sunoo offered a small, almost sheepish smile. “I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

He let that settle for a second, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve before he added, “But… it’s weird. Seeing him so hung up over something somebody said.”

You glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was just gazing ahead, voice softer now.

“I thought he let go of that since I-LAND, you know?” Sunoo continued.

“All the doubts, the overthinking. He’s worked so hard to be… sure of himself. Confident in what he does, who he is. But you—” he paused, almost amused, “—you say one sentence and he looks like he’s about to rewrite his whole personality.”

You still didn’t say anything, because… what could you say to that?

Sunoo looked at you now, not accusing—just honest, open, like someone who’d seen the best and worst of the people around him and still chose to believe the best anyway.

“I just hope you let him in soon,” he said, voice steady. “And us too.”

You blinked.

“Heeseung-hyung’s really nice if you get to know him,” Sunoo added.

“A little dramatic. Kinda dumb sometimes. But he’s not the person people make him out to be.” Then, a small laugh escaped him. “You should see how many playlists he makes for songs he never finishes. Or how he hums when he brushes his teeth. It’s stupid.

You smiled despite yourself.

Sunoo tilted his head, smile gentler now. “Just… don’t write him off too quick, noona. He’s not perfect. But I think he’s trying.”

And for a moment—you didn’t feel like arguing.

“Anyway,” Sunoo said, standing slowly and brushing imaginary lint off his pants, “thanks for letting me sit here. I’ll see you tomorrow, noona.”

You nodded wordlessly, watching as he offered you one more smile before turning and walking off down the hall.

And when he disappeared around the corner, you leaned back against the couch and stared at your phone again.

Only this time, you weren’t scrolling.

Just sitting there. With your heart beating too loud in your chest.

And wondering why Lee Heeseung—of all people—wanted you to know him.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair and sinking further into the cushion behind you, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling.

Sunoo’s words echoed in your head.

“I think you scare him. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

You didn’t mean to scare him.

You just didn’t know him.

All you knew was the rumor mill: that he toyed around with backup dancers. That he used to date one. That he left her crying and never looked back.

You knew he was a damn good performer. A strong voice. A face that pulled attention. A body that moved like water.

But who was Lee Heeseung when he wasn’t on stage?

You didn’t know. And you hated that not knowing was starting to bother you.

“Ugh,” you groaned, frustrated with yourself, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

You just needed air.

You paced down the hallway, letting your footsteps echo through the emptying building. The elevators were at the far end—but you slowed when you passed by another open lounge area, tucked to the side.

Three familiar voices. One unmistakable.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” It was Heeseung, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “Like—seriously. I feel like I’m ruining the entire choreography.”

“Hyung, you’re just stressed—” Sunghoon began, but Heeseung cut him off.

“It’s not just the choreography,” he snapped, quieter this time. “It’s her. I can’t even look at her properly without feeling like I’m gonna throw up. Or say something stupid. Or trip on my own damn feet—!”

There was a thud. Probably Heeseung slumping back onto the couch.

“She probably thinks I’m a joke,” he mumbled. “And maybe I am. I don’t even know why I care this much. But every time I see her, I just—”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“I feel like I’m messing everything up. And she hates me for it.”

You stood there, frozen, lips parted slightly as your fingers hovered over the strap of your bag. You knew you shouldn’t be listening. But you couldn’t move.

“Hyung…” Jay’s voice was quieter. Gentler.

“It’s not that deep—”

That was your cue.

You reached for the white AirPods hanging from the keyring on your bag, shoved them in like muscle memory, and walked—like you hadn’t just overheard the guy who’d been dragging his feet around you for two weeks quite literally crumbling over your mere existence.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator landing saved you from having to hear anything else.

You pressed the button—twice, even though it was already lit up—and stared straight ahead, pretending you didn’t notice the way all three heads turned toward you as you walked past.

Heeseung sat up straighter in his seat, hurriedly wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Jay and Sunghoon just looked between him and you silently, Sunghoon with a slow, barely-there shake of his head.

You didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

But Heeseung’s stare burned at your back—like he was silently willing you to turn around.

You didn’t.

You stepped into the elevator when it dinged and let the doors close in front of you.

But even as the floor shifted beneath your feet and the numbers ticked downward, you couldn’t shake the image of Lee Heeseung—shoulders hunched, eyes red, voice raw—murmuring that he was the reason everything was going wrong.

And all because of you.

It was barely past ten and the practice room was already flooded with artificial lights—white bleeding in, casting long stripes across the mirrored walls and polished floors.

The speakers hummed softly with the instrumental of ‘Bite Me’, looping from the top as you stretched in the center of the room. Your arms raised above your head, your body bending gently from side to side.

The black crop top you wore shifted with every breath, exposing brief slivers of your waist before you pulled at the band of your white sweatpants to fix it.

Your neck rolled to the side, hair slipping over your shoulder as you exhaled and let your muscles relax.

The door opened.

Your eyes flicked to the mirror.

Lee Heeseung.

Black oversized tee, light gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed his face in a rush. But more than anything, you noticed the puffiness around his eyes—still red, slightly swollen. As if sleep had been a stranger to him last night.

He looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then immediately looked away.

Your mouth pressed into a line as he walked to his usual corner, dropping his duffel bag onto the ground with barely a sound. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched down and pulled out his phone like it held the meaning of life—eyes glued to the screen, thumbs unmoving.

Not even pretending to scroll.

Not even pretending to scroll.

Then let out a quiet breath and shook your head.

“He doesn’t even say hi anymore…” you muttered to yourself, barely audible over the light beat in the background. “God, he’s really that sensitive to me being in the room?”

You shook your arms out and turned away.

It stung. You weren’t gonna lie.

Not because you wanted him to talk again. Not because you needed him to smile at you.

But because now you knew. Now you’d heard it—his voice, raw and trembling, saying your name like it hurt to speak.

And still, he said nothing.

You shifted your weight to one leg, crossing your arms as you glanced at the mirror again. He was still sitting there. Same position. Same phone. Same silence.

It was almost pitiful.

Like a kicked puppy in sweatpants.

And you hated the fact that your chest twinged a little at the sight.

Your jaw tensed. You looked away again.

Because you didn’t know what to do with the version of Lee Heeseung who didn’t smile. Who didn’t joke. Who didn’t even pretend to look okay.

And a few feet away, Heeseung exhaled quietly—his shoulders sagging with the weight of something that didn’t seem to lift no matter how long he sat there.

He finally unlocked his phone. But he didn’t scroll. Didn’t tap any apps. Didn’t open messages.

Just stared at his homescreen like it might offer him answers.

The soft hum of the speakers continued. His gaze flickered—briefly, hesitantly—to the mirror across the room.

To you.

You weren’t looking at him.

Of course you weren’t.

You were stretching again, arms over your head as you twisted at the waist, back arched. You looked so calm. So unbothered. So… indifferent.

Like he didn’t exist.

Like you hadn’t told him off. Like you hadn’t jabbed a finger into his chest and practically told him he was worthless. Like you hadn’t shattered him with one glare and a scoff, then walked away like he was nothing.

And still, he looked.

Still, he watched you.

Heeseung swallowed the lump rising in his throat and leaned his head back against the wall, his phone still lit in his palm. A notification came in—a text from Sunghoon probably, or Jay—but he didn’t bother reading it.

He ran a hand over his face. Fingers pressing into the skin beneath his eyes.

He wanted to talk to you.

He wanted to explain.

But how the hell could he explain what even he didn’t understand?

Why your voice stayed in his head like a loop.

Why he couldn’t sleep until two a.m. replaying that moment in the hallway.

Why he felt like the air disappeared the moment you looked at him like that—like he was just another arrogant idol who didn’t care.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

And still, you didn’t even glance his way.

The tension in the room hung thick and unmoving until the studio doors creaked open again.

The two choreographers walked in—smiling, laughing about something that died the moment they caught sight of their two lead dancers. You, standing in the center, eyes distant. Heeseung, sat by the wall, eyes lower.

But both of you bowed anyway.

You straightened your posture and offered a polite greeting. “Good morning.”

Heeseung scrambled upright at the same time, tripping slightly over the strap of his gym bag before stumbling into a clumsy bow. “Ah—g-good morning!”

One of the choreographers blinked at the awkwardness before grinning, pretending not to notice. “You two look awake at least.”

They walked toward the mirrored wall, settling their tablets and notes on the low table. One of them looked up and waved a hand toward both of you. “Come here for a second?”

You nodded, not sparing Heeseung a glance as you walked over. He hesitated, then followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps. Could practically feel the distance he was keeping behind you. It was like his shadow didn’t even want to touch yours.

The four of you stood in a half-circle. You to the left, Heeseung on the right. Silence stretching so tightly between you, it might’ve snapped.

But the choreographers didn’t seem to notice. “How’s progress?”

You answered without hesitation.

“It’s going well,” you said calmly. “We’re still polishing the transitions, especially around the solos. Some of the blocking needs tweaking, but otherwise, everyone knows their parts and is keeping up.”

They nodded, taking notes on the screen of one of the tablets. “Good. And you, Heeseung?”

You didn’t look at him. But you heard the way he shifted his weight.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… I’m okay. Just tired. Sorry.”

That awkward laugh of his was barely a breath.

Both choreographers chuckled kindly. “Tired’s normal,” one of them said, smiling. “But that’s not what we wanted to talk to you both about.”

You blinked, waiting.

They glanced at each other. “So, we’ve been reviewing the recordings. And while your initial chemistry was great, things have been feeling… well—tense.”

You froze. Heeseung did too.

“We just want to ask—are you both okay?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, not even letting Heeseung open his mouth.

Your voice was even, firm. Almost mechanical. “We’re just both equally tired. I want to apologize if that’s been noticeable.”

The choreographers didn’t seem entirely convinced, exchanging a quiet look before one of them tapped on the screen again. “We believe you. But we also had a small proposal we wanted to run by you both—especially before filming starts.”

You lifted your eyes. Heeseung did too—slowly.

“If it’s alright with both of you,” the choreographer began gently, “we’d like to request recorded video updates. Just the two of you. Every three to four days.”

Your heart stuttered once.

Heeseung blinked. “Just us?”

“Yeah,” the other said. “Not the group. Not the others. Just your partnership parts. The lifts. The proximity work. The stuff where chemistry matters.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Again,” they added quickly, “only if you’re both okay with that. It’s just that Heeseung’s got a lot of center time, and your blocking overlaps more than anyone else’s. If you two are more aligned—it’ll elevate the whole comeback.”

You stayed quiet.

Heeseung nodded after a beat. “Understood.”

Of course he’d agree.

You exhaled slowly and muttered, “That’s fine with me.”

One of them smiled. “Great. Then let’s aim for the first clip at the end of the week. You can find a free room or ask staff to reserve the small studio downstairs.”

They moved on, discussing timing and files and where to upload the clips, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Because out of the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s head dip lower again—like the weight of his thoughts was pulling him into the floor.

And suddenly, it was you who didn’t know what to say.

You stood side by side. Silent. Cold. Strangers.

But at least now, you were strangers who had to see each other every three days.

Just the two of you.

And not even the floor could swallow you whole fast enough.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The Bluetooth speaker let out a soft chime as you connected it to your phone, the dim lights of the small HYBE practice room casting long shadows on the polished floor.

It was past nine—long after most of the building had emptied out—and yet here you were, standing in the middle of the room with Lee Heeseung, the soft hum of your phone against the speaker being the only thing cutting through the tension.

Heeseung stood off to the side, stiff, fidgeting. His fingers pulled at the hem of his oversized black shirt, head ducked, silver hair messy and falling over his eyes like it had something to hide.

You sighed, fingers still hovering over your screen. “Do you still need to stretch?”

His shoulders jolted slightly at your voice, as if it startled him. He shook his head. “No—I’m good,” he mumbled.

You nodded wordlessly, walking to the center of the room. The mirror reflected both of you in silence—your posture poised, his shoulders tight.

You turned to face him, standing a few feet away, but it was close enough to feel the strange energy bouncing between you two like static.

“The choreographers want the clip by tomorrow,” you reminded, voice even. “So we’ll start from the chorus and end right after your solo, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Heeseung said quietly, nodding, eyes still trained on the floor.

