#or something that belongs to home and comfortable

[dismalflo]

Hey! Can I request poly!marauders (or any one of them individually) with Reader who’s feeling anxious and just wants to be held because the pressure helps?

Thank you!

hi, darling! thanks for requesting! <3

poly!marauders x reader who is comforted while feeling anxious ✩ 900 words

“Alright, dove?”

Remus’ voice pulls you out of your haze, your eyes fixed blankly on the fireplace. You’ve been focused on your breathing – in for five, hold for five, out for five – hands balled deep into the sleeves of your jumper.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that settled there sometime after lunch, something tight and coiled, anxious and unmoving. You’d hoped it would ease once you got home. That maybe the familiar warmth of the flat, the sound of James’s laugh from the kitchen or the way Remus hums when he reads or Sirius’ lighthearted grumbling, might untangle it.

But it hasn’t.

You don’t look up. Just give a small nod and a non committal hum. 

Remus is quiet for a moment before you feel the cushion dip, he settles at the far end of the sofa. 

“S’funny,” Sirius says from behind you, where he leans in the doorway, an apple half-eaten in one hand. “That’s the same noise you make when you’re not alright.”

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s softness under it too. Like he’s offering you an out. Like he's saying you can say you're not fine, and I’ll still be here.

You try to smile, but it comes out crooked and small. Your shoulders are tight. Everything is tight. The sleeves of your jumper are twisted around your fists, and your lungs still won’t work properly, each breath catching halfway in.

Remus shifts again, the sofa creaking just slightly. You can feel his eyes on you even if you don’t meet them. When he speaks, his voice is low and careful.

“Dove… do you want a hug?”

You glance up, just for a moment. There’s no pressure in his expression, just calm warmth. Understanding.

You nod again. A little surer this time.

“Alright.” He opens his arms, patient and open, giving you space to decide. “C’mere, then.”

You move slowly. Anxiety makes your limbs feel leaden, like wading through something thick. But you go, inching closer until he can gently gather you in. His jumper smells like cedar and old pages, and the warmth of him is immediate. You press into it quickly.

“There you go,” Sirius murmurs, suddenly closer. You hadn’t noticed him moving, but he’s rounded the sofa, tossed his apple core in the bin, and dropped down beside you without fanfare. He throws an arm over your legs, pulling them over his lap as he shuffles closer, chin resting on your shoulder like it’s where he’s always belonged.

James arrives not with a bang but a door creak and the wet slap of bare feet on hardwood. You hear him before you see him, humming, off-key and content. It cuts through the fog like light.

“Without me?” he asks, mock-offended, when he sees you all bunched up together. A pair of joggers sit low on his hips and a towel is draped around his neck. His curls are dripping wet, water tracing a path down his throat you can’t quite focus on.

Sirius snorts, not lifting his head. “You’re slow, Prongs. Not our fault you shower like a bloody princess.”

“Oi,” James protests mildly, strolling in. “Rinsing conditioner takes time. This–” he gestures to the halo of wet curls–“is art.”

“You’re beautiful,” Remus says dryly against your temple, fingers tracing slow circles along your arm, grounding you, matching the rhythm of your breath. “Maybe bring all that over here, hmm?” he continues, with a subtle tilt of his head towards you.

James’s face shifts and softens. The theatrical pout fades, replaced by something gentler. He meets your eyes, and something in your chest settles. Their attention never feels too much. 

He crosses the room in three easy steps, tossing his towel toward a chair. He slides into the gap Sirius left, nestling in like he’s always belonged there.

“Hi, darling,” he says softly, brushing a cool, damp finger over your cheek. “Bit of a day?”

You nod again. But this one feels different. Your voice is still stuck somewhere behind your ribs, but your body answers for you, leaning into him. Sirius shifts, arm tightening around your legs just enough to remind you he’s still there. Remus’s hand never stops moving, steady and sure.

James opens his arms, mirroring Remus. “You want a squeeze, yeah?”

You hesitate for only a moment, then move into him. He wraps you up, warm and solid, chest still damp from the shower. Remus curls tighter at your back, and Sirius shifts to press in at your side, his knee bumping yours.

You’re cocooned now.

Held between them, it’s everything you needed. Compression. Containment. Warmth. The kind of holding that tells your body it doesn’t need to brace anymore. That you’re safe. That there’s nothing to run from.

Someone – maybe James, maybe Remus – starts humming low under their breath. Sirius mutters something about “sappy gits” but doesn’t move, he just tucks himself closer, forehead resting on your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself too.

You exhale. A real breath this time. Unmeasured, unforced. And it doesn’t catch.

The knot in your chest is lessening. 

“Love you,” James says into your hair.

“Mmhmm,” Remus echoes.

Sirius gives you a firmer squeeze.

You don’t speak. Just nod, curled safe between them.

And let yourself be held.

masterlist <3

[nocturnebite]

Someone Like You ౨ৎ

(Its always been you) - bestfriend!enha (ot7) x fem!reader

synopsis: You’ve had enough of bad dates and bare-minimum effort. But when your best friend shows up for you in their own soft, thoughtful way… you start to wonder why you’ve never looked at them like that. Turns out, they’ve been waiting for you to. fic notes: friends to lovers || comfort & fluff || soft confessions || bad date recovery || dreamy slowburn mutual pining || emotional support kings wc: about 800ish per member (5.7k total)

ash's notes: heyy back again! this one was so fun for me to write, i'm a sucker for friends to lovers troupes.. especially when it's "they knew all along". get me a man like this PLEASE.. enjoy :3

౨ৎ Heeseung - You always know

The door clicks softly behind you as you slump inside your apartment, heels dangling from your hand, mascara slightly smudged from the stress of the night. Another date gone wrong. Another charming-on-text loser who spent more time talking about himself than asking a single question about you. At one point he even took a call at the table. You’d sat there swirling a straw in a watered-down drink, wishing you were literally anywhere else.

You drop your bag by the couch and sigh into the quiet. It hums back at you with the same kind of hollow loneliness you’ve gotten too used to.

Your fingers tap against your phone screen before you even think about it.

you: had another trash date lol sorry if im bothering u just rly bummed out

You don’t expect a reply right away. But before you can even toss your phone aside, it buzzes.

hee ౨ৎ: open the door

You blink. Then look up.

Another buzz.

hee ౨ৎ: i was already on my way. figured something was up

Heart hiccuping, you shuffle to the door, unlocking it slowly—and there he is. Hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he just left in a hurry, one hand clutching your favorite takeout and the other carrying a fuzzy blanket you've been trying to steal from him for weeks.

“I didn’t know if you’d eaten,” Heeseung says, stepping inside like he always belongs here. He doesn't wait for an answer, just sets everything down on the coffee table and opens his arms.

You melt.

Your face tucks into the curve of his neck like it’s muscle memory. He’s warm and steady and smells like laundry detergent and vanilla and home.

You mumble, “You really were already on your way?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your hair. “Just had a feeling.”

You don’t even question it. He always knows.

You eat curled up on opposite ends of the couch, his long legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He doesn’t ask about the date. He doesn’t need to. He just listens while you vent, eyes soft, gaze focused on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

Eventually, you’re lying with your head in his lap while he scrolls through movies on the TV.

“Something comforting,” he murmurs, already queuing up your favorite. “The one with the sad girl who finds herself and the cottage with the vines—”

“That’s a romance,” you whisper, half-laughing.

Heeseung just smirks. “Exactly.”

As the movie plays, you watch him in the flickering light — the soft shadows against his jawline, the slight smile when a familiar line hits, the way he rests his hand gently over your arm like he wants to keep you tethered here with him.

And somewhere between your chest aching and your heart warming, it slips out.

“Why can’t the guys I date be more like you…”

Heeseung flinches.

The remote fumbles in his hand and clatters to the ground with a sharp clack.

Your eyes widen. He stiffens. “Oops—uh. Sorry.” He leans down too fast to grab it, smacking his head lightly on the table and cursing under his breath.

You blink at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just—clumsy.” He clears his throat, setting the remote back carefully like it might explode again. His ears are glowing pink.

You stare at him, heart thudding.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans back against the couch and mutters, “Want me to rewind the movie?”

You pause. “No. I’m good.”

He nods, quiet.

But the atmosphere has changed. Charged. He’s still close, still comforting, but his posture’s too stiff now, too careful, like he’s thinking too hard about breathing near you.

Later, when the movie ends and you both sit in the hush of the credits, you speak again.

“I just…” you whisper, watching the glow from the screen reflect in his eyes. “I wish I could find someone who treats me like you do. You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Heeseung freezes.

Then turns to you slowly, expression unreadable. His voice is low.

“Then why don’t you date me?”

You laugh, confused. “What—”

“I’m serious.”

You blink.

His eyes are locked on yours. No teasing. No smirk. Just honest, vulnerable silence.

“You’re serious?” you whisper.

He nods once. “I’ve always known it was you. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. And then—flutters.

His fingers inch toward yours, tentative, until they’re brushing lightly, and when you don’t pull away, he laces them together.

“I didn’t think…” You breathe out. “I didn’t think you felt the same.”

“I do.” Heeseung smiles softly, then leans forward until your foreheads touch. “I have. Every time I showed up for you, every night I stayed over just to keep you company, every moment I wished you’d look at me like that…”

You do now.

And this time, when he leans in — slow, careful, trembling with hope — you meet him halfway.

౨ৎ Jay - The way you look at me

You’re already in tears by the time you leave the restaurant.

Not the dramatic, mascara-running kind. Just the quiet, aching kind — the ones that slip out even when you don’t want them to. This one stung a little more than usual. The guy didn’t just talk over you — he insulted your interests, made snide jokes about “emotional girls,” and scoffed when you said you wanted something real. It left you wondering if you were asking for too much.

You don’t text Jay.

You don’t have to.

The second your key turns in the door, the smell hits you — warm, comforting, something buttery and spiced — like childhood and safety all rolled into one.

You step inside and blink.

Jay stands in your kitchen in a dark t-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a striped apron tied lazily around his waist. He looks up like he’s been caught red-handed.

“I was gonna text and say come over,” you mumble.

“I figured you’d need something sooner,” he says simply, stirring the pan once before lowering the heat. “So I let myself in.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s a pot on the stove, steam rising lazily from it. A pan of something golden browning beside it. Plates already set. A candle burning low.

“You made—” Your voice cracks. “You made the pasta?”

“The one you said reminds you of your mom’s.” He shrugs, trying to seem casual. “You sounded tired last time we talked. Thought you’d need it tonight.”

Your throat feels too full to respond. You cross the kitchen slowly, eyes burning in that way that says thank you without the words.

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, stepping behind him, letting your arms wrap around his middle as you press your face into his back. He stills, surprised—but only for a moment. Then one of his hands reaches down to cover yours.

“You’re not asking for too much,” he says softly, like he’s already guessed the thing you didn’t say.

You don’t speak. You just hold on tighter.

Dinner is quiet, the way it always is when you’re feeling raw and Jay is being careful with you — soft glances, gentle hands when he passes the parmesan, a million unspoken things in every motion. Afterward, he makes tea and sets up the couch for a movie night without asking.

“You pick,” he says, stretching across the cushions to pass you the remote.

You curl under the throw blanket and sigh, not even looking at the screen.

Jay turns his head toward you. “Wanna do nothing instead?”

You nod.

So you sit. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar and close and quiet.

After a while, he gets up and starts tidying the kitchen. And that’s when you catch yourself watching.

The way he moves—careful, confident, focused. The way he takes his time with everything. The soft hum in his throat as he dries dishes. The way he set aside the last bite of garlic bread because he knew it was your favorite.

And suddenly, something slips out.

“I wish the guys I went out on dates with were more like.. you.”

The sound of ceramic shattering on tile cuts the air in half.

You jump.

Jay freezes mid-motion, staring down at the cracked plate on the floor like it betrayed him. “Shit—sorry.” He crouches quickly to clean it, not looking at you.

You rush to help. “It’s okay, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s—” He’s already sweeping the pieces into his hand, face turned so you can’t see it. “It’s fine.”

But his hands are trembling.

You blink. “Jay?”

He doesn’t answer.

You touch his wrist lightly. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like the air has changed again — his expression unreadable, jaw tight, eyes searching yours for something you don’t quite understand.

You try to laugh it off, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, that was kind of a weird thing to say.”

Jay finishes sweeping and stands slowly, leaning against the counter like he needs a second to think.

Then you say it again, more quietly. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

He lets out a breath — sharp, disbelieving.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Why not?”

“Because…” He looks at you like you’ve cracked something in him. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say it first.”

The silence that follows is thick.

You stare. “Say what?”

Jay steps toward you, then stops — unsure, unreadable.

“That I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “That I’ve been in love with you. That every time you cry about some guy who couldn’t see how lucky he was, it kills me because I’m right here. And I’ve been here.”

Your lips part, but you can’t speak.

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes wild and warm and terrified. “I know you weren’t ready. And I never wanted to make you feel like you had to see me that way, but tonight—” His voice softens. “Tonight you looked at me like you finally saw what I’ve been trying to show you this whole time.”

Your heart thunders.

You had looked at him that way. You’d always admired him — his calm, his kindness, the fire in him that always warmed you up when you felt too cold. You just never thought…

“I didn’t think you’d want me,” you whisper.

Jay’s breath catches. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He takes another step.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

You look at him—really look at him—and all the times he showed up for you play in your mind like flashes of sunlight.

Slowly, you take his hand. It’s still a little shaky, but when you hold on, he steadies.

You whisper, “What if I want more too?”

He doesn’t speak. He just pulls you in and kisses your forehead, gently, reverently—like he’s waited a lifetime for this moment to finally arrive.

౨ৎ Jake - Never not you

It starts with your phone vibrating on your chest, just as your eyes are starting to sting from holding back tears too long.

You don’t check the screen. You don’t want to talk to anyone. You just stare at the ceiling of your bedroom, replaying the disaster of tonight’s date — the awkward silences, the backhanded compliments, the fake polite goodbye at the end. All you wanted was someone who’d make you feel seen. Instead, you feel lonelier than before.

Another buzz.

Then another.

Then a knock at your door.

You sit up, confused, wiping your eyes.

“Delivery?” you mumble, shuffling to open it.

But it’s not food.

It’s Jake.

He’s standing there, hair a little windblown, hoodie zipped up halfway and cheeks pink from the chill. In one hand, he’s holding a small bouquet of fresh wildflowers. In the other, a bag from your favorite bakery—the one that’s only open late on Fridays.

“I was already on my way,” he says softly. “Something told me you needed me.”

Your bottom lip wobbles.

You don’t cry, but you do fold into him the second he opens his arms.

He doesn’t say anything. Just hugs you so tight it’s like he’s holding together all the parts of you that want to fall apart.

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your pajamas under a mountain of blankets on the couch. The warm scent of baked pastries fills the air. Jake’s got your feet in his lap, his thumbs gently massaging the arch like he’s trying to erase all the tension of the night.

You’re both watching one of those cheesy rom-coms he secretly loves more than you do, though he always pretends otherwise.

“Tonight sucked,” you mutter.

He doesn’t ask for details. He just leans back, still holding your feet. “He didn’t see you, did he?”

You glance at him. “How do you always know?”

Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Because if he had, you’d be smiling. You always light up when someone gets you.”

Your breath catches. You don’t respond. You just look at him.

His profile is soft in the glow of the TV. There’s a slight crease in his brow, like he’s still worried. You want to reach out and smooth it with your thumb.

Instead, you say quietly, “Why can’t guys be more like you…”

Jake stills.

His eyes don’t leave the screen, but his fingers stop moving.

You sit up a little, trying to meet his eyes. “Seriously. You’re so thoughtful. You always know what I need. You never make me feel like I’m too much or not enough—”

Jake suddenly fumbles the pastry bag in his lap and spills the last croissant right onto the floor.

“Ah..shit—sorry,” he blurts, scrambling to grab it. He drops the tongs trying to pick it up.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine!” he squeaks. Then clears his throat and tries to play it off. “Yeah. Just… butter fingers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Totally. I just… wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He carefully places the rescued croissant on a napkin, still not looking at you. “That you wish guys were like me.”

Your voice softens. “Well… I do.”

The silence stretches, almost like the room’s holding its breath with you.

And then, because the ache in your chest is too much to sit with, you add, “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Jake turns to you, eyes wide.

He looks like you just told him the moon said his name.

Then, very quietly, he says, “Then… why not me?”

Your heart skips.

You blink. “Wait..what..? Are you serious?”

He nods, slowly this time. The corners of his mouth twitch up—hopeful, nervous, a little amazed you haven’t laughed him off yet.

“I know we’ve been best friends forever,” he says gently, “but I’ve loved you for almost as long. I didn’t want to ruin what we had by saying anything. But it’s you. It’s never not been you.”

Your lips part. “Jake…”

“I didn’t want to be another guy who hurt you,” he whispers, voice shaking a little. “I wanted to be the one who reminded you how loved you are. I just never thought you’d actually—feel the same.”

You swallow hard.

Your chest is doing that tight fluttery thing again. Because you do. Deep down, you’ve always known it. The way you’d light up when his name appeared on your phone. The way his laugh made everything easier. The way you looked for him in every crowd.

You whisper, “I think I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

Jake beams.

Not a smirk. Not a flirty grin. A full, radiant, stunned smile like you’ve just made his entire year.

He reaches for your hand, then changes his mind and gently cups your cheek instead, brushing his thumb just under your eye.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, breathlessly.

You nod.

And when he leans in, it’s slow and sweet and full of every unspoken thing you’ve both carried for so long. And when he pulls back just barely, lips still brushing yours, he murmurs,

“You’re my favorite everything.”

౨ৎ Sunghoon - Say something

It’s late.

The kind of late where the streets outside are quiet and your bedroom ceiling is glowing dimly with the light of passing cars. You’re curled up under a blanket in your hoodie, trying not to cry but very much failing. Again.

The guy from tonight wasn’t mean, exactly. Just… indifferent. He scrolled through his phone when you talked. Showed up twenty minutes late with no explanation. Didn’t even pretend to walk you home.

And maybe it wouldn’t sting so much if it didn’t feel like a pattern.

You don’t text anyone. You just throw your phone facedown and try to forget it.

Until, barely five minutes later, there’s a knock at your window.

You freeze.

Another knock.

You scramble out of bed and yank the curtains aside — and there he is.

Sunghoon. In his gray zip-up and a beanie pulled low over his brows, standing on your fire escape holding two steaming cups of hot chocolate and a very unimpressed expression.

You open the window with wide eyes. “What the—Hoon??”

“I figured he’d flake,” he says flatly, climbing in like this is something he does every day. “You ghosted the group chat. That’s never a good sign.”

You blink as he hands you one of the cups.

“I made it with that fancy cocoa you like,” he mumbles. “With the cinnamon.”

You stare at him.

Sunghoon doesn't meet your eyes. He just kicks off his shoes and settles onto your bed like it’s his.

“I didn’t get ghosted,” you say quietly, sitting beside him.

He nods. “But you are sad.”

You sip the cocoa. “How do you always know?”

He shrugs. “You always blink a lot when you’re trying not to cry.”

Your throat tightens.

Silence passes for a bit. Your room is dim, your fairy lights casting soft little shadows across his jawline. You watch him — the way his hands cradle the mug, the furrow in his brows even now. He’s always like this. A little standoffish. A little too observant. And yet always there the second you fall apart.

And maybe it’s the warmth in your hands, or the fact that you’re so, so tired of being disappointed — but the words come out before you can stop them.

“Why can’t guys be more like you…”

He freezes.

Like actually freezes.

No blink. No breath. Just wide, stunned deer-in-headlights stillness.

Then he promptly chokes on his hot chocolate.

You lunge to pat his back. “Hoon??”

“I’m good—” cough cough “Totally fine—” cough “Jesus—”

You bite back a laugh. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m great.” He clears his throat aggressively and looks everywhere but at you. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”

“Mmhmm,” you say, clearly not buying it.

He shifts on the bed, suddenly tense. “You… didn’t mean that, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He swallows, hard.

You lean back against the pillows, watching him over the rim of your cup. “Seriously. You’re thoughtful, reliable, good with your words—when you use them—”

“Okay—”

“You always show up when I need you,” you add, voice soft now. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Sunghoon just stares at you.

You don’t even realize how intense your gaze is until he finally looks away, the tips of his ears glowing red.

“You’re messing with me,” he mutters.

“No, I’m not.”

He sets down his cup slowly. His voice is quieter when he says, “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

You sit up straighter. “But I do mean it.”

Sunghoon finally meets your eyes, and there’s something raw there now. Something just barely holding itself together.

And then, because he’s Sunghoon and horrible at vulnerability, he blurts:

“Then maybe you should date me.”

Your mouth opens. “What?”

He looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You reach for his hand before he can pull it away. “Sunghoon. Look at me.”

He hesitates—then does. And your heart cracks wide open.

“I want to say yes,” you whisper.

He blinks. “You do?”

You nod. “I didn’t think you liked me that way.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever look at me that way,” he breathes. “You’re always chasing guys who treat you like crap. Meanwhile, I’m here, dying every time you tell me about them, and all I want to do is tell you they don’t deserve you.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I was scared.” His voice rises slightly, then softens again. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But tonight… when you said that…”

He pauses, then lets out a soft breath.

“I wanted to kiss you so bad I forgot how to breathe.”

Your eyes soften. You shift closer.

“Then don’t forget now.”

He stares at you.

And then he kisses you.

It’s tentative at first — almost like he doesn’t believe it’s happening — but it grows, slow and sure and full of everything he’s held back for so long.

When you pull apart, you press your forehead against his and whisper,

“You know you can come through the door next time, right?”

He grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

౨ৎ Sunoo - If only you knew

You don’t say anything when the door swings open.

You just step inside, drop your purse on the floor, and crawl straight onto the couch face-down, muffling a scream into the cushions.

There's silence.

Then the sound of slippers shuffling quickly across hardwood.

Then:

“Oh no. Which flavor of man failed you this time?”

You peek out of the couch to see Sunoo standing over you in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a clip, face cream still dotted on his cheeks like he was mid-self-care ritual when you texted the dreaded “can I come over”.

You groan. “The worst one.”

He gasps. “Worse than finance bro?”

“Worse than vape in the Uber guy.”

“Girl.”

“I know.”

Sunoo lets out the most offended noise you've ever heard and immediately shuffles toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea. And I’m putting on that sad cottage movie you like. You’re not allowed to argue.”

You don’t.

You just melt further into the couch and let yourself exhale.

Because somehow, Sunoo always knows exactly what to do when the world feels heavy.

By the time the kettle whistles, you’ve been tucked in with three blankets and a stuffed animal you pretend isn’t yours.

Sunoo returns with a tray of snacks, two mugs of tea, and a disgusted look on his face.

“So what did he do? Tell me everything. I’m ready to judge.”

You shake your head. “He… didn’t even try, Nuu.”

He sets the tray down and climbs onto the couch beside you. “Try what?”

“To know me. To see me. I spent half the night trying to think of things to talk about. It felt like I was trying to impress someone who couldn’t care less.”

Sunoo's eyes narrow. “Should I fight him?”

You let out a laugh — small, watery.

He leans his head on your shoulder. “You know you’re not hard to love, right?”

You stay quiet.

Sunoo reaches for your hand under the blanket and squeezes it. “Some people just don’t know what they’re holding until it’s gone.”

You glance at him, heart aching.

He’s right here. Warm and thoughtful and sharp as ever. He always has been.

And somehow, you whisper it before you can think better of it.

“I wish guys were more like you…”

You feel him tense.

He sits up, blinking, and nearly spills the tray trying to set his cup down.

You blink back. “Nuu?”

“Did you mean that?” he says quickly, voice just slightly higher than usual.

“I—yeah?”

He just stares at you, lips parted, like his brain has fully exited the building.

You sit up. “Why does that freak you out so much?”

Sunoo clears his throat, crosses his legs, and clasps his hands like he's giving a TED talk to himself. “No no I’m fine. Totally calm. Just casually losing my mind that the person I’m in love with just said that.”

You blink. “Wait. What.”

He freezes.

You gape. “You’re in love with me??”

“OH MY GOSH,” he says, loudly, throwing a pillow over his own face. “FORGET I SAID THAT—”

“Nuu!” You pull the pillow away and stare at him, heart pounding.

He groans. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out, okay?! It’s not like I planned to tell you after a garbage date like some B-list plot twist—”

“You’re in love with me?”

He falters, looks at you properly — flushed, anxious, but still so Sunoo.

“…Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ve been in love with you for a while.”

Your chest tightens.

“You… never said anything.”

He gives a tiny, shy shrug. “You were always dating someone. I didn’t want to confuse things. Or ruin us.”

“But you always—” Your voice cracks. “You always take care of me.”

He smiles sadly. “Because I want to. Because you deserve someone who actually shows up when it counts.”

You look at him — really look at him — and suddenly, all the late nights, all the surprise coffee deliveries, all the “I brought your favorite just because” texts make perfect, blinding sense.

And suddenly, this feels like the only real thing you’ve ever known.

“I think…” you whisper, “I’ve been in love with you too. I just didn’t let myself believe it.”

Sunoo blinks, stunned.

“You what?”

“I kept waiting for someone who’d treat me like you do,” you murmur, leaning in. “I just didn’t think that person could be you.”

“Why not?! I’m amazing!”

You laugh through a tear.

He grins, then cups your face with both hands. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but so fondly it makes your stomach flip.

Then, very softly, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod, heart in your throat.

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime — careful, steady, warm. When he pulls away, you’re still smiling.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “You’re never going to cry over another date again.”

“Because you’re going to fight them?”

“No.” He grins. “Because you’re done dating losers. You’re dating me now.”

౨ৎ Jungwon - What took you so long 

You don’t expect anyone to be waiting when you get home.

Your date was forgettable in the worst way — vague answers, barely-there eye contact, the kind of guy who asked questions only to talk about himself. You left early and walked home alone under a gray sky, the city lights blurred through a curtain of drizzle.

You don’t text anyone. You don’t want to talk. You just want the night to be over.

So when you push open your apartment door and find Jungwon sitting on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands and a small box of takeout on his lap, you stop in your tracks.

He looks up casually. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

You blink. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I figured you’d need me.”

The way he says it — need me — sinks under your skin like something dangerous.

You walk in slowly, wet hair dripping onto your shirt, and collapse onto the couch beside him without a word.

“I brought your favorite,” he adds, offering the box. “That noodle thing you get when you’re upset but pretending not to be.”

You take it silently, the warmth of the container grounding you.

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t have to.

A while later, you’re curled up together under the same blanket, the food half-eaten and a soft playlist humming through the room. You’re both quiet, the way you always are when things get too heavy to name.

You tilt your head toward him.

Jungwon’s watching the rain trail down the window, his profile lit faintly by the glow of the streetlights. One arm rests behind your head, casual but close enough that your shoulders touch. Always close. Always almost.

“You know,” you say softly, “you’d make the perfect boyfriend.”

He blinks.

Then — too quickly — he shifts.

The blanket slips from his shoulder as he moves to set his drink down, knocking over a napkin in the process. He fumbles it. Misses. Swears quietly under his breath.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he mumbles. Then, softer, “Just… surprised you’d say that.”

You smile faintly. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick toward yours, unreadable. “Because you’re always chasing guys who aren’t me.”

The words land like a pin dropped in a still room.

You stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungwon lets out a long breath, then looks at you fully — not shy, not sarcastic, not teasing. Just… honest.

“It means I’ve been here this whole time,” he says quietly. “Watching you get your heart broken over and over and wishing you’d just look at me.”

Your heart lurches.

“Jungwon…”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe you already knew,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But tonight, when you said that—when you said that—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure you can.

“I know I’m quiet about how I feel,” he murmurs. “But I show up. I always show up for you. Because I love you. And I’ve been loving you quietly for so long, I don’t know how to stop.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

You reach out, almost without thinking, fingers brushing his wrist. “I think I’ve always loved the way you love me,” you whisper. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it was.”