You pressed play, the faint bass of ‘Bite Me’ bleeding through the speaker.

A few seconds before the pre-chorus hit, you bent down and hit record on the phone set up on a tripod near the door. You stepped back into position beside him. Neither of you said anything more.

When the music started, instinct took over.

You grabbed his wrist gently—guiding, not harsh. His hands ghosted over your waist, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your cropped shirt. He mouthed his lines, lips moving in sync with the playback. But he never once looked at you. Not once.

His eyes flicked up toward the mirror instead, fixated on some invisible spot beside your shoulder.

His jaw clenched when the choreography demanded he pull you closer—still not touching, still hovering like you were something fragile.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t break character. You simply moved.

Your hands ran smoothly down his arms as his solo started. His breath hitched—barely noticeable, but you felt it. His weight shifted forward, leaning into your space but never filling it. His fingers twitched against your hands, uncertain.

You hated how rehearsed it felt. Not the dance—he was still Heeseung, precise and sharp and painfully good. It was the distance. The wall he still held up between the both of you, even when the routine demanded that wall be torn down.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

And the mirror watched it all unfold—two people dancing together, with nothing tethering them in place.

As the chorus faded into the next section, you stepped back—retreating to the side of the room, chest rising and falling as you shook out your hands. The music played on. You stood quietly, watching from your place near the wall.

Heeseung didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, but he didn’t dare let it show.

He moved sharply—every step hit clean, every spin crisp. The silver of his hair caught the overhead lights as he moved, jaw tight, hands curling and releasing like he was trying to keep control. He landed the last beat perfectly, and yet—

As the final note echoed off the mirrored walls and disappeared, Heeseung just stood there.

Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Back to that stance from earlier—shoulders tight, legs firm but uneasy, hands nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt again. He panted softly, chest rising and falling as sweat lined his neck and forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin.

You sighed.

Crossing the room in a few quiet steps, you leaned down and pressed the red circle on the screen of the phone, ending the recording.

Heeseung stepped a little closer.

Not enough to be beside you.

But enough to watch over your shoulder.

The recording finished playing with a quiet click. And then:

“…Again,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “Please.”

You nodded—wordless.

You both moved back into place, footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. He took his position beside you, not too close, but closer than before—like maybe the space didn’t scare him as much now. You could still feel the ghost of his breath when he turned toward you.

Heeseung stood beside you again—not too close, but closer than before. Maybe the gap didn’t scare him as much now. Maybe he was just tired of being scared.

You sighed as the beat dropped and moved like you were taught, muscle memory taking over. Heeseung followed beside you, gaze locked on the floor. He didn’t look at you—not once—but he hit every beat, every count, every breath.

It was cleaner.

But it didn’t feel natural.

Everything—from the way your fingers ghosted across his frame to the way he rested his hands on you—felt stiff. Forced. Like two people pretending they weren’t holding back an entire war between them.

But neither of you said a word.

As the final note faded and the room fell back into silence, Heeseung went still—then slack again, like he always did. Shoulders dropping. Jaw clenching. Eyes cast down.

You walked over to the phone and pressed the red button.

The video stopped recording.

You stared at the screen, watching the last frame freeze—both of you caught mid-movement, frozen in a pose that looked closer than the reality ever was.

“…It’s better than the other one,” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.

Heeseung nodded once. Still not looking at you.

You turned your head. “Are you okay with this for today?”

There was a pause. He hesitated. Then nodded again, more slowly this time, fingers catching the hem of his shirt like he was trying to tear it in half just to keep his hands busy.

You nodded too. “Okay.”

Silence blanketed the room again as you saved the video and uploaded it into the shared iCloud folder that the choreographers had created earlier that week. The little blue bar filled up slowly, and all the while, Heeseung stood where he was—still refusing to meet your eyes.

You sighed softly and said, “It’s best if we pack up and get some rest, yeah?”

“…Yeah.” His voice was quiet, just a breath. He turned away, moving to where his things were neatly placed by the wall. He slipped his phone into his bag, capped his water bottle, and zipped it shut with trembling fingers.

You didn’t say anything as you grabbed your own phone, shoving it into your sweatpants pocket.

He glanced at you then.

Just once.

Noticing how fast you always packed up. How quick you were to leave.

Then, quietly—without a word—he padded over to the door. He opened it and stood there, holding it open, eyes cast toward the ground but his presence heavy with anticipation.

Waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d take the silent offer.

You stared at him for a second.

Just one beat too long.

Then you walked past him, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”

Heeseung only nodded, shoulders stiff as you stepped through.

Neither of you spoke as you made your way down the empty hallway, shoes echoing against the linoleum floors of the ground building. You scanned your fingerprint on the security pad, and the door clicked open.

He followed behind you.

You turned to him at the threshold, the soft whir of city wind brushing against your face.

Your voice was flat—but your eyes burned into him like they had weight. Like they had things to say that your mouth wouldn’t.

“Let’s do this again. There should be some improvements by next time.”

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t move from your figure.

Not even as you turned and disappeared into the night.

And when you were finally out of earshot—just gone far enough that he didn’t have to pretend anymore—Heeseung exhaled. The kind of breath that left with his shoulders.

His hand dragged through his hair, a frustrated sweep of silver strands falling over his eyes.

“…Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “Improvements.”

Still watching the door you vanished through.

He turned slowly then, walking past the main lobby toward the side of the building—toward the back exit he was supposed to use from the start. But instead, he walked with you to the front.

Even if you didn’t notice.

Even if you didn’t ask him to.

He just wanted to be near you for a little longer.

Even if it hurt.

⤷ read part 2 here !

⤷ permanent tagllist — @m1kkso

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; "the one where Kon's soulmark isn't fake". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Just fine, Kid,” Lane says darkly, still glaring daggers at the WGBS guys. Like, if she had heat vision . . . oof. There would not even be a stain left to clean up. There would not even be a smudge left to clean up. 

“We’ll fucking sue your–!” the TV reporter starts to yell, and wow does Lane project when she’s pissed-off. Like, she doesn’t even yell back at him; she just gives him a look and the dude snaps his mouth back shut so fast Superboy hears his teeth hit. 

“You’ll what, Nate?” she asks dryly. “Start another fight you can’t finish? Or just get put on probation for plagiarizing an intern again?” 

The TV reporter blanches, then tries to get himself together enough to brush the grass off and glare back at her. It is not effective. Like. At all. She just folds her arms and gives him this absolutely flat look like she’s just, like, bored. 

Yeah: major “oof”. 

Maaaaajor. 

Fuck, Lane is just so fucking cool. If Superboy was, like, a normie civilian type or whatever and not gonna grow up and be Superman, he’d wanna grow up and be her. Like, you know, except for the part where you probably have to go to college and shit for doing shit like being a reporter or whatever. So not, like, specifically growing up to be a reporter or whatever, just like . . . the vibes, whatever, he doesn’t know. 

Also like, who even reads the newspaper anymore anyway? Definitely not a solid career prospect to grow up and be. 

He's not really the college type anyway.

“Well, need anybody dropped on any of the rent-a-cops, then?” Superboy asks her, mostly because he’s already blown his cover so he feels like he should do something. “Or, like, does your buddy down there need dropped at the first aid station, whichever.” 

“I’m fine, Superboy, thank you,” Kent says, straightening his glasses awkwardly as he makes an even more awkward attempt at getting himself up off the grass. Superboy pretends not to remember meeting him after that embarrassment of a bank robbery in the vague hope he’ll be less fucking mortified about having met him at that embarrassment of a bank robbery, though his success is maybe kinda limited there. “Um–Lois, are you–?” 

“The only thing I ‘hurt’ was my knuckles,” Lane snorts, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh right, guess yours aren’t invulnerable, huh,” Superboy realizes, then ducks down and grabs Kent by the back of his jacket to pull the guy up to his feet. Usually he’d just let a dude handle himself, but this dude is just so awkward, he kinda feels bad for him. Like, might as well leave a three-legged puppy trying to climb the stairs solo, geez.

Kent makes a mildly startled noise and nearly overbalances in the process of getting his feet under him. Superboy is actually low-key embarrassed for him. Like–god, what, does the guy try to be this awkward? Superboy really, really feels like somebody should have to be trying, to be this awkward.

Lane has the weirdest taste in soul-dudes, seriously. Like, the literal actual weirdest. Superboy just genuinely cannot believe a badass like her has a soulmate with a glass jaw who, again, tripped his way into a microphone. 

Actually, he can’t believe Superman has a soulmate like that. Like–talk about fucking weird. 

Yeah, Superboy definitely doesn’t get it. If he had a soulmate like that–like, a weird awkward dude who literally couldn’t even take a punch from some rando TV reporter, seriously–like, what would that even be like? 

. . . like. What would that even . . . be like. 

Superboy thinks, like–he thinks: if his soulmark was real, if his soulmark matched somebody else’s, if there was actually somebody else on the end of it and it was weird awkward Clark Kent or professional badass Lois Lane or even Su–

“Like maybe your jaw’s fine but you should probably take up yoga or something, man, you gotta work on that center of balance,” Superboy informs Kent, because that’s all stupid fucking shit to be thinking about anyway. His soulmark’s fake, so it doesn’t matter anyway. Like–just, it’s fake. Obviously. 

It’s fake, so it was never gonna be fucking anybody. 

So he doesn’t think about it. 

“You should be taking this bitch to security!” the WGBS guy snaps, and Lane just arches an eyebrow and continues to look entirely unimpressed with him. 

“Sorry, who?” Superboy asks, cocking his own eyebrow at the dude. That . . . sure is a choice that this dude is choice-ing right now. Like . . . wow, definitely a choice. Like all these choices that he has been choice-ing. “The pretty lady in heels who I just watched your sleazy ass chuck a microphone at and then throw a whole-ass haymaker at? And like, not even competently? Like you’re lucky you didn’t bust up your wrist, man, your form’s total fucking shit.” 

Admittedly his general form is kinda iffy because his TTK reinforces all his bones and muscles and ligaments and everything else he’s got anyway, but he at least knows how to throw a basic-bitch punch, alright? Like, he can pumpkin spice his way through a street fight. He can in fact very much pumpkin spice his way through a street fight. 

“She started it!” the guy sputters indignantly. Superboy just pushes up his sunglasses and cocks his head to squint at the dude. 

“By what metric, man?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. 

[catboybiologist]

Liliq files are, of course, the epitome of bioinformatics software design. Excessively bespoke and somehow blind to half of the tooling available and how it works under the hood justifying a new pipeline and janky easily bypassed conversion on nothing but the designers' preferences and a backronym.

They are also compressed like shit and generally run 200GB minimum and their metadata format is compatible with nothing and gets wiped at every other pipeline step.

😭😭😭 STOP GUTTING ME OUT IN THE OPEN PIKE THIS I HAD TO LOOK UP IF THIS SHIT WAS REAL AT THIS POINT

Bioinformatics is the process of converting one text file in a ridiculously specific, platform specific format to another text file in a ridiculously specific, platform specific format. The tool that does so is available via a broken make file on a public GitHub page made by a grad student 3 years ago during their thesis that was promptly abandoned. You have to edit the source and recompile to make it work. There is no documentation. Confused? You idiot. You absolute shitgoblin. Read the paper detailing the theoretical inner workings of the algorithm and the experiment it was designed to analyze and figure it out from there.

Now do that same kind of thing 20 more times for each intermediate analysis step you have to do to get to the point where you actually have statistical analysis. And then do those same 20 steps 15 times for all your trials, hope you made a neat little managing script that runs it all in sequence perfectly for each different case!

Oh, and each file is several hundred GB. Get it done by the conference next week.

[r66dusthewriter]

What comes after.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: “Are they lovers?” WORSE

Been working pretty consistently on these so i thought i could spare some extra fics this week 😙 enjoy, i guess...?

Genre: Angsty fluff

Era: Daryl Dixon spin off, season 1.

Word count: 0.6k

You had come after him, all the way from America to Paris with no real hope of finding him and yet, against every odd, there he was. Just like always, he was tangled in something larger than life, something neither of you could fully walk away from and instead of pulling him out of it, you stayed. Maybe it was foolish but soon you realize this was just another impossible chapter in a story you never meant to write but couldn’t stop reading.

You glanced sideways. He drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road, the set of his jaw tight in thought. In the backseat, Laurent was asleep, his breaths soft and steady like a lullaby against the chaos following him. He reminded you of Carl and how life never softened its hits for anyone. You turned back forward, the weight of words pressing on your chest until they spilled out in a quiet murmur.

“When this is over…when we find out what really happened to Rick. We go home if we still can and then…” you shrugged, unsure how to frame the ache blooming in your chest, “what comes after?”

Daryl shifted in his seat, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. You know that look, he was trying not to feel too much. It was clear he’d grown attached to the kid and how could he not? But this wasn’t home. It was time to stop pretending. There were no phones anymore, no commercial flights, no soft returns. Just death, survival and running time.

He snorted faintly. “What’? Ya think I’ve been plannin’ some kind’o vacation?” He teased. “Florida, maybe?”

You chuckled under your breath but there was no humor in it. “No, I’m saying maybe it’s time you finally put yourself first. You could…get your life back. You know, stop doing things for people”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared ahead as if the road could save him. “I dunno if I still can” he mumbled.

“Bullshit. You never thought about…settling down?” Your voice cracked, not from nerves but from sheer exhaustion of “almost”. You and Daryl had danced around that edge too many times and now time felt like something borrowed, like you should stop hoping and finally let go.

He gave a quiet, almost bitter huffed laugh. You rolled your eyes.

“Come on. Nobody special though?” you asked gently, for your own sake.

His hand tightened on the wheel, the tendons in his forearms flexing. Something shifted in his expression and when he looked at you, really looked at you, it hit like a gut punch. This was it, no more of you.

“Wha’? Like you?” he asked, rougher than he meant to, like he was bracing for heartbreak.

Your heart dropped. You wished you could reel the words back into your mouth. “I wasn’t–”

But he cut you off, voice low, certain. “Won’t find tha’ nowhere else”

Your breath trembled. You feel his eyes on you, waiting, always waiting for something you weren’t sure how to give.

You met his gaze “Who do you want me to be?”

He didn’t even blink. “Whatever you’re willin’ t’ still give me. I’ll take anythin’”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I think we both need to get a life”

“At the same time?” he asked, and it wasn’t a joke, it was a question wrapped in forever.

You turned to the window, to the gray blur of France passing by, wondering if the years had been worth it. Wondering if you’d ever loved anyone the way you loved him.

“Yeah,” you whispered, a single tear falling. “Same time”

[tagged-by-trauma]

hi lovely! i hope you are all well and safe! could i request something with pedro x plus size reader? it makes me feel valid and seen :) it can be about anything, your choice! have a great day! xx

They don't deserve you

When the man you've been dating basically dumps you, Pedro shows up at your apartment and shows you just how much you're really worth. Pairing: Pedro Pascal x plus size!reader Warnings: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, reader feeling insecure, crying, Pedro saving the day, soft reassurences, first kiss, cuddling Word count: 1.4k A/N: Hey anon! This request hit home as I'm also a plus size woman, but I was happy to write it for you! Hope you'll enjoy!

You have been sitting on your couch in your little apartment for over an hour now crying your eyes out. The man you’ve been talking to for months now, who you’ve went even on a date with just wrote a text to you that he didn’t think that it could work out for the two of you, and that you can still stay friends even though the complications that just stepped up between you.

You didn’t answer him. Didn’t know how. You just read the message and cried. You felt like you weren’t worthy of love anymore, that maybe you’re just not capable to be loved. Your thoughts even swam there where you thought it was your body—although you usually felt confident in your own skin. That maybe you were too much for anyone in this world.

The tissues were scattered around you, blanket pulled over your body as you tried to disappear.

He was your closest friend for years now, and you couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him, but things were far more complicated than just confessing to him and waiting for his reaction. You didn’t want to ruin that friendship you had with him. Once you even gave him a spare key to your apartment, letting him into your life completely, and trusting him with your secrets. Years ago, you decided to have a movie night every Wednesday evening, and that night was today.

You didn’t even remember, too buried in your own shame.

You heard your front door open, but you didn’t dare to look up or even stand up to greet him from your place. But as Pedro stepped inside with a bag full of snacks and drinks, he knew that something was definitely wrong because the silence was hanging too thick in the air. He put down the bag on the kitchen counter and walked inside the living room with careful steps, the wood softly creaking under his weight.

And in the doorway, he faltered in his steps.

He looked at your tear-streaked face, the dirty tissues threw around you and the snacks placed on the coffee table. He couldn’t help but be angry. Not at you. But for that person who hurt you this amount. With a soft sigh he walked closer to the couch and sat down. That’s when you looked up at his sad face, and you tried to dry the tears off your cheeks with not much success.

“What happened, sweetheart?” his voice was soft, laced with a bit of pity, and your nose crunched up a bit at the sound of it. That was the last thing you needed. You didn’t want to be pitied, you wanted to feel like yourself again without the doubt in your mind.

“It’s nothing,” you reached for another tissue when his hand came around your wrist and held it gently. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep in the new tears that found their way, and you let out a sigh.

“Cariño,” he scooted closer to you. “It’s not nothing when it makes you cry.”

“It’s just,” your voice faded as you tried to put your thoughts into words, and the warm feeling on your cheeks was proof that the tears spilled over again. His hand came up to your cheek and his thumb dried up the drops.

“Hey, hey, you know you can tell me, right?”

He was so soft with you that the words spilled out of you without a second thought. Maybe they were coming with anger, maybe sadness, but the most possible way was just saying everything with a numb tone.

“There was this guy I met in a café. He was sweet and caring and handsome. He walked up to me, we started talking and, in the end, he just ended up asking for my number. We went on dates, it seemed like everything was going so good, and then he texted me today that it’s not what he’s looking for but we can still stay friends,” you felt your heart become slightly less heavy, but it didn’t change the fact that you still felt like someone who was just dumped on the side of the road, left with nothing but a broken heart and no more tears left to cry.

Pedro looked at you with something unrecognizable in his eyes. Maybe a mix of anger and protectiveness, but there was something way more than these two, and you tried to figure it out. His arms came around your shoulders and he pulled you into his chest. The fabric under your cheeks smelled like him, like the place you got used to, and his arms felt like the soft reassurance after the storm.

He felt like home. And you were afraid of this quick conclusion.

“I just feel like that… Maybe I’m not capable to be loved. Maybe I’m just too much for people,” you mumbled under your breath, but he could still hear it, and he pulled you even closer. “I mean, I’m not those type of girls who walk on the street and every man’s gaze fall on them. I’m not the one who could easily borrow a shirt from their boyfriend and just wear it. I’m not—”

You were cut off by the feel of his lips on yours, and at first you were caught off guard, just sitting in his embrace, trying to not overthink everything. And then, your mouth found the same rhythm of his and the next thing you knew you were sitting in his lap, thighs resting on either side of his hips. His hands moved on their own route. His right tangled in your hair and his left resting on the small of your back, steadying you. Yours were both in his hair, ruffling the brown hair with soft grey streaks in it.

Probably seconds passed like this, but it seemed like minutes. Your dream that you never dared to do is now playing down in front of you, and your mind had to catch up with the emotions and the feeling of his warm body pressed tightly against yours.

You finally leaned back, your breaths coming in shallow puffs against his cheeks, and he gave you a soft smile from beneath you, so disheveled but still so handsome.

“That man doesn’t even deserve to breath the same fucking air as you. You’re not too much, you’re just not for people who can’t handle real beauty. And you,” his hands moved lower and cupped your thighs, giving them a soft but reassuring squeeze. “Are so fucking beautiful, cariño.”

You blushed at his compliment, your fingers combing through the messy curls on his head.

“Thank you,” he wanted to shake his head, as if indicating he doesn’t need gratitude, he was just doing what he wanted to, but you stopped him with a simple look. “Not just for this, for reassuring me that I’m worth it but for everything. For always being there for me, for always showing up when I’m at my lowest. Thank you.”

He pulled his face closer to his, his eyes so full of affection and care that you could have melted there on his lap.

“You’re really worth it, cariño. And if I’ll need to prove it, I will burn down the whole world for you,” his hand moved up and down on your legs, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the bare skin that was revealed by the ridden-up shorts. “I love you. I loved you for a long time, but I was scared. Scared of losing something so deep we had. Scared that if I said the wrong words, you would leave me there. But now I’m saying it. I love you, cariño. So fucking much that sometimes it hurts.”

His words striked a part of your heart you long thought was buried. But now he found it, and he was determined to bring it up to the surface.

“I love you too, Pedro.”

That’s all he needed. His mouth was on yours again. Hungrier, more desperate, full of emotions.

That night you both slept in the same bed. Not because something happened, but because you both wanted to feel each other close. His strong arms around you, the fabric of his t-shirt falling over your body, and the scent of his cologne filling your whole bedroom, lulling you into the calmest and deepest sleep you’ve ever experienced.

Maybe the world didn’t appreciate you the way you would have wanted, but Pedro was there.

And to you, he meant the world.

[hotchnerwrites]

your fics are so cute I can’t stop rereading them! you write Hotch so well:))

if you’re taking requests I can’t stop thinking about protective Hotch and a bau team reader! and how he might be more watchful over you in the field or interrogations!!

Under Control

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Word Count: 0.8k

Warnings: none really, just a oneshot of protective and emotionally constipated hotch

A/N: Words cannot express how sorry i am for the wait. Thank you for your kind words and your patience. I hope you enjoy the read and it's what you envisioned :) Mwah mwah mwah <3

(PS. My goddamn text colour editor broke :v can anyone help me?? )

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

It wasn’t your favourite plan.

You’d agreed, though. It made sense to let you do the interrogation. You matched the unsub’s target profile— approachable, steady, and not visibly threatening. An easy target.

It was the best way to get him to confess. But logic didn’t calm the pulse in your throat as you sat across Richard Mesner, the man suspected of seventeen kidnapping-homicides. He was intelligent enough to play games and taunt law enforcement, but he was also a paranoid and volatile bastard, and you knew that’d be his undoing.

So far, you were doing good. You held his attention. Your voice was calm, almost conversational. You tilted your head when he spoke, and laughed politely at his jokes— all of it calculated, a part of the dance. You’d been doing this job long enough to know when someone like him was circling you like a shark.

And your strategy was working.

Right up until you slipped.

A tiny thing— barely even noticeable. Mesner was deflecting your questions again, retreating behind a wall of arrogant confidence, and you’d let just the slightest trace of impatience crack through your tone. The professional mask wavered for a nanosecond, but it was enough.

Mesner’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smile stretching across his face. 

“You’re not as innocent as you look, you know,” he sneered, sitting up straighter, eyes flashing. “You’re just another whore. Like the rest of them.”

Your heart sped up. You fought to keep your posture neutral, but alarms were blaring in your brain.

“Like who, Richard?”

The table went flying.

Chairs scraped back as he shot up, metal screeching across broken tile. You shoved your own chair back, adrenaline tightening your muscles. Mesner was snarling, body coiled with immense rage.

Before you could even register your next move, the door slammed open.

Aaron Hotchner.

His presence filled the room like a pressure change. He stepped in, calm and composed, but authority rolling off his shoulders. 

“Sit down, Mr Mesner,” Hotch said, eyes staring him down, voice low and measured. 

Mesner froze— not soon enough, but the instinct was there. His eyes darted between you and Hotch, sizing up his opponents. 

“I will not repeat myself. Sit down.”

The edge in Hotch’s tone wasn’t overt, but it was undeniable. A wire pulled tight enough to cut.

Mesner faltered, shoulders slumping as his bravado cracked. 

You didn’t wait for permission. You stood, stepping smoothly around the fallen chairs and out the door. You could feel Hotch’s gaze flick to you as you left — sharp, assessing — but you didn’t look back.

It was nearly an hour later when Hotch brushed past you, with a swift “My office, now.”

Not a request.

You straightened your shirt, your heartbeat still thready from before, and you made your way upstairs. His door was open— a formality, considering you were alone on this floor.

“Shut the door, please,” he said, eyes fixed on a brown file in his hand.

You obeyed.