He exhales shakily.

And then — like gravity pulling him forward — he leans in, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is soft, barely trembling:

“I’ve been yours for a long time.”

You whisper, “Then maybe it’s time I caught up.”

౨ৎ Ni-ki - Not just a phase

The rain has stopped by the time you make it to his place.

You’re soaked anyway — not just from the weather, but from the date that ended in a fight over whether your standards were “too high.”

You didn’t cry this time.

Not until you walked home in the drizzle and realized how tired you were of pretending the bare minimum was enough.

You’re still blinking away the sting when the door swings open.

Ni-ki stands there in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair messy from sleep, one wireless headphone still in. He blinks once. Takes in your face.

Then without a word, he grabs your wrist and pulls you in.

“You look cold,” he mumbles, already guiding you toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll get the fluffy blanket.”

You don’t even argue. You just drop onto the cushions and watch as he disappears down the hall.

You don’t remember when it started—this instinct he has. This quiet caretaking. One second you’re friends who bicker over cereal brands and game scores, and the next he’s handing you tissues without asking. Wrapping you in the same blanket he used to cocoon himself in during movie nights. Like you’ve always belonged here, even if no one ever said it.

Ni-ki returns with the blanket and throws it over your shoulders, his hands lingering for a second too long.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits beside you, legs sprawled out, staring ahead like he’s waiting for you to speak.

So you do.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for dating.”

He glances at you. “That bad?”

You nod. “It’s like… I want something real. But everyone I meet makes me feel stupid for asking.”

Ni-ki stays quiet for a second.

Then: “They’re the stupid ones.”

You glance over. “What?”

He shrugs. “For not seeing it. For not recognizing you’re the kind of person people should want.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His eyes are on the floor, hands fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie.

You laugh weakly. “Why can’t I just date someone like you?”

His whole body stiffens.

You blink. “Ni-ki?”

He moves too fast. Reaches for the glass on the table. Misses. Knocks it over. It clatters loudly — empty, but loud enough to make you jump.

“Shit—” He rushes to grab it. “I—sorry, sorry. I wasn’t expecting—”

“What did I say?” you ask slowly.

He freezes with the glass in his hand. Doesn’t look at you.

You sit up straighter. “Ni-ki.”

He exhales hard, then sets the glass down. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

You stare. “What do you mean?”

Finally — finally — he turns to you. And his eyes are bare.

Not guarded. Not teasing. Just real.

“Because I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that this—” he gestures between you “—was just a phase. That eventually you’d stop showing up at my place with tears in your eyes. That I’d stop wondering what it would be like to be the one you chose.”

You go silent.

Ni-ki lets out a small laugh, bitter and soft. “But I never got over you. I don’t think I ever will.”

Your throat tightens. “You never said anything.”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you just because I caught feelings first.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

The Ni-ki who made fun of your bad taste in ramen. Who used to walk you home in high school just because. Who showed up at every breakup with your favorite snacks and a movie cued up. That Ni-ki has been in love with you this whole time?

“I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same,” he murmurs.

You whisper, “What if I do?”

He stops breathing.

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his — slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I think I’ve been trying to find pieces of you in everyone I’ve dated,” you say quietly. “But no one comes close.”

Ni-ki swallows hard. “You’re serious?”

You nod.

The quiet between you stretches — long and full of something new. Something changing.

Then he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod again.

So he does.

And it’s everything — every unsaid word, every held breath, every day he stood at your side wondering what it would feel like to be wanted back. His hands are gentle. His lips are soft and searching. And when he pulls away, his voice is the quietest it’s ever been.

“I’ve always been yours,” he whispers.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[aervera]

Even You Sleep Through It

synopsis. satoru finds peace in curling up beside you, ranting about everything and nothing—only to realize halfway through that you’ve already fallen asleep. contents. sfw, fluff.

MASTERLIST

you’re already halfway asleep by the time he gets home.

the sliding door opens with a familiar click, soft and smooth, followed by the rustle of his coat being peeled off and tossed somewhere it probably doesn’t belong. you don’t open your eyes, not fully. just enough to confirm that, yes—he’s alive. in one piece. loud, glowing, and annoyingly tall. business as usual.

you hear the sigh first.

then—

“you will not believe the day i’ve had.”

you hum faintly into the pillow, cheek squished against the warm cotton of his hoodie you stole hours ago.

gojo, undeterred, flops onto the bed beside you with dramatic flair. you feel the bounce of the mattress, the dip near your hip as he stretches one absurdly long arm across your back like a weighted blanket made of chaos.

“so first of all—nanami lectured me. again. like i’m twelve. because apparently, showing up to a mission ten minutes late is a war crime now.”

he shifts closer, tossing one leg over yours, not caring that you’re basically boneless at this point. his hand slips under your hoodie to rest against your waist, warm and splayed like he’s claiming the whole surface.

“i said, ‘hey, i brought snacks, that’s worth something!’ and he said, ‘you brought dango to a battlefield.’ like okay? and?”

you murmur a sleepy noise that could be interpreted as supportive.

“exactly,” he says, clearly taking it as encouragement.

his voice is all around you now—richer without his blindfold on, deeper when he’s not performing for a crowd. the kind of voice that slides into your ears and settles like velvet behind your ribs.

“and then shoko said i couldn’t keep cursed spirits in the faculty fridge just because i wanted to study them later. which, rude. i labeled them and everything. proper tupperware and all.”

you smile against the pillow, eyes still shut. “you’re insane.”

“y/n, it was scientific research. you wouldn’t understand. you’re too normal. that’s your whole thing. you’re my emotional support civilian.”

you snort.

it’s true. you’re not a civilian, technically. you’ve been a sorcerer long enough to earn the scars on your fingers and the wear in your bones—but next to gojo satoru, everyone’s normal.

you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, then rest his chin there like a shelf.

“anyway, then i almost vaporized a first-year by accident because they startled me while i was meditating, which is probably their fault more than mine. honestly, it’s like people forget i’m a sensitive guy. i need gentle introductions. soft voices. snacks before confrontation.”

you nod, very slowly. “mmhm.”

“you’re so validating,” he says with a sigh. “this is why i love you. you let me complain and you don’t try to fix it. you’re just like—‘oh no, baby’s mad?’ and i am mad. baby is mad.”

you think about telling him he’s not a baby.

you don’t.

you’re too comfortable.

the weight of him wrapped around you is oddly soothing. you’d never say it to his face, but he feels like a personal heater—sprawled out and ridiculous, all limbs and heat and never-ending commentary.

“also, someone called me a ‘dilf’ today. can you believe that? first of all, i’m not a dad. second of all, i could be, but you’re hoarding the rights.”

you mumble something unintelligible.

“yeah, yeah, ‘shut up, satoru,’ i know,” he says, grinning. “but seriously. the barista looked me in the eye and said, ‘you’d make a really hot single dad.’ and i said, ‘bold of you to assume i’m single. my girlfriend could dropkick you and look good doing it.’”

you yawn. barely hold onto consciousness.

“also—yuuji tried to teach me how to skateboard. that went well until i hit a curb and somersaulted into a vendor stall. the nice old man gave me free takoyaki out of pity.”

you feel his hand move to your side, rubbing lazy circles into the curve of your waist. it’s gentle. almost unconscious.

“then i saw a dog that looked exactly like me. white hair. vaguely threatening energy. barked at a child.”

you laugh, soft and slurred. “you barked at a child?”

“i don’t bark. i’m above barking. i glare. i’m a respectable menace.”

you peek one eye open.

his face is close—resting half on your pillow, hair tousled, eyes unguarded. he looks at you like you’re made of starlight.

“and then,” he adds dramatically, “i came home, exhausted, drained, emotionally neglected—and you weren’t at the door with snacks and applause. betrayal.”

you smile faintly. “you’re so needy.”

“and you’re not needy enough,” he counters. “you don’t demand daily love letters. you don’t insist i serenade you. you don’t weep when i leave for work like the tragic heroine you are.”

you hum, nestling into his chest.

“y/n?”

“mm?”

“are you even listening to me?”

“mhm…”

“no, you’re not. you’re fake listening. you’re sleep-listening.”

you smile without opening your eyes. “go ‘way.”

“never,” he whispers, and the hand on your waist shifts to your hip. “you’re mine.”

you don’t answer this time. can’t. the warmth is dragging you under—his scent, his voice, the slow rhythmic pressure of his thumb against your hip.

still, he doesn’t stop talking.

“you always fall asleep on me. every time. i could be delivering the most brilliant monologue in the world and you’re out by minute four.”

you hear his breath hitch—like he’s checking if you’re still awake.

“…it’s okay, though. you’re cute when you sleep. kind of drooly. occasionally violent if i move too fast.”

you would deny that if you had the strength.

“you know,” he says softly, voice dropping lower, “i think i like this best. you, like this. all quiet. letting me ramble. trusting me enough to sleep before i shut up.”

he shifts closer, tucking his nose against your neck.

“sometimes i think the world could fall apart and i’d still come home to tell you about it. even if you’re too tired to answer. even if you fall asleep halfway through. because it means i made it back. means i get to see you again.”

your lashes flutter, but you don’t speak.

“even if no one else listens,” he whispers, “you do. or you try to. that’s enough for me.”

he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then wraps both arms around you like a promise.

you drift.

and somewhere, far beneath dreams, you hear his voice again—

quieter now, like a secret he only tells the dark:

“i love you, y/n. even if you sleep through it.”

[fleurfiles]

TREAT YOU BETTER. ft violet

୧ ‧₊˚ vi is the best roommate and friend that you could ask for. however, it's hard to keep your feelings for her a secret, especially after her and her girlfriend break up.

pairings and aus. roommate!vi 𝑥 fem!reader

warnings. friends to lovers. no verbal confession of feelings, but implied. pining. fluff. some swearing.

gabi’s quick thoughts. hi this was rotting in my drafts for three weeks so...lol, here you go.

word count. 2.5k

masterlist ‧₊˚ taglist

IT’S A SUNNY SATURDAY MORNING. the birds call to each other outside your windowsill, the curtains in perfect harmony with the swaying of the wind, the ac blasting and the fan whirring, the same exact sound that had lured you to sleep the previous night.

there’s a thick sense of tranquility in the air, and you turn over to your side, the covers crinkling as you reach for your phone. you blink the rest of sleep out of your eyes and thumb through your notifications, your eyes catching two missed calls from your best friend and roommate, vi, followed by a couple of text messages.

[vi, 10:48 am]: i’m assuming your ass is still asleep because i literally called you twice 

[vi, 10:48 am]: anyways

[vi, 10:48 am]: i’m at the store, ill bring groceries 4 dinner 

you smile, sending her a quick thank you text, and teasing her for finally paying attention to your list that you specially curate every week, instead of buying things on a whim.

violet was the perfect roommate. before the pair of you moved in together, you were both living in separate apartments, but always spending the night at each other’s places, so often that you had half of your wardrobe and a toothbrush at vi’s place. she had a few of her belongings at yours as well, but you had always preferred violet’s home, due to it’s comfort and larger space.

one early morning while you were sitting in her kitchen, eating up her food and wearing her borrowed clothes, vi had stumbled in to sit with you, half-asleep and hungry, rummaging through her cupboard to find something to snack on before the two of you settled on grabbing brunch together before work. 

“we should honestly just move in together,” you had suggested with a laugh, taking a bite of your cereal and dropping the spoon back into the clean bowl. you slid it across the counter, the very one that vi was leaning against, and she grabbed it to place it in the sink, “i’m not against it, honestly,” the red-haired girl spoke, shrugging, “though, i will have to kick you out when my girls come over, unfortunately.”

“you’re so disgusting.” you had spoken with a warm laugh, and you assumed that though the idea was out on the table, nothing would ever really come from it.

until not even a week later, vi had showed up to your apartment in a cropped muscle tee and shorts, the kind of wear that she only used to work out or fix her car in– so you knew she was preparing for something active. at first, you had assumed that she just got back from the gym, until you eyed the literal u-haul that was parked right next to her car.

“wait, violet!” you screeched as she playfully pushed past you into your home, already gathering things in your kitchen and putting them into piles to making the process as quick as possible. literally that same day, your belongings were all transported into vi’s home, and just a few short months afterwards, your apartment was back up for rent and you were splitting bills with vi.

she was probably the easiest person to live with. she, for the most part, was very clean, and made sure that neither person was doing more work than the other– everything was fair. sometimes, though, she’d leave her dishes in the sink or clothes on the floor after a shower, but she got it together eventually when she got exhausted from you constantly scolding her.

however, as time went on, things between you and vi got…weirder, at least from your perspective. 

for starters, she had a brutal staring problem. every time you’d catch her looking at you, it wasn’t in a way that was just normal eye contact or attentive listening– no, she would look at you like you were the only thing that existed. and vi being vi, she knew that you had caught onto whatever her problem was, but she didn’t care. not one bit. her eyes would dart all over you, examining you until she had to say something in response to whatever you were talking about. and often times, it would end in her blinking harshly and murmuring, “huh? sorry, repeat that?”

vi also found a way to be around you as much as possible. if you were showering, she’d claim that she needed to brush her teeth before bed or that she was sad and really wanted some company– so she’d take a seat on the toilet and talk to you while you showered. it didn’t strike you that it was necessarily abnormal at first, until one day, you had forgotten your towel and told vi to close her eyes so you could step out and grab one, but when you pulled the curtain back, her eyes were wide open.

she had apologized to you for days after that, claiming that she didn’t know you were coming out right that second, and she thought that you would’ve told her when to actually close her eyes– but you literally did. however, after you assured her that it was fine and she had already seen your body before, it wasn’t all that serious to you, and the both of you never talked about it again from that day forward.

stuff died down after the fact. vi had met a girl, and from the bottom of your heart, you genuinely hated her. no– actually, hate wasn’t even a strong enough word to describe how you felt about violet’s girlfriend. 

it wasn’t like you hadn’t tried to like the girl– you had, and had even pushed your immediate thoughts and opinions about her to the side when you met her initially. but as time stretched on, the ability to tolerate her had waned significantly.

the first thing that turned you off from her was her words. she was an overly negative person, and always found something to complain about, whether the situation was even that serious or not. she always pushed her dissatisfaction onto vi, which led to your roommate often coming home to you angry crying or pissed off due to a stupid argument or fiery disagreement.

you knew that actions spoke louder than words, so you tried to give the girl the benefit of the doubt, but those didn’t reflect good character either, and you were honestly beginning to grow unsure of what vi even saw in this girl. you didn’t strike her as the type to tolerate shitty characteristics, but vi seemed like she was genuinely head over heels for this girl.

her girlfriend was also often touchy with other people, and not in the way that can pass as mere friendliness, but in the way that blurred the lines between a relationship and a friendship.

vi being vi, though, her mind was always focused elsewhere, especially on work. you doubted if she even liked vivienne, but she always got offended when you would ask about anything related to her, so you kept your quiet.

well, for as long as you could.

one day, vi came home so fueled with anger that she nearly toppled you over when trying to grab something from the cabinet next to you in the kitchen, and you finally lost it. all of this bickering and attitude that she was giving you– yeah, you had plenty of enough of it.

“okay, what the fuck is going on with you?” you asked, tossing the towel in your hand down onto the counter. vi didn’t even look at you, pulling the cabinet door open so hard it slapped the adjacent one, and you could tell that whatever happened when she was out was enough to send her over the complete edge.

“nothing,” she had snapped, grabbing a half-full bottle of tequila and setting it on the counter with a loud thud, “just a long day.”

“i’m calling bullshit.” you crossed your arms, unconvinced, “you’ve been walking around like a firecracker for weeks, i mean– vi, you practically knocked my shoulder out of its socket just now. you’re not fine.”

vi ignored you and reached for a glass– though it wasn’t really a glass, just the nearest coffee mug– and poured without saying a word. her jaw was tight and locked, and she looked like she was trying to swallow every emotion down with the liquor that swished in her cup.

you watched her take a long, hard sip, the muscles in her throat worked, her fingers curled tight around the handle, and you swallowed thickly. 

“it’s vivienne, isn’t it?”

that made her pause.

she didn’t say anything right away. she just set the mug down gently, which was such a major contrast from her demeanor just seconds ago. she stared at the tiled floor, not saying a word, and you felt yourself burn with guilt from pushing her too hard.

you softened, “vi…”

“i caught her flirting with someone else,” she finally said. her voice was low. a little hoarse. “like, actually flirting. not her usual weird fake-friendly shit. she gave this girl her number.”

your heart cracked. not because of vivienne, but because of the way vi was looking at the floor like she was mad at herself for letting herself finally be vulnerable with someone.

“gosh,” you whispered, “i’m…i’m sorry.” 

“yeah.” she laughed once, sharp, but it was obvious that she cared. though her mug was still half full, she pushed it into the sink, the clinking of the porcelain not phasing her at all. she turns around and leans up against the counter, her hands gripping the granite so harshly that her knuckles bleed white. “and i still stayed. can you believe that? like a fucking idiot. i trusted her and she threw that away like it was worth nothing.” 

you moved toward her slowly, arms uncrossing, “oh, vi…you’re not an idiot. you let yourself love, and that’s a beautiful thing. it’s okay to be upset, but she’s got some personal issues, ones that have nothing to do with you. i’m sure you���ll find someone who will actually appreciate you for all that you are.”

yeah, you. 

“i feel like one.” she looked up at you, and her eyes were rimmed red. not from tears— but you could tell that she was close, “gosh, i just wanted it to work. i wanted something to last. but every time i try, it just ends like this.”

your chest ached and throbbed against your ribs. you knew how deeply vi felt things, even if she pushed out this front of being stoic and heartless— it wasn’t the real her. you knew how much she craved loyalty, even if she pretended not to care about it, and you knew this was the first time that she didn’t leave before she got hurt. 

“you deserve more than that,” you said with a light shrug, “i mean, really— you’re an amazing girl, and vivienne didn’t deserve even an ounce of what you gave her.” 

vi blinked at you, pushing on her palms to prop herself up onto the counter. she then placed her hands in her lap, letting her feet swing naturally, and the room felt quiet for just a few, comfortable moments. she looked up at you with full, teary eyes, “you think so?” 

“i know so,” you affirmed, making your way over to her slowly, positioning yourself between her legs. you avoided eye contact, feeling your heart race as you tried to focus on anything other than her. you bit your tongue, knowing that if you said anything else, it would become more obvious that you had some type of feelings for the redhead. 

vi raised an eyebrow, but she says nothing. you’re both engulfed in another beat of silence, the only sound present being the faint whirring of the air conditioning and the machines working in the fridge. 

you attempt to enlighten the moment, “plus, i never liked her.”

vi scoffed, a real laugh breaking through as she wiped her thumb underneath her cheek, “yeah, no shit.”

“but seriously. she made you cry twice in one week. who the hell does that to you?”

“guess i’m just that lovable,” vi murmured, but the joke didn’t quite land. you frowned, your fingers brushing against  her wrist, trying to add a comforting touch, but you pulled back when her breath hitched. 

“i’m sorry,” you said softly, but with quickness, immediately withdrawing your hand and shoving it into your pocket. you stepped behind you and turned to your side, pretending to be interested in whatever was going on in front of you. 

but truth be told, you were nervous now. you had pushed a little too far, a bit too close for comfort, bad you weren’t sure how vi would react to that. she’s heartbroken and more vulnerable than ever, and now wasn’t the time to try to slide hints at her or make moves when she was clearly grieving someone she loved. 

“…come here,” she whispered out, arms beginning to stretch open. though hesitant, you obliged, stepping  into her arms, and she buried her face in your neck. the hug was tight— a little desperate, her fingers curled into the back of your shirt like she didn’t have any intentions on letting you go, and you didn’t want her to, either.

you stay like that for a while, buried in vi’s arms, your head falling into your shoulder, and hers did the same to you. she smells like smoke and musk and something darkly floral, and it makes your skin tingly. she’s warm and comfortable, and you wished you could stay in this position forever. 

all good things come to an end, though, and she pulls back, eyes searching your own. she sighs, “can i…stay in your bed tonight?”

you nodded, “yeah. of course.”

you spend the evening curled on the couch, head fallen onto vi’s shoulder as you watch some show that’s rolling on TV, but you’re not really watching it. you catch her eyeing you a couple of times when she thinks that you aren’t looking, but you are. you always are. 

and that night, she didn’t fake flirt or tease or make light of anything at all, she just curled up next to you under the covers like she belonged there, like this was something routine that you guys did on the regular. 

in the hush of the dark, while you eyes are fluttering close and your mouth is slightly parted out of relaxation, you feel a hand graze yours, a whisper floating through the dark. 

“i think it’s always been you.” 

₊⊹ taglist: @drunkinyourbenz

[dee-writes-anime]

A Sock, a Spoon, and Three Feathers

FEATURING Keigo 'Hawks' Takami x Reader

SUMMARY apparently his idea of “providing for you” is pre-cooked poultry and stealing all the spoons in your apartment.

CONTENT WARNINGS hawks is a bird I fear, fluff, slight angst at the end, but it ends in comfort, a dearly treasured spoon and a store bought rotisserie chicken, new relationship, nesting behavior, heat instincts, mild confusion, gift-giving, affectionate weirdness

AUTHORS NOTE god, someone get me a feral bird man. I fear I am desperate.

You’re not really sure when your apartment stopped looking like your apartment.

Maybe it was the third day in a row you found one of Keigo’s feathers tucked under your pillow. Or the moment you opened your silverware drawer and found it missing every spoon—except for one, singular, bent one—because, apparently, that was the “shiny one” he liked best.

You blink at the spoon now, lying sideways on your desk like it belongs there. You didn’t put it there.

There’s also a sock. Not yours.

“…Keigo?”

Your voice echoes down the hallway. You don’t get an answer right away, but you do hear a rustle from your bedroom, then the faint sound of a box being moved. When you poke your head in, you find him kneeling on the floor, surrounded by what might be your throw blankets, a hoodie you haven’t seen since March, and at least two of your favorite plushies.

And right in the middle of that chaotic pile: Hawks. Smiling. Nestled like a smug bird in a cloud of fleece.

“You’re home early,” he chirps, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t worry—I cleaned off the table so we can still eat dinner like civilized people.”

You blink.

Then blink again.

“…What are you doing?”

Keigo looks around like the answer should be obvious. “Building a nest.”

There’s no irony in his voice. No teasing smirk. Just that bright-eyed, sunlit warmth that always makes your brain short-circuit a little.

You open your mouth. Then close it. “A… nest.”

“Yep.” He plucks something from beside him—a keychain you thought you lost—and holds it up. “Look! I even added your stuff, so it smells like you. That way I can feel safe.”

You’re silent for a long beat, staring at him.

Keigo tilts his head. “You okay, dove?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, just… trying to figure out if this is, like, a bird thing or a Keigo thing.”

He laughs, but it’s a little too sharp, a little too strained. You watch his wings fluff up behind him, fidgeting with little shivers of motion.

That’s when it hits you—he’s been acting weird for days now. Clingy, but not in a bad way. Just… hovering. Twitchy. Bringing you little trinkets—some feathers, a shiny ring pop, a cool rock. He even gave you a piece of tinfoil once that was folded into a perfect triangle.

“Is this like… instinct?” you ask gently, stepping closer. “You’ve been doing this since Saturday.”

He hesitates. Then shifts, like he’s bracing for judgment.

“…I think I might be going into heat,” he mutters, voice muffled by the hoodie he pulls over his face. “It’s early this season. Thought I had another week.”

“Oh,” you say.

You’re not sure what the correct response is to my bird boyfriend is nesting in my bedroom because his instincts are telling him I’d be a good mate, but you settle for sitting down next to him in the pile of blankets. One of his feathers sticks to your shirt. You don’t brush it off.

“So, uh,” you say, “does the spoon have special meaning, or was that just your favorite?”

“Shiniest one you had,” Keigo says immediately.

You nod thoughtfully. “Fair.”

He peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re not freaked out?”

“I’m confused,” you say honestly. “But not, like, bad confused. Just… bird confused.”

He makes a helpless sound, flopping back dramatically into the pile. “God, you’re perfect.”

You reach over and pluck the feather off your sleeve. It’s a brilliant red and soft at the edges. You hold it up.

“This one’s mine now,” you say, tucking it into your hair like a headband.

Keigo freezes. His eyes go wide.

“…You’re killing me,” he whispers.

You grin. “Better make room in your nest then.”

He beams.

You wake up to the sound of wings flapping.

Not like—outside, bird-in-a-tree flapping. No. You’re talking full-blown helicopter-grade flapping right in your living room, paired with the unmistakable sound of your front door clicking shut.

You groggily sit up, blinking against the sunlight. Your nest—sorry, bed—still smells like Keigo. Not surprising, considering he’d spent the night wrapped around you like a living space heater. The blanket pile he started building last night has only grown, and you’re 90% sure he rearranged your throw pillows in the shape of a heart before you fell asleep.

There’s another rustle.

Then a thud.

Then—

“Babe!” Keigo’s voice, muffled. “Do you like rotisserie chicken?!”

You squint and shuffle out into the hallway. “…What?”

Keigo rounds the corner with three grocery bags, feathers ruffled and windswept like he flew full-speed across the city and dive-bombed the store. His hair is a mess, shirt slightly askew, one glove missing, and his expression so absurdly proud that your heart does a traitorous little flip.

“I brought food,” he says, holding out a warm, fragrant box with both hands like an offering to a queen. “Protein. Omega-3s. Bird-safe. Mate-safe.”

“Mate-safe?” you echo, because you cannot let that one slide.

Keigo hesitates. “…I said that out loud, huh.”

He does this thing where he laughs and coughs at the same time, like maybe he can distract you from the fact that his eyes are laser-focused on your face for any trace of disapproval.

You take the chicken.

You also take a moment to process that this man—this pro hero—is trying to prove his suitability as a mate with grocery store poultry.

“…You’re doing the bird thing again,” you murmur, trying not to smile.

“I know,” he says, completely unashamed now. “My heat’s in full swing. I’m lucky I can still think straight.”

You raise a brow. “Can you?”

Keigo shrugs. “Define straight.”

You throw a piece of bread at him. He dodges it effortlessly, like the bastard bird he is.

Usually, Keigo’s presence is… everywhere. Not in an overbearing way, just—felt. Like a breeze under your skin. Like laughter waiting in your throat.

But today?

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your spine prick.

You pause mid-bite of your sandwich and glance down the hallway. The nest—the mess of blankets, stolen socks, and whatever he’s dragged in this week—is undisturbed. There’s no feather trail on the floor. No spoon migration. No commentary from the windowsill about pigeons “loitering” on the fire escape.

Just silence.

“…Keigo?” you call softly.

No answer.

You set your food down and move toward the bedroom, heart ticking up just a notch. The air feels heavy—like a storm waiting to break.

You find him in the corner, half-curled into the nest. His wings are drawn tight against his back, shivering faintly. His head’s tucked into the crook of his elbow like he’s trying to hide from something.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching beside him. “There you are.”

He doesn’t look up. His voice is quiet. Muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “For what?”

He exhales shakily. “For being weird. For… hoarding your socks. For the chicken. For making your house smell like me. I just—my instincts are screaming and I can’t shut them up today and everything’s too loud—”

“Keigo.”

You reach out and gently touch his wing.

He stiffens for just a second—but then melts.

Collapses, really. Feathers slumping, breath hitching. He leans into your touch like it’s the first thing that’s made sense all day.

“I just wanted to be good,” he whispers. “Like—like a good mate. Someone who deserves to have you around. But now it just feels like I’m being too much. I’m not thinking clearly and it’s all heat and feathers and I—”

You shift closer, hands running slowly through the soft curve of his wings. “Hey. Breathe.”

He does. Because he listens to you. Always has.

“I like your feathers,” you murmur. “And your ridiculous spoon. And the stupid sparkly rock you left on my pillow.”

Keigo groans quietly. “That was a gift. From the heart.”

“I know. That’s why I kept it.”

He lifts his head just enough to glance at you, eyes glassy and golden, pupils blown wide with exhaustion and heat and instinct. You brush a bit of hair from his face.

“You don’t need to impress me, Keigo,” you say gently. “You already have me. Nest and all.”

He blinks.

Then suddenly, he’s curling into you. All warmth and feathers and barely-restrained shivers. He tucks his face into your shoulder and lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob.

“I love you,” he mumbles, voice cracking, “like—a lot.”

You smile and kiss the top of his head. “I know.”

You settle there for a while—him buried in your side, wings twitching with aftershocks, your hand stroking gently through his hair. You hum something soft and tuneless, the way you do when he’s too deep in his own head.

Eventually, his breathing slows. His wings loosen. He starts mumbling nonsense again.

“…gonna build you a bigger nest,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, amused.

“Mmhm. For our future chicks.”

You pause.

“Keigo, we’re not even a month into dating.”

“I’m planning ahead,” he huffs, voice thick with sleep.

You laugh, long and soft. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m in heat,” he mumbles, pressing closer. “Let me bird in peace.”

You let him. Because the truth is, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—with your weird, soft, instinct-driven bird of a boyfriend curled up like the world only makes sense when you’re touching.

And honestly?

Maybe it does.

[fishnapple]

What you should know about your career

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

CITRINE

Social connections and people in general are very important to your career. They play a crucial role in shaping your success. If you're the kind who likes to work independently, who doesn't want to rely on others for support and favour, you might not like to hear this. But it seems going alone is not your path. You're inextricably connected to people. If you want to move forward, to achieve big success then you have to accept that you need other people. You need to work with them as a team, to belong to a group, rather than shining on your own. Whom you choose to connect with also can impact your career decisions. They can help you choose the right road, steer you towards places that let you play your strengths to the most. But if you don't practise discernment, people can lead you astray with their advice and goading. 

Although you need people, you also need to know whom you can share your loads with. This is one of the few instances where friends might not always be the best people to share your burdens with. They may mean well, but their actions and beliefs can hinder your vision, they might advise you against doing something too 'rebellious', too risky, in their eyes. This could confuse you, keep you in a safe zone that you can't expand or grow much. So making a clear distinction between your personal friends and people you work with is important. Keep the two spheres separated. It's not easy to do so, especially when you're uncertain about your choices and need advice from the people you trust. But sometimes, going against the grains will let you out of the haze. Finding people who can support and encourage your dreams and aspirations will not be easy but it will be rewarding. 

Speaking of going against the grains. I see a lot of struggle between traditions, legacies versus innovation and changes. You might have to fight against long held traditional beliefs that prove to be not helpful anymore for your career. Maybe you saw how older people were doing and were taught to go a certain way. But you need to hold your heart's desires at the centre and move with that. Your faith in yourself will be tested. Confidence will be born from the belief that whatever you're doing, you will have your own back and there will always be people who can accept and support you.

FLUORITE

I see a sudden ending. A change that can shake your stability and force you to change your old habits, move away from the old support system and find a new footing. This change will let you move away and find a new home for yourself. Literally or figuratively, as you might have to change your living space, go independent, or be away from home for a while. It will be difficult to stay at home and cling to the past comfort. You will miss it dearly, yearning for the safety and peace you had at home. But circumstances might push you out of your comfort zone and demand you to start exploring the outside world more. Overall, there will be an exchange, a transition, you will need to give up something in order to achieve a bigger goal. Even endure hardship and do something against your heart's desires. It's uncomfortable but it will lead you to discover many hidden parts inside you. You will slowly realise what you truly want and create a new start for yourself. 

Trust in a new start, be in the mindset of a beginner. Even when you think you're experienced, there will be a time where you need to let go of all of your past knowledge and experience and start anew, that is the sacrifice, the change that would come to you. You're asked to put in blind faith in a new adventure, relinquish any past glory and achievements. Become a total newbie who is so eager to learn and to play. 

You need to make a mark with your individuality, to stand out, to make people remember your unique essence. It's not about seeking attention, it's about defining yourself clearly in people's eyes, to let them know what you're capable of. Gaining support from people around you is vital. The best way is to be honest in being yourself, let people have a chance to really 'see' you. What’s interesting is you might feel resistant towards acting more boldly, in accordance with what you truly want because you think it's childish, coy and dramatic. But that's where your charm lies. Being charming and persuasive works in your favour when it comes to your career. Hold on firmly to your deepest self and you will find that being charming is not at all difficult. 

One extra note, you will receive many intuitive messages through your dreams. If you see a child or children in your dream, it's a sign that you're getting closer to the 'guidance' within. Notice their actions in the dream, what you do with them, how you feel, you will find many answers through your dreams.

LABRADORITE 

A strong message of building up your strength and endurance is there. Not just physically but most importantly, mentally and emotionally. You might encounter lots of jealousy, slander and gossip at work. But if you stay strong within, you can weather them all. Nothing can get inside your heart if you don't allow them. You could feel like everything that is happening is outside of your control, they're not what you want and wish for. But don't turn your back on them. You're advised to let your heart lead you, but not into hiding, but straight ahead, rising above any obstacles. You're strong and have your intuition backing you up. This is the time to be fearless. 

There's going to be some sudden changes in your surroundings that can shake you, make you bewildered and confused. But fear not, you can get over them. As long as you stay rooted in what you believe in. Loyalty, to yourself, your principles and your good friends, will be an anchor that keeps you safe from all the storms around you. Beware of gossip that seems harmless and fun at first. Sometimes, it's best to keep some information for yourself rather than sharing it openly. Words can be a deadly weapon, for you or against you. Superficial connections won't help you grow. Focus on creating strong bonds with a selected few, whom you trust and can rely on. Quality over quantity. Whom you can envision spending a future with. Be selective of your friends and stick to them. Not everything has to be about fun and enjoyment. Some are there to help you learn new lessons, difficult lessons that you can't learn by yourself. Treasure those who you can count on as your friends. 

Even when you're angry and indignant. Don't be hasty to jump into conclusions and judge people. Your career will flourish more easily if you show your compassionate side more often, even to people who you think don't deserve it. Best not to linger too long on them. Save your energy to appreciate other people. Encourage them, appreciate their effort. You will become an inspiration. Above all, give appreciation to yourself. Allow yourself to dream big. Your career is marked by many movements. You have what it takes to go far.

The number 5 might have a significant meaning in your career. 

CLEAR QUARTZ 

There can be some hidden strife and conflicts in your career. The environment you're in seems to be not encouraging of honesty and cooperation. Instead, it promotes individualism and hidden competition. Life has an interesting way of letting you learn new lessons by arranging events that let you get out of your comfort zone. If you prefer solitude, then somehow, you would at one point be given a chance to do something in front of the public. You might resist it at first, but it will unlock your many hidden potentials and you will find that it's not as bad as you initially thought. 

Your career is marked by many moments of transformation and rebirth. The moment you choose to shine on your own, the moment that you achieve success, you will find that some connections will fall apart, some people will distance themselves from you. But the moment you stumble, when you're lost, you will also find help in unlikely places. Sunny and cloudy moments seem to alternate in your career forecast. There's a hidden force within you that doesn't allow you to be defeated. You're protected and pushed to keep moving. No matter how hazy the view in front of you is. You might have to change careers a few times before finally settling down. You can be restless for a while, wanting to learn as much from your job as possible, and when a job can't provide anymore lessons, you feel the urge to move on. Some might comment that you're being too flaky, too unsteady. Sometimes you yourself will also doubt your choices, with so much changes, can you succeed, can you achieve mastery of anything? Loyalty to an ideal, you have plenty, but loyalty to an actual place and position, you might not. One hard lesson you need to learn is to pursue something until you're confident of it, to stick to something long enough. It doesn't mean that you have to stay in a horrible job until you can't take it anymore. It means that you need to keep your purpose and goals crystal clear and hold on to them, no matter where you go. When you choose to stay in a job, you will exhaust all the possible ways of how to do the job creatively. You become an innovator, always find something new in something familiar. This way, you won't get bored quickly and can commit better to a job.

Male figures might have some big influences on your career in general. Also connect more with your masculine energy. When that energy is left unchecked, it can make you restless and reckless. But when you know how to connect with it, it can become your supporter in pursuing your goals.

[formulafanfics13]

The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 5

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

"I'll show you the bedroom," Lily offered casually, brushing her dark curls out of her face as she stepped away from the helmet display and toward the opposite end of the hallway. She didn't even glance to see if Lewis followed, she already knew he would. "But no judging."

"Of what?" Lewis called, trailing behind her. His voice was light, teasing, but there was a curiosity hanging off every word. That kind of curiosity that only hits when someone gives you the keys to something secret.

"Our candle addiction. And the fact that we use Polaroids like wallpaper."

Lily shot him a smirk over her shoulder, bare feet silent on the warm marble. The hallway curved softly, recessed lights twinkling above them like stars. Everything about the apartment whispered comfort. Money, yes, but not sterile. Not soulless. Lived in. Loved in.

She stopped in front of a door with a soft gold plaque: 4.

"Lando's idea," she said, tapping the number. "Of course."

Of course.

She opened the door, and Lewis stepped into a space so personal, so intimate, it felt almost like walking into a different home entirely.

The bedroom was a sanctuary.

The floor was smooth wood, partially covered by a massive off-white rug. The walls were an eggshell cream, soft and glowy in the late sunlight. Thick curtains hung open at the far end, revealing an entire wall of glass that overlooked the sea, Monaco's skyline glittering in the distance like diamonds scattered across satin.

And the bed? King-sized. Low to the ground. Blanketed in soft white linen sheets, slightly rumpled, like it had been napped in that morning. A couple of black silk pillowcases, a navy throw blanket tangled at the end. At least a dozen candles were scattered around, on the bedside tables, on shelves, on a little tray by the floor-length mirror. Every one in varying states of melted. Every one clearly used.

The air smelled faintly of something musky and sweet. Like vanilla and sage and something a little smoky, like sex and skin and peace.

But it was the Polaroids that stopped him in his tracks. They were everywhere.

Strung across twine over the bed. Framed in collages on the wall above the headboard. Tucked into the corners of the mirror. Leaning against perfume bottles on the vanity. Sitting proudly on the bedside tables. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

Lily and Lando smiling in a pool, hair wet and tangled. Lily laughing in a towel, holding a bottle of wine. Lando asleep with Lily curled into his side. A close-up of intertwined hands. A blurry shot of Lily straddling Lando's lap with half her bra off and her eyes closed.

A photo of their matching tattoos.

A photo of a split lip, Lando's, with Lily holding a frozen peas bag against it and making a face.

Every memory. Every moment. Unfiltered. Loved.

"You weren't kidding about the Polaroids," Lewis murmured, walking slowly into the room like it was a museum of intimacy. He didn't reach for anything. Just looked.

"I told you," Lily said with a small smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and letting her legs swing softly.

He turned to look at the bedside tables. Lando's side had two things that made him pause.

One was a Victoria's Secret Polaroid, perfectly framed in a soft leather frame. Lily, on her knees backstage, in dark red lace lingerie, halo wings in the background. The photo was candid. She wasn't posing. Just laughing with her head thrown back and her chest out, hair falling over one shoulder, still half in glam.

The second photo? More chaotic.

Same lingerie set. Same Lily. But this time she was facing away from the camera, turned slightly at the hip, the dim stage lights bouncing off her skin. One of Lando's hands was on her ass. The other belonged to Jude Bellingham. Both men were shirtless, grinning wickedly, leaning close to her like they were about to make her fall apart. All three of them clearly knew the photo was being taken, and none of them gave a fuck.

Lewis blinked. Hard.

Lily noticed. "Too much?"

He coughed. "No. Just- you really weren't lying about the no boundaries with Jude thing."

She smiled like she was proud of that. "We're very honest around here. The boys are close. It's not what people think."

"I don't even know what I'm thinking," Lewis muttered, still staring at the photo like it might answer some kind of life question.

"Lando has one of me and Jude together too," Lily offered, unbothered. "But he keeps that one in the drawer. Just for fun."

Lewis laughed under his breath. "This whole place is insane."

She lay back against the bed, arms spread, hair splaying across the white duvet like a halo. "Welcome to the chaos."

He walked over to the window, looked out over Monaco. His reflection in the glass caught the candles flickering behind him, soft and golden.

And then, softer: "You guys really love each other, huh?"

Lily tilted her head toward him. "Completely."

Lewis didn't say anything else. Just nodded. Somehow, that bedroom said more about the relationship than any story ever could.

"How many photos do you two even have together that the world's never seen?" Lewis asked, still stuck somewhere between awe and disbelief. He sat down at the edge of the bed, turning to face Lando, who was leaning lazily against the headboard, arm around Lily like it belonged there.

Lily smiled wickedly and stretched like a cat, her arms above her head. "Too many."

Lando sighed like he'd just been asked to reveal state secrets. "We have albums."

Lewis blinked. "Albums?"

"Like, actual albums," Lando confirmed, already turning to swing open one of the white wardrobe doors near the window. A low shelf inside looked like it belonged in a fucking archive, thick leather-bound books, some with gold-edged pages, some with fabric covers in soft pastels or rich black velvet. Lando pulled two off the shelf and shut the cupboard again with his hip.

"They're organised?" Lewis asked, stunned.

Lily laughed. "Chronologically. And aesthetically."

Lando tossed the two albums on the bed with a soft thud, the thick pages inside shifting slightly as they landed. "She made me colour-code the first three years."

"Felt necessary," Lily shrugged, crawling across the bed until she was on her stomach, elbows planted, chin resting in her hands. "We've taken over two thousand Polaroids."

Lewis sat straighter, eyes going wide. "You're joking."

"Nope." Lando lay beside her, patting the space on his other side like he was summoning a dog. "Come on, might as well see the unfiltered chaos now."

Lewis hesitated, then kicked his shoes off and climbed onto the bed, all careful limbs and sharp angles, propped up on a pillow as Lily opened the first album.

And just like that, he was in.

The first page? A blurry photo of Lando and Lily sitting on a kitchen counter, champagne bottle between them, both laughing too hard to stay in frame.

The second? Lily in a tiny white tank top and lace underwear, flipping off the camera with lipgloss smeared over her mouth and glitter on her cheeks. Lando's arm around her waist, half of his face in frame.

Another one, the infamous coffee shop. She was sitting at his table, books everywhere, a coffee in hand, looking up at him with the most chaotic half-smile, like she was about to ruin his life on purpose.

"That's the first day," Lando said quietly.

Lewis didn't reply. He just kept flipping. There were photos of Lily asleep on Lando's chest. Lando shirtless on a balcony, hair a mess, Lily's leg thrown over his hip. Selfies taken in the mirror of hotel bathrooms, Lily in lingerie, Lando holding her waist like she was already his.

But it wasn't all sex or skin or lust. There were photos of their friends too.

Barbara on a yacht, sunglasses halfway down her nose. Gavi asleep on the floor with Lily curled next to him. Lila Moss kissing Lily's cheek while they flipped off the camera. Jude mid-laugh, arm around Lando's neck in a blurry nightclub.

And then? Then came the intimate ones. Not posed. Not curated.

Lily, in a hotel room, freshly out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel and Lando's racing hoodie, sitting on the floor with Jude, both of them eating fries, Lando's socked foot just visible in the corner of the frame.

Lando, half naked in bed, arm thrown over Lily's bare back, her hand holding the Polaroid camera above them, her grin lazy and satisfied. Jude's t-shirt crumpled in the background.

A photo of all three of them, Lando in a white tank top, Lily in a lace bodysuit, Jude shirtless again, sitting on a bathroom counter surrounded by hair tools and cigarettes. Lily's lipstick was smudged. Jude had Lily's heel on his lap. Lando's hand was on her throat, gentle, like a collar.

"What the fuck," Lewis whispered, more impressed than scandalised.

Lando just laughed.

"We're close," Lily said softly, flipping the page.

Another album, more moments. Lando backstage at one of her shows, hood up, arms crossed, a tiny smile watching her from the corner. A photo taken from above, Lily laying on top of him, both in swimwear, sunburnt and laughing. A blurry photo of Lily in tears on a hotel bed, Lando holding her face, a cupcake in his other hand.

"Birthday shoot day," Lily explained. "I cried. It was hell."

"You cried?" Lewis looked at her, stunned. "You?"

She nodded. "I cry all the time. Just not in public."

Lewis let out a low whistle. "I genuinely had no fucking clue this side of you existed."

Lily didn't say anything. She just flipped another page. Now the photos got more chaotic again.

Lily and Barbara pretending to kiss for the camera with champagne dripping down their chins. Jude holding up Lily's leg mid-concert like she was a trophy. Lando and Jude on either side of her in a hot tub, one hand each on her thighs. More backstage snaps, more candids, more moments that shouldn't exist on camera and yet did — proudly, vividly, unapologetically.

"Some of these..." Lewis shook his head. "Would be actual headlines."

"That's why they never leave the apartment," Lando muttered, reaching past Lily for a new album.

The leather on this one was cracked, soft with time. Inside? Polaroids from their early days.

Lily with no makeup. Lando with longer hair. Photos from London rooftops, late night Uber rides, fast food on the floor. Her curled into his lap in a hoodie that reached her knees. Him pressing a kiss to her cheek while she scrolled on her phone. A selfie of her asleep on his chest.

"You guys are actually just obsessed with each other," Lewis finally said.

Lando smirked. "Well. Yeah."

Lily leaned back, resting her head against Lando's chest. "We like to remember it all."

"It's insane, though," Lewis added. "That this has all been happening while the rest of us are sitting around thinking you're single and probably playing Minecraft with Max."

Lando laughed. "I do still play Minecraft with Max."

Lily snorted. "But not instead of fucking me, babe."

"Facts," Lando grinned.

Lewis shook his head again and reached for another album. "Alright. Show me more. Let me drown in the delusion."

Lily smiled. "Careful. You'll start wanting a secret girlfriend too."

"I already fucking do," Lewis muttered.

And just like that, three bodies stayed curled on a Monaco bed, knee-deep in memories the world would never see, laughing like they were seventeen, living like it was all just a fever dream with too many Polaroids to count.

Lily's phone buzzed on the side table. The soft trill of her alarm cut through the lazy quiet of the bedroom.

She sighed, rolled onto her knees, and pressed a soft kiss to Lando's cheek before climbing over him. Her shirt- his shirt- shifted up her thighs as she stood, and she stretched briefly before grabbing her phone.

"I've got a Zoom with Chanel," she said, voice still raspy. "It's just planning, shouldn't be more than half an hour."

"Need anything?" Lando asked, chin tilted toward her.

She smiled at him, then looked at Lewis and added, "Keep him in line, will you?"

Lewis smirked. "No promises."

She rolled her eyes affectionately, and padded out of the room barefoot, disappearing down the hall. As soon as the door clicked shut, Lewis let out a slow exhale and gestured at the chaos of photos still littered across the bed.

"These are insane," he muttered, flicking through one of the albums again. "I feel like I'm intruding on a cult."

Lando laughed and settled back against the pillows, eyes glinting with that same smug chaos he always got when he knew he was about to win a game no one else realised they were playing.

"Oh, mate," he said. "If you think these are the scandalous ones..."

He stood, wandered back toward the cabinet with a stretch of his back, pulled open the doors again, and this time reached for a black leather album—thicker, heavier, with no label on the spine. Just a crimson silk ribbon wrapped around it like a secret waiting to unravel.

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "That's the sex album, isn't it?"

"No comment," Lando said, walking back over and tossing it onto the bed beside him. "But yes."

Lewis blinked. Then sat up straighter. Lando leaned over and opened the first page.

The first photo was a grainy mirror selfie, Lando shirtless, Lily in a strappy satin dress, smeared lipstick, her leg hitched up around his hip like she'd just been pressed against the wall. Jude's face was just visible in the mirror, grinning behind them, holding the camera.

Lewis muttered, "Jesus fucking Christ."

"You asked," Lando smirked.

They flicked through the pages, photo after photo, documenting chaos and affection and trust in its rawest, most unfiltered form. Some were classic party shots: Halloween, with Lily in black latex bunny ears, sitting on Pablo's lap while Gavi painted her nails. The infamous Christmas polaroid of her standing between Lando and Jude in floor-length black satin, both of them staring at her like she was dinner and they hadn't eaten in weeks.

Some were far more intimate. Lily curled on the floor, topless under Lando's hoodie, with Jude painting her toenails while smoking a joint. One of them shirtless in a kitchen, Lily stood on the counter in lingerie with one hand around Jude's neck and the other in Lando's hair.

Another with the caption, scribbled on the bottom: "I didn't kiss either of them after this. They both smelt like tequila."

Lewis blinked again. "Okay, so, I have to ask-"

Lando was already smirking. "About the boundaries?"

"Yeah. Like... what are they?"

Lando shrugged. "There are boundaries. They just don't look like most people's."

Lewis looked down at a polaroid of Lily, draped in a silk robe, curled between Jude and Lando on a hotel bed. All of them asleep. Or pretending to be. Her head on Lando's shoulder, her leg thrown over Jude's thigh.

"You're not jealous?"

"Never," Lando said. "They're my family."

"Even when he's got his hand on her ass?"

Lando laughed. "Especially then."

Lewis was silent for a second. "Okay. Explain this friend group to me."

Lando smiled, leaned back, arms folded behind his head. "Alright," he said. "You've got Lily at the centre. She's the sun. Everything spins around her. Jude? He's her anchor. The oldest one. Has known her longest. He's protective as hell but also chaotic. They used to date, yeah, but it wasn't real love. Just safety. He's like her big brother now, if big brothers helped you hide bodies and danced with you in your underwear."

Lewis huffed out a stunned laugh.

"Gavi?" Lewis asked.

"Troublemaker," Lando grinned. "But soft when it counts. Wrote Lily a four-page letter once when she was sick. Brought soup, left flowers. But he also dared Jude to take body shots off her in Ibiza."

Lewis raised his eyebrows.

"She let him," Lando said. "She laughed the whole time."

Lewis flipped another page and landed on the bunny costume Halloween photo. Lily in fishnets and a slip dress. Jude shirtless in cuffs. Pablo wearing a robe and sunglasses. The three of them posing like an absolute fever dream. "I don't get how you're all okay with this," he said.

"We built it this way," Lando said. "No jealousy. No lies. If something ever makes someone uncomfortable, they speak. And it stops."

Lewis looked thoughtful. "And it works?"

"It's sacred," Lando said, voice serious now. "It only works because we all trust each other more than anyone outside ever could. This group? It's safe. It's unconditional."

Lewis looked up from the album. "So when people think you're single..."

"They're only seeing what we let them," Lando said. "They think I'm the McLaren golden boy with no real ties. Meanwhile, I come home every night to her. To all of them."

He paused. "She's the love of my life, mate. I'd burn the world down to keep her safe. And they would too."

Lewis looked back down at the photo. Lily in a group of boys. All chaos. All heat. But hers. Every single one of them.

Another photo caught his eye, Lily in a white mini dress, straddling a barstool, Jude licking whipped cream off her thigh while Pablo poured champagne into her mouth, Lando behind her with a hand on her waist and a grin that could kill.

On the bottom was a scrawled note: "We're not doing shots again after this. (We did.)"

Lewis let out a low whistle. "You know... I used to think I had a pretty wild life."

Lando just smiled, leaning back again with his hands folded behind his head. "You do. But ours has better photos."

Lewis was still flipping carefully through the chaos like it might explode in his hands, tracing his fingers over the glossy plastic pockets and blurred ink captions. He was stuck somewhere between fascination, admiration, and a very real existential crisis. A soft "what the fuck" every few pages. He'd stopped pretending this was normal about ten minutes ago.

Lando, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life.

They were laid out on the bed like teenagers at a sleepover, but instead of horror movies and snacks, it was candid porn-adjacent Polaroids and friendship dynamics that bordered on spiritual.

"Okay," Lewis muttered, tilting one album toward him. "So this one, this is from Ibiza, right?"

"Mhm," Lando confirmed, his voice casual. Too casual.

"This looks like... Lily's wearing Jude's chain?"

"She is," Lando nodded. "He gave it to her that night because she broke her heel and he said it was her 'war medal'."

Lewis just blinked. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

"She fell down a flight of stairs and landed in the splits," Lando offered.

"...Was she okay?"

"She won a tequila shot contest twenty minutes later. So yeah."

Lewis snorted. He flipped again. This one stopped him. It was Lily, topless but back to the camera, Jude's arms around her waist and Lando's hand up her thigh. Both men shirtless, flushed. Lily's head thrown back, laughing, a cigarette in one hand and her phone in the other, like someone had just made a joke mid-threesome and she absolutely needed to text it to Gavi.

"Jesus," Lewis breathed.

Lando's smirk stretched slowly across his face. And then, without warning, he reached over and flipped to the very back of the album.

Lewis's mouth opened slightly. "We're going deeper?"

"Oh, you're not even at the feral part yet," Lando muttered.

He turned the last few pages slowly, like he was opening a vault. And there it was. A full-blown descent into madness.

One photo: Lily bent over a couch in a leather minidress, both Jude and Lando behind her, shirtless, smiling like devils, Lando flipping off the camera.

Another: The three of them in a shower, Jude holding a champagne bottle, water running down their bodies, Lily's lipstick smudged across both men's chests like battle scars.

One more: Lily sprawled on a hotel bed in nothing but lingerie and one of Jude's necklaces, Lando half out of frame, Jude kissing her knee. The caption? "He said she tasted like strawberries. He was right."

Lewis stared. His face blank. His mouth slightly open.

"Mate," he said after a second.

Lando turned his head lazily, smirk still sitting there like a weapon. "Yeah?"

"Are you telling me you had a threesome with your girlfriend and her ex-boyfriend?"

Lando leaned back on his elbows and shrugged. "Couple times."

"Couple-" Lewis had to sit up straighter. "You say that like you're telling me you've had pasta a few times this month."

"I mean... same vibe," Lando replied, utterly deadpan.

Lewis looked like his brain was short-circuiting. "You're really okay with that?"

"More than okay," Lando said, flipping the page again to show yet another photo, this one in black and white, all three of them asleep in a pile of limbs on a bed that had clearly seen war. "It wasn't about the sex."

Lewis arched a brow. "No?"

"It was about trust," Lando said. "And love. And safety."

There was no hesitation in his voice. No shame. No weird undertone of possessiveness. Just calm. Certain. "They're part of each other," he continued. "Jude's a part of Lily's soul the same way I am. It doesn't lessen anything. It deepens it."

Lewis stared again. "How the fuck are you so emotionally evolved?"

Lando laughed. "Because when you're with someone like her, you have to be." He tapped the photo gently with one finger. "This?" he said. "This only works because there's not a single thing unsaid between any of us."

Lewis rubbed a hand down his face, half-exasperated, half-in awe. "You're all either completely insane or on another level of consciousness."

"Both," Lando said cheerfully.

Lewis looked back at the album. At the blurred memories, the fingerprints on the film, the chaos in every frame. And then up at Lando again.

"How the fuck do you keep it all so quiet?"

Lando smiled, that same soft little secret smile he always gave when talking about Lily.

"Because it's not a secret to us," he said. "Just the rest of the world."

Lewis closed the scandal album slowly, like he needed to physically put the madness away to keep it from consuming him. The last few Polaroids he'd seen were now seared into his frontal cortex, images of Lily, Lando, and Jude tangled in enough intimacy to short-circuit a Vatican priest. He pressed his palm flat to the cover and exhaled through his nose like he'd just run ten laps.

He stood. "Alright," he said, smoothing his linen shirt and glancing at the clock. "I need to head back. Gotta feed Roscoe."

Lando smirked, still half-sprawled on the bed. "You're leaving before the night gets good?"

Lewis shook his head. "No. I'm leaving before I start believing this is normal."

"Fair." Lando grabbed his phone off the side table and opened the Uber app. "I'll book you a car. It'll pick you up out front."