For a moment, he stayed quiet, flipped a page like it mattered. You waited, not daring to break the silence.

Finally, Hotch exhaled— sharply, like a fuse burning down. “I undermined you.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Sir?”

“Earlier. With Mesner.” He set the file down, brown eyes meeting yours. His face was unreadable, but you could see tension in his jaw, something different simmering under his usual cool façade. “You had it under control. I stepped in prematurely. I undermined your control of the interrogation.”

You opened your mouth to disagree or argue or something, but he raised a hand— not dismissive, just firm.

“I know what it looked like to you. But you need to understand, it wasn’t about doubt. It wasn't about a reflection of your ability.” Aaron lowered his eyes, “It was about control. Mine.”

You kept quiet, giving him space to finish his thought. He seemed to need to get it all out. 

“I wasn’t going to risk it,” he continued, “Not with him. Especially not with you in the room.”

Something clicked in your brain then. The edge you’d noticed earlier wasn’t anger, it was fear. Tight, contained, expertly buried… but fear, nevertheless.

You hesitated, taking the time to weigh your words carefully. “Hotch… you didn’t undermine me. You backed me up. There’s a difference.”

His jaw ticked, and for a brief moment, something unguarded slipped into his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or… something else. Something warm.

“I trust you,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “But men like Mesner… I’ve seen what happens when you underestimate a man like that.”

The unsaid words hovered— and I’ve seen what happens when you lose someone to it.

You nodded. “I appreciate it, Hotch.”

You moved to leave when he called your name out behind you. 

You turned, and hesitation flicked across his face, like he was still making up his mind over whether to let the words escape.

“You didn’t slip up,” he said, finally. “He did.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Aaron.”

And just for a second— blink and you miss it— his mouth quirked up in return. 

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagirise my content and/or report it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/strangergraphics-archive.

[coffeewasamistake]

Interview with Eddie Munson

(read part one)

For the Mini Pride Bingo hosted by @genderthings.

[AO3]

Prompt: Representation | Rating: Gen | WC: 2121 | Relationships : Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Corroded Coffin&Eddie Munson Tags: Rock star Eddie Munson, interview

Summary:

A year after coming out on live TV, Rock star Eddie Munson finally ends his media break for an exclusive interview. Between a solo album and his personal projects, he has a lot to say.

Last Tuesday I had the pleasure of meeting renowned guitarist, singer and songwriter Eddie Munson. We talked about his new album, Forbidden Fruit, and his decision to sign this album alone, his future projects with Corroded Coffin, and what he hoped the future had in store for him. 

Martha Collins: So, Mr. Munson…

Eddie Munson: Eddie, please. [He smiles.] Mr. Munson is what the cops call my uncle.

M.C. : Right. Eddie then. I’m Martha.

E.M. : I know! I kinda choose you myself for this interview. [He winks at me.]

M.C. : Oh, that’s great to hear! Now, Eddie, after five albums signed under the Corroded Coffin name, you’ve surprised everyone with a more personal creation. Tell me, what made you decide to write a solo album? No troubles with the rest of the band, I hope?

E.M. : Oh, I spent last Friday afternoon helping Jeff get his kid’s puke out of the carpet, so believe me, we’ve never been closer! No, the thing is, I wrote a lot of songs that weren’t really Corroded Coffin material in the last decade, and with everything that happened last year, I felt it was time to properly work on that. So, I spent some time in the studio, and before I knew it, I had an album ready.

M.C. : When you say, “everything that happened last year,” you mean your coming-out on live TV and the subsequent backlash that occurred. 

E.M. : Yeah. I had wanted to say these words for a long time now, but I was afraid of what people would say, and the consequences not only for me but also for the rest of the band. 

M.C. : A lot of people have declared after your coming-out that you weren’t good enough for metal anymore. [He scoffs] With this solo album, which, if I understand correctly, is radically different from Corroded Coffin’s usual style, aren’t you worried about being rejected by your fans again?

E.M. : Listen, I really don’t care if me or my music offend people. That’s our whole thing. If they want to spat in my face because my music is suddenly “wrong" in their eyes, when two years ago I was their idol, then they are no better than the people judging them for their own beliefs and their taste in music. They would sound just like the ones who scream that metal is the work of the devil, and I don’t have time for their hypocrisy. I walk to my own rhythm.

M.C. : So this album is what, an act of rebellion?

E.M. : In some ways, yes, it is an act of rebellion. My music always is. I don’t think I ever wrote a single song without a hint of revolt in it. Even my love songs. Especially them, I think, because when I wrote about love, there was always the reminder that society hated it. Hated me. Hated what I’m sharing with Stevie. That I had to hide who’s my muse because otherwise my label would throw me out with the trash. But now it’s different. I’m not hiding anymore, I’m embracing it. Throwing it back in people’s faces, in a way. Nothing about me conforms to society’s idea of what is "right," or "normal," and that’s okay. So, I guess this album is about rebelling against the system, just like my work with the boys [the other members of Corroded Coffin], but in a more personal way. It’s the quiet rebellion of choosing to be yourself, no matter what.

M.C. : So Forbidden Fruit is about love, amongst other things? 

E.M. : It’s a lot about love, yeah. I talk about my relationship with Stevie, everything that hurt about it and all the ways it makes me feel alive. Why our love is worth the pain, you know? But it’s not just a Stevie-and-I lovefest. I talk about other people too. Prom Queen is about a good friend of mine who struggled a lot with parental and peer pressure, including her choice in romantic partners, and a lot of other very difficult issues. And all of it was tied to this obligation she thought she had to conform to the image other people had of her. It hurt her deeply, and getting past these hindrances was a complicated journey. So Prom Queen is a song dedicated to her strength.

Now, on the other side we have Malboro Boy. This song is about that guy I hated in high school, who clearly felt like he had to be his most aggressive self, like he had to be top dog, you know? If he wanted to be a real man. He’s the reason why Stevie is hard of hearing by the way.

M.C. : How so?

E.M. : Well, real men fight, so, of course, he had to deal with everything with his fists. [His laugh is bitter.] Basically, Steve put himself before Billy, that’s the guy’s name, and one of the kids he baby-sat, and he got his face pummeled in. He got a concussion, and an ear that barely work and rings more often than not. And these two stories are about the same problem, but they don’t end the same way. My friend Chrissy had a very close brush with death and it really changed how she saw life, so she escaped all the conformity, the heteronormativity, you know? But Billy never had the occasion to grow past all the fucked up ideas that had been put in his head by assholes and society as a whole. And even if he was a real bastard, he didn’t deserve that. That’s an important part of the album, I think, this idea that you deserve better than the chains of conformity. Everyone should be free to present themselves to the world as they really are, and I hope my music can help some people in this aspect.

M.C. : That’s a great reason to share these songs with your fans, Eddie. But now, you briefly talked about your partner Steve, and how you sing about your relationship with him. Is that him on the cover?

E.M. : Oh, the cover. Let me tell you, I heard a lot of shit about that cover from basically everyone I know. Apparently, it was very romantic of me, which, okay. I admit, it can be seen like that. I did put my boyfriend on my cover album after all. But there was no need for everyone to heckle me for it!

M.C. : I’m pretty sure friends are contractually obligated to do that.

E.M. : If they aren’t, they hide it well. But yeah, that’s Stevie. Half-naked. Biting in an apple.

M.C. : And the apple is bleeding.

E.M. : Eating the forbidden fruit is fun, but it can hurt. You gotta know what you’re signing up for. Life’s tough like that.

M.C. : Are you the forbidden fruit? For Steve.

E.M. : Our love is the forbidden fruit. First because of the whole gay thing, because according to a lot of angry people, boys aren’t supposed to kiss boys. You just can’t do that. I wasn’t supposed to touch Steve, kiss him, fuck him, and I was certainly not supposed to fall in love with him. That’s like, the first rule of conformity. Love thy neighbor, but not too much if you can’t make babies together. And on top of that huge interdiction, there was a second layer, the social one. I was not even supposed to be friends with my man, because before being Stevie, he was King Steve. The guy who planned the best parties, ran with jocks like him, dated cheerleaders and was captain of two sports teams. Two! The top of the top of the fucked up little society high school was. And me? I was at the bottom of the ladder. I was a nerd, a freak, and a rumored satanist. I couldn’t touch the King. It would have been a crime.

M.C. : But you did fall in love.

E.M. : Yes, and that’s the best thing in my life, our love, but when we were teenagers, you would have never believed we were going to end up together. Our love was definitely of the forbidden kind, but hell did we bite the fruit. And even now, after all these years, we’re still fighting everything and everyone to keep loving each other.

M.C. : It impacted your work pretty badly. Last year, when you came out, it was not just your fans who reacted to it. Your label dropped you. Did the rest of the band resent you for that?

E.M. : No, never. But, you know, I would not have come out without their approval. Because I’m not just Eddie, I’m Eddie Munson from Corroded Coffin, so everything I do has an impact on the boys. In fact, they were the one who convinced me to do it. We had a fight or two about it. They knew hiding my relationship with Stevie was hurting me deeply, and they all decided that we could take the fall. We’ve made a few albums, Stevie forced us to be clever with our money, we were not going to end up on the streets. And Jeff had a baby on the way, so we needed to take a break anyway. I was just scared to take that step. In the end, that whole stupid rumor made me lose my shit a little, and yeah. I did it. 

M.C. : Your real fans will be happy to hear you did not fight about it. Does that mean we can hope for a new Corroded Coffin album in the coming years? Maybe a tour? And what about another Eddie album?

E.M. : Yes, maybe, yes. I’m already working on songs for the band. I’m always sharing a little something with the boys when I see them. It’s going slow, because my solo music and our personal lives get in the way, but it’s going. A tour… It’s more complicated. Jeff is a dad now, and Gareth is looking a bit too wide-eyed when he holds the kid. And I’m not even talking about Stevie, he’s a pile of goo every time a child is involved. So we might not go on tour for a few years. Can’t leave babies at home for too long without seeing them. But if you’re already asking for a second solo album, don’t worry. I haven’t used all my material, and I’m leaving full time with my muse, so… The inspiration is not drying out, believe me.

M.C. : You’re thirty-three, your bandmates are having children… Are you thinking about fatherhood?

E.M. : That’s the plan, yes. Of course, it’s not as easy for us as for the guys, because we don’t have the bits for it, but we have great people around us. We’ve talked about it with Stevie’s best friend and her girlfriend, and yeah, we… we’re going to be parents. Soon, I hope. It’s going to be sort of a communal baby, but that just means they’ll be even more loved! And it’s reassuring, in a way, to know my child will never be left without a parent, even if I have to go on tour, or if something happens to me. And Stevie would not have to raise them alone either. [He smiles sadly.] Sorry, that was a really depressing thing to say! But I didn’t exactly grow up with two loving parents, so…

M.C. : You lost your mother young, didn’t you? Do you think she would be proud of the man you’ve become?

E.M. : [His expression softens.] Yes, she would be so proud. I don’t know if I believe in like, God, or anything, but I hope there’s an afterlife, and she can see me. She taught me how to play guitar, you know. She made me love music. Now I have a career as a guitarist and a singer, I have great friends around me, a man I love by my side, and I’m planning to have a child of my own. What’s not to be happy about?

M.C: No, I think you’ve made it. You won at life.

E.M. : Ah! I definitely did.

M.C. : I think we’re reaching the end of this interview. Do you have anything else to say for your readers?

E.M. : Believe in your dreams, I guess. Never let other people kill your creativity or your identity. Love who you love. And stay true to your friends, always. Family is made of people life gifts to you, and people you choose. Keep choosing them in everything you do.

[aurorawritestoescape]

hey kate! i love your writing and just wanted to ask, which is your favorite fic that you’ve written and why? ♥️

Thank you for your question, lovely nonnie! I’m gonna answer it and also recommend some amazing stories that I enjoyed reading myself recently💞

My favorite fic written by me

It often changes but right now it’s Be My Guest

Joel Miller x f!reader - Working as a hotel housekeeper, you meet a handsome guest under quite unexpected circumstances. An awkward conversation leads to a friendly relationship that grows into something none of you expects.

It’s cute and sexy and I hope a little funny, too. I worked hard on it and the characters became very dear to me.

Stories I’ve enjoyed recently

🌸 Soft by @honeybunnyale Tommy Miller x f!reader

Jealous and possessive Tommy Miller, Joel being a flirt, hot f!oral - it has so many things that I love!

🌸Lot Lizards series by @iamasaddie Tommy x f!reader, Joel x f!reader

We have to pay to spend time with these Tommy and Joel but omg they’re worth every penny!

🌸The way you do by @sp00kymulderr Joel Miller x transmasc!reader

A sensual, full of emotion, gorgeous story! Just ahhhh!

🌸 In the mood for something angsty and sexy? Read Wine Stained Lips by @schnarfer Lucien de Leon x f!reader

Al’s Lucien is as captivating as her writing!

🌸Zebra Print by @toxicanonymity Joel x f!reader x Tommy

I came untouched reading this story. Do I need to say more?

🌸The outpost by @milla-frenchy Joel x f!reader

Jealous Joel who claims you in the most delicious way. As always my baby wrote the hottest dirty talk!

🌸The Rockford Portfolio by @604to647 Tim Rockford x f!reader

Tim Rockford is everything I want in a man. He’s hot, caring, brave, wears leather holsters and uses handcuffs in non professional settings. And he’s grumpy in the most charming way!

🌸Construction Corner by @for-a-longlongtime

Joel explores his sexuality and makes me bite my fist and pant like a dog lol Such a hot story!

🌸 The Wedding Crasher by @baronessvonglitter Lucien de Leon x f!reader

Reader being a bad girl and Lucien punishing her make one hot story! Perfectly filthy!

💞Again, thank you for sending the ask and being so sweet, nonnie! Have a wonderful day/night!❤️🌺

[alllgator-blood]

I need to ask, because of it I CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT.

How do you make, not only long comics, but also VERY FAST. Like- I read one part that has 2/3 like pictures and then next day are again 2 or 3 and I'm like grabing my head and just screaming HOW??? (Also these comics are very yummy and I feel like getting stabbed after each one but in a good way cuz I like being stabbed (Kallamar got a bit too relatable in that one comic 💔))

THAT'S REALLY IMPRESSIVE AND ALSO SHOCKING FOR ME. Like- what is your secret??? 🤨🤨🤨

HAHAHA OH GOD I DID NOT THINK I WAS VERY FAST BUT- I'll try to do a list of tips I thought of off the top of my head, in case any of these help you or anyone else??? I try to not gatekeep anything I do because I think the world needs more comics honestly, so I tend to ramble a lot when giving advice.

click the read more to unleash many paragraphs of tips:

Okay these tips aren't 100% about being fast but also being efficient/keeping a good pace, I hope that's okay!

1: Originally the first tip was "draw every day even if only a little bit, so you don't lose steam" but I'm sure everyone has said that at some point. So I'll just say I Pavlov myself into drawing better by having little "rituals". Liiike...the only time I have energy drinks is when I draw. Or the only time I light candles is when I draw. I have specific songs I put on when I START drawing to get me into the Zone. I find that when certain circumstances are met, it helps the time fly by 'cause I stay focused enough to keep a steady pace. After a while of doing those things when you start drawing for the day, it tricks the brain into going "oh shit, we're drawing now? aight bet" and then you just. Go

2: SETTING DEADLINES FOR SURE HELPS. It's definitely nice hearing from people that there's no Real Pressure on me when I post comics...for free...of characters I have no obligation to draw...just for the enjoyment of doing it. BUT I work best when I have a fire lit under my ass, so I set deadlines like "I need to post this on saturday/sunday at noon so the algorithm will actually let people read this comic". I usually slip those into a description so it's a very casual announcement and I feel okay with postponing it if necessary, rather than making a text post like "NEW COMIC SATURDAY!!1" and then feeling terrible if I can't finish it in time. Lmao

3: I just fuckin GO when I make a draft. Like for this new comic I'm working on, I just sat down and started drawing like the world was gonna end; there's a lot of panels with very off model characters/wonky anatomy because I just wanted to sketch enough for future me to get the idea. I try not to look back on my progress for any reason besides continuity, because then I see how long the comic's getting and I sweat bullets. Literally so many comics have been ditched because I got spooked thinking about how hard it'd be to finish them. So if you just shut your brain off and don't think about the technicalities of it, just keeping mind the story you want to tell- it's SO much easier to complete. Breaking comics into parts is ABSOLUTELY necessary for completion :')

4: Maybe the most important piece of advice I learned from a published comic artist, is that people are gonna look at your comic panels for an average of like 10-20 seconds and will move on to the next. You don't wanna spend hours on a single panel that basically only exists to convey a tiny bit of the plot. So I like to draw just *enough* to convey the general environment/mood, but not feel obliged to put in a million little extra details. I really hate doing backgrounds but my art, to me, feels incomplete without them. So I'll add like PART of a room or a general Nature area just to say hey, this takes place in the temple/outside/whatever! As long as your story is engaging and the pacing is comfortable, I don't think people will mind (or notice) if you take shortcuts.

5: I listen to specific things to help maintain a good speed while not being distracting or understimulating. During the sketch stage, I usually have something slow/instrumental going so I can focus on the little movie that plays in my head and draw what I feel like a scene would look like. It also helps not distract me from what they're saying. For tasks like lining/coming up with color schemes/reworking dialogue, I have something more stimulating playing but not like distracting, so a video essay I've already watched or fast music I already heard a lot of times. THEN for the absolute fucking slog that is the coloring stage, I blast shitty breakcore or put on an actually interesting video so I can zone out while I click my mouse ten billion times to fill in all the colors >:)

Basically, comics are funny to me because it's like a frantic fucking race to the finish line before your motivation completely abandons you. There's been a few comics where I was ABSOLUTELY sick of even looking at them, I think it was specifically "in little ways, everything stays" where the comic itself is sweet and inoffensive but OMFG. I WAS SO TIRED OF DRAWING GRASS AND REWORKING DIALOGUE. KALLAMAR AND LESHY JUST HUG IT OUT ALREADY SO I CAN STOP DRAWING.

This post probably reads like "I HATE COMICS!! I HALF ASS THEM TO GET THROUGH!!" but I really do love making them and it's kinda the only thing I like doing nowadays, so the other aspect of why I get them done fast comparatively is just that it's what I spend all my free time doing. Some comics take weeks of me working on them daily to finish them, because working on them is my main coping skill rn so it always feels worth doing. I know it can't last forever so I try to just get as many stories as I can out before my circumstances change! Maybe don't be motivated by fear of the future though. Just do these because it's fun and people love reading your comics :') I KNOW I DO

In any case- here are the lines for the beginning of the new comic, I KNOW you love the funny squid so here's mine as a kid flexing on narinder for being able to summon his crown weapon:

[lathalea]

Entangled ch 6: The Forge and The Smith

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit)

Rating: T (subject to change)

Warnings: ANGST, Thorin in the Forges 😏

Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past…

You can find this fic crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: Thank you, my lovely readers, for your patience! I have finally managed to finish this rather lengthy chapter. I hope its contents will make up for my snail-paced writing. Special thanks to all who supported and motivated me in the recent months, and extra special THANK YOU with a cherry on top to the wonderful and diligent @legolasbadass for betaing this chapter and for all our Thorin-related discussions :) I wouldn't have made it so far without you! 💙💙💙

-*-*-*-

KHUZDUL:

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Itkitî! - “Silence!” 

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

Kaminzabdûna - “Earth Queen”, Yavanna

Uzrak - Master, a honorary title given to revered masters of craft (miners, jewellers, smiths, and so on)

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

-*-*-*-

✨ Entangled Masterlist

Mista discreetly stifled a yawn. It was one bell before noon, and her eyes were already drooping. The last few weeks had been filled with intense work. Not only did she have to quickly learn and adjust to her duties as the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, but also her days were filled to the brim with countless tasks, each more important than the preceding one. Every morning before the seventh bell, she was already in the royal kitchens, then she would meet her advisors and various officials, then she would plough through the endless paperwork, and after that, a part of her day was spent on organising help for the newcomers. 

Several weeks had passed since they arrived in the Mountain, and some still lacked proper housing or means to fend for themselves. The Lonely Mountain was reclaimed almost a year ago, but the amount of work to make ‘Urdêk a thriving kingdom from the rubble the vile dragon left behind seemed to be gargantuan. Every day was a challenge; a housing quarter would be made livable again, but another one would experience problems with its water supply. The legendary Forges were working at quarter capacity only because the solid fuel conveyor line was malfunctioning and needed modernization — which meant new and complex parts made of steel. The problem was, the only place those parts could be made was… the Forges. There were also various issues with the mines, the geothermal shafts, the air circulation systems, as well as countless damaged walkways, staircases, tunnels, and passages.

It all made Mista’s head spin. She was used to managing her family’s various business ventures; she even knew a thing or two about how a dwarven stronghold like Tumunzagar was governed, but the vastness of the Kingdom Under the Mountain was a constant source of awe to her. That was why her evenings were usually filled with documents, blueprints, manuals, and reports — all of them made for heavy reading and a heavy pillow. Time after time, she would wake up in the middle of the night in complete darkness, with candles burned out, her cheek resting on a pile of parchments, her spectacles skewed.

It was not surprising that Mista found herself stifling yet another of her yawns. Discreetly, she pinched the top of her hand, hoping to keep herself awake for a while longer. She had to — it was the first King’s Council meeting she officially attended as the Queen, and she needed all her wits about her. It was imperative that she took in all the details. The first one she noticed, however, was not some important notion about the state of the kingdom but a piece of dough still stuck under one of her nails. Mista sighed inwardly. She would have to wash her hands more thoroughly when leaving the royal kitchens next time. At least she remembered to take off the apron and change her clothes to something more presentable. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass her lord husband with her ragged appearance, unworthy of a queen. She had to try better next time, she promised herself, stealing a glance at his robust figure at the opposite side of the table.

Dressed in his opulent royal robes, with the Raven Crown over his temples, the King Under the Mountain sat in his gilded chair, looking truly majestic. His dark hair flowed down onto his wide shoulders. The black and golden garments he wore somehow emphasized his warrior’s physique instead of giving him a more distinguished air, similar to the statues of the great kings of old Mista had seen in the throne room so many times. Now, there was a frown on Thorin’s face, his brows furrowed, his deep blue gaze set somewhere above everyone’s heads as he listened to his advisors. The strong line of his nose, the sensual curve of his lower lip, and the thicket of his beard made Mista sigh for the millionth time since she arrived at the Lonely Mountain. She still could not believe that Thorin Oakenshield, the handsomest dwarf under the moon, was her husband… and she was his wife. And thus, she had to act like one.

“... combined with the unusually big influx of newcomers, our food stores are far from sufficient, and winter is almost upon us!” A male voice reached Mista’s ears. It was Storemaster Yagrun, a middle-aged dwarf with a long, finely braided chestnut beard.

“Then why don’t you allocate some funds from the Kingdom’s Purse for this purpose?” said an unknown dwarf at the far end of the table. Mista did not recognize his voice, and even with her spectacles, she could not see him clearly.

Master Yagrun chuckled dryly. “Since when is gold edible, Lord Njall? Allow me to remind you that the people of Dale are not able to supply us with more food. They have barely enough for themselves.”

“Aye, and the merchant barges from the South are over three weeks late.” Mista recognized Lord Glóin’s hoarse voice. “There is no way to be certain whether they manage to arrive before the Long Lake freezes over!”

“Fishing is out of the question either…” chimed in Lord Bori, the royal chancellor, with spindly white hair. His words caused everyone to hum or nod in agreement.

“Why is it out of the question?” Mista whispered to Embla, nervously adjusting her glasses on her nose. It was better to ask about such apparently well-known issues discreetly instead of divulging her ignorance publicly.

“Smaug’s carcass poisoned the waters of the Long Lake, killing most of the fish and other water animals and plants. We managed to get rid of the cadaver, but it will take time until there is enough fish in the lake again,” whispered her secretary, and Mista thanked her with a nod.

“Any ideas?” Thorin’s deep voice filled the chamber. Several whispers were heard, but no one spoke up.

“May I?” Mista heard herself say.

The whispering ceased. All eyes in the chamber were set on her.