Lewis bent down, slipping his shoes back on, still glancing once in a while at the closed album like it might re-open itself and whisper sins into his ear. "Mate, those albums are like some kind of chaos bible."

Lando stood too, stretching as his back cracked. "Volume One of the Holy Fucking Trinity."

Lewis groaned. "Do not call it that."

Lando just winked. The Uber confirmation pinged. Lando checked it and nodded toward the hallway. "Come on. We'll wait in the living room. I'll let Lils know you're going."

They walked together, bare feet against marble, sunlight still soaking through the high-rise windows, the penthouse humming with the faint scent of candles, coffee, and whatever expensive moisturiser Lily had used that morning.

At the far end of the apartment, Lily's home office door was mostly closed. Lando padded over and gave it two light knocks before nudging it open without waiting for a reply.

Inside, Lily sat in an impossibly chic white leather chair, her MacBook angled just so, glasses perched on her nose, and her hair twisted up into a claw clip. She was still in Lando's shirt, one bare thigh crossed over the other. On her screen was a muted Zoom gallery of Chanel's most important names—PR directors, stylists, someone who looked suspiciously like Virginie Viard herself.

Lily glanced up the second the door creaked. Her eyes softened immediately. "Lan?"

"Lew's heading out," Lando said, leaning against the doorframe. "Wanted to say bye."

Lily smiled and lifted one hand toward the screen. "One second," she said into her AirPods. Then muted herself, stood up, and padded barefoot over to the door without hesitation.

Lewis blinked. "You... muted Chanel?"

Lily just shrugged and pulled him into a warm, two-armed hug, one that smelled like vanilla and cherry ice vape. "Thank you for coming. You're welcome here anytime."

Lewis hugged her back, still stunned. "Even after seeing your entire NSFW archives?"

She pulled back with a grin. "You're vetted now."

Lando chuckled from the side. "Inducted into the inner circle."

Lily kissed Lando's cheek softly, whispering, "I'll be another ten minutes," and then slipped back into her chair like nothing had happened.

Lando eased the door shut again, and they walked back through the apartment in companionable silence.

In the living room, Lewis grabbed his sunglasses from the side table and turned to face Lando, lips still curled in the smallest, most bemused smile.

"She paused Chanel for me."

Lando nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. "That's just Lily."

"No, like..." Lewis looked toward the hallway. "I don't think you get how insane that is."

"Oh, I get it."

"She's talking to actual royalty over there, and she still made sure to hug me goodbye."

Lando shrugged, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "She's loyal. Always has been."

Lewis stood there for a second, still trying to find the words. Still thinking about the albums. The chaos. The calm. The love. He looked at Lando, shook his head slowly, and said, "You're the luckiest bastard I've ever met."

Lando just grinned.

The Uber pulled up outside. Lando gave him a mock salute. "Tell Roscoe I said hi."

Lewis opened the door. "Tell Jude he owes me context."

Then he was gone, the soft Monaco evening swallowing him whole, and Lando stood in the silence for a second before heading back to the bedroom to put the albums away.

Because Lily would be off that call soon.

And the real chaos? Was always better live.

[dog-bimbo]

shiu n his sweet bimbo girlfriend part six 18+ only minors dni part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 a/n based on this yummy yummy ask i got so excited!! >⁠.⁠<

the gala is filled with men who either have blood on their hands or money. and you don’t belong here—not really.

but shiu had shown up at your door with a dress and a look that dared you to say no, told you to stay close, to stay quiet, to not ask too many questions.

and you had nodded, dumb and excited like always—lips glossy, eyes wide. lashes thick, heels high, letting him lead you into a world you don’t understand but love how it clings to him, how it clings onto you. you’re just some regular girl, sure, but in here, you're a dangerous man's doll.

he always looks so at home here, cigarette between his lips, face unreadable, hands always tucked in his pockets like he’s got nothing to prove and everything under control. he's got clients caught on his hooks, all they want is someone gone mess free. your boyfriend dearest provides exactly the kind of service they yearn for.

there’s a man, just a year older than you, suit just as expensive, charm turned up like a dial and he sees you the way shiu used to before he got comfortable, before he started pulling you into bathrooms like you were guaranteed to follow, and this man doesn’t look at you like you’re his already, he looks at you like you’re new. something to acquire.

you’re smiling too much and laughing too easily, and when his fingers graze your bare back, you don't swat him. you let them.

not because you want him, not because you want him to want you, but because you want shiu to see.

and he does, of course he does, he’s halfway across the ballroom with his chin tilted and jaw tight and he hasn’t tried coaxing any more clients ever since he saw you getting extra chummy with the guy.

you can feel it coming, the pressure building inside of him.

and when you glance at him, your eyes, he doesn’t blink, just stares at you, his cool composure thinning.

but that's not what gets you. the guy next to you falters, says something boring about sicily and shipping and money laundering and it’s too smooth, too fictional. not like the stories shiu tells you when you're painting your nails.

and suddenly it all feels hollow, like you reached for something shiu-like and got a cardboard cutout instead.

and the high of the game fades fast.

you excuse yourself with a soft smile and no intention of ever looking back.

he's stepping into your path without a word, tension radiating off him, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

“next time you need attention, baby,” he says, “ask like a good girl.” he clicks his lighter, cups the flame, hangs his head low to light the cigarette but then—you lean in and say, “don’t make me look for replacements.”

it lands like a slap, like he can’t breathe. he stops midway and just looks at you somewhat blank and shocked, but mostly, there's this desperate need coiling in his stomach. the kind of need that doesn't manifest on most days. but today, he's not cool, he doesn't have a clever retort, he's just brimming with the need to prove to you that he is all you need.

and his hand finally lifts, steady now, sliding around your waist as he guides you away from the ballroom, through a hallway.

and the moment the door clicks shut behind you in some guest room.

he pushes you and drops to his knees like he's praying. he’s on the floor pulling your panties down with both hands.

and when he presses his tongue to your cunt, it’s not soft or teasing or cruel—it’s desperate, sloppy and wet and relentless.

his hands are locked around your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn't get to lap on your sweet, sweet juices...

you grab his hair, moaning low, biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud.but he doesn’t care. he’s fucking groaning into you, nose pressed against your clit, tongue fucking you like he needs it more than you do, like it’s not enough to make you come, he wants to make you forget every other man that’s ever looked at you. because he's your man, no one else.

and he’s whispering broken, breathless things between licks—"mine, baby, don’t fucking look at anyone else, fuck, you’re mine, you're so fucking mine, my dumb, delicious bimbo..."

and you’re shaking, trembling, thighs squeezing around his head as your orgasm hits like a wave. it's sharp and blinding and still he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let go, like he’s trying to drink every drop of you just to feel full.

when you finally tug him back by his hair, panting, wrecked, he looks up at you with that ruin in his eyes and slick on his chin, he grins, lazy and satisfied and tired.

for once, he’s the one who looks used, undone, absolutely yours.

[enjakey]

THE CERTAIN ROMANCE OF WINGS AND WAR

Teaser (5.4k)

Chapter 1 coming out June 30th 2025 (send an ask or comment to be added to taglist)

PAIRING: [DAD!JAKE SIM x FEM!READER]!MAFIA AU

TW/N: Mafia au | soulmates au | angel/devil wings au | childhood best friends au | frenemies au | I didn’t know I loved you until I lost you | eloping/running away | family friends au | found family au | cheating, blood, drugs, mentions of sex, alcohol, lots of cussing, mentions of murder, guns, therapy, trauma, abandoning children, adoption care, estranged families, physical abuse, anger issues, characters make terrible decisions, some characters have sexual relations but not romantic, mentions of a lot of fucking each other over (betrayal), can't trust anyone.

SUMMARY: in a world where people grow wings when they fall in love, Jake believed he’d found his perfect match- until the woman he trusted vanished, leaving betrayal in her wake and revealing love as merely a tactic in her game. He was head of his powerful mafia family, Jake leads alongside Sunghoon, with Jungwon and Niki as his loyal muscle, and remains tied legacy to Y/N’s family, co-founders of their criminal empire. But their seemingly unshakable world collapses when Jake’s misplaced trust ignites a hidden war, culminating in the death of a close member- a loss that fractures alliances and leaves scars stretching across cities and time. And amid the chaos, Jake is left raising his daughter alone.

When Jake stepped into the bar, the humid press of bodies and the sharp bite of spilled alcohol closed around him like a vice, choking off his breath. The room pulsed with music and neon lights, a kaleidoscope of movement and color that only deepened the gnawing dread twisting through his gut. It felt as though a heavy shadow was perched atop his shoulders, pressing him forward even as every instinct screamed for him to turn back. Somewhere among these wooden tables, beneath the golden glow of overhead lamps and the sweet, acidic tang of whiskey, his reckoning waited for him.

He paused near the threshold, scanning the crowd with eyes that burned from too many sleepless nights. He searched for familiar figures- the lean frame of Sunghoon, who usually hovered near the poker tables; Niki’s mess of hair that bobbed and swayed in time with the dance floor’s rhythm; or the sight of Jungwon, head bent over a pool cue as his hair fell over dark, watchful eyes. But the faces around him were all strangers, laughing into their drinks, pressing close in the low haze of music and cigarette smoke.

A dull throb started in Jake’s temples as he forced himself deeper into the bar, past sticky tabletops and the bitter scent of stale beer. His senses were on high alert, each step deliberate, as if crossing a battlefield rather than a room meant for celebration. Yet even amid the chaos, one smell anchored him- the faint, comforting waft of his favorite beer drifting from somewhere ahead. He knew instantly where his brothers and friends were waiting for him. And the laughter rolling out from that dark corner- sharp, mocking- sliced right through him.

The sound was familiar, once a melody that meant belonging. But now, it made his stomach turn. Because a year ago, Jake would have slipped into that circle without a second thought. He would have poured his own drink, fired back his own biting jokes, and felt utterly at home. But tonight, he felt like an intruder approaching his own execution.

He moved toward the booth, shoulders squared, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his trench coat, fingers curled into fists as if he could hold himself together through sheer will.

It was Y/N who spotted him first.

Her eyes caught the shifting lights, glinting like shards of amber glass. For a fleeting instant, a softness sparked across her face, as though she was genuinely glad to see him- but it vanished in a blink, replaced by a slow, sharp smirk that curled the corners of her lips. Jake felt something squeeze painfully in his chest at the sight. Once, that smile had meant secrets and inside jokes. Now it promised war.

And he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that this night would not end well.

He braced himself.

“There you are!” Y/N crowed, voice bright as she threw both arms into the air, one hand wrapped tightly around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in waves, dark as spilled ink under the neon glow. Jake winced at the sight of the bottle, at the telltale flush in her cheeks. Normally, he’d have scolded her, reminded her to slow down, to take care. But tonight, he didn’t say a word. He merely inclined his head, acknowledging her and the group with a curt nod, as the others greeted him in low, disjointed murmurs.

Jay sat close to Y/N, one arm slung protectively around his half-sister’s shoulders. His eyes were sharp, tracking Jake’s every move like a hawk waiting to strike or intervene- depending on how the night turned. The delicate gold pattern on his dark wings shimmering in the pulsing lights as he shifted

In the world they lived in, love left its mark not only on hearts but on bodies. When two people fell in love, they grew wings- a pair of white for one partner, and black for the other. Nobody seemed entirely certain what the colors signified- purity and darkness, perhaps, or simply a cosmic balance of opposites- but Jake knew one thing for certain- in his world, most men, himself included, ended up sprouting black wings.

But then there were the rare lovers, the fated pairs everyone secretly envied- soulmates whose wings blossomed not in plain color, but threaded with intricate veins and swirls of gold. Like a constellation woven into feathers, the gold marked them as a bond beyond ordinary love- a connection said to transcend lifetimes, anchored in something divine.

Jay and his wife, Chelsea, were one of those rare pairs.

It was such an extraordinary occurrence that local news outlets had practically camped outside the gates of their compound, desperate to run feature stories about the gold-winged couple. Tabloid headlines speculated about how their wings must look in flight, if the golden glow was visible even in the dark. Paparazzi tried snapping photos at impossible angles, eager to sell proof of their shimmering wings to gossip magazines.

But Jay and Chelsea refused it all.

They declined every interview, every offer for a glossy magazine spread, choosing instead to keep their story private. They belonged to a mob family, after all, and the risks were far too high. Gold wings didn’t just mark love- they painted a target on your back for rival factions eager to exploit your weakness or your happiness.

Jay and Chelsea’s story was almost storybook-perfect. They’d met in college, enrolled in the same economics class. From the very first day, there was a magnetic pull between them- lingering glances across the lecture hall, shared laughter over coffee outside the library. During a crowded house party one October night, their fingers brushed while reaching for the same beer bottle, and that tiny touch seemed to seal their fate. Within a week, they woke up to find gold beginning to shimmer along the curve of their shoulder blades. By the end of the month, full wings had unfurled, bearing matching golden markings so unique it was like they shared the same fingerprint.

In every sense, Jay and Chelsea were perfect. They moved in quiet synchronicity, understood each other’s moods with a glance, and made even the darkest parts of mob life seem manageable. To watch them was to glimpse something miraculous.

Yet even in a world where love could quite literally sprout wings, obsession bred bitterness. People broke off relationships simply because their wings came out plain white or black, unable to accept the absence of gold. There were forums online dedicated to decoding every tiny speck of color in new wings, hopeful posts from strangers praying their black feathers might still glow gold one day. Some lovers lingered together in misery, waiting for the gold that never came.

Jake had always thought that was foolish. A pair of wings didn’t dictate love- or so he’d told himself, especially after meeting Emily. When he fell for her, his own wings grew in black, feathered and sleek, the color of midnight oil. Hers were white, pale as frost. No hint of gold ever came, no divine stamp of soulmate-hood.

And Jake told himself it didn’t matter.

Even as he caught himself glancing enviously at Jay and Chelsea sometimes, watching the soft glint of gold move beneath their shirts as they laughed together, he clung to the belief that love didn’t need wings to prove itself.

But deep down, a quiet fear curled inside his ribs, whispering that maybe, just maybe, it did.

Jake’s eyes swept the rest of the booth. Sunghoon, perched beside Jay, rolled his eyes the moment their gazes met. He raised his beer in a silent toast- or maybe a warning- and shoved an empty chair out with his foot, the legs scraping a rough protest against the sticky floor. Jake hesitated for a fraction of a second before sinking into the seat, feeling every pair of eyes weigh down on him.

It wasn’t awkward silence that followed. It was anticipation. Like the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the first crack to appear in the fragile facade holding all of them together.

But Jake’s attention snagged on Jungwon, who sat small and drawn beside Y/N. His hair hung forward like a curtain as he stared down into a tall glass of orange cocktail that trembled slightly in his grasp. His lips hovered near the rim but never touched it. A spear of protectiveness shot through Jake’s chest. He wanted to reach over, tilt Jungwon’s chin up, and ask if he’d remembered his meds tonight. But his throat closed around the words before they could escape.

And then he saw Niki. His brother leaned back against the cracked vinyl of the booth, eyes ringed in red and blown wide from whatever he’d taken earlier. A bruise split the delicate skin of his lower lip, purple blooming like ink beneath pale skin. Jake felt his own jaw tighten, heat pulsing up the sides of his neck. He wanted to demand who’d hurt his brother, he wanted to hit someone for leaving that mark. But even now, he held himself in check.

Because tonight wasn’t just about bruises. Tonight was about all the wounds they’d been pretending not to see.

“You’re like an hour late, bro,” Niki drawled, one eyebrow arched high, his grin a wicked crescent as he leaned closer over the table. His eyes were wide, expectant, as though daring his brother to tell the truth for once in his life.

Jungwon and Sunghoon both cringed, almost in sync, at Niki’s tone.

Jay and Y/N shared a quick glance, a silent communication honed over years. It was the kind of look that said brace yourself- because everyone knew what was about to unfold.

Jake’s jaw tightened visibly as he curled his fingers into the wood grain of the table, ignoring the sharp sting as his healing cuts stretched and split. His eyes turned flinty as they landed on Niki, staring him up and down like he was trying to calculate just how much trouble his little brother was ready to cause.

“I was running some errands,” Jake said finally, rolling his eyes, the lie slipping off his tongue as smoothly as air. He swept his gaze around the table, daring anyone to challenge him.

He was desperate to hold on to some shred of control, even as the walls pressed in closer around him.

“You’re lying,” Y/N cut in sharply, her voice slicing through the noise of the bar like a blade. It wasn’t even an accusation- it was simply the truth stated aloud, the truth Jake had no intention of admitting.

Jake’s first instinct was to snap back, to warn her to watch her mouth, to stay in her lane and not start a fight tonight. But the words never made it past his teeth. He didn’t have the right anymore- not after everything.

Besides, Jay was already leaning in to whisper in Y/N’s ear, murmuring for her not to push things too far. Y/N only shook her head, exhaling as though his caution exhausted her. Jay chuckled, though his gaze shifted back to Jake, dark and assessing. It was a look that made Jake’s stomach twist because it told him exactly how thoroughly he was seen. Then Jay’s mouth tilted into a smirk, and Y/N clicked her tongue against her teeth. Jake knew then there was no escape.

Y/N had always taken pleasure in pushing his buttons. It was practically a sport to her- one she’d perfected over years of knowing exactly where to press and how hard. She’d drag him right to the edge until something ugly burst out of him, and not even Jay’s gentle hands on her shoulders could ever fully hold her back.

She’d grown up around Jake. She knew every scar, every soft spot, every secret shame, and she wasn’t afraid to wield that knowledge like a weapon.

Once, they’d screamed at each other across rooms, volleying insults that could make grown men flinch. Jake used to warn her to drop it, used to hiss for her to shut up. But tonight, he didn’t even try.

Tonight was different.

Because tonight, Jake knew he deserved every blow she was about to land. He knew he’d fucked up. And there was a part of him that almost wanted her to say it all out loud, so he could stop carrying it in silence.

“One thing,” he heard her say in his memory, her voice cool and trembling with rage. “I asked you for one fucking thing. And you still did it.”

“You know I know Dad was with you, right? And so was Emily?” Niki interjected suddenly, his grin wicked and sharp, his eyes flicking between Jake and Sunghoon like a cat toying with a trapped bird.

Sunghoon flinched, surprise flashing over his face. His eyes flew wide, but he stayed silent, gripping his beer bottle tight enough that the glass creaked. He knew Jake needed to hear whatever was coming next- even if it ripped him open.

“I don’t get why you need to lie to us all the time,” Y/N chimed in, shaking her head, hair tumbling over her shoulders. She pursed her lips, the last traces of compassion draining out of her expression as she noticed Jake’s white-knuckled fist clenched against the table. “Want a drink?” She asked lightly, tilting her head, her eyes sparkling with false innocence. It was almost comical how gentle her tone was, considering she was about to skin him alive.

“Thanks,” Jake muttered, his voice rough, as Y/N slid Jay’s beer across the table toward him. He caught it just before it tipped off the edge, feeling the cold condensation bleeding into his heated palm.

“Now tell me,” Y/N continued, leaning back slightly, her whiskey swirling amber in the low light as Jay waved a waiter over for another round. Jake lifted his chin at her in silent challenge, signaling her to keep going. Sunghoon’s lips pressed into a hard line while Jungwon fidgeted, trying and failing to meet his brother’s eyes.

Y/N’s gaze was unwavering. She took another slow sip, savoring it, then lowered her glass to the table with a soft clink.

“How’s Emily?” She asked, voice casual, eyes glinting like sharpened glass. “The baby’s coming in… what, a few weeks? Did you decide on a name yet?”

Jake drew in a careful breath, chest tight as he tried to remind himself that this wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. People had babies every day. People asked about baby names every day- Y/N was going to be the aunt, after all. But somehow, in this moment, with every pair of eyes fixed on him like knives, it felt colossal.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and slightly strained. He nodded, fingers drumming lightly on the neck of his beer bottle. “A few. Amber, Emma, Robin, Luna. She says Blue is her favourite.”

Y/N made a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of her throat, swirling her whiskey lazily. “Luna’s my favourite.”

Niki let out a sharp snort, tipping his chair back on two legs. “What kinda name is Blue?” He scoffed. “Emily’s always been stupid- honestly.”

Jake’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “You’re gonna find an excuse to shit on her for everything?” His voice came out tight, barely controlled, like a stretched wire ready to snap.

Niki rolled his eyes, dropping his chair back onto all fours with a loud thump. “Are you just starting to learn that?” He shot back. “You act like this is new.” Jake’s lips parted to retort, but Niki was already pressing forward, sharp as a blade. “What’d Dad say, anyway?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Jake shot back, growling it before he could stop himself. He didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but he was done waiting for the inevitable. He was just counting down the seconds until the accusations started flying, until they flayed him open in front of everyone.

He tightened his grip around his beer, glass biting into the tender cuts already splitting across his knuckles. His skin stretched painfully, stinging and raw, as if even his own body was punishing him for being here.

Y/N tilted her head, her mouth curling into a faint smirk as she studied him with glinting eyes. She looked, for a moment, almost… delighted. Because Jake, for the first time in a long time, looked cornered.

Jake Sim- who’d once made men twice his size tremble with a single stare- sat there looking like an animal bracing for the blow. And it wasn’t an enemy doing this to him. It was the people who knew him best.

It was humiliating.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears, loud enough that he barely noticed Sunghoon shifting beside him, subtle and restless. Even Sunghoon, for all his sighs and annoyed glances, wasn’t stepping in to save him.

Jake clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. He was furious with himself- for letting them see how rattled he was. For letting himself be afraid of people who technically worked for him, who were supposed to follow his orders.

All of them worked under him. All of them owed him loyalty. Yet somehow, it felt like they held all the power now. And that scared Jake more than anything else.

“Fine, tell me then,” Y/N said, leaning forward on her elbows with a lopsided grin, eyes glittering like she was daring him to lie again.

“Anything to do with Emily does not concern you,” Jake snapped back, each word sharp enough to cut. He hated how his voice trembled at the edges, hated even more the cold pit that seemed to sink deeper into his stomach the longer this conversation went on. He knew they had a point. He just didn’t want them to be right.

“Technically, it does,” Jungwon piped up, his voice unexpectedly firm.

Every head at the table turned toward him. The clink of ice in drinks, the thump of bass from the dance floor, all seemed to fade for a second as silence fell.

Jungwon looked back at Jake, brow furrowed. “You only met her because of us,” he continued, sounding almost offended that nobody else was saying it. Y/N blinked at him, as if startled that Jungwon- usually the quietest one- was suddenly dropping truths like grenades.

“Still doesn’t mean you have to know everything,” Jake bit out, his glare searing a hole into Jungwon’s forehead, but he didn’t flinch.

“Jake,” Jay interjected calmly, folding his hands together on the table. “You met her ‘cause of them, or no?”

It wasn’t a demand, not quite. Jay had a way of asking things that cut through the bullshit without ever raising his voice. It was the same directness Y/N possessed, except softer around the edges.

“Yes.”

The word left Jake like a rock falling out of his chest. Saying it felt like slitting open his own ribs and laying bare the truth for them to pick over. He could feel blood rushing in his ears, felt his skin burning hot like his veins were on fire. His ears turned red. His jaw ached from clenching so hard. For a second, he thought his eyes might start bleeding if he didn’t breathe.

“Now was that so hard?” Y/N taunted, her mouth twisting into a smirk so familiar it made Jake’s teeth grind together. Her dark eyes sparkled with something suspicious and triumphant.

Yes. It was.

“Honestly, I don’t fucking get what your issue with Emily is!”

And just like that, the dam broke.

The ugly side of Jake came roaring out, slamming into the center of the table with the weight of years of secrets and resentments. His voice echoed over the music, harsh enough that nearby tables turned to look.

Jungwon blinked rapidly, eyes darting toward Sunghoon, who sat stiff as a board, looking caught between intervening and staying silent.

Jay stayed where he was, fingers interlaced, an awkward cough stuttering from his throat as he glanced toward Y/N. He half-expected her to flinch back from Jake’s outburst- but Aspen she straightened her spine and lifted her chin higher, her expression solid as stone.

Y/N and Niki, of course, were grinning like wolves. Cynical excitement glittered in their eyes, an energy electric enough to prickle along the skin of everyone at the table. Sunghoon, meanwhile, seemed to sink a little lower in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples like he was bracing for an explosion he’d seen coming miles away.

Niki had always hated Emily. From the very first day Y/N introduced her to them in university, he’d wanted nothing to do with her. That distaste only deepened after Y/N and Emily’s brutal falling out.

Back then, Y/N and Niki had spent entire semesters running interference, trying to keep Emily and Jake on different paths. They knew Emily’s type. They knew how slick her lies were, how her smiles were calculated, how she could tilt her chin and say exactly the right words to slip past a man’s defenses.

They hadn’t wanted anything to happen to Jake. But when had Jake ever cared about their concern?

All their worst fears had finally come true the day Emily managed to wrap Jake around her little finger. When she convinced him that no one else could handle him the way she could, that only she could soothe his volatility, his dark moods.

She’d whispered that she could help with business, too- because her family owned a weapons manufacturing company, with ties that could be useful.

Jake fell. Hard. Head over heels for her dark hair and ice-pale skin, for the cool glint in her pale eyes. He fell for her like a man starving for air.

And now, she was pregnant. And the baby was coming in a few weeks. And somehow, Jake still insisted none of it concerned anyone else.

“Ever since I met her, you lot just distanced yourselves from me. You were the ones who started acting differently around me,” Jake said, eyes hard and voice edged with bitterness. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Jake. Why don’t you ask yourself that?” Y/N scoffed, though she quickly turned and passed Jungwon a soft smile when she saw him cringe. Jungwon shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, and when Jake shot him a sharp look that asked, what the hell did you just say? Jungwon only turned away.

“The answer is right in front of you, Hyung. You just won’t accept it,” Niki snapped, his voice raw with frustration. He glared at his brother, fearless, stabbing his finger toward Jake like he was delivering a sentence. “You’re the one who shut us out. You’re the one who fell head over heels for someone we told you to stay away from!” He pointed sharply between himself, Y/N, and Jungwon. “You’re the one who kicked us out of the house because Emily wanted you all to herself!”

Jake’s mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t know how to justify any of it. The silence that fell around the table was suffocating.

“You’ve been ignoring your brothers, Jake,” Y/N said quietly, voice like a blade sliding between his ribs. “Forget about me and Jay. They’re your brothers, and you pushed them away.” She pointed towards them- Sunghoon and Jungwon ducked their heads away from Jake’s gaze, Niki glared right back. 

“She’s got you wrapped around her fingers, don’t you see that?” Niki spat. “Your whole damn life revolves around her now. And you’ve changed. For God’s sake, you’ve become so fucking blind!” He threw his arms wide, the gesture almost theatrical, but the bitterness behind it was real.

Jake stayed silent for a long moment, staring down at the table as if the battered wood could offer him an answer. He ransacked his mind for some kind of snarky comeback, but nothing felt strong enough. Because the worst part was- they were right. Every single word. And the knowledge gnawed at his insides like acid.

“You’re serious, right?” Jake’s voice came out low and dangerous. “You’re jealous? Fucking jealous because I don’t pay attention to you?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Niki growled under his breath, shooting Jay an incredulous look across the table.

Jay let out a heavy sigh, mirroring Niki’s frustration.

“You think we’re jealous because you give Emily attention?” Y/N let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Please.”

“It’s not about jealousy,” Jungwon finally burst out, finishing off his third cocktail in a single gulp. Jake rolled his eyes at his younger brother’s sudden surge of confidence.

“Exactly! It’s not about that!” Y/N exclaimed, shaking her head so hard that her hair fell forward around her face. “It’s about you changing your priorities and turning a blind eye to the people who always had your back. Hell, you finally talked to your parents today after so long and it didn’t even end well! Do you not see what she’s doing to you?” Her eyes were wide and fierce, her arms flailing as she tried to drive the truth into his skull.

“You think she’s manipulating me?” Jake shot back, voice trembling with a mixture of rage and something dangerously close to fear.

“Finally! My god, I thought you’d gone illiterate too,” Niki sneered, leaning back in his chair and locking his hands behind his head. Sunghoon and Jay both reached over to smack him lightly on the arm, telling him to knock it off, while Jungwon and Y/N shook their heads in exasperation.

Jake growled low in his chest, the urge to punch Niki square in the face riding high on his nerves.

“Yes, Jake. She’s manipulating you,” Jay said wearily, dragging a hand through his hair as if this conversation physically drained him. His wings shifted behind him, the faint shimmer of gold threading through the black feathers, and Y/N whispered a soft thank you into his ear.

“You don’t know shit, Jay,” Jake shot back, voice brittle.

“Hey, I’m being the nicest one out of all these assholes, and you’re gonna say shit like that?” Jay snapped, his eyes blazing brighter against his skin.

“You think you know everything just because you and Chelsea fell in love and grew your soulmate wings,” Jake bit out, hoping the words would cut as deeply as they once might have. But he realized, with a cold sinking in his gut, that his insults didn’t seem to land anymore. Not with anyone at this table.

It was painfully clear how much he’d lost. How little he seemed to matter to the people who used to be his world.

“What the hell does Chelsea have to do with this?” Jay fired back, pushing himself up from his chair until he was looming over the table. His expression was thunderous, shoulders squared, wings fluttering, ready for a fight.

Jake mirrored his movements, leaning forward until their faces were only inches apart, his palms planted flat on the table as silent threats hung between them like charged electricity. His wings threatened to open. He darted his eyes briefly toward Y/N, desperate to see if he’d managed to scare her- but she just sat there coolly, clicking her tongue against her teeth.

The lack of fear in her gaze made Jake’s blood boil even hotter.

He’d always been jealous of Jay. Deep down, he couldn’t deny it. Jay hadn’t just fallen in love with a random woman- he’d fallen in love with his soulmate. The delicate golden patterns shimmering on both his and Chelsea’s wings were a permanent reminder of that fact.

Jake wanted that. Desperately. He wanted it with Emily. But even after all these years together- after professing their love for each other- their wings remained ordinary black and white. But he wasn’t complaining- he still loved her.

It felt like the universe was playing a sick joke on him. And instead of acknowledging all the red flags that had been flapping around him like warning signals, he’d chosen to keep lying to himself because it was easier. Because facing the truth meant facing the possibility that he’d wasted time on someone who was never loyal.

“No, I don’t think I’m an expert,” Jay said, voice finally leveling out. “But since you love being right so much, let me give you something to be mad about.” Jake clenched his jaw. Jay took a slow breath, then started counting on his fingers. “I know Emily is a shitty person. I know her family is shady. I know she doesn't care enough about love or wings to stay. And you are gonna regret ever trusting her.”

With each statement, Jay jabbed his finger into Jake’s chest. 

“She’s pregnant with my child. Where could she possibly be going now?” Jake spat, but even he sounded tired, defeated.

He didn’t even know why he was trying anymore. He’d already lost the fight long before it started.

“We’ve known Emily way longer than you have!” Y/N shot back. “Of course we know what we’re talking about. There’s a reason we tried to keep you away from her. But no- you just had to do the one thing we begged you not to do.” Her voice was shaking now, but with rage, not fear.

“You’re talking? You never do anything I tell you to do!” Jake shouted, flinging a hand in her direction. A round of dramatic gasps circled the table.

Jay lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, collapsing back into his chair just as Jake did the same.

“At least I didn’t blow up my relationship with my family in the process!” Y/N snapped. Jake lowered his head, though his jaw kept flexing like he was chewing rocks. “You’re a mobster, Jake. You’re supposed to be smart. Do you not see that she’s going to leave your blind ass!?” She practically screamed the last words. Niki let out a wicked grin, lifting his beer bottle and tipping it in Y/N’s direction in solidarity.

“Bullshit!” Jake shouted, his voice raw. “Can’t you see that I’m happier with her? Why can’t you just accept that? I’m about to start a family with her,” there was almost a note of pleading in his tone, buried under the anger.

“She doesn’t even want to marry you,” Niki deadpanned. “Until now, I thought you were just blind and illiterate. But you’re immature too. Huh. Guess we’re learning new things every day.” He took a long, mocking sip from his beer.

Jake slammed his fist into the table so hard the glasses rattled, the tips of his ears burning red, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “Watch your fucking mouth!” he growled.

Niki just lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug, while Jungwon blinked rapidly and Sunghoon exhaled a ragged breath.

“No, Jake. You don’t have the right to say that to any of us anymore,” Y/N said firmly, folding her arms over her chest. “You lost that right when you shoved us all away for some girl from a shady-ass family. So come talk to us when you decide to actually listen to what we’re trying to tell you.” 

Her gaze was steely as she stared at him down, more powerful than any anger he’d ever seen in her eyes.

Niki stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle but decisive. “We should go,” he said quietly, glancing at Jungwon. The two brothers exchanged a silent nod before Jungwon stood as well, grabbing Y/N’s hand as the three of them prepared to leave.

“We’re only telling you this because we care,” Y/N said, pausing as she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Jake’s with an intensity that felt like a knife. “But it’s pretty clear it’s worth nothing to you.” She gave Niki’s hand a squeeze. “You coming, Jay?”

Jay shook his head slightly. “Sunghoon’s supposed to drive me home. You know I’m a shit flyer when I’m drunk.”

“We’re taking a cab,” Y/N pressed her lips together, gave Sunghoon a silent nod, and turned to leave. And just like that, Y/N, Niki, and Jungwon walked out the bar doors- just as Jake had walked out of their lives.

[ameidala]

Gives You Hell [I]

Figure Eight was suffocating. You had your step-brother to thank for that. And you thought you could borrow something— call it a favor, brush it off for your friends. But Rafe made it damn sure you wouldn’t try it again.

tags: dark!rafe cameron, stepbrother!rafe cameron, eventual smut, rated 18+ extreme (eventual) non-consensual themes, toxic step-sibling dynamics, drug use, verbal degradation, eventual incest, blackmailing

finally got around to finishing the first half of obx so dark rafe requests are welcomed! :)

this would be part one to a really mini series. leave your comments and thoughts. i'd gladly appreciate it!

You weren’t born into riches. Not the white-picket-fence lifestyle, not legacy money, not anything close to what they call a ‘Kook’. And you definitely didn’t see yourself as a true Cameron. Maybe by law. Maybe by name. But in every other sense, you were a stranger to Figure Eight.

That thought never really left your mind. Not even after the adoption papers were signed, not after your last name changed, and not when you moved into a house most people could only dream of. The whitewashed walls, the wraparound porches, the expensive glass windows. None of it convinced you this place was some version of paradise.

Ward had called it a “second chance.” Rose, ever more polished and composed, treated it like a move toward stability for you and for the family. You didn’t expect much. But when life throws you a lifeline, you take it. Who wouldn’t?

The Camerons had everything. Money, power, structure. Ward had already built his empire. Your step-siblings? Their futures were practically pre-written with trust funds, private school resumes, and vacation homes. Anything they wanted could be theirs with the snap of a finger.

And you? You had a suitcase and a deeply ingrained habit of not trusting anyone— especially Kooks, if you were honest with yourself.

From the outside, it looked like you hit the jackpot. People told you, more than once, how lucky you were. How you got the chance to rewrite your story, to elevate yourself. The golden ticket. A success story. But being surrounded by people who lived in their own bubble of wealth and privilege wasn’t exactly the dream people made it out to be, it had its certain darkness to it.

You were born a Pogue. No amount of cash, comfort, or status could change that. Not really.

There were no price tags that could erase the feeling of being a stranger in a house they kept calling a home.

Ward and Rose tried in their own, detached ways. They were busy, distracted by business and appearances, but they made an effort. Sarah and Wheezie were better, warmer, easier to talk to, more curious than critical.

But Rafe?

Rafe was something else entirely.

He was the epitome and exact example of a Kook Prince. All charm and cruelty. Legacy and arrogance. He embodied everything about Figure Eight that made your skin crawl.

You weren’t born a Kook. Not like Rafe. And he made sure you never forgot it.

Not just with words, though he had plenty of those. But with the way he looked at you like you were trespassing their home. The way he kept you on one side of an imaginary line only he could see. The way he never let you forget you didn’t really belong with them.

Not here. And especially not with him.

You weren’t sure when it shifted. When indifference became disdain. When silence became something heavier. But looking back, things were almost easier when you first moved in. At least then Rafe barely acknowledged your presence in the household. And it wasn’t passive-aggressive indifference. It was something sharper. Deliberate. Calculated. Like you were an insignificant piece of porcelain brought home from a vacation. Something decorative. Fragile. Forgettable.

But then there were the days when he’d stare too long. Not in curiosity but like he was trying to figure out what kind of threat you were. Like you could either be dangerous or pathetic, and he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

Honestly, you preferred it when he didn’t speak at all.

Because when he did, he made damn sure the words stuck.

“Foster brat,” he scoffs with a smug look by the end, “They should’ve picked a stray dog instead. At least it knows how to do tricks.” 

That was Rafe. Cruel just to see if you’d flinch.

But the thing is, you didn’t easily do so. You were used to people trying to put you down before they even knew you. You came from a system built on survival, not etiquette. And survival meant knowing how to bite back.

So you did.

Sometimes it came out in a sharp comment about his financial habits. How he wasted money on appearances and coke, and still thought he was better than everyone else. Other times it was petty, about stealing his last drink in the fridge just to watch him unravel over something small and stupid. Anything to remind him that you weren’t going to bow to whatever invisible hierarchy he thought he ruled.

Over time, the tension between you evolved. The slammed doors got louder. The looks lingered longer. It stopped feeling like a typical step-sibling rivalry.

It felt personal. Unspoken. Coiled and waiting.

But to balance it out, Sarah was different. 

From the start, she actually tried. She didn’t look at you like you were a charity case. She didn’t treat you like a burden nor a favor her parents had done for someone else. With her, you felt like a person and not a project. She started inviting you to hang out with her friends, and for once, it felt like someone wanted you around because of you not out of guilt or image control.

Her kindness initially caught you off guard. Almost made you suspicious.

You kept your distance at first. You weren’t interested in afternoon teas and pretending to enjoy gourmet finger food in over-decorated living rooms. The Kook parties were exhausting. All of it filled with curated smiles and subtle jabs, especially the way they spoke about Pogues like they were insects crawling too close to their property lines.

You hated how you started to see yourself through their eyes.

But when Sarah started spending time with John B and his circle, everything shifted.

At first, you went with her just to escape the house. But quickly, you found yourself wanting to go with no pressure, no judgment, just laughter around bonfires, boat rides at dusk, music that made sense, and jokes that didn’t come with a price.

Sarah asked you to keep it quiet. Ward wouldn’t approve. Rafe definitely wouldn’t. But you didn’t mind the secrecy. Some things were better when they didn’t have Kook eyes all over them.

And with the Pogues, you didn’t have to shrink yourself to fit.

You didn’t have to explain your past or apologize for it. They didn’t care if your last name was Cameron— well initially they did and it took a few conversations before the others had warmed up. But they didn’t care that you’d never fully fit into the country club mold. They just just let you be.

Somewhere in that mix, something softened in Sarah too.

Kiara had your back. Pope respected your intelligence. JJ made you laugh harder than anyone had in a long time. And John B? He understood without needing the details.

Even Sarah started to understand you better. Better in ways she probably never would’ve if you both stayed locked in the bubble of Figure Eight.

Their bond saved you. They made you feel seen. But it only made the divide between you and the Kooks grow deeper, especially with your own stepsibling, Rafe.

It felt easy to walk away from a world that acted so pretentious. You never wanted to be part of such an ecosystem in the first place. Their parties were plastic. The people were bored. The money was loud and empty. Even when you were dressed up, smiling, and technically welcome, it never felt like acceptance.

You were polished enough to attend,  but not enough to belong or fit with them.

The girls smiled at you like you were cute, then turned around and made a face when they thought you weren’t looking. The boys stared too long. Asked where you were "really from" like they couldn’t wrap their heads around someone like you existing in their world.

You weren’t a peer nor a person.

You were an exotic pet. Something to observe, to talk about in whispers. They loved the idea of you. The novelty of you. As if adopting you gave them a moral high ground. As if they could say, ‘See? We’re inclusive. We’re good people.’

But they didn’t want to be your friend. They wanted to feel like your savior.

You didn’t need saving, not anything, and not from them. And you especially didn’t need Rafe looking at you like you were the dirt his family tracked in. Even though half the time he couldn’t seem to stop staring.

There were days, but definitely the rarest ones where you told yourself it might be different. That maybe if you just showed up, dressed right, smiled enough, it would stop feeling like you didn’t belong. 

You would spend too long choosing what to wear. You’d avoid asking Sarah for help, trying to prove that you could blend in without being coached. But Kook parties weren’t made for people like you. But the moment you stepped into one of Rafe’s parties, it clung to you like smoke.

Sometimes you tried to show up to one of the parties. Maybe just with the hope to prove yourself wrong. But you couldn’t deny the instant feeling of eyes at you and you always got to prove yourself right. Not only when you presented yourself, but the stares dragged along and followed you as if attending such an event was a crime. Conversations became shallow when you would pass by them.

And so you only get to station yourself by the wall. You leaned against it while sipping whatever drink you could take, pretending that you didn’t care whatever impression you had set on these people. You pretended not to care and wished that you were invisible— normal— instead.

But always does Rafe see you. 

You could fade into the background for the entire night, practically invisible to everyone else. But not to him.

He would watch you from across the room, even with girls draped all over him and his friends roaring with laughter. With the music too loud and the coke already numbing half his thoughts, Rafe always saw you.

And he never said anything.

He just stares. Expression unreadable, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth twitching like he was holding back something cruel. Like he pitied you. Or maybe like he expected you to crack.

The worst part? He never helped. Not that you needed him to. But he stood there and watched, as if your discomfort entertained him.

You stopped trying to fit in after a while. But sometimes you still showed up to the parties, hoping the night might go differently. Hoping you might feel different.

You never did.

You’d wake up the next morning feeling like a ghost. Makeup smudged all over your face, head aching, the silence louder than the bass the night before ever was. Nothing stuck except the stares. The way the Kooks looked at you like you’d wandered into the wrong house. Like you’d never belong.

After a night of pretending, it was those quiet mornings that hurt the most. And somehow, he was always there for them.

He always looked the same. Bored. Buzzed. Half-glowing under the low hallway light. Hair tousled. Shirtless, sometimes. Always smug.

But when his eyes met yours, the energy shifted. It sometimes becomes sharp, unspoken, and almost too still.

And then there were days, rare ones, when the tension between you simmered just beneath the surface. When the air felt too thick. When the sunlight was too warm. When you passed each other in a hallway and the world seemed to go quiet.

You’d brush past his shoulder, and it would feel like static. Charged. Wrong.

He’d lean in. Not enough to touch, but enough to get under your skin and drop a comment that clung to your ribs for the rest of the day.

“Shouldn’t you be with your real friends down on the Cut?” 

You never knew if his intentions or his words had meant to hurt you, or if he just wanted to see what would happen or how you would react if he did.

But eventually you stopped trying to understand. Stopped looking for meaning in every glance, every smirk, every insult that echoed down the hall long after he’d gone.

You decided you weren’t going to flinch anymore. You didn’t want to keep giving him the satisfaction of watching you shrink— or honestly have any reaction to him as it seemed like anything from you could set him off.

So instead, you started pushing back. Not with words as that was a battle you'd never win, but in other ways. Quiet ones. Petty ones. Intentional ones. You walked a little slower through the rooms to let him know that you weren’t shying your presence away. You left your things on shared counters. You started borrowing things, not because you essentially needed it, but because it made you feel like you belonged and were welcomed to the property of the family.

Maybe that was the subtle point you wanted to relay. You weren’t moving out of his way anymore. You weren’t stepping around whatever thing he had brewing between the two of you. You didn’t care if it was about power, or pride, or something darker.

You just wanted him to know one thing: you were here. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Whatever line he thought he drew between you, you stopped pretending it existed.

And that, more than anything, started to get to him.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★゜・。。・゜゜☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜

The smell of brewed coffee lingered around the house, drawing you in until your feet had reached the source of it. You stood in the kitchen, staring into space. It looked too clean. You hated how empty the house always was. It felt like going to an art museum where you were not allowed to touch any of its exhibits. Everything seemed to come at a price, and so every move you had to make should be thought of.

Your bare feet were flat against the cold floors while your eyes stared blankly at the coffee machine that was slowly dripping, inch by inch until it got to fill up your mug. You didn’t expect that a cup could entirely and magically fix your day, but it was a start to look forward for something at least. Glancing outside, the sun was just starting to rise and further cut through the ocean line.

Getting enough sleep has always been hard. You weren’t one to have a routine that you followed religiously.

And as the coffee machine makes one final sound before completely stopping to drip, you heard a buzzing noise subsequent to it. Your phone had buzzed against the marble island. 

With one hand, you held the mug of coffee and brought it steadily towards your lips. And with the other hand, you reached for the phone to unlock and see what notification you got at this early in the morning.

It was a text from Sarah.

Sarah: Heard that dad’s staying in today. Rafe too. Can’t leave with u. Meet me at the dock around 30?

Your face scrunched, confused if Sarah was already gone already this early— you were still recovering from waking up and your brain hadn’t fully adjusted yet. And yet you typed a quick reply to her without hesitating or even realizing what you really were going to do. 

But it’s Sarah. So you kind of started trusting her enough.

As if right on cue with the questions starting to form in your thoughts, Sarah had walked past through the side door. She was wearing her usual soft knitted cardigan over a crop top and high waisted shorts, already looking like she was ready to leave anytime soon now.

“Good morning,” she smiles, “you’re up early, huh.”  She grabs a snack from a bowl placed on the counter and unwraps it to take a bite.

“Barely slept.”

Sarah then leans against the marbled countertop while continuing to chew on a protein bar. Her voice slightly lowers down as she whispers, “So… we can’t leave together today. I heard dad’s staying in and Rafe is probably already lurking around somewhere.”

You roll your eyes at the sound of his name, “Of course he would be.”

“So you’ll have to sneak out at the back. And like… actually sneak.”  She adds in a softer tone, “You can make it out without them noticing or becoming suspicious if you leave before nine.”

“Mhmm.” You take another sip at your coffee, trying to process all of the instructions and words she was telling.

“John B’s already out to go there. JJ confirmed too. I told them to wait.” Sarah made it seem like a mission you had to do this morning. It sort of was, if only your other family members were not as crazy and acted normal then both of you shouldn’t have to worry about this situation.

Nonetheless since the Pogues had felt like a place where you could only be true to yourself, you didn’t have to be persuaded or forced to agree. All the trouble you had to go through in order to feel the ironic warmth in their chaotic dynamics was always worth it. But getting to them was the difficult part acknowledging that you lived in a house that wanted to control your image and keep you polished and trapped.

You nodded once as she was finally finished with her morning snack. “Fine. I’ll find a way out of it.”

Sarah smiles at you and then leans in with arms ready to embrace you. She excitedly whispers to your ear, “That’s my girl.” 

The warmth of the air and moment still hung as you took it in and appreciated how genuine Sarah was with you. And like a stinging breeze in the air that passed by, you felt an unwanted presence and heard footsteps becoming louder towards the kitchen.

Both you girls stood still, eyes breaking the look at each other and advancing to your sides at the threshold. There he stood.

His figure was there and leaning against the frame of the doorway. He had one hand stuck in a pocket, seeming like he was fiddling something. He seemed to have just woken up, still dressed in gray sweats and dirty blond hair in a mess. 

Rafe didn’t try to hide his surmise, making sure to let the both of you feel that he was staring tensely. As if he didn’t know how to even act casually in his own home. His eyes scanned the kitchen but eventually landed on where both of you stood. You and Sarah.

But you felt his stare more intensely at you.

“Wow,” he says with a voice still scratchy with sleep, “How come I wasn’t invited to the family breakfast?”

Both of you knew better than to express any reaction or say any reply to him. None of you answered his snarky comment as it was always better to act like you didn’t hear anything your older step sibling was saying— nor was it worth responding to.

And so you turned your back to him while reaching for the rest of the coffee that was remaining. While you poured it into your mug, you couldn’t help but feel his stare still at you. The weight of it.

He wasn’t saying anything, just taking one quick look around the kitchen to grab a fruit on the countertop and walked off like he didn’t just try to rattle the two of you so early in the morning. As his presence disappears, you hear yourself and Sarah exhale at the same time.

“Such an asshole,” she mutters with a look still glued to the entry of the kitchen. 

You shake your head, looking at what was remaining in your mug before finally finishing it all in. Your heart was beating a little too fast and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the caffeine or for another reason.

Time does fly by fast because as you prepared yourself after having breakfast, you eventually looked at the clock the displayed the time. 08:50. You knew it was time to make your move.

The hallways of the house was quiet. Ward’s office door was shut, either still being asleep or on a business call. Wheezie was still asleep. And Rafe’s room was dead silent, making you a bit suspicious.

Nonetheless you tiptoed through the back of the house with a small shoulder bag slung to one side of your body. The door was in sight as you were almost there.

But as the wind had hit past the glass, making you shiver that raced up to your arms, you realized that it might not hurt to bring a sweater. You didn’t know how long you’ll be out and it might get colder at night

You glanced around the area knowing it would be much of a hassle to take more steps back to return to your room. Making more movement or noises was too risky and you didn’t want to answer any more questions.

Your eyes flicked around the room before catching on the chair by the hallway. There was a gray zip-up jacket that hung over the back, looking carelessly tossed with the sleeves all bunched and creased like someone hadn’t even thought twice to leave and forget it there. It looked familiar—too familiar. Like something you might’ve left in your closet and forgotten.

This was probably the one you were looking for. Same color. Same shape— kind of. Same washed-out shade of gray and soft-sleeved fabric. Yeah, close enough.

You grabbed it without thinking anymore. Your mission was to sneak out and that was what your mind had been set. And so you shoved the piece of apparel deep into your bag, zipped it halfway, and dashed out the door without looking back.

The sun had eventually crept up over land and was now casting its light amongst the neighborhood. You cut across the backyards and driveways from Figure Eight as you let your shoes be dragged along the pavement with soft urgency. Once you got somewhat of a distance far enough from home, you finally got to breathe a bit normally without having to worry if someone might notice you and snitch it to your family. 

The familiar breeze of the salt of the sea welcomes you as you become closer to the meeting spot. After some time, the marina came into your view from meters away and you couldn’t help but smile seeing the old wooden planks.

There your friends were.

JJ was already being himself as he boldly balanced on the edge of a dock like it was some sort of challenge not to straight into the water. Pope sat with a notebook on his thigh, scribbling something onto it which was probably his homework. Kiara was just talking and laughing with the circle. And Sarah was already there too, seated in between John B’s legs with her head casually relaxed on the side of his face.

All of them paused for a moment, heads turning into the direction where you were coming from as the sound of your footsteps approached them.

“There she is!” JJ points both his index fingers, arms raised as if announcing it like a game show host presenting their winner. Your stepsister had smiled and waved you over, “You made it.”

“Yeah, obviously,” You said with a smug expression.

“Took you some time. We thought you got caught or something.” Pope says without breaking his attention away from his worn-out notebook.

“Nah,” you say as you set your bag down beside you, “Just did it in time. Everyone was still asleep. But Rafe was definitely lurking though.”

JJ gagged at the name of him, “When does that dude not?”

And Sarah didn’t even try to hide her slightly disgusted face before John B had tossed you a can of beer from their cooler. “You good?”

“Never been better,” you lied. “I just needed to get away from that place.” 

You didn’t have to say anything more and no one had to push for details. They didn’t need to hear an entire dialogue before they could understand or read the room. It was something you actually appreciated from them. They actually knew how to read between the lines and knowing when to say something or not.

Your skin settled against the texture of the wooden dock while letting the salted air drown you throughout the whole afternoon. JJ’s ideas didn’t end as he continued to theorize over haunted houses in The Cut— to which Pope could only argue was some weird lights and shadows.

However eventually, somewhere in between the jokes and laughter, the mood had shifted. “Okay, okay,” John B leaned forward as he called everyone's attention, “So we’ve been hearing that crazy rumor again, right?”

JJ had his eyebrows raised, “About the wreck?”

“About the Royal Merchant, dude,” Pope shook his head at his friend while setting his notebook aside. “You know… That someone was trying to pull or steal parts of it illegally. Bribing divers and all. I don’t know— Sarah heard it from someone working at the docks.”

You furrowed your brows, “What? Wait— Seriously?” 

Sarah nodded. “Something about salvaging gold that never made it on the reports. Like another haul.”

Obviously, JJ couldn’t help but grin at the sound of a new adventure. “A secret stash? Are we really going to do this again?”

“So.. what?” You said, “Will we be going for gold? Or whatever the hell you guys are talking about?”

John B grinned, “We are thinking about it.” He emphasized the tone of thinking knowing that it was simpler said than done.

Sarah added, “I’m not saying we should do it immediately tonight. Though it wouldn’t hurt to consider or check out the area sooner or later. Quiet recon if I must say.”

“I’m down,” you say almost immediately. And JJ clinked the can of beer in his hand against the side of yours like it was a binding contract. “Hell yeah. That’s the spirit.”

Again, time slipped swiftly in between the joy. The laughs, plans, and soft hums of music playing from Sarah’s phone had all of you forgetting what time it was until you realized that the sun had eventually set. 

The beers still hadn’t run out from the cooler.  You weren’t sure if it was only JJ who brought the shit ton of beer. You were just happy to be far away from Figure Eight and the people that came with it.

The golden streaks of sunlight disappeared and were replaced by the dark blue and starred sky. Along with it was also a breeze that crawled its way to your skin.

You could feel the air becoming cooler and sharper as it brushed past your arms, sending pricks all over as you tried to adjust to the change in temperature. You couldn’t help but shiver, arms trying to rub against the skin to create some sort of heat from the friction that didn’t do much to be honest. 

Ultimately, your eyes squinted to try and see where your bag was. You remembered you brought a jacket.

Your hands grasp onto the soft fabric, shaking it loose after being crumpled into a ball from earlier. It definitely had more creases now after being stuffed carelessly into the bottom of your bag. But it still was the same and you didn’t care as long as it serves it purpose.

And so you slip your arms through the sleeves one at a time. Then you tugged it over your head and shoulders. 

As it clings to your body, you couldn't help but wonder how it hung with a little more weight than how you could remember. The fabric was just as soft, but now realizing the garterized end of the sleeves extended longer than it did before.

Your expression wavered somewhere between confusion and disappointment. But then, as another cool breeze of air drifted past by, you caught a whiff of the jacket. Essentially it had you frozen.

It didn’t smell like your usual detergent that was more toned down and softer. Nor did it smell like any of your perfumes.

It definitely smelled like cologne. Expensive. Musk. Sharp. 

Familiar.

And even beneath all of that, you could smell something more. Like the hems of the fabric burned out and bitter. It surely had hit you without a warning.

Cocaine. It was a man’s cologne and cocaine.

So it hit you like a bus. This wasn’t your jacket.

This jacket was Rafe’s.

You froze. You didn’t look down. You didn’t need to further inspect to confirm anything more or less.

You’d felt this fabric before. Brushed past it in the hallway. Smelled it in passing. It smelled like something dangerous and too familiar. As if tension held in fabric and stitched in silence.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked gently, her voice breaking through the quiet hum of waves.

You looked up too fast. “Yeah. The air is just really cold.”

There wasn’t any other choice than to pull the jacket tighter around yourself or else you would freeze yourself to death. But now as you did, you were under the impression that the fabric felt like it could burn into your skin any moment. Just like that, the mood easily shifted and the evening wasn’t so chill anymore.

The cool air grew heavier at night with the salty air and smoke entangled. A low hum of background music you could barely discern the lyrics of played from a phone. 