Her lord husband nodded politely, his right eyebrow raised slightly.

You can do this. She cleared her constricted throat, trying to stop her hands from trembling. The thought of speaking before all those honourable dwarves made Mista feel almost as terrified as on the day of her wedding. And then a recollection came; the words Thorin said to her on that day: 

During straining official functions, I tend to imagine that there are only stone statues around me, carved in amusing poses.

A hint of a smile appeared on Mista’s lips as she cast a glance around the chamber; this noble lord would indeed look quite comical as a statue of a dancing goblin; that guildmaster would make a perfect figurine of a sitting cat with a fashionable cravat around his neck; and that surly lord on the left made her think of a marble sculpture of a fussy little babe. That was what they were — simply amusing statues and not noble lords and a king. The King.

You know what to say. She rested her right hand over the notes she had meticulously prepared with Embla. It trembled a bit less than before.

You rehearsed it all evening yesterday. She took a deep breath. It had to be now or never.  

“With the newcomers arriving to ‘Urdêk, we have more mouths to feed but also more idle hands,” she glanced at the parchments before her and took. “We are able to double our local dairy production. The herds of mountain goats we received from the Iron Hills are large enough. It’s only a matter of training new dairymasters and herders.”

The whispering returned. She swallowed. It was hard to read the room, but this idea did not seem too unusual to meet strong resistance. Not this one.

Mista lowered her eyes, not daring to look at the crowned figure on the other side of the table; her magnificent royal husband.

“That could work, Your Majesty.” Lord Glóin was the first to address her. “Aye, I think we’re on to something here!”

Several other voices joined him, expressing their agreement.

Among their discussions on how to implement their ideas, Mista finally gathered her courage and let her gaze travel across the table. The King was looking straight at her, his frown gone. Instead, he offered her an approving nod. Were her eyes deceiving her, or did his lip curl up slightly? Her heart started beating faster.

He liked her idea! Mahal, he truly did!

Mista wanted to laugh and dance, and maybe even embrace him, if she dared. But it was neither the time nor the place for such frivolities. This was when she was supposed to reveal her big idea. Mista felt a knot in her stomach as she spoke again. 

“In addition,” she paused, “we could begin growing our own food.”

Her heart beat so loudly, Mista was certain that everyone could hear it.

“Your Majesty…?” Lord Njall looked as if he could not comprehend her words. 

And then the others followed; she saw furrowed brows, gritting teeth, clenched fists. One of the council members stood up and exclaimed: “Growing our food? Do we look like Elves?!” “That’s unheard of!”

“Inconceivable!”

Mista clasped her hands together under the table and took another deep breath, seeking comfort in her notes, where she laid out the matter very clearly and logically. Now, the runes seemed to dance in front of her eyes, and her tongue refused to cooperate, as the voices around her grew louder and louder.

“Itkitî!” The King Under the Mountain uttered, this one word slicing through the cacophony of voices like the sharpest of swords.

In the silence that fell after, one could have heard a pin drop. Mista’s breath hitched at her husband’s commanding demeanour.

“Lord Galar,” Thorin Oakenshield addressed the loudest council member, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “While I understand the urge you feel to address my royal spouse standing up, I believe you can sit down now and listen to all that Zabdûna undu ‘Urd Mista, your Queen, has to say.”

“But… Your Majesty!” Lord Galar protested, shaking his grey mane of hair. “Mahal the Almighty created the Longbeards to be craftsmen, not farmers! Unlike the Broadbeams, we…”

Mista stiffened — both at his insubordination and the way he spat the name of her clan, full of disdain, before his words died on his lips.

“He created the Longbeards to be resourceful and survive.” The King’s voice was now cold as ice, his eyes dark like a winter night. “That is precisely what we did in exile, with the help of the Broadbeam clan, when your family lived in the comforts of the Iron Hills. And that is precisely what the Queen of Longbeards — your Queen — is doing at this very moment. Helping us survive.”

Another wave of whispers washed over the chamber while the King continued.

“But Your Majesty!” Lord Galar added. “It is simply not done!” 

“Not done?” The King did not need to raise his voice. The contempt on his face was unmistakable. “Then pray, enlighten me, what is done? Or even better, what have you done, Lord Galar, while Her Majesty was offering food and shelter to the newcomers?”

Mista could not believe her ears. Immense warmth spilled in her chest; she decided that if she had not loved Thorin before, that would be the exact moment when she would have fallen in love with him instantly.

It took Lord Galar a while to turn to Mista and offer her a stiff bow. 

“Forgive me.”

Only then did he finally sit down.

She decided to play it safe and slightly inclined her head in response. It was not a clear sign of forgiveness, nor did she ignore him — just enough to keep the lord wondering.

That was when King Under the Mountain addressed her.

“May I ask you to continue, Your Majesty? We would like to hear more about this intriguing idea of yours.” His voice was like a sunrise on the first day of spring, and his eyes regarded her with what she hoped was kindness.

Mista was very well aware that the respectful treatment she received from the King served one goal first and foremost: strengthening her position as the Queen. It was not personal; as the wise Dagur Sture wrote, A strong King makes a strong Queen. A strong Queen makes a strong King. It was all about power and securing the royal couple’s ruling position — politics, to put it simply. Yet, Mista was thankful she was sitting down at that moment because Thorin’s words made her knees weak.

“T-thank you,” she whispered, unclenching her hands, and then repeated louder, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a very slightly trembling hand, she adjusted her spectacles and began speaking, trying not to mind all the eyes set on her.

“I understand that this idea may seem controversial to some, but I can assure you that underground cultivation of certain plants, highly nutritious lichen, and fungi, was a traditional way of living among our people in the old days,” she allowed herself a quick glance at Lord Galar, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And when I say our people, I mean both the Broadbeams and Longbeards.” 

Mista noticed Balin smiling at her after she delivered that slightest of jabs. Feeling encouraged, she responded with a quick smile and continued. 

“In Tumunzahar, we — they — still produce some food this way. There are no nearby settlements of Men, like Dale here, so the people of Tumunzahar are unable to rely on food from external sources,” she explained. “But even the inhabitants of the Lonely Mountain used to grow their food, centuries before Dale or Esgaroth were established. A quick study of some of the historical records found in the Royal Library revealed that there were food farms deep in the bowels of the Mountain. The Longbeards of old called them ‘Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens’. According to one chronicler’s account in The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad, the food from those ‘Gardens’ saved our people from starvation during a lengthy Orc siege. Mahal the Almighty gifted us with craft, but his spouse gave us an equally important gift. It is up to us whether we make use of it.” As soon as she finished speaking, Mista swept her gaze around the chamber. Every single Dwarf was staring at her, but she had her eyes only for one of them — their King, Thorin. One glance at her lord husband’s face was all that she needed. Now he was clearly smiling at her. Her heart made a silly flip. His smile was not meant for the Queen, but for her, Mista. 

Or at least that was what she chose to believe in.

“We can’t allow our people to face hunger this winter. This idea is indeed worth researching, Your Majesty,” Thorin Oakenshield announced and added, “Thank you.” “It was my pleasure, my… Your Majesty,” she felt heat creeping up on her cheeks. “I will be happy to develop it further.”

“The Great Library should contain more detailed written accounts on this subject matter,” Balin said. “Unless they were destroyed by the dragon.”

Mista nodded, hoping for the best. It was to be expected: she had already heard that the famous Library Under the Mountain could be in a bad shape after Smaug’s lengthy “visit” in their kingdom. Checking its current state was yet another thing to add to her agenda.

The next part of the meeting consisted of discussions on the specifics of food farming. Mista could not help but feel pride; against her expectations, as she explained the details of food production in Tumunzahar, the concept slowly turned out to be a matter of “when” and not “if”. Perhaps she could truly make a difference here and help the people of the Lonely Mountain, and then maybe, just maybe, Thorin would smile at her again.

Mista had completely forgotten about her sleepiness, eagerly taking part in the discussions, and noticing the sudden respect and deference she was treated with now, especially by Lord Galar. His sudden ostentatiousness was not to her liking, but she needed all the support for this project she could get. Master Yagrun’s calculations clearly showed that if the food issue wasn’t solved quickly enough, half of the current population of the Mountain would have to find a different place to live if they wanted to survive the winter.

The King’s Council’s meeting was coming to an end when Mista noticed Lord Balin giving a discreet sign to a guard standing by the entrance to the chamber. A moment later, the door was opened and a Dwarf entered, approaching the table with a slight limp. Concern was visible on his weathered face, and even though he seemed tired, his black hair and beard were neatly braided. The grey garments he wore looked plain and simple, a stark contrast with the robes of the council members.

“Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” Lord Balin rose from his chair, gesturing to the Dwarf to come closer. “Allow me to introduce Uzrak Hrothgar, the leader of the miners who recently arrived from the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains. He brings news this Council needs to hear.”

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed towards the King and began speaking.

“I am honoured to stand before the King Under the Mountain’s Council. Thank you for allowing me to speak.”

“We are eager to hear you out, Uzrak Hrothgar,” King Thorin II offered. “We welcome you and your people in Azsâlul'abad with open arms. May I ask what made you leave the legendary Silvervein Mines?” 

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed once again before speaking, “I say this with great sadness, but neither the mines nor our settlement are safe any longer. For a while now, we have been enduring an endless streak of orc attacks. At first, we managed to fend them off, but they grew stronger with time. Soon, it was no longer safe to hunt in the mountains and to work in our mines. Merchants stopped arriving to us for the usual trails have become too dangerous. And so, with heavy hearts, we decided to abandon our homes, and seek refuge in the safest place we knew — the Lonely Mountain, if Your Majesty allows.”

“Consider this place your home now. Mahal knows there is more than enough space for everyone here. Besides, our mines need skilled miners like yourselves.”

The leader of the Silvervein miners bowed even deeper, but before he spoke more, he was asked to report all he knew about the current strength and locations of the orc forces in the area. A map was placed on the table, and Captain Dwalin and several other dwarves began asking detailed questions about the threat. Uzrak Hrothgar’s replies were short but precise, and from what Mista was able to make out, it seemed that the orc raids began intensifying in the Misty Mountains. The Silvervein miners were not the only ones affected. This explained why there were more newcomers under the Mountain than anyone expected. The reason for the orc attacks was unknown, but there were rumours — and sightings — of a new orc chieftain. His warbands wore the mark of three red claws. They took no prisoners, killing their enemies on the spot. They knew no mercy.

This matter, the King announced, would be discussed further at a later date. The previous smile was gone from his face, and an even deeper frown marked his features, so that his eyebrows made Mista think of a raven in flight, an impression emphasized by the shape of his crown. While her lord husband was giving a few quick orders to his advisors, she let her gaze linger on his face, fascinated by the way his expression slightly softened as he spoke to Dróri, one of his assistants, only to harden into the stern mask of the King Under the Mountain a moment later. He addressed Lord Galar curtly. She did not know exactly what was said; the only thing she could hear through the murmur of voices around her was the steady rumble of his voice: decisive, commanding, cold. It was enough to make Lord Galar and a few other dwarves lower their heads in agreement — manifesting obedience to their ruler’s orders. The King did not resemble her Thorin — the one who had danced with her long ago in Tumunzahar — but she was certain that this courteous, thoughtful, and honourable prince was still deep inside him, behind that stone-like mask of the ruler of the Lonely Mountain.

When the King’s Council meeting had finally adjourned and everyone began leaving the chamber, Mista directed her steps towards her lord husband, who had just stood up from his chair. His tall silhouette towered over the majority of the council members as he talked with Dwalin and Glóin. She needed to talk to him, too. In her mind, Mista was already putting together all the right words she wanted to say to Thorin, to thank him for giving her the opportunity to speak at her very first King’s Council meeting, for supporting her, and for making her heard. She wanted him to know how grateful she was for what he did.

“Your Majesty?” Her words sounded shamefully quiet as she tilted her head up, trying to catch Thorin Oakenshield’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head.

Seeing Thorin’s handsome face so close before her made Mista’s breath hitch. His eyes were as blue as an afternoon sky, their depth emphasized by the golden sheen of the crown on his head. He was looking straight into her eyes, and she completely forgot what she was supposed to say.