Meanwhile you stayed quiet and distracted. A little too quiet that could easily be noticed by others if they stared at you long enough. 

You couldn’t relax over a damn sweater. Not when its scent was continuously clinging onto your body like it was going to stick and sink into your skin. The weight of it had nothing to do with the fabric and everything to do with how you caught the edge of Rafe’s cologne that made your stomach tie in knots.

It really was unmistakably his. 

It made you stare a little too long out at the calm water, beer in your hand, while trying to tag along with the occasional laugh. You weren’t too sure if it was because of the beer that had your head buzzing around like static.

You weren’t shivering anymore, but you didn’t take the jacket off either. You didn’t want to see if anyone might recognize or comment about anything on it. Especially not from Sarah. She knew her own brother well and you didn’t want to be thrown any looks once she noticed it.

You stayed still with thoughts spiraling to nowhere. And the night blurred around its edges

By the time the second batch of beers had gone empty, the dock became way too quiet. Kiara started gathering around the empty cans and grouping them all into the cooler. Pope yawned as he told that he had to go home before his dad had to text again.

Meanwhile John B looked at Sarah, murmuring something that was only for them. Sarah stood up with a soft groan, stretching her arms out wide and brushed the palms of her hands on the sides of her shorts. “We should head out too.”

You nodded, barely processing again. 

She looks at you longer than necessary, “You still good?”

“Yeah,” you yawned, “Just tired.”

Your stepsister gives you a soft smile before asking, “You want to head back together or…?”

You turn your head around and looked at the dirt path leading from the dock. The view curved out past the boat sheds and into a neighborhood. If you walked back side by side together with her, it might be suspicious. Rafe might be awake. Ward might ask questions. “No, I think it’s better if you go ahead of me,” you say, “Less suspicious that way.”

Sarah didn’t argue with your idea, further even nodded like she had been expecting you would answer that way. “Alright, I’ll leave the gate open for you.”

“Thanks.” You smiled faintly. She reaches for your shoulder to give a gentle squeeze before slipping away with John B into the trail. 

Their figures eventually disappeared within the path and you felt yourself deflate slightly. It was so quiet and dark.

“Want me to walk with you?” The voice came from your back. JJ was still lingering at the edge of the dock with his hands in his pockets and a smile that seemed like he could see right through you.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’ll walk with you. At least halfway to the road,” he offered with a shrug in his voice to show it wasn’t a big deal for him to go out his way at this time. “Not tryna get you grounded for sneakin’ out by yourself, Ma’am.”

Again, you smile faintly, “Thanks. But I’ll be fine.”

“You allergic to good company?” He teases.

It made you smile gratefully but you didn’t want to let him suck it all up. “You’re scared of being left alone with raccoons, aren’t you?”

“Hey, those bastards are territorial,” he jokes, “One of ‘em stared me down last week. Little shit had murder in its eyes.”

You laugh at him. “Fine, but I won’t be saving your ass if they start to attack.”

He hums in agreement, reaching to step beside you as both of you head off the dock. The gravel made a crunching sound under your feet each step you took as it echoed around the open space. JJ didn’t ask questions nor did you talk too much— assuming both of you had been exhausted from today already. Both of you just walked close enough to have your arms brushing past each other at times.

Windows rustled through the trees and you could hear static from the leaves. You adjusted the jacket together around your frame as the breeze slid up your legs.

Then for a second JJ’s nose had wrinkled subtly. It made him sniff one again. Then another one. “...Huh,” he muttered under his breath.

You gave a side eye, “What?”

“Didn’t think you were someone into cologne.” He sniffed again butthis time a bit more exaggerated. “Fancy stuff too. Smells like–” he pauses and makes an unimpressed face, “Smells like something trying way too hard.”

Your footsteps faltered. “Hmm?”

JJ gave a curious look, “I mean, it’s kind of intense. Thought it would really be something like you at first, but—” he leans in almost near the crook of your neck as if trying to prove a point. “Nah, that’s definitely a guy’s scent. Didn’t seem to come from your body wash aisle.”

You forced out an awkwardly soft laugh, “Maybe it rubbed off from someone. Or a seat cushion or… whatever.”

JJ raised a brow and probably read through you but didn’t say anything else after. Didn’t tease you either anymore. He just stuffed his hands into his pockets and continued to walk with you.

You looked away, the pulse at your neck probably ticking a little too loud now.

Crisp linen, musk, something weirdly expensive and bitter underneath. This was always the scent that clung to a room that he would spend a bit more time in. The kind that made you feel like someone had just walked over your grave.

Rafe’s scent was all over you.

The silence ironically felt so loud. And now your mind was clouded with your step brother all over again.

You didn’t mean to take his jacket. Didn’t mean for anyone to notice or be suspicious either.

And now you just couldn’t un-notice it either.

At length, both of you finally got to the edge of the main road which was a sign to part ways. JJ gave you a lazy two-finger salute with his signature lopsided grin before vanishing within the trees.

Eventually after a few more walks, you arrived at the house. And as Sarah had promised, you were able to slip through the back gate that she left open. There weren’t any lights from the windows nor any sounds or talking coming from the inside. 

The house looked asleep. Which was good.

And so you gently pushed the back door open little by little, making sure to be careful not so as to make any noises or let it creak a little too loud. The hallway was dim except for a very faint, flickering spill of light coming from a small source in the kitchen.

You froze after sensing that there was definitely some movement coming from the area. It was subtle just as you. A shadow. For a second you thought that it might have been Rose getting a glass of wine or Wheezie looking for a midnight snack. 

But when you further stepped in, the jacket half-zipped with shoulders tense. Your eyes finally landed on him.

Rafe was standing by the marble counter. He hadn’t seen you yet as his back was turned. You could see that he had a glass in one hand filled with something clear with ice. His other free hand was then carrying his figure as it rested on the surface. His pose as if he was waiting or anticipating something in the dark— probably even been there for some time.

He didn’t have to turn around as there wasn’t even an ounce of astonishment in his mood.

“Thought you might try the back gate,” he said lazily while pushing the rim of the glass up to his lips to take a sip, “My sister has never been really subtle when she leaves things conveniently unlocked.” 

You didn’t say anything. You just felt a lump in your throat and felt that your heart was racing again. You didn’t know why your body was always reacting like this when it came to interactions with Rafe.

He turned now. Slowly, smoothly, and deliberately. His gaze dropped the moment he saw you. And then he saw what you were wearing.

It instantly made him smirk. Knowing.

“Well,” he said with a tone thick with mockery, “Would you look at that.”

You shifted uncontrollably under the weight of it. The soft fabric was somewhat replaced with static that felt like pins and needles. “Today was cold.”

“Uh-huh.” He took another sip but with his gaze not breaking away from you. “Of all the jackets in this house, you accidentally had to pick that one up.”

You held your ground. “It looked like mine.”

Rafe chuckled, already sure of what to say. “Doesn’t smell like yours.”

The tension grew further as you knew that he made his point. He knew that you knew that too. You clutched the front of the jacket by its zipper, suddenly hyper-aware of how his cologne still clung to the fabric. It even further became intense as he stood a few feet away from you.

“You know what’s funny,” he says, stepping closer, “That you walked around in that jacket. All day. With those bottom-feeding friends of yours like it was nothing.”

“I didn’t—” you started but he immediately cut you off with a scoff.

“Bet they loved seeing it. Bet they thought you were making some kind of statement. Wearing a Cameron jacket like you were branded. Smelled like one too…”

He adds, “Or maybe it was some twisted kink thing.” With a tilt to his head to the side. “Playing house with Pogues like you weren’t just a stray we dragged in and cleaned up.”

“That’s not what it was,” you said quietly.

Rafe raised a teasing brow as if accepting a challenge. “No?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You think I wore it on purpose?”

“I think,” he said, voice low now, “you didn’t not want to be seen in it.”

He continues on “I think.. I think you knew what you were doing.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And what exactly was I doing?”

He took another step, closing the already-suffocating distance. “Sending a message.”

You snorted, trying to cover the way your breath hitched. “To who?”

“Me,” Rafe said plainly. “Who else?”

“I didn’t even know it was yours,” you whispered.

“But now you do.” His hand braced against the wall beside you. He wasn’t touching it but somehow close to say you could feel his warmth. “And you’re still wearing it.”

Silence laced the space between you. And then he leaned in. Just a little more with eyes locked to yours purposely. His voice dropped to something almost venomously soft. “Feels kind of pathetic, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Wearing something that doesn’t belong to you. Pretending like it fits.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Pretending?”

“I think you don’t know where the hell you belong,” Rafe said. “You put on the jacket, hang out with your little Pogue boyfriends, and walk back into this house like you’re still one of us.”

He tilted his head, his breath ghosting against your cheek now. “But you’re not.”

“You keep talking like you hate the idea of me but you never shut up about it.” You snapped back.

That shut him up just for a millisecond. Made his jaw tense with a hand on the wall curled into a fist seeming like he was trying to hold himself back from doing or saying something even worse. But it eventually relaxed again.

You knew you hit something. Whether it was pride, guilt, or a nerve still raw from whatever ghosts haunted him, you weren’t sure. But it landed. His laugh came slower this time. Darker. "Careful."

"Or what?" you said with a voice tight but trying to make it less obvious. "You'll make another shitty comment and then go sulk in the pool house again?"

“You ever wonder why it was there?” he asked, voice suddenly quiet. “Out in the open like that?”

You frowned. “What?”

“That jacket. Couch. Right by the hallway. Practically laid out for you.”

“Are you saying you left it there?” you asked slowly.

He didn’t confirm. But the look in his eye was smug and almost cruel was enough to hint at something.

“You’re delusional,” you said, unsure if the tone you let out was disgusted or confused.

He smiled. "And you’re the one still wearing it."

[swiftjay23]

Let Me Taste What I Made

Pairing! Pregnant reader x Non!Idol Sunghoon Genre: smut, fluff Warnings: Pure devotion and filth, so cute you might explode.

The room smells like lavender oil and warm skin.

The scent wraps around you like a blanket, comforting and sensual, seeping into your bones with lazy indifference. Everything is quiet, except for your breath, shallow and slow, and the soft rustle of fabric beneath your body.

The low hum of the fan stirs the curtains, but you barely notice. Your back’s pressed to soft sheets, legs parted slightly, and your shirt is bunched up over your breasts, leaving the heavy swell of your belly bare, rising and falling with each breath.

And between them, on his knees like a man in prayer, Sunghoon stares at you.

Not just looking. Staring. As if you’re holy. As if the curve of your body is the altar he’s devoted to, the home of something sacred he helped create.

His hands are on your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, reverent circles against your skin. He hasn’t even touched you where you need him, not yet, but he’s breathing like he’s already overwhelmed.

Not even touching you yet, not really, but he’s staring like he could cry from how much he wants you.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “God, look at you.”

His hands move, up, over the curve of your hips, sliding to the sides of your belly. Large, warm palms splaying across your skin, holding you like something priceless, something breakable. His fingertips tremble, just slightly.

He leans forward, lips brushing against the peak of your bump. You feel the kiss more in your chest than your stomach. His breath is shaky.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

His mouth trails down, soft kisses painting a path across the swollen expanse of your belly.

Fingers stroking over your skin like it’s glass. His fingers dip reverently over the curve of your belly, his baby inside you, his fucking proof that you belong to him, that you’ll always belong to him.

“I don’t think you get it,” he murmurs, voice rasping like smoke against your skin. “You’re everything. This belly, these hips, your tits.” he palms over them gently, reverently “—fuck, baby. You’re glowing. Glowing and perfect. And all mine.”

You suck in a breath, already squirming under his touch, heat spiraling low in your belly.

Sunghoon leans in, lips pressing soft and trembling kisses over your bump, whispering between each one.

“Carrying my baby. My girl, with my kid growing in her. You’ve never looked more beautiful than this.”

“Fuck, I could spend hours right here,” he murmurs. “Just nursing off you. Just tasting you and watching you melt.”

His other hand lifts your leg, gently, spreading you further apart. The movement has your back arching slightly, the pressure of your swollen belly making everything feel more intense, more raw. His breath catches when he sees how wet you already are.

“Fucking dripping for me,” he mutters, voice thick. “So needy. So full and soft. I could stay here forever, you know that? Just worship you. Just taste you until you’re crying.”

You whimper, thighs twitching.

He doesn’t dive in yet. No, he leans in slow, breath warm, teasing. His nose brushes the crease of your thigh.

“Let me taste what I made.”

His tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe along your inner thigh. One hand splays over your stomach, thumb brushing gently, protectively. The other dips between your legs, stroking your soaked folds with aching slowness.

“God, baby,” he groans. “You’re soaked. Can’t believe you still want me like this. Still need me.”

When his tongue finally touches you, low and slow, dragging from your entrance to your clit, you cry out. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in the strands as he groans, deep and possessive, like your taste is enough to undo him.

He licks again. Then again. And again.

“So sweet,” he pants. “So fucking sweet.”

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in just the right way to make your thighs tremble.

You choke on a moan as his fingers circle your clit, barely-there touches, more teasing than anything. His breath ghosts over your center.

“I think about this all the time,” Sunghoon admits, voice filthy and reverent all at once. “My cock buried in you while you’re round with my kid. Your tits leaking. Your body begging to be taken care of.”

He kisses your belly again, and again, murmuring against your skin.

“You make me fucking insane. I look at you and I wanna put another one in you. Wanna keep you pregnant forever. Always full. Always mine.”

Your hips twitch, aching for him. And Sunghoon, fuck, Sunghoon smiles like he’s won a war.

“Patience, mama,” he purrs. “Let me taste what I made.”

You swear you feel his cock twitch just from tasting you.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. One hand holding your thigh open, the other gently pressing to your belly, he eats like a starving man, like you’re his final meal and his life depends on it.

When you start to whimper, his tongue moves faster. When your hips stutter, he adds fingers. Two. Then three. Crooking them just right.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls against you. “That’s it. Let me feel it, baby. Let me see how good I make my girl feel.”

You’re coming before you can warn him. Shuddering, eyes rolling back, breath caught in your throat. And Sunghoon groans like it hurts him, grinding his hips into the bed to keep from coming untouched.

“God, I love you,” he gasps. “I love you so fucking much.”

He kisses up your body, mouth wet and messy, eyes blown wide with lust and something deeper, obsession, devotion, hunger that won’t quit.

He doesn’t even wait. He tugs his pants down just enough to free himself and lines up, pressing the thick head of his cock to your entrance.

You’re still trembling when he pulls away just long enough to shove his pants down, cock thick and flushed and leaking.

He lines up, his tip sliding through your slick folds, teasing, pressing against your entrance. He looks into your eyes.

“You ready, mama?”

You nod, fuck, you nod, and he sinks in slow. The stretch burns, but it’s good. So good.

He groans low, head dropping to your shoulder as he bottoms out.

“So warm,” he gasps. “So full. Fuck, you were made to carry me. Made to carry this.”

He moves slow at first, deep, unhurried strokes that have your toes curling and your eyes rolling back. But you claw at his back, whispering harder, please, I need you.

And that’s all it takes.

Sunghoon starts fucking you in earnest, deep, driving thrusts that shake the bedframe, that make your tits bounce, that leave you moaning his name like a prayer. His hand never leaves your belly. He thrusts and touches and groans into your mouth.

“Can feel her,” he pants. “Our baby. Moving. Right there.” “I’m fucking you while she kicks. You’re so full, baby. So mine.”

He presses a hand to your belly again, fucking you harder now, more desperate.

“You’re everything I ever wanted. Fuck, more than I deserve.”

You’re gasping, legs wrapped around his waist, tits bouncing with every thrust. He stares down at them like they’re sacred.

“So heavy,” he whispers, mouth latching to one nipple. “So full. Bet I could suck you dry.”

You cry out, and he groans, thrusting harder.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me milk you, fuck you, breed you again like the perfect thing you are.”

You’re shaking. Wrecked.

And Sunghoon, Sunghoon’s almost there.

“Gonna cum in you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you again. Don’t care if you’re already pregnant. Wanna see you swollen again and again. My girl. My baby. My everything.”

You moan his name as your walls flutter around him.

And Sunghoon breaks.

He slams in once, twice, then stills, spilling inside you with a choked-out moan of your name.

After, he doesn't move for a long while, just stays inside you, hands cradling your belly, his breath shaky.

He kisses you, slow and deep.

“You’re carrying my baby,” he whispers again. “And I’ll spend every night reminding you how fucking beautiful that makes you.”

And he does.

Again.

And again.

And again.

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[maxdibert]

There’s a particularly curious —and frankly repugnant— narrative in how Marauders stans and/or snaters construct the figure of James Potter in contrast to Severus Snape. And it’s not just a matter of personal preference or who they find more attractive or interesting. It’s an ideological construction, deeply shaped by a neoliberal, superficial, and classist lens that absolutely needs to be dissected.

Because it’s no coincidence that James is praised for “choosing the right side” from the beginning, as if that automatically made him a heroic figure, a holy redeemer of the wizarding world. The problem isn’t acknowledging that he made a good decision (of course he did, no one’s denying that). The problem is building an epic narrative around a decision that, from a class-conscious perspective, was literally the bare minimum. Are we seriously holding up as a moral paragon a rich kid, pureblood, raised with every opportunity in life, just because he didn’t become a bigot? Is that what heroism has been reduced to? Not becoming a complete psychopath when you have every means, every support system, every privilege to not become one? When you have a family actively encouraging you to do the right thing?

It’s like clapping for a billionaire who throws pocket change at a cancer charity or makes a tweet saying “racism is bad.” That’s not virtue, that’s marketing. They’re not risking anything, they’re not questioning the system that privileges them, they’re not redistributing even a gram of power. Worse still, they continue living comfortably on top of the corpses the system leaves behind. So what the fuck is the point of their “goodness”?

It’s the same with James. No one ever demands anything of him because he fits the mold of the perfect hero: rich, popular, brave, and eventually a martyr. But this same little shit used his social capital to publicly, continuously, and systematically humiliate another student, with the full complacency of the school staff. And that wasn’t a childish prank. That was an exercise of power. Of dominance. Of classism. Because the bullying James inflicted wasn’t innocent: it was vertical. It came from a position of privilege, directed at a poor, weird, socially outcast kid who had no one.

But of course, nobody talks about that. Just like nobody talks about how utterly disgusting it is to justify that kind of structural, childhood violence with excuses like “Snape insulted Lily” or “Snape was going to be a Death Eater.” As if that somehow justified publicly stripping someone, ridiculing them, psychologically crushing them from the age of twelve. That kind of defense mirrors the logic used to justify state repression, “he must’ve done something.” It’s fascism with a fresh coat of paint.

And on the other side, we have Severus. The kid who had everything against him. Who came from a broken home, with no resources, no affection, a miserable childhood. Who, like so many adolescents in similar situations, clung to the only thing that gave him a sense of identity, belonging, and power: an extremist group that offered him a narrative of strength when the world treated him like garbage. Was it the wrong decision? Absolutely. But it was a socially understandable one. And more importantly, Severus didn’t stay there. He broke away. He risked his life. He spied for the resistance. He lived under constant threat of death for years. He betrayed those who had ideologically seduced him, and he did it not for public redemption or forgiveness, but for love, guilt, and political commitment.

That transformation is infinitely more courageous and valuable than the lukewarm “right choice” made by someone who already had everything handed to him. Because it’s harder to change when you’ve got nothing. Because it takes real courage to act without a safety net. And because, unlike James, Severus was never rewarded for his fight. The “good” guys despised him, the “bad” guys hated him, the students feared him. He died alone, like so many real-world martyrs, with no statue, no golden plaque, no glorious narrative.

So no, defending James Potter is not “progressive.” It’s not the woke gesture some people think it is. It’s a half-baked apology for privilege. It’s what happens when you’re taught that good and evil are just personal choices, entirely detached from any kind of social analysis. It’s what happens when you’ve never read a single fucking line of the Frankfurt School and you believe power is a matter of “personal values” instead of systems.

And it disgusts me. I’m disgusted by the superficiality with which people praise those who never had to struggle, just for doing the bare minimum. I’m disgusted by the classism disguised as “adolescent heroism.” And I’m even more disgusted by the way people vilify those who did make mistakes, but then did what so few are brave enough to do: change.

Because, at the end of the day, true courage doesn’t lie in being born good. True courage is in facing your own errors, owning them, and doing what it takes to never repeat them, even if it costs you your life. And that, my friends, was not James Potter.

That was Severus Snape.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 12

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.3k+

Note: This is a bit disjointed :/ but i hope you still like it!!

xxx

I slump against the back of the couch, my legs still sore from the night out. It's quieter than it’s been in days, and I finally have a second to breathe, to think.

The couch I'm sitting on now isn't the same as it used to be. It’s still the same cushions, the same fabric, but it feels all wrong. Too stiff. Too empty. I can feel the weight of every moment that’s passed since I last found myself stretched out here, back when I didn’t have to think twice about being here. Back when it was just… home.

I used to walk into George’s flat, plop down on this couch without a second thought. It was my refuge. The place I could always count on, even after a rowdy night out or a long, tiring trip from Manchester. The blankets never stayed in place, the pillows were always slightly off-center, but none of that mattered. It was perfect in its imperfection, and it made me feel like I belonged here.

But now, as I sink into the worn cushions, it feels like I’m sitting in someone else’s space. The couch hasn’t changed, but everything else has. I can’t quite get comfortable. The fabric feels foreign under me, like I’m sitting in a place that’s been claimed by someone else. Maybe that’s what it is—this couch doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It hasn’t felt like it in a long time.

And the worst part? It’s not just the couch. It’s us. George and me.

Back then, this couch was ours. It held the weight of all our unspoken jokes, our easy conversations, the kind of talks that only happen when you’ve known someone so long you don’t have to try anymore. But now? Now, this couch is Switzerland with a throw blanket. Neutral. Safe, but in a way that doesn’t matter. We’ve become strangers, tiptoeing around each other, avoiding the things that matter most.

The cushions press into me, but they don’t comfort me anymore. I can’t help but wonder if the couch misses me. Or maybe it’s not about the couch at all. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just holding onto something that’s been gone for a while, like this space, this life I once knew, but don’t know how to live in anymore.

I sigh, looking around the room. Everything feels off

London doesn’t feel like home.

I’ve been here long enough now that I should feel more rooted, right? But something about this place still feels so... foreign. The city is too big, too busy. Everyone's on a mission, too preoccupied with themselves to care about the newcomer trying to carve out a little space in it all.

And George—well, George was always too preoccupied. Too busy with his own life to care about mine. He never introduced me to his friends—not properly, anyway. I was just the girl who showed up sometimes, drifting in and out of the background of his nights, the one who sat quietly on the couch, the one who hung out in the kitchen while everyone else made plans. I don’t even think he noticed how I ended up alone when he was off with his mates, disappearing into the crowd like I was just another fixture in the flat.

There was that one party—Calfreezys? During my first two weeks in London. The one where he took me, thinking it would be fun, and then basically ghosted me the entire night. I stood in the corner, nursing my drink, watching everyone else laugh and mingle, while George was in his element, making jokes with his friends, slipping into his world like I wasn’t even there. He didn’t bother to introduce me properly. Just a quick, “This is YN,” before turning away, as if the rest didn’t matter.

I tried to laugh it off then, tried to convince myself I didn’t care. But deep down, I knew. I knew I wasn’t part of it. That night, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be, but it felt like a cold reminder.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm just a visitor. Like this place is temporary, but I can’t even tell if that’s because I’m waiting for something to change or because I’m waiting for myself to find the courage to leave.

I know I’ve harped on about this for the entire time I’ve been here, but I can’t shake it. The loneliness is sinking into my bones, creeping up like a cold draft that I can’t escape, no matter how many layers I put on. It’s more than just being by myself—it’s the constant hum of the city that never slows, the sea of faces that I’m never a part of, the noise that only makes me feel more invisible.

I didn’t think it would feel like this. I didn’t think I would feel this... lost.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just the city, or if it’s me. Maybe I’ve gotten so used to hiding behind jokes, behind distractions, behind whatever George and his mates thought I should be that I don’t know how to not be alone anymore.

But... Will.

Will is the only thing that almost feels like home. The way he holds me when it’s just us, how his arms wrap around me like they were always meant to. The way he makes me laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s pulling me under. When he’s around, everything feels a little bit simpler. Easier. And for the first time in ages, I don’t feel so...

alone.

Yet at the same time, he’s also the one thing I can't quite fit into place.

There’s always this distance between us. Not in the way we talk or the way we touch, but in the way we never quite ask the deeper questions. He doesn’t ask too many of them. He doesn’t expect much from me, either. He’s content to let things flow, to leave things unsaid, and maybe that’s part of why it works—or why it feels like it works. But I can feel it—the quiet uncertainty. This weird in-betweenness we’re both floating in, unsure of what comes next, both of us reluctant to make it anything more than what it is. We haven’t labeled it, haven’t defined it. And part of me is fine with that. It’s easier this way.

Still, when I’m with him, it’s like there’s a quiet truth between us. Something unspoken but understood. No matter the silence or the tension, there's this strange comfort in knowing that we’re both feeling the same thing... or at least, I think we are.

But god, it’s so much fun. I’ve not had this much fun in so long.

Exploring each other—emotionally, physically—everything feels so new, like we’re testing the boundaries of something neither of us fully understands yet. It’s light, it’s playful, it’s intense in a way I never imagined. I don’t know if we’ll ever have it figured out, but for now, I don’t care. I just want to keep laughing, keep making memories with him—before the inevitable question of what happens next arrives.

But for now, I’m lost in the moment—lost in the way he looks at me, the way we make each other feel alive—and I don’t want to think about what’s coming next, not yet.

xxx

I don’t know when it became a secret, exactly. It’s not like Will and I sat down and drafted a pact over takeaway noodles. No one said, “Let’s hide this from the group.” But it’s sort of happening anyway.

Quiet texts. Late-night Ubers. Him slipping out of the flat before anyone else wakes up.

And when someone—usually George—asks where I’ve been, I say something vague. “Just at Ruth’s.” Or, “Stayed at a mate’s.”

Not always a lie. But not the truth, either.

And Will doesn’t call me out on it. He just… plays along.

Like it’s a bit. Like it’s part of the fun.

Maybe it is. Maybe it started that way.

We've only just crossed that line, after all. We’re new. Unlabelled. Fragile in the way new things are. Keeping it to ourselves made it feel easier. Lighter. Like we could enjoy it without having to explain it.

Without giving everyone—George included—a reason to dissect it. Because if we say something, it becomes a thing. And things in their friend group? They don’t stay quiet for long. Everyone has opinions. Everyone likes to joke. Everyone has a social media platform that something could accidently be spilled to.

And Will and I… we don’t even know what this is yet. So we keep it close.

Private.

Ours.

Still— There’s a part of me that feels weird about it. Like I’m sneaking around when I shouldn’t have to. Like the other night, when I got home late and George asked where I’d been. I said “just at Ruth’s” before I could think twice. His expression didn’t change much, but something about the way he looked at me made my stomach twist.

Not because I think he knows. But because I hate the way part of me still cares what he thinks. And maybe that’s what I’m trying to avoid.

The commentary. The comparisons. The questions that would come if people knew. Like, “I thought you and will didn’t get along?” Or worse—“Wait, is this why things have been weird with George?”

It’s not.

At least, I don’t think it is. But the truth is… Will and I are figuring it out. We’re still laughing our way through the awkward bits.

Maybe I’m afraid of George finding out because I still care what he thinks.

Maybe it’s because some part of me is still bitter he didn’t want me, and now I don’t want him to think I moved on so fast—like I never meant it.

Like I was just lonely.

Or maybe it’s because I’m scared that if I say it out loud—“Will and I are a thing, kind of”—

then it will be a thing.

And I don’t know what the hell I’d do with that.

xxx

Will and I fumble into my flat like we’ve broken in, like the night is something we’ve stolen and have to spend fast before anyone notices.

He hasn’t been back here since that night—since he kissed me with all our friends just one room over, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it didn’t matter.

It kind of did, though. Everything felt a little too loud after that.

I don’t know how we ended up here tonight. He has his own place. He lives alone. That’s the whole benefit of dating a man who doesn’t share walls with three other YouTubers and a collection of mystery tripods.

But I was finishing late at work. He offered to wait. We had a drink. And then another. And I guess when you have three glasses of wine with your pub dinner and he’s looking at you like that, you start thinking sleeping together in a flat with three roommates and paper-thin walls is actually a good idea.

Spoiler: it’s not. But right now I don’t care.

His hands are on my waist. We’re both slightly uncoordinated—half tripping over my trainers, knocking into the IKEA shoe rack that’s somehow always loose on one side. He’s laughing into my neck like this is all funny, like we are funny, and I love that. I love that we can’t quite walk in a straight line around each other.

He presses me against the door just as it clicks shut behind us, and I feel it—that slow, heavy thrum of want. Familiar now, but never dull. It’s always a little new with him. A little dangerous in the best way.

“I thought we were going to yours,” I murmur against his jaw, already breathless. Only now realising just how silly of a plan this is.

Will grins, unbothered. “You looked like you needed saving, and your flat is closer.”

I huff a laugh. “So this is charity work now?”

He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Public service.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s already grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I kiss him to shut him up—hard and fast—but it backfires. His hands slide under my shirt like he’s been waiting hours, not minutes, palms warm and greedy against my skin. Like we’ve got all the time in the world and I've got no flatmates.

Then I’m pinned against the kitchen counter. My breath hitches, my heart racing a little faster than it should. Instinctively, my hand goes back, steadying myself against the cool granite. Of course, this means I knock into the spice rack.

A few jars tumble, crashing into the sink with a clatter that feels way too loud for a moment like this.

“Will,” I hiss, breath catching as his fingers toy with the clasp of my bra. “We’re in the kitchen.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Flat’s quiet,” he says, like that’s all the justification he needs to get me half-naked next to the toaster.

I bat his hand away, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You’re out of your mind.”

He smirks, that devilish cocky grin making my heart stutter. “You’re into it.”

Before I can protest again, my hands are on his wrist, tugging him toward my room. My breath hitches. My self-control is about to completely combust.

“Will,” I snap, glancing nervously toward the hallway. “Someone could walk in.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even hesitate. The smirk on his lips is pure mischief, but his eyes—they’re all hunger now. “Then you better hurry up and take me somewhere I can do this properly.”

I don’t think twice. I grab his wrist again, this time pulling him into my room with a sense of urgency that only makes everything feel worse—in the best possible way.

God help us if George’s door is open.

My door clicks shut behind us, and the hum of the hallway light fades as Will crowds me back toward the bed—my bed, crammed between boxes of ring lights, tangled cables, and a monitor that hasn't been turned on in months.

We are pressed up against the door like criminals hiding a body — except the crime is tongues and poor impulse control.

Its starts like it always does with Will—messy, impulsive, like we might both think better of it if we paused for even a second. It's familiar now, reckless in a way I didn’t expect to crave.

I grip the edge of his hoodie, dragging him closer, and my back hits the edge of the mattress, half-covered in unfolded laundry. He laughs against my mouth when he knocks over a ring light leaning against the wall. The light hits a case of old tripods, and something inside rattles, loud in the quiet.

"Jesus, your room's a death trap," he mutters, voice low.

"It’s not mine. It’s a glorified storage unit with a bed," I whisper back, tugging him down by his collar. He comes willingly, all heat and hands and that annoyingly cocky smirk. "But t’s fine. If anything falls on us, we die doing what we love," I whisper, trying not to grin.

He raises an eyebrow. "Shagging in a storage cupboard?"

“Something like that.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I forget where the joke ends. His hand slides beneath my shirt, warm against my skin, and I lean into it, into him. The room smells like dust and laundry detergent and the faint citrus of his shampoo.

I can hear George’s voice faintly from the next room. Something about editing. He's probably still up, headphones around his neck, furrowed brow, legs crossed in that way he does when he’s hyper-focused.

And I hate that I notice.

Even now.

Will's hand skims my waist, fingers brushing skin where he's pushed my shirt out of the way. I suck in a breath, not from surprise—I've gotten used to this routine with him—but from how easy it is to forget everything when his mouth finds the side of my neck.

"You're thinking again," Will murmurs, pulling back just enough to search my face.

"I'm not," I lie. He knows I am. He just doesn't press.

My suitcase is still half-unzipped in the corner. Clothes spill out of it like I never really decided to stay. Like I was waiting to see how it would feel here before committing to drawers.

Will’s hand slides into my hair, tugging gently as he kisses me again—deeper this time. I let myself fall into it. His mouth. His weight. The scratch of his stubble against my cheek like an anchor, grounding and familiar. His knee nudges between my thighs, and my breath catches, involuntary and aching.

And then, Laughter, through the wall.

George.

Followed by another voice—female, warm, soft in a way that immediately twists something sharp in my chest.

I go still. Will notices. Of course he does. His thumb brushes my cheek, his voice low, gentle, lips ghosting mine.

“You good?”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, just—” But my pulse betrays me. I can hear George. Probably still perched at his desk, headphones half-off, hoodie hanging loose the way it always does when he gets lazy about the heating. He’s probably tapping his foot, laughing at something on screen, completely oblivious to the way his voice still curls like smoke into the corners of my room.

Will doesn’t move. Doesn’t pressure. He just presses his forehead to mine with a soft sigh, like he already knows where my head is trying to wander.

“We can stop,” he says quietly. “If you’re not in it.”

But I am.

I shake my head, firmer this time. “No, no, please. I want this. Want you.”

It comes out muffled, tangled between kisses, but I mean every word. My mouth is on his again before I can second-guess it—desperate, certain, like I’m trying to prove it with my teeth.

Will makes a quiet sound against my lips, somewhere between a breath and a groan, and it lights something in me. He pulls me closer, like he’s been holding back and I’ve just unlatched something in him. His hand slides down my back, anchoring, fingers curling at the hem of my shirt like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“I mean it,” I whisper, and this time I pull back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his face, trying to make sure he knows. “fuck, please, right now, I just—need you.”

Will’s expression shifts—softens and sharpens all at once. Like he’s letting himself believe me. Like I’ve just answered a question he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.  

His forehead presses to mine again, and for a second, we just breathe there. No rush. No pretending.

Then he kisses me—slower this time. Sure. Reverent in a way that feels like he’s thanking me without saying a word. His hands are everywhere now, but careful, always careful. Like I’m something worth holding right.

And maybe I am.

I want to be.

I want him.

Not just because he’s here and George isn’t.

Not because he’s warm and beautiful and knows exactly how to touch me like I’m something worth figuring out.

But because when he looks at me, it’s real. Solid. No second-guessing. No waiting to be chosen.

With Will, there’s no power game. No unspoken test I have to pass.

There’s just us.

His hand on my hip.

His mouth on my neck.

The way he always checks in like I matter.

And I know it’s messy. I know it’s early. I know I haven’t untangled all the knots left behind. But Will isn’t a placeholder for the feelings I haven’t processed. He’s something else entirely. Something new.

I pull him down with me, wrapping my legs around his waist, not out of desperation—but decision.

A choice.

Because I want him.

I want the way he kisses me like he means it.

The way he makes me laugh when I’m two seconds from spiralling.

The way he never makes me feel like I have to be anything more or less than exactly who I am in this moment. The laugh through the wall fades. So does the echo of everything I haven’t said.

I kiss Will again—harder this time, yes, but not out of anger. Not out of pain. Out of certainty. Because for the first time in a long time, I feel wanted. And more than that—I feel like I want someone back.

Fully. Freely.

And he’s right here. On me. Around me. Mine.

His weight presses into me like a secret, warm and heavy and real. His hands slide under the hem of my shirt, skin to skin, and I can barely think, let alone breathe.

"Literally everyone is home, we have to be quiet"

“You’re the one making noise,” he mutters, dragging his mouth back to mine. “If someone hears us, I’m blaming your inability to whisper.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I whisper, deadpan. “Next time you stick your tongue down my throat, I’ll take minutes instead.”

Will huffs out a laugh.

“That’s the attitude that made me hate you, by the way.”

“You didn’t hate me,” I murmur, letting my hand wander up under his T-shirt.

“You just couldn’t handle me being funnier than you.”

“I still can’t,” he admits, smiling against my lips.

It’s crooked and soft and the kind of smile I know I shouldn’t read into — and do anyway. We stare at each other for a beat too long. Then he kisses me again.

It’s back to messy. Hungry. More desperate — like we’re both running out of excuses but sprinting forward anyway.

I tug at his hoodie, and it—and the T-shirt underneath—are gone in one smooth pull, tossed carelessly into the open suitcase by the bed.

My work shirt follows, slipping off my shoulders and landing somewhere between a pile of tangled cords and the box labelled "wires??" in Sharpie.

Everything feels like it’s unravelling. In the best way.

Like we’re pulling thread from something too tight, too tense, and letting it fall loose.

His mouth is on my collarbone now, hot and steady.

My fingers dig into the bare skin of his back, and all I can think is yes, this—this is what I want.

Right here.

Right now.

Him.

Let George have his night.

I’m having mine, too.

Xxx

Will’s hand is resting flat on my thigh, warm and relaxed. His breath is slow, close against the back of my neck. I’m not sure if he’s asleep yet—I’m not even sure if I want him to be.

The air’s cooled a little, window cracked open from earlier. I can hear London beyond it—distant sirens, the hum of a train, the occasional clatter of someone drunk and laughing down the street.

I don’t know why the quiet always makes it worse. Or clearer.

My suitcase is still open on the floor. Half-packed, like I’m still not sure if I’m really staying. Like some part of me is still waiting for an out, like I’m still waiting for a sign that this isn’t where I belong.

I thought Brisbane would be it. Thought maybe if I went back, things would settle. That I’d feel anchored again. But my grandma died, and suddenly everything that once held weight felt hollow. Familiar streets didn’t comfort me. Sunshine didn’t fix anything.

Nine months later, I was dragging my life through Heathrow again. George said I could crash here—"Just till you find your feet"—like no time had passed since uni. Like we hadn’t grown apart and moved cities and maybe moved on.

But here I am. In George’s spare room. In George’s flat. In George’s life.

Except right now, it's Will's skin against mine. his laugh still ringing softly in my ear from earlier, his hands moving like he actually wants me—not like I’m just a passing thought.

I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t expect him, of all people—the one who used to roll his eyes at everything I said, who once told me I looked like a stressed-out Pomeranian when I tried to parallel park. But something changed. Slowly. Quietly. And now he looks at me like I matter.

And I think—I really think—this might be something.

Not just a distraction. Not just a reaction to George.

I wanted George. For so long I thought maybe he’d feel the same. When I finally took the leap, he kissed me—and then stepped back like I’d thrown a grenade. A silence followed that stretched for a month, colder and heavier than any outright rejection.

But even as I try to move on, part of me still reaches for George—the way his smile flickered with something unspoken, the hesitations that hung between us like a fragile thread, the endless waiting for something that maybe was never meant to happen.

But here I am, lying in my bed with Will , tangled up in questions I don’t have answers to: Why him? Why now, when everything felt so locked down? What exactly am I supposed to do with this sudden softness from him?

Will doesn’t make me feel fragile or half-seen. He teases, pushes, pulls me close, but beneath the surface, there’s something quieter, something harder to read. Like he’s waiting to see if I’m worth the risk.

I shift, careful not to wake him. We’ve never done this before—been here like this, quiet and tangled. Will he leave soon, slip back into his own life where I’m just a late-night memory? Or maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a little longer. Take me out for breakfast before work, buy me a takeaway coffee before I catch the tube. The thought feels both hopeful and terrifying, like a question I’m not sure I’m ready to ask out loud.

Still, lying here now, I let myself imagine what it might mean if this could be more. If Will’s here for me, not because it’s easy, but because he chooses to stay.

I press my face into the pillow, soft with his scent.

It’s not love. Not yet.

But maybe it’s a start.

Xxx

The kitchen smells like garlic and basil, sharp and bright, with a zing of lemon zest teasing at the edges. I’m standing at the counter, swirling the glossy green pesto around the bowl like it’s some kind of sacred elixir, while Ruth hacks away at the pine nuts with a precision that can only be called professional.

“How do you make this look so damn easy?” I ask, trying to mimic the way she moves—effortless, like she’s been orchestrating pesto symphonies since birth.

Ruth shrugs, her lips curving into that lazy, half-smile that usually signals she’s not giving up all her secrets. “Mostly luck. And a lot of stirring. You have to coax it, not shove it. Pesto’s a diva.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “A diva with a killer taste, then. I’m just trying not to murder it.”

“You’re doing fine, Pesto Padawan,” she teases, tossing me a wink. “Just don’t ask me to babysit a soufflé.”

I’m about to reply when Ruth raises an eyebrow, a new energy in her voice. It’s not her usual easygoing tone—it’s more… sharp, like she’s picking up on something I’m not saying.

“So,” she says, leaning in a bit, her eyes scanning me like she’s about to crack open a secret. “You never told me what actually happened after Friday. The night you vanished with Mr. Brooding. Did he even like you, or was he just hungry?”

I feel my pulse skip. I try to keep it light, but the weight of it—the reality of Will and I—is there, humming under the surface. “Yeah, well… we ended up going home together.”

Ruth’s grin widens like she’s won some sort of personal victory. “No shit, Sherlock. But seriously, why? And what now?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way I don’t want to admit. “I just… stopped pretending it wasn’t a thing. And he was into it, which helps. We’ve been seeing each other, kind of… casually. Trying to keep it on the down-low.”

Meanwhile, we’re both elbow-deep in the pasta prep, a mountain of spaghetti still swirling in the pot—enough to feed a small army. The smell of garlic, basil, and pine nuts fills the air as I continue to mix the pesto, Ruth adding more oil with a knowing flick of her wrist. This is no small batch; we’re making enough pasta to feed half the building.

Ruth folds her arms, her gaze sharp as she watches me, her lips pressing into a knowing smile. “So, this is cloak-and-dagger stuff. Keeping it from your flatmates too?”

I nod, feeling that familiar tension creep in. “Yeah. Sometimes, it feels like the apartment’s weirdly silent. Like I’m... hiding something. But I don’t want to make it a thing. No drama, no heavy expectations. Just... whatever this is. But that’s the problem.”

Ruth sets down the knife with a soft thud, her expression shifting, as if she’s not just reacting to me but feeling me, too. “Whatever this is? You sound unsure. You and I both know you’ve never been great with ‘casual’ anything. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending. Whatever’s going on with you and Mr. Brooding—if it’s more than just sex, then maybe it deserves to be out in the open.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I try to shrug it off, but the truth is, I know she’s right. It’s all a mess of half-truths and missed signals. “It’s not that simple, Ruth,” I mutter, still stirring the pesto like it’s going to give me some answer.

Ruth’s eyes soften. She steps forward, setting a hand gently on my shoulder. “Yeah, I know it’s not. But when you’re already juggling two lives, it’s hard to figure out where you even belong.”

My chest tightens at her words. She’s got this way of cutting through the noise, and it stings. “London’s so damn big,” I mutter, my voice quieter now. “Everything’s just... harder here. I thought it’d feel different, you know? Like I’d find something—someone—who made it feel less lonely.”

She tilts her head, as though weighing something. “And does Will do that? Make it feel less lonely?”

I freeze, my spoon stilling in the bowl. Ruth’s got that directness about her that I can’t escape. And honestly? I don’t even know what to say. So I settle on something that’s technically true but not exactly the full picture. “He makes it better, I think.”

Ruth smiles, though it’s tinged with something softer now. “Sounds like you’re already halfway there, then.”

I shake my head, trying to suppress the tension building in my chest. “I just... I can’t tell if I’m doing this right. I want him, but I can’t just make this real yet. It’s... too messy. And besides, what if George finds out?”

Ruth’s expression hardens, just slightly, like she’s already piecing this all together. “Yeah, I get it. The thing with George. But you can’t keep letting his opinion weigh so much. You’ve got to start doing things for you, YN. George doesn’t dictate who you’re allowed to see. So, why does it matter so much what he thinks?”

I bite my lip, caught between the truth and the guilt I feel. “I mean, I guess... you’re right. But I’ve known George a lot longer than I’ve known Will. He’s one of my best mates. And right now? Everything’s just so weird with him. I don’t even know what to call it. We’ve never been like this.”

Ruth’s eyes narrow, considering. “Exactly. You’ve been mates with him for years. You can’t let him control your life just because it’s a bit messy right now. Besides, you’re not just shagging Will, it’s... different. And I know that.” She leans in a little, her voice quieter now. “It’s okay to have things that are just yours, you know? You’re allowed to keep that. You deserve that.”

I swallow, feeling the weight of her words settle on my shoulders. But then something clicks, and I can’t help but deflect, the weight of George’s expectations still hanging over me like a cloud. “I know. But I don’t want to make things worse with him. He’s always been there for me. Letting me crash on his couch whenever I needed it... it’s just… I feel like I’m betraying that somehow. And I don’t even know what to do with that feeling. It’s just so weird now.”

Ruth’s mouth twists into a little smirk, her usual playfulness returning. “Diva, you need your own place.”

I blink, thrown off for a second. “What?”

She folds her arms, leaning against the counter. “You need your own space, YN. A place where you don’t have to worry about George walking in on you or pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. You can’t keep playing in limbo. It’s unhealthy. No wonder you’re getting all tangled up with how you feel about Will. You’ve been hiding for too long.”

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle over me like a heavy blanket. I try to brush it off, but the truth is, Ruth’s right. My “room” is nothing more than a corner of the flat that’s more like a storage unit than a space of my own. The walls are lined with mismatched furniture, boxes, and random stuff—Georges old textbooks, clothes Arthurs outgrown, the things Chris has shoved away when he didn’t want to deal with them. The only real “furniture” I own is a bedframe, a mattress, and a second-hand bedside table that my glorified-fuckbuddies friend saw on Facebook marketplace.

“I’ve been looking, Ruth. I’m not just sitting here doing nothing. It’s hard. I’m a foreigner, and all my uni flats were sublets. I don’t even have the documented rental experience that landlords want. No one’s taking me seriously, especially when my references are from student gaffs.”

Ruth smirks at that. “You’ve been hanging around northerners too much,” she teases, a grin tugging at her lips. But it fades quickly as she studies me, her expression shifting into something half-sympathetic, half-exasperated. “God, I hate how difficult the rental system is for people like you. But you’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t keep pushing for it. Seriously, YN, don’t let this city swallow you whole. Get out from under George’s roof. It’s time you had your own place, your own life. You’re not a visitor here anymore.”

We've finished our pesto now. Its staying hot in the hotbox.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve tried everything. I’ve been calling estate agents, checking places... and nothing’s come through. I’m starting to feel like London just doesn’t want me here.”

Ruth, without missing a beat, opens the fridge and grabs a tub of mascarpone, while I begin rinsing the pasta. Her movements are automatic now, and within a few seconds, we’re both silently gathering ingredients for dessert, like it’s second nature. She pulls out a box of ladyfingers and a bottle of espresso—of course, I didn’t even have to ask.

Ruth reaches over, squeezing my shoulder like she’s trying to calm the storm brewing inside me. “London doesn’t want you to quit. Don’t let it win. And you’re not alone in this. Will’s on your side, too. He’s not just a distraction; he’s your support, even if things feel weird between you two.”

The words feel heavy, but they also land in a place that I didn’t expect. “You think so?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

She nods, her smile warm, but determined. “I know so. And you don’t need George’s permission to make this work. You’ve got to go after what you want, YN. I mean, look at us—how long did we wait to make this volunteering thing happen? But we did it, right? You’re stronger than you think. Just trust yourself.”

I look at her, feeling something settle in my chest. Ruth’s got a way of making me feel like I can do anything, even when the weight of it feels like too much.

“Alright, alright,” I say with a forced grin. “I’ll keep looking. But honestly? I might end up with a cardboard box on the corner if this keeps going on much longer.”

Without missing a beat, Ruth grabs a mixing bowl, dumping the mascarpone into it, while I grab the sugar and the coffee. She looks at me, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Don’t tempt me to come be your roommate. I’ll take cardboard box next door.”

I snort. “Yeah, because that’s gonna be fun.”

We move in sync, the conversation flowing naturally as we whip up a quick tiramisu—no planning, just muscle memory. Ruth’s got a way of making the kitchen feel like it’s ours, no pressure, no expectations.

Ruth bumps me with her hip as she grabs the pasta pot, and we fall into our rhythm again—laughter, lightness, and the feeling that for a moment, I’m not just trying to survive London. Maybe, just maybe, I’m beginning to belong here. We spoon the layered dessert into small cups, finishing with a sprinkle of cocoa powder, all while making plans for our next mid-work catch up lunch.

It’s easy. And the loneliness that is deep-set in my bones starts to melt away, just a little. The rhythm of cooking, the low hum of Ruth’s voice, the familiarity of it all—it's like a temporary escape from everything that’s weighing me down.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[sathereal]

WITH OR WITHOUT YOU — S. GOJO

❝ sleight of hand and twist of fate ; on a bed of nails she makes me wait ❞

PAIRING — kingdom au ; peasant!gojo and princess!reader

SERIES SUMMARY — sneaking out was something y/n would never do, not in a million years. she followed the rules without question, always striving to embody the grace and dignity expected of her. raised to serve her kingdom with honor, she never imagined straying from the path laid out for her. that was before she met a charming peasant named satoru. now, y/n finds herself torn between duty and desire, between the life she was born into and the one her heart quietly longs for. to follow the rules would mean security and legacy. to follow satoru would mean freedom and love. for the first time in her life, y/n must choose.

SERIES CW — 18+ mdni, fem!reader, smut (eventual), forbidden romance, emotional repression, hurt/comfort, angst, trauma response, blood/injury, violence, class divide, protective gojo, slightly manipulative behavior, power imbalance, reader has a vagina, longing, identity concealment, arranged marriage themes, war references, emotional vulnerability, corruption, heavy tension. (may update)

chapter one

SUMMARY — the softness of an inexperienced princess and the ruggedness of a runaway warrior collide after y/n is rescued from the chaos of a starving, angry kingdom. in the quiet aftermath, something unfamiliar begins to stir—something that shakes the foundation of who she’s always been. as tension and connection grow between them, y/n finds herself questioning not only the expectations placed upon her, but the very nature of her devotion to them.

WC — 7.5k

authors note — thank you so much for considering reading!!! i haven't written fanfic, or been on tumblr, since 2021 so i apologize if the writing isn't enjoyable/is bad. i have no idea if it's a good idea for my first piece back on here to belong to a series but whatever. i truly hope you enjoy. the smut isn't going to be in this chapter, but it will eventually come up in the series!

masterlist (wip) ; series masterlist (wip)

y/n’s silk slippers, emerald green to match the adornments in her hair, brushed softly against the cool brick of the pathway leading into a garden of blooming morning glories and vibrant spring flowers. the rising sun cast a golden warmth over the garden, coaxing a small but deeply needed smile to her face. spring had finally arrived.

the long-awaited season broke through the cold grip of a bitter winter, a winter that had cloaked her kingdom in despair. the village beyond the castle walls had suffered greatly. death and disease had swept through the land, leaving behind sorrow that clung to every home, every heart. though warmth had always been at y/n’s fingertips, tucked safely away in the castle, her heart ached relentlessly for her people.

"your highness, the queen has requested a change of clothes for you." the faint yet familiar voice called out. y/n turned to see her lady-in-waiting approaching with careful steps. "she said what was picked out for you was too extravagant."

after offering a gentle smile, y/n looked down at her dress. a gown of cream silk, soft to the touch, that shimmered like morning light. layers of sheer fabric floated with the wind, and golden floral embroidery bloomed across the bodice and sleeves as if it had been kissed by the sun. tiny pearls adorned the neckline, and at her waist, a delicate belt of gold thread was fastened with polished emeralds, each one glinting like dewdrops in the early light.

"i dare say mother is right, kasumi," she said softly, fingers grazing the intricate stitching, "yet i am saddened. a bright dress for a bright day... spring is finally blossoming."

y/n stepped closer to her beloved companion, the scent of the garden curling gently between them.

kasumi’s expression shifted. "i wouldn’t quite say a bright day, considering the reasons for the village having an audience with the king."

y/n dropped her head slightly, knowing that kasumi was right. the troubles of last season had stirred deep unrest in the villagers, but she held faith that the king would make a just decision. he had always done right by his people, so why would he stop now?

but more than that, the queen wanted her daughter to be seen. to walk among the people, to smile through sorrow, to remind them that even after such a harsh winter, there was still gentleness, still light. the princess was to be that light, a promise that spring’s grace had returned to them.

the pressure of what y/n was about to endure—the thought of seeing the village’s suffering with her own eyes—wrapped tightly around her chest. the anticipation made her steps slower, heavier. she had seen sorrow from the castle windows, but to walk beside it... to meet the eyes of those who had endured such loss... that was something else entirely.

starting her way back into the castle, y/n gestured for kasumi to take her arm.

“thank you for all you do for me, kasumi,” she said softly, the corners of her mouth lifting with effort. “you’re truly my greatest friend.”

kasumi’s hand slipped into the crook of her arm with ease, her presence steady and grounding.

“and you are stronger than you know,” she replied. “whatever you face today, you won’t be alone.”

they continued their quiet walk, the morning light casting golden patterns across the stone floor, as if the sun itself wished to lend its warmth to the princess’s burden. the distant hum of the awakening castle just beginning to stir. petals danced in the breeze behind them, and for that brief walk, the weight of duty felt just a little lighter.

gojo had started his morning the way he always did. miserable. he hadn’t been in the kingdom long, having made his move there just last summer. the bitter, sorrowful winter that followed didn’t give him much hope for a future in the place, but it was all he had. running from the past didn’t leave many choices. so he kept his head down, swallowed whatever trouble came his way, and did his best to blend in, to survive. maybe one day, eventually, make something of himself here.

but every morning still felt like a weight. cold, uncertain, and heavy with the feeling that he didn’t quite belong. he pulled on his clothes for the day, his bland, poorly stitched linen that hung awkwardly on his frame. the fabric itched slightly at the collar, and the seams threatened to unravel at his elbows, but it did the job. no one in the village cared about appearance. not in times like these.

his job at the most popular tavern in town, kaisen, was modest but honest. he scrubbed dishes, swept floors, and occasionally helped serve customers. it wasn’t much, but it was quiet. safe. and for someone like gojo, quiet and safe was all he could ask for. at least, for now. 

on his way to work, gojo noticed something was off.

the town was louder than usual, buzzing with uneasy energy. it wasn’t the usual morning chatter or vendors setting up stalls. no, this was something different. even the weak and ill, who usually stayed tucked away in shadows or doorways, were out in the streets, their voices rising with urgency. it piqued his curiosity.

he slowed his pace, then veered off his path to work, deciding a detour wouldn’t hurt. weaving through the growing crowd, he tried to catch fragments of conversation, eyes scanning the restless faces around him. with every step, the tension thickened.

something wasn’t right.

people jostled for a better view of the road that led to the kingdom gates, and gojo’s gut twisted with unease. he didn’t like crowds, it had too many eyes, too much risk. whatever this was, it was big and maybe, just maybe, worth knowing.

gojo’s shoulders tensed as he pushed past a group of villagers, murmurs slipping through the rising noise like threads waiting to be pulled.

“they said the princess is coming” someone blurted from the crowd.

gojo narrowed his eyes. a princess? out here? it didn’t make sense. royals didn’t walk among commoners, especially not during times like these, when the kingdom was still hurt from winter’s chokehold.

he moved a little closer, staying quiet, blending into the worn faces and layered clothes around him. another voice spoke up, bitter and low.