“Thank you for attending the meeting,” he continued in his impossibly low voice, which made her think of the murmur of the winter sea. “I do hope you did not find it too boring.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty.” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “Not too boring. It was… good. A very good meeting. Productive.”

“I am glad you think so, Your Majesty. We all appreciated your input. Now, if you will forgive me, I hear there is an urgent matter I have to attend to in the Forges.” The King bowed courteously. “If there is anything you need, my lady, Balin is at your service.”

Before she could reply, her lord husband was already on the way out of the chamber, with a few advisors hurrying behind him, his heavy cloak following him like a dark cloud.

“How may I help you, Your Majesty?” Balin asked, interrupting the silence that fell over the now empty chamber. To Mista it seemed as if some kind of magic spell sucked the air out of the room.

She felt cold.

***

The Great Library of the Lonely Mountain was a pile of rubble. When Balin showed it to Mista, she could not believe her eyes.

“Aye, it’s not a pretty sight,” Balin admitted, shaking his head, and then pointed to the left. “The dragon tore that wall down at some point. The main entrance is buried under those stone blocks.”

“Is there a different way to enter the library?” Mista asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“If my memory serves me right…” Balin began, and Mista smiled to herself. He was known for his legendary knowledge of the old Kingdom Under the Mountain, and she took every opportunity she could to learn from him about her new home. 

“There were several entrances to the Great Library but they met a similar fate, I’m afraid,” Balin continued. “Me and a handful of other Dwarves tried finding a way inside in the first weeks after the Kingdom was reclaimed, but we had no luck, My Lady.”

“There is so much knowledge behind those rocks. We can’t afford to lose it.” In her mind’s eye, Mista saw rows and rows of ancient tomes waiting in darkness for someone to open them again after over 170 years of solitude. She could not believe that all of them were destroyed. Some of the books had to have survived the dragon’s destructive frenzy.

“Aye,” Balin nodded. “If we only had more time and volunteers…” Mista agreed, feeling disappointed. Every able-bodied Dwarf was busy with the most crucial matters: repairing their realm and making it livable again. The Great Library simply had to wait. Unless…

“I could write to my Father,” she said hesitantly. That was one of the last things she was willing to do — asking her Father for a favour. “He would be able to hire experienced Stone Masters for us in the Blue Mountains. But it would take time until they arrive.” “At least several months,” Balin agreed.

They did not have that much time.

Embla cleared her throat, “May I, My Lady?”

Mista nodded.

“It so happens that my husband, Sindri, is a Stone Master, and he will be willing to help,” Embla said, giving her one of her vibrant smiles.

“That’s wonderful news but what about his other duties? Will he truly have time for this?” Mista glanced at the nearest heap of large, cracked rocks.

“Of course! He’s only recently arrived from the Iron Hills with all of our belongings — as you know, My Lady, I came here first with my parents and our little Nàli — and Sindri is yet to join a workshop that suits him best.” She grinned again. “And as he doesn’t like to stay idle, he…”

“Mommyyyy!” something squeaked nearby. Mista looked around to see a chubby pebble — a boy of no more than ten years with a tangle of copper curls on his head — running straight into Embla’s outstretched arms.

“What are you doing here, Nugget?” Embla kissed her son on the top of his head. “Daddy taught me how to ride a pony today!” Nàli exclaimed with a huge smile that closely resembled his mother’s, and Mista could not help but smile at his enthusiasm.

His prattling continued until his father approached them as well. Sindri was a big, sturdy Dwarf with kind brown eyes, several thick golden braids and a bushy moustache.

“Your Majesty,” Embla turned to her. “Allow me to introduce my husband Sindri, son of Sigurd, and my son, Nàli.”

“It is an honour to meet you both,” Mista greeted them, but when her eyes rested on the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother’s skirts. “Nàli, where did you go?” chuckled Embla. “There is no need to be afraid of the queen!” Mista gathered her skirts and crouched before him. For a moment, his curious gaze searched her face just before he hid once again behind the flowing fabric. “I’m sure a brave little warrior like you is not afraid of anything,” she spoke encouragingly. “Are you?” Nàli peeked out from behind his mother again, “No!” “That’s the spirit!” said Balin.

“Are you really a queen?” Nàli asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I am,” Mista nodded.

“Then where is your crown?” Nàli’s eyes narrowed.

Trying not to chuckle, Mista looked around conspiratorially and then whispered, “It’s hidden in a very secret place, so no one can find it!” “Why?”

“So I don’t have to wear it. It is very heavy, you know,” Mista replied. 

Nàli contemplated this answer for a moment, nodded slowly and then took a step towards her.

“But then how do people know that you’re the Queen?” “I usually have the King with me. He always wears a crown,” she said. In the corner of her eye, she saw Embla stifling a chuckle. The boy looked around. “So where is he now?”

As far from me as possible, Mista thought wryly, but instead, she replied: “He is working very hard to rebuild our kingdom.”

“Does he like to ride ponies? Because I do!” Nàli stated proudly. Does he? Mista glanced at Balin hesitantly. Thorin was her husband, and yet she could not say. She tried to ignore the sudden lump in her throat.

“He does, laddie,” Balin stated. “His favourite pony is called Cobalt.” While the boy bombarded him with questions about Cobalt, his father addressed Mista. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, for this intrusion. We were on our way home when Nàli heard his mother’s voice.” When Sindri spoke, his eyes rested warmly on his wife, and as their gazes met, it was enough for Mista to be certain of one thing. This is how a loving marriage looks like, she thought, quickly looking away.

Before Embla’s husband and son left, Sindri confirmed his interest in helping out with gaining access to the Great Library and offered the assistance of a group of stone masters who arrived from the Iron Hills with him. Mista could not curb her enthusiasm — it looked like there was still hope to recover some of those precious tomes, and maybe even learn more about Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens. 

When she turned to Embla to speak to her about it, Mista saw that her secretary’s gaze followed Sindri. He carried their giggling son on his back as they walked away.

“You have a son you can be proud of,” Mista said. “And a caring husband. It has to feel good to be reunited with him.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Embla replied with joy. “It does. I could not ask for a better spouse, and a great father to my son. It took me a bit of work to convince him to marry me, but it was worth it.”

“Don’t tell me that he was not interested in you! I saw the way he looks at you,” Mista said.

Embla giggled, “You are correct, My Lady! And one of his glances was enough to melt my heart like butter. At first, he did not think he was good enough for me, that silly Dwarf. He was too shy to ask me to court him!” “I find it hard to believe,” admitted Mista, trying to imagine the brawny Sindri acting like a shy maid.

“But that’s how it was! I was at my wits’ end when my granny had a talk with me. She told me: ‘Em, Dwarf-men are sometimes as blind as cave bats when it comes to the matters of the heart, so it’s up to us to show them the way.’ So I listened to my granny, and showed him…” Embla giggled again. “…and asked him to court me instead!”

Mista gasped in surprise. She was not certain about the customs of the Iron Hills Longbeards, but if they were similar to the traditions of her people, a Dwarf-woman would never be expected to offer such a thing. It was a Dwarf’s duty to woo the lady of his heart, not the other way around. And certainly not by showing them… things.

“Truly?” she managed to ask.

“Aye,” Embla nodded vigorously and grinned. “And it worked quite well! I was expecting Nàli before the customary courting period ended… We had a very quick wedding!” Now it was Mista’s turn to giggle.

“Then let me offer a belated — but very sincere — congratulations on your successful courting!” Their giggles echoed against the stone walls of the cavern until Balin cleared his throat. “About the library, My Lady, I believe this part seems quite intact…” He began. Mista hoped that he did not overhear much of their scandalous conversation. That was certainly not a decent topic for such a refined Dwarf as Lord Balin.

***

A week later, Mista clutched a bundle of parchments in her hand as she stepped into the Forges. It took her quite a while to find her way there; she had visited the place only once, during her first week as the queen, and now she had to rely only on her own memory. The king’s secretary, the stern Mistress Vigga, assured her that His Majesty was to be found in the Forges. Furthermore, Mistress Vigga insisted that if Her Majesty truly had an urgent matter to take up with the king, Her Majesty should consider having at least two royal guardsmen accompany her, as the fastest route was quite treacherous on account of not being fully renovated yet. Apart from that, the guardsmen would shield her from any dangers Her Majesty might encounter in the Forges: immense heat that would surely ruin her hair, open fire and fumes — disastrous to health, sparks flying everywhere — catastrophic to any lady’s skin, and those rivers of molten metal, and then there was that constant risk of an explosion or even exposure to the Forge Masters’ crude language. It was clear that the Forges weren’t Mistress Vigga’s favourite place.

Mista, however, needed to see Thorin. King Thorin. There was a delicate political issue she wanted to discuss with him, but first, they had to meet. It had been over five days since she saw His Majesty. Every day, he hurried out of his rooms shortly after dawn, before Mista could catch even a glimpse of her lord husband, only to return to the royal chambers when she was already asleep. Today, she waited for the King in his study at lunchtime, but he never arrived, busying himself in the Forges instead, and no one could tell her when His Majesty would return. Something told her it would be late, conveniently past her bedtime, as always. That was, however, not the time to dwell upon his tendency to avoid her, Mista reminded herself. Perhaps she was a bookish, unalluring girl from the Blue Mountains who did not rouse the interest of her husband, but — what was more important — she was the Queen, and she had her duties to fulfil. One of those duties was securing enough food for the coming winter for their people, and that was why she needed to have a talk with the King before the next King’s Council meeting that was to happen the next day. 

As an ancient Dwarvish saying went, if the forge will not come to the smith, then the smith must come to the forge. Or, in this case, the Forges.

Standing at the threshold of the legendary Great Forges of the Lonely Mountain, Mista felt like an ant in a ballroom. The spacious cavern felt like a kingdom of its own. It was filled with the hustle and bustle of massive machinery and countless Dwarves alike, the clanking of metal against metal intertwining with raised voices that echoed against the walls, and the constant hum of the fire in several working furnaces. Dozens and dozens of metalworkers, engineers and Forge Masters busied themselves around the cavern, shouting orders, warnings or curses, carrying or pulling various loads, forging, casting, hammering, smelting, shaping, and doing other mysterious things one was supposed to do at a place like this. Mista did not even try to understand or recognize them. Her knowledge of this craft was mostly non-existent. One thing was certain to her, though. Mistress Vigga was right: this place was hot and dirty, and the air was thick with fumes. Mista looked down at her elegant, opulent, and completely impractical dress and sighed, wishing she could take off at least one layer of her clothes. Unfortunately, as the Queen, she was expected to dress in a proper way and not parade in her chemise across the Kingdom.

It did not take her long to notice Thorin. Or rather, his lush, wavy hair, dark brown with streaks of mithril, gathered into a thick ponytail on his back — his bare back.

Mahal, be merciful.

He was working alongside the other Dwarves, sorting large pieces of metal and rock, and chunks of some ore. Like his companions, he wore only plain work trousers and thick leather gloves, which was not surprising, judging by the heat emitted by the gigantic furnaces. Shamelessly, Mista could not keep her eyes off Thorin, or rather his back, as he lifted yet another heavy-looking piece, his muscles playing under his skin that seemed to glow like molten gold as the layer of perspiration reflected the firelight from the nearest furnace. 

When the king straightened, the muscles on his powerful shoulders and arms bulged, and Mista’s throat suddenly felt very dry. She had never been able to admire his figure in such detail before, as his royal garments usually consisted of layers and layers of fabric. Now, her eyes followed the lines of that strong neck, those broad shoulders, and the wide, wide chest that narrowed down to his trim waist. Many Dwarves his age were proud of their rotund shapes, a welcome sign of prosperity, but she knew by now that Thorin led an active life, and his body reflected it. Mista’s gaze curiously rested on his shoulder blades — there was a tattoo there, partially covered by his hair, but she recognized its shape at once. It was the Durin’s Crown, seven stars etched in black ink, the unmistakable symbol of the King’s royal ancestry. There were other tattoos on his back and arms, too, each of those patterns telling a story of its own. As every Dwarf clan used its own unique symbols, Mista was unable to decipher the meaning of all of them, but she believed she recognized one of the warrior’s marks for valour and something like a symbol of a… swordsmith? Was the King Under the Mountain a Master Swordsmith? Mista promised herself to check this new piece of information later. It was fascinating — as everything that concerned Thorin. She wanted to learn as much about him as she could, to know him better and perhaps find something in common between them, or at least use that knowledge to become a better wife to him. A wife he would talk with, exchange jests with, and spend time with just like he did with his work companions at this very moment as they all tried to move an exceptionally large piece of metal from the pile of rubble before them.

Mista told herself that now, before she completely melted from the heat, was the right time to approach the King. That was why she came here in the first place — but somehow she could not peel her eyes away from his strong back, his powerful thighs, and… his firm buttocks. 

Mahal, why is it so very hot in here? 

She kept on staring indecently at his behind, feeling her cheeks burn, when a male voice said: “M’lady? Yer Majesty?”

“Captain Dwalin!” She almost jumped. “How nice to see you.”

“And the same to ye!” He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the streaks of dust on his face. “What brings ye here, M’lady?”

“I… I wish to see His Majesty,” she faltered as this mountain of a Dwarf folded his impressive arms — his very bare and very muscular arms — against the thick leather of his apron that covered his chest.

Thank Mahal for the apron.

“His Majesty? Thorin? Now?” Frowning, Dwalin cast a glance towards the King, who was still busying himself with that stubborn chunk of metal.

Mista took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes away from her lord husband’s glistening back.

“I see he is busy. I had a matter to discuss. But it can wait. I will wait. Here,” she mumbled, looking around, searching for a place to sit. She felt a bit dizzy, perhaps because of that overwhelming heat. Sadly, among the smoking furnaces, pieces of rubble and soaring columns, there was nothing that resembled a bench even slightly.

“Yer Majesty,” Dwalin began, shaking his head vigorously. “That won’t do, ye won’t be waitin’, not here! Gundi! Come ‘ere, there’s a good lad! Run to Thorin — His Majesty — and tell ‘im the Queen requests his presence.”

A young, lanky dwarf with a short chestnut beard nodded, made a wide-eyed, clumsy bow when he saw Mista, and then hurried away. 

“Oh no, Captain Dwalin, not now, I don’t want to disturb…” she began faintly when a screeching sound filled her ears.

Suddenly, Dwalin’s hand closed over her arm and pulled her unceremoniously to the side.

“Sorry, M’lady,” he offered just as a group of forge workers whooshed past them with a screech, dangerously close, wheeling a large cauldron filled with some smelly, fumy substance.

“I’m sorry, I did not see them!” Mista adjusted her glasses nervously, trying to regain her composure.

“When ye’re in the Forges, ye have to have yer eyes around yer head,” Dwalin said.

“INCOMING!” a shout echoed from a distance, and something heavy thudded, making the floor tremble under her feet.

Mista gasped, quickly looking around.

“Nothin’ to worry about, M’lady,” Dwalin explained. “Ye can say we’re remodellin’ the place after Smaug. That slug didn’t have even a shred of good taste.”

She chuckled nervously, trying to calm herself down.

“My Lady Mista!” A familiar rumbly voice reached her ears. Her heart fluttered.

She lifted her gaze towards the King. Thorin was approaching her fast, taking off his gloves. His brow was furrowed, and he kept staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. A few unruly strands of his hair stuck to his face, and his lips were parted as he took a deep breath. His chest rose and — oh, Mahal — Mista caught a very good glimpse of its full bare glory. The well-defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, the — Mahal, was that a piercing?! — geometric tattoos, strong core muscles, and that stripe of hair trailing all the way down to… Mista swallowed.

Suddenly, her knees felt very weak.

The King closed the distance between them in two brisk strides. Somehow, he seemed even taller than usual, dominating the space around her, so very close, emanating a strange kind of heat, heady and powerful. Mista felt like a defenseless hare facing a wolf on the prowl. Instinctively, she took a step back, stumbled over something, and lost her balance, sending her parchments flying in the air. 

In the blink of an eye before she fell to the ground, a pair of strong arms — strong bare arms — caught her and held her in place. The grip was steady and reassuring, but there was a deep frown on the King’s face. “By dragon’s breath, what brought you here, My Lady?” Her royal husband’s words resembled a growl in Mista’s ears as he stared her down. “Y-your Majesty,” she mumbled, lowering her gaze, still overwhelmed by his intense closeness and the fact that the King was holding her firmly. “There is… there is a matter I wish to discuss, it’s…”

“INCOMING!” Yet another shout rang out somewhere in the Forges, and another loud thud was heard. The ground shook. She stiffened.

“Cursed supports! This is not a safe place for you, Lady Mista,” His Majesty’s gaze darkened. “Come, let us leave. Where is your escort?”

He took Mista under her arm and began leading her towards the entrance to the Forges.

“But… My parchments!” She turned back, staring at the documents scattered all over the floor.

“Dwalin?” Thorin glanced between his Captain and the parchments.

Dwalin simply nodded and moved to gather them.

Only then did Mista notice that the hard object she stumbled upon earlier was the edge of a furnace chute used for smelted ore. She refused to imagine what would have happened if she fell into it.

“Where did you leave your guards, My Lady?” Thorin repeated, looking around impatiently.

“I came here by myself, My Lord,” she admitted, trying to match his fast pace on the way out of the Forges, still feeling the warm shadow of his touch on her skin.

“By yourself?!” The King’s frown deepened further as he raised his voice. “Lady Mista, this is one of the most dangerous places in the whole Kingdom on an average day — and today it’s twice as much! You cannot venture out here alone!” “I didn’t want to bother anyone, I simply wanted to…”

“Bother? Mahal, you are the Queen, My Lady! Can you not see what would have happened if an accident befell you? What would it mean for the Kingdom, for all of us here, if you were injured, or worse? And shortly after ascending the throne? How would it look to your family?”

Mista lowered her gaze, deciding to study a tiny crack in the stone floor. She felt utterly stupid. The first thing that her family would do if anything serious happened to her would be to break off the marriage contract and all the accompanying agreements. And if things looked bad, they would demand a sizeable compensation, break off diplomatic relations between both clans or maybe even choose a more hostile path. Not because she was that precious to them; it was all about riches and power. They invested too much into the grand plan of putting a Broadbeam on the throne of the Lonely Mountain to forfeit it. Her mother made certain that Mista remembered it quite well.

As for the Kingdom Under the Mountain and its King, a seriously injured or even dead Queen meant fewer allies and no heir to the throne. And no heir to the throne, according to Dís, meant a possible rebellion and a rift within the Longbeard clan.

Perhaps another Dwarf-woman in her place would enjoy this level of importance, but Mista was a realist. She understood that she was useful to everyone as long as she was healthy, alive, and doing what she was expected to do. Like the pawn on a chessboard — yet again. 

“Forgive me, My Lord. I… I was unaware,” she said when they stopped in the outside corridor, away from the prying eyes in the Forges. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” the King said. She felt his intense gaze on her face, but she did not feel brave enough to look up.

“I simply wanted to talk… I did not know you were that busy,” Mista began, realising how foolish she sounded, suddenly very much aware of how close the King was, how her abundant skirts brushed against his legs, how she felt the heat and the masculine power his body radiated. His scent reached her nostrils: hot fire, ash, and leather, dizzying with its raw intensity. And then there was his bare torso in front of her, his glistening skin, his pectorals rising and falling, and a pale scar across his shoulder. Her fingertips tingled; one small move of her hand and she could learn how it felt to run her fingers along the ridges and hollows of his chest. The fluttering deep inside her intensified, and she clasped her hands nervously.

Mahal help her.

“What did you wish to talk about with me, My Lady?” The King’s voice softened slightly.

“It’s a delicate matter of state, an urgent one,” she explained hesitantly. “Coming here was my last resort.”

“Your last resort?” the King replied.

“You see… I have been trying to meet you in our rooms for a few days now,” she whispered, still not daring to raise her gaze above the scar on his shoulder, bracing herself for a fiery response.

Instead, there was a long silence. And something akin to a sigh. Mista wondered whether she would now hear yet another excuse and a polite but reserved dismissal.

The King spoke, “My Lady Mista, I would be honoured to discuss this matter now.”

“You… You would?” Mista’s head snapped up. Her eyes met the deep blue sapphires of his gaze. At that moment, he somehow resembled the Thorin she remembered, at least a bit. “Truly?”

“Of course,” The King nodded, gesturing with his hand.

“Oh, thank you, My Lord.” She beamed at him, warmth spilling in her chest. He wanted to speak with her. There were no excuses this time. And he did not leave, still standing so very close to her. Without thinking, she grasped his open palm with both her hands, so large and warm, and slightly coarse against her skin.

And then his fingers stiffened under her touch, accompanied by a startled expression on his face as the King glanced at their joined hands. 

With a gasp, Mista let go of him. Feeling her cheeks burn, her heart galloping in her chest, she heard herself speak through her clenched throat.

“I- I’m sorry, My Lord,” she muttered, taking a hasty step back. “I did not mean to…”

The vertical wrinkle between the King’s brows deepened.

“My Lady…”

“Yer documents, M’lady,” Dwalin appeared beside them with a roll of parchments in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Dwalin!” Mista blurted out, grabbing the papers as fast as she could. Her hands were trembling, and her head was spinning. “T-thank you for your time, Your Majesty, I- I have to go!”

“What about this urgent matter?” His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield tilted his head slightly.

The thought of her latest blunder and then facing the King — her husband — alone, his chest bare, his eyes so very blue she would drown in them within a heartbeat, made Mista dizzy, and definitely not in any shape to have a logical discussion. She would mumble like a silly goose and make him think he married a halfwit. Yes, that was it, she needed a clear mind, and her current befuddlement had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his undress or the feeling of his scorching skin against hers; it was just this awful humid heat. She embarrassed herself enough for one day. She needed to leave this place at once.

“I… just recalled that I have an important meeting,” Mista said quickly, rumpling the parchments in her hands. “May we meet in the evening? Over… over supper?”

“If you are certain that it can wait until then,” the King spoke, his right eyebrow rising.

“I am, yes!” she mumbled. “It can!”

“Very well, then. Until the evening, My Lady.” He lowered his head in farewell.

Mista turned, fleeing the Forges, feeling utterly humiliated by her own silliness. What on Mahal’s beard had she been thinking? What made her grab his hand? What would the King think of her? She was supposed to be a queen and act like one, and not a mawkish lass who could not even spend a moment alone with her own husband without embarrassing herself because of her stupid feelings.

“Would you mind escorting Her Majesty back to the royal wing, Dwalin?” The King’s voice echoed in the corridor behind her, and she thought she heard a lighter note in his words. “It turns out my royal spouse can be surprisingly energetic.”

“Just what ye need in yer dotage, ye lucky goat,” Dwalin chuckled, making her cheeks burn. Deep down she disagreed; first of all, His Majesty was far from senility, and besides, the last thing he needed was an embarrassingly lovestruck wife.

Mista did not hear the King’s reply — if there was any. The loud stomping of the Captain’s boots as he approached her drowned out all the other sounds.

✨ Entangled Masterlist

💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

@fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @sherala007 @jotink78 

@rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @.legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell

@gwen-ever @elrawienthewhite @mrsdurin @nelleedraws 

@vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry  @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames

@emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512  @ragsweas 

@enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @middleearthpixie 

@i-did-not-mean-to @blairsanne @fckmini @clumsy-wonderland @wormsmith 

@mailinsblogofstuff  @medusas-hairband @xxbyimm @saucyminxbrainspill 

@quiall321 @frosticenow @glassgulls @evenstaredits @sotwk 

@littlesweetdressmaker @alwayssevvy @sleepycreativewriter @emmanuellececchi @sazzlep

@lyl1pad @enchantingkryptoniteheart-blog @shantismurf @dustie-faerie @beenovel @thorne-kreizler-fanfiction @thatshadowintheuniverse @animal4princess-blog

@ravenhearted @ruthoakenshield @asgardianhobbit98 @justfollowtheroad @silvergemofdurin @.sverdgeir @blackqueengold

@exhausted-humxn-being @balrog-prevention-society

If you're crossed out or not in the list any longer, it means that Tumblr hasn't been allowing me to tag you for a longer while. Please DM me so we can figure it out together.