“hope, they say. like hope is gonna feed our children or fix our homes.”

gojo’s gaze shifted toward the road. he didn’t believe in royals. not their smiles, not their charity. but if one really was coming out here, he wanted to see for himself.

that’s when he saw her.

she moved through the crowd with quiet grace, but what caught gojo off guard wasn’t her face, it was how plain she looked.

too plain for a royal.

she wore a fitted lilac gown, simple in design, nothing crafted to draw the eye or demand attention. a single silver belt cinched her waist, the only ornament on the entire ensemble. her hair was styled simply, too. no elaborate braids or jewels, just a thin silver band that matched the belt and the delicate silver threading of her slippers.

gojo blinked, trying to reconcile the image in front of him.

no guards announcing her presence, just following her every move. no fanfare. no lavish silk or golden embroidery. just a girl who looked more like a ghost of nobility than a princess, and yet, despite the simplicity, there was something about her. something still…untouchable. it brought confusion to gojo. a royal dressed like that, walking among them? he couldn’t make sense of it.

some of the villagers scoffed at the sight of her.

“who are they fooling?” a man muttered, arms crossed, eyes sharp with resentment. “they lived well while we starved and died.”

others nodded in agreement, their faces worn and hollow, unmoved by the softness in y/n’s eyes or the simplicity of her gown. to them, it wasn’t humility. it wasn’t hope. it was a mockery. a silk-wrapped gesture meant to feel human, but it stung instead, like rubbing salt into wounds that hadn’t healed. gojo stood silently among them, the voices rising around him like a tide of quiet anger. he didn’t speak, but he listened. they didn’t see a princess bringing spring. they saw a girl playing dress-up in sorrow she’d never tasted. and yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

gojo didn’t move, he just watched her, standing in the thick of the crowd, heart drumming a little faster for reasons he didn’t understand. his jaw tensed as the villagers’ words swirled around him. they were sharp, bitter, deserved. he couldn’t blame them. not after what they’d been through. not after what he had seen.

winter had torn through the village like a curse, ripping families apart, leaving more graves than full bellies. and while the people suffered, the castle remained warm. untouched. distant. he should’ve felt the same anger they did, in a way. so why now—looking at her in that plain lilac gown, with nothing but silence—did something twist in his chest?

maybe it was the way she looked at the crowd. not above them. not through them. she looked at them. not like a royal, but like someone who felt something, but feelings didn’t fix hunger and kindness didn’t bury the dead. gojo let out a slow breath, gaze narrowing.

she doesn’t know this life, he reminded himself. she doesn’t know what it costs to survive. and yet…something about her still made him hesitate.

before gojo could make sense of the feeling pulling at him, the sharp sound of trumpets cut through the air. the crowd stirred, voices dropped and heads turned. the announcement was unmistakable. it was the return of the army.

y/n’s brother, the crown prince, was coming home. and with him, the soldiers who had survived the war against ryomen sukuna, the ruthless leader of the opposing kingdom. the war that had drained the kingdom dry. gojo’s stomach twisted.

it all made sense now. the famine. the shortages. the silence from the palace while villagers buried their loved ones and rationed crusts of bread. everything had been fed to the war effort. every coin, every prayer, every promise, and now the victors were marching home.

the crowd began to shift, pressing toward the road. some craned their necks in search of familiar faces, others stood still, arms crossed, eyes filled with quiet rage. joy wasn’t the emotion that settled in the air, it was weariness, bitterness. gojo didn’t move, not yet. he glanced back at y/n. her posture was graceful, but her eyes, they weren’t celebrating either.

the rumble of hooves followed the trumpets, growing louder with each passing second. armored riders crested the hill in formation, the gleaming silver against the morning light. banners bearing the royal crest fluttered high above them, proud and pristine. but pride was not what filled the street.

gojo could feel it, like a low hum beneath his feet. the crowd wasn’t cheering. there were no songs, no applause. just shuffling feet, tightened jaws, and eyes that had seen too much to forget. he watched a mother clutch her child closer. an old man turned his back entirely. soldiers returned with medals and polished boots, but the people greeted them with silence. this wasn’t a homecoming. this was a reminder, a reminder of the price paid. of the sons and daughters who didn’t come back. of the money funneled into battle while the villagers burned their furniture to stay warm.

he saw y/n again, standing at the edge of the road, her expression unreadable. calm, maybe. or just practiced. she didn’t wave. she didn’t smile. and for a moment, gojo wondered if she felt it too, that tension that sat like a storm cloud between the people and their protectors. he wasn’t sure if it made her foolish or brave, standing out here like this, but she didn’t look away and neither did he.

as the army drew nearer, y/n stepped forward from the crowd, alone, save for a few soldiers who kept a respectful distance. her back straight, hands folded gracefully before her, she looked every bit the image of royal composure. gojo noticed the slight lift of her chin. the way her fingers tensed around the fabric of her gown. a trumpet blared again, louder this time.

“presenting crown prince megumi fushiguro, heir to the throne, commander of the king’s guard, and defender of the realm.”

the name rang through the crowd. megumi. 

gojo committed it to memory without thinking. he barely had time to consider it before the first screams pierced the air. not from joy, but grief.

a woman fell to her knees, her hands clutched over her mouth. beside her, a man stood frozen, eyes searching the procession for someone who never returned. gojo saw the realization spread across the crowd like frost: some would not be coming home. it was a quiet devastation, the kind gojo knew too well. the soldiers passed solemnly. faces were unreadable, eyes straight ahead, and then the prince appeared.

megumi rode at the front, sharp, poised, distant. he barely spared his sister a glance. gojo’s brows lowered slightly as he watched the prince ride past y/n, offering her no more than a flick of his gaze. no words. no warmth, just a silent dismissal, but she smiled anyway, just a small one. a respectful dip of her head, an offering of grace where none had been given. gojo couldn’t tell if it was for the people, for herself, or because she cared for her brother. then megumi addressed the crowd.

“to those who have lost family, i offer my deepest condolences,” he said, voice firm, carefully measured. “your loved ones fought bravely. they will be remembered.”

then he moved on. gojo stood still, arms crossed over his chest, something sharp curling in it. he said all the right words, gojo thought bitterly, but not one of them felt real. his eyes flicked back to y/n. she was still standing, still silent, the silver belt catching the light as the wind stirred her gown, and for the first time, he wondered what it cost to be her.

“that’s all you offer us?” the voice rang out, sharp and unafraid.

“after everything we sacrificed for this war?” the crowd rippled. heads turned. the man stepped forward, eyes burning. “your lack of empathy is appalling.”

a murmur grew into something louder, the frustration taking shape, grief turning to rage. more voices joined his, fueled by loss and hopelessness.

megumi didn’t flinch. he remained composed, expression unreadable, gaze fixed ahead as if the cries of the people weren’t meant for him, but the crowd didn’t fall silent. they turned to her.

“you’re well clothed, well fed, while we lay here in this state?”

“you’re all monsters.”

“you don’t deserve the crown. you deserve death, to be with the innocent people who were killed under your hand.”

gojo’s body stiffened. he could feel it, the way the energy shifted, sharp and dangerous, all of it aimed at her and she just stood there.

y/n didn’t cry. she didn’t shrink away. but her eyes, he saw it. the way they glossed, how her chest rose with a quiet, steadying breath. she wasn’t heartless, she wasn’t cold. she was enduring it. feeling it. the people couldn’t see it, blinded by the ache in their own hearts. all they could see was gold-stitched guilt and silver-threaded betrayal, but gojo saw her and for the first time in a long time, he felt something he thought he’d buried. the need to protect someone.

the crowd was moving now, not just yelling—inching closer and y/n, for all her composure, for all her quiet grace, now wore fear across her face like a veil. it was subtle, but unmistakable, her eyes wide, lips parted, body frozen in place. the guards reacted quickly, forming a barrier around her. swords drawn, stances firm but gojo could see the panic behind their discipline. there were too many people, too much grief turned into fire. 

megumi was gone. he had slipped into the castle, untouched, unmoved, whether out of ignorance or apathy, gojo didn’t know. maybe he hadn’t expected this. maybe he just didn’t care, but y/n was still here and suddenly, gojo couldn’t stay still anymore. the crowd surged, voices rising, hands reaching. and before he fully realized what he was doing, he was moving with them. not in anger, not in protest, but with purpose. a purpose to protect her.

he pushed past shoulders and outstretched arms. after ducking beneath someone, he reached her. y/n’s eyes locked on his for the briefest second, confused and terrified, but before she could speak, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“don’t scream,” he muttered.

then he ran. the guards didn’t even have time to stop him. they were locked in with the crowd, trying to hold back the storm. gojo ducked down an alley, moving fast, y/n’s weight light against him as her slippers skidded across stone.

what had he just gotten himself into? his heart thundered in his chest. a runaway, a peasant, now probably facing a jail sentence. but he didn’t stop, not when she was shaking. not when he could still hear the cries of the mob behind them.

they were miles from the kingdom now, hidden deep within the forest, where the air smelled of damp moss and the only sound was the rustling of leaves and their breath still catching up to them. y/n’s body trembled. not from the run, not entirely. the fear still clung to her skin like cold water.

she had known the people were uneasy. she expected grief, sorrow, maybe even coldness. but this? the hatred in their eyes, the accusations spat like venom, she hadn’t been prepared for that and now, she was alone. no guards. no brother. no familiar walls to shield her, just him. the stranger who had pulled her from the crowd like a storm dragging her off course. she sat a few feet away from him now, still catching her breath, gaze flicking to his face—and his eyes.

blue.

not the soft kind, but sharp, almost unnatural. they watched her with an ease that made her wary and yet they drew her in. he grinned suddenly, catching her stare.

“beautiful, aren’t i?” he said with a smirk, not the least bit shy about her lingering gaze.

her cheeks flushed with heat. she turned her face away, biting back a response. not from offense but from something else. something dangerous. she wasn’t used to feeling this.

he was handsome, undeniably so. toned in a way that didn’t make sense for someone who supposedly spent winter starving. his white hair stood out against the forest green, wild but not aged. he looked young, maybe only a few years older than her but something was off. there was a looseness in his posture, a confidence that didn’t match the villagers she’d met. he wasn’t afraid, that made her nervous.

deciding she needed to breathe, y/n lowered herself into the forest floor, the moss cool beneath her palms. her chest rose and fell in heavy, trembling waves, her body still recovering from the sprint and the sheer panic of it all. she could feel his gaze linger, but not unkindly, it was curious and sharp, and she wasn’t sure if that unsettled her more than the crowd had.

“who are you?” she asked finally, not looking at him, but not afraid of the answer either. her voice was quiet but firm. the princess was still in there, somewhere beneath the fear. there was a pause, deliberate. then, from beside her, came a voice far too relaxed for the situation.

“wouldn’t it be more exciting if i kept that to myself?” he said. “names have weight. and i get the sense you don’t give yours freely.”

y/n turned her head just enough to look at him directly. he reclined in the grass like a man without consequence, his arms behind his head, legs crossed loosely at the ankles. everything about him suggested detachment, but his eyes were alert. assessing.

“you brought me into unfamiliar territory without escort or permission,” she said coolly. “i believe i’ve earned at least a name.”

he grinned. “fair enough. it’s satoru.”

she studied him. “is that your given name?”

“it is,” he said, gaze still on the trees above them. “and before you ask, i have no titles, no house. just satoru.”

y/n gave a small, reserved nod. “very well, satoru.”

he turned his head toward her at the way she said his name carefully, almost musically. then, with a smirk, he added, “but if you’d rather call me something sweeter, i won’t complain.”

“i’ll manage,” she replied, lips pressing into a line.

“if you intend to use this situation for leverage,” she added, her voice even, “i warn you that i will not be easily manipulated.”

satoru sat up slightly, leaning forward just enough to catch her gaze.

“what would i even do with a princess?” he asked, his tone quieter now, a little less teasing. “i’m not here to ransom you or threaten you.”

“then why are you here?” she asked, genuine curiosity seeping through her formality.

he shrugged.

“rescuing royalty,” he said, voice low, eyes narrowing with amusement. “it’s a new hobby of mine.”

y/n studied him for a long, quiet moment. he was charming but not careless, not entirely. there was something practiced in the way he deflected, how he kept just enough of himself hidden beneath easy smiles and sharp eyes.

“where are you really from, satoru?”

her tone was polite but expectant. not a demand, not yet. his grin didn’t falter, but his eyes flicked away, just briefly.

“somewhere that doesn’t matter anymore,” he said.

she didn’t believe that but before she could press further, he shifted, resting on one elbow and tilting his head toward her with a casual curiosity that barely masked his deflection.

“then let me ask you something, princess,” he said, voice low. “why were you at war?”

the question hung in the air. it was not a challenge, not quite, but loaded all the same.

she inhaled slowly, trying to quiet the ache in her chest. “to protect the kingdom,” she said carefully. “to stop sukuna from advancing further. we couldn’t afford to lose more than we already had.”

he nodded slightly. not agreeing, nor was he disagreeing.

“and still,” he said, glancing up through the trees, “the streets were lined with hunger. the faces in the crowd, they didn’t look like people who’d been defended.”

y/n’s gaze lowered. “after all the starvation, there weren’t many people left to defend.”

the silence that followed was heavier than before.

“war always takes more than it gives,” satoru murmured. “even when it’s necessary.”

his tone was softer now. not mocking, not cold, almost understanding. y/n turned toward him slightly, studying his profile, how his eyes didn’t quite meet hers now, how something behind his calm seemed distant.

“you’ve seen it, haven’t you?” she asked. “war.”

he didn’t answer and that, somehow, was answer enough.

y/n found herself far more intrigued by the stranger who called himself satoru than she cared to admit. there was something about him. his evasiveness, the casual charm laced with shadow, the way he said everything and nothing at once. she wanted to know more. needed to. there were so many unasked questions, so many possibilities lingering beneath that sly grin.

who was he, really? a mercenary? a runaway soldier? could he have even been a spy for sukuna? the thought sent a chill down her spine. before she could follow it any further, a sharp throb in her ankle pulled her back to the present. her breath hitched. the adrenaline had masked it until now, but the pain was rising steadily. she shifted her weight slightly and winced.

looking down, she noticed a tear near the hem of her gown, the delicate fabric stained with small streaks of crimson. she must have cut herself, perhaps on a branch or a jagged stone during the escape. the gash wasn’t deep, but it was raw and bleeding. her jaw tightened, more from frustration than pain. she hated showing weakness, especially in front of someone she barely knew but satoru was already glancing over, brows lifting with a flicker of concern.

“is everything alright?” satoru’s voice broke the silence, low but laced with concern, maybe. he inched closer, head tilting just slightly as he looked at her more carefully.

y/n immediately shifted, pulling her dress around her and covering the wound with her hand.

“yes,” she said quickly, too quickly. he didn’t believe her for a second.

with an exaggerated sigh, he rolled his eyes and closed the remaining distance between them, his movements unbothered, almost careless, especially for someone addressing royalty.

“you really think i haven’t seen worse?” he muttered, brushing her hand aside.

“excuse me—” she began, eyes narrowing.

“relax, i’m not trying to offend your royal pride,” he said, already kneeling to inspect the cut. “just making sure you’re not dying or anything.”

he scanned the wound with practiced ease. it wasn’t deep, just messy and scraped raw. he let out a silent breath of relief. the last thing he needed was for the princess of shibuya to bleed out in some forgotten part of the forest because of him. he was already in enough trouble for dragging her here without permission. if anyone saw this, it’d look bad. really bad.

"you’ll live,” he said, glancing up at her with a crooked smirk. “but don’t worry, i won’t take credit for the dramatic rescue and your injury. that would be greedy.”

“you left her in that chaos?” the king’s voice thundered through the private chamber, fury rising like a storm behind his eyes as he turned to megumi.

megumi stood rigid, jaw tight. he’d faced war. blood. death. but this—his father’s wrath—was something else entirely.

“i didn’t know it would turn that violent,” megumi said, voice even. “she had guards—”

“guards?” the king snapped, stepping forward. “you think a few swords would be enough to shield her from the rage of a starving kingdom?”

he laughed bitterly, but there was no humor in it—only disbelief. “you knew the state of the people. everyone in this part of the world does. and still, you walked away.”

megumi didn’t respond. he couldn’t.

“she’s never known violence,” the king continued, tone darkening. “never questioned her place, never defied an order. she’s lived her entire life tucked behind these walls, doing what was expected—what we asked of her.”

the king’s gaze bore into his son now, disappointment layered beneath the anger. “and you left her.”

he slammed his fist against the lacquered table, the crack of it echoing off the stone walls.

“this kingdom is barely holding on—once thriving, now on its knees before ryomen sukuna. and now? now we’re fielding marriage offers from lesser bloodlines just to salvage our standing.”

megumi’s fists clenched at his sides. he cursed himself, silently. for being careless. for underestimating the unrest. for leaving her alone, for being so unlike the king he was expected to become.

megumi had always been calculated and precise. it was what earned him command of the army, what made others trust him with strategy and lives. but now, standing under the heat of his father’s fury, he couldn’t help but wonder how hadn’t he seen this coming? or worse, maybe he had seen it and he just didn’t want to.

the truth clawed at the edges of his mind. over a year of bloodshed, march after march, watching comrades fall beside him, torn to pieces in battle. the screams, the silence that followed, the stench of death. it was all carved into him now. a permanent fixture, a sickness he’d stopped trying to cure. he didn’t want to read crowds anymore. didn’t want to anticipate the next riot or feel responsible for every life around him.

he just wanted to be home. in silence, in stillness, but even here, in the place he was raised, there was no comfort waiting for him.

only consequences.

as the tension in the chamber mounted, the doors burst open with a clang of steel. a guard rushed in, his face pale, chest heaving beneath his armor.

“your majesties,” he said, dropping to one knee. “i bring grave news.”

the king turned sharply. the queen, who had only just arrived at the threshold, froze mid-step.

the guard swallowed. “the princess…she’s missing.”

a silence fell so heavy it felt like the room had stopped breathing.

the queen’s expression crumbled, horror overtaking her features. “what?” she gasped, staggering forward. “no—no, that can’t be—how?” her voice broke as her hand flew to her mouth. “were you not with her? how could this have happened under your watch?”

the guard kept his eyes low. “there was unrest among the people. the crowd grew violent. we tried to hold them back, but in the chaos, she vanished. we’ve sent search parties beyond the gates.”

the queen turned to megumi then, her voice rising, desperate. “you were supposed to look after her. you left her out there.”

megumi’s fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked, eyes dark with something unspoken—but he said nothing.

the king didn’t speak either. he stood still, unnervingly so, but panic thundered behind his eyes. his daughter, his symbol of peace was gone. taken or lost, he didn’t know, but his heart sank with paralyzing thoughts of what could be happening to his only daughter.

“we’re making all possible efforts to locate her—” the guard began, voice tense.

“all of your efforts,” the king snarled, cutting him off, “had better bring her back.”

he turned sharply to megumi, his voice dropping into something colder. more final.

“as for you megumi, i want you out there with them. now. i don’t want to see your face in this palace again until your sister is found and returned alive.”

megumi opened his mouth, but the king didn’t wait for a response.

“we’ll be meeting with ryomen sukuna soon after,” he added, spitting the words out like venom before storming from the room, the doors slamming behind him.

the queen stood trembling, her hand pressed to her lips. her eyes shimmered with fear but she said nothing, only stared at the empty space where her husband had been.

megumi stood frozen, his thoughts racing.

why would father mention sukuna now? he wondered. why does y/n need to be here for that meeting?

then the realization hit him—sharp and sickening. a marriage proposal.

one of the offers the king had mentioned earlier. a political move to stabilize their faltering kingdom. a last resort, perhaps. or worse—something already in motion. megumi’s stomach twisted. he had seen what sukuna was capable of. he was more beast than man, a king built on cruelty, conquest, and power. and the thought of his sister standing beside that creature as a bride caused disgust to fill his body.

he clenched his jaw, the rage settling in his chest like fire. he would find her, and he would never let her be bound to a monster.

it had been hours since satoru had pulled her from the chaos. the forest around them had grown quieter, shadows stretching long between the trees, and with every passing moment, y/n’s anxiety deepened. the night would be approaching soon.

they were far from the castle, far from any path she recognized and no one had come for her. part of her was terrified to go back, to face the people, to feel their fury again. but she couldn’t stay out here forever, not in the woods, not as a fugitive from her own kingdom.

a soft rustle caught her attention. satoru had returned to the mossy clearing, his sleeves damp, hands slightly chilled from the spring water he’d used to clean the cut on her leg. he looked oddly thoughtful, gaze distant, as if turning something over in his mind.

maybe rescuing her hadn’t been a mistake. maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. not a problem, but a chance. something good. maybe, just maybe, the king would reward him for his noble act. stranger things had happened.

her voice broke through his thoughts, soft and sincere.

“thank you, satoru.” she stretched her hand across the moss, fingers brushing the green, plush surface. “you’ve shown me nothing but kindness, even though we were strangers until today. i am truly grateful.”

he turned toward her slowly, catching her eyes. then his lips curled into that familiar, shameless grin.

“is this where i’m granted a soft kiss from the beautiful princess?” he teased, leaning back on his hands with exaggerated ease.

y/n let out a small breath of a laugh, shaking her head as she looked away, half amused, half flustered.

“i said grateful,” she said, voice cool, but her smile betrayed her.

“gratitude comes in many forms,” he said with a wink. “i’m just listing my preferred one.”

y/n’s gaze lingered on his a moment too long.

there was something in his eyes. mischief, yes, but also something gentler beneath it. sincerity, maybe. or simply the ease of someone untouched by court expectations.

her eyes drifted, almost unconsciously, to his lips. they did look soft.

she caught herself and turned away sharply, shaking her head, embarrassed by her own thoughts. what am i doing? she scolded herself. this is not the time.

she was a princess who was hidden away in the woods, having narrowly escaped the fury of her own people. a nation on edge. a brother who’d abandoned her. a father likely enraged. he was a commoner. a stranger. a man who spoke in riddles and smiles, and yet somehow made her feel safer than the guards who’d sworn to protect her.

absurd, she thought. still, her heartbeat refused to steady.

gojo bit back a laugh.

he’d been a womanizer once, without apology. before shibuya, before the war, before he started running. charm was easy. flings even easier. women came and went like passing seasons. beautiful, forgettable.

but none of them had been like her.

no one had ever looked at him the way she just had. not with judgment or fear, but with curiosity. like she was trying to piece him together, even as she tried to convince herself to stay away.

and now she sat here, barefoot and bruised, more royal in rags than any crown had right to be. trembling yet dignified.

dangerous, he thought. because she could be the one thing i don’t walk away from.

“your brother, the prince,” gojo said, shifting his weight as he leaned back against a tree trunk. “what’s his deal?”

his tone was casual, but the question was deliberate. he needed to change the subject, to get his mind off the fact that he was sitting too close to a girl he had no business feeling anything for. especially not this girl.

y/n’s brow twitched ever so slightly. the phrasing alone, what’s his deal, felt irreverent. careless.

she turned her eyes toward him, cool and unimpressed. “how would you feel if you’d just returned from bloodshed?” she asked, her tone sharper than before. “months in the field. death in every direction. carrying home less than half of the men you left with.”

her expression soured as she spoke, but only for a moment. then, as her eyes met his again, she remembered.

he had seen war too. maybe not in royal armor, but she’d seen it in the hollowness behind his grin. in the way he didn’t flinch when danger rose. in the quiet that followed his charm.

gojo didn’t respond right away. he only watched her, the teasing in his face dimming slightly.

“yeah,” he murmured after a beat. “i’d probably shut the world out too.”

and that was exactly what gojo had done. he shut the world out because letting it in only made it harder to survive.

he wasn’t just some drifting villager, not really. he was a warrior, though few would guess it from his lazy grin and half-hearted jokes. he’d lived under another name, one spoken in whispers across bloodied fields.

the honored one.

his skills were unmatched. fast, ruthless, precise. a ghost in battle, a weapon disguised as a man. he didn’t belong to any one kingdom, he just moved from war to war, hired by crowns and councils that didn’t care who he was, only what he could do. he fought for coin, not cause. for survival, not loyalty.

none of those wars had ever been his. but that was what he signed up for, wasn’t it? to be needed, not known. to win, not belong.

now here he was, watching a princess run her fingers through moss and speak with a fire in her chest he hadn’t felt in years. and for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about the next job.

he was thinking about her and that scared him more than any battlefield ever had.

“i apologize,” the princess said gently, her voice quiet against the rustling trees. “i shouldn’t have said that. i have no idea what you might’ve gone through.”

her eyes held something vast. not just beauty, but depth. grace that hadn’t been trained into her, but born with her. it caught him off guard. how effortlessly kind she was. not just polite, not out of duty. why would a royal, the daughter of a king, apologize to someone like him? to a man she thought was a commoner, a nobody?

she didn’t know the truth. didn’t know the blood on his hands, the names he’d left buried in forgotten battlefields. didn’t know that the people who had once called him the honored one had also feared him and yet, here she was. offering him softness no one had ever spared him.

nothing about y/n was selfish. nothing about her matched the other royals he’d worked for. those who wore crowns but ruled with coldness. no, she was different and that, more than anything, made her dangerous. kindness like hers could make someone like him believe he was worth saving.

“i guess i can forgive you,” gojo said with a smirk, his voice curling into something playful. “even though i never got that kiss.”

his grin was easy, teasing, meant to lighten the mood, to sweep away the weight of everything they weren’t saying. he hated intensity, especially with women. it made things complicated. made him feel too much.

his smile showed a joke, nothing more than a light flight, but his eyes, his mind, wanted more. he felt drawn in. he wanted to feel her soft lips on his. his eyes betrayed him, part of him wasn’t joking. there was something about her that pulled him in. soft, steady, and dangerously quiet. the kind of draw he couldn’t joke his way out of.

he imagined what it might feel like. her lips against his. slow, uncertain, but real. not because of status or gratitude or timing, but because she wanted to be there in that moment.

he let the thought pass, barely, and leaned back again like it hadn’t crossed his mind at all.

y/n wasn’t experienced in romance, not truly.

she had yearned for it once, quietly, in the tender days of her youth—those fleeting moments between duty and obedience, where dreams whispered what it might be like to be seen beyond her title. she remembered a curious prince from years ago, her seventeenth birthday gala, his hand at her waist during a dance, his smile warm, his words flirtatious.

for a moment, she’d believed love might feel like that, but it had passed. and nothing had come of it. still, she remembered how her chest had fluttered. how her heart had ached when he left. and yet, even then, she hadn’t understood it. not the way she felt now.

gojo was nothing like that prince. his gaze didn’t feel practiced or polished—it felt sharp. real. there was a weight in the way he looked at her, like he saw more than a princess in fine slippers and political worth. like he saw a girl with bruised ankles and trembling hands and still thought she was something worth staring at.

y/n didn’t know what to do with that.

she had always done what she was told. silence came naturally. obedience even more so. her place in the world had always been defined for her. here now, sitting beside gojo, tangled in moss and uncertainty, she didn’t feel like a princess. she felt like herself, something she didn't even know existed and she didn’t know if that was terrifying or intoxicating.

the darkness began to settle around them, the sun barely threading its last golden rays through the trees. long shadows stretched across the mossy ground, and the once warm forest now felt a touch colder—more uncertain.

“i think we need to take the risk and go back,” y/n said softly, a hint of unease in her voice. her fingers curled slightly into her skirts.

she’d never been beyond the kingdom walls at night, the dark outside the castle was unknown. it wild, full of sounds she didn’t recognize and dangers she’d only heard in whispers.

gojo glanced at her, then stood, stretching casually before turning to scan the trees with a deliberate ease.

“oh don’t worry, gorgeous,” he said, flashing a grin. “you’ve got me.”

he meant it as a tease, but his eyes were serious as they swept the surrounding woods, alert for anything that moved. despite everything, he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her.

when he sat back down beside her, the air between them shifted again.

a soft floral scent rose from her skin. it was delicate, sweet, and entirely her. it slipped into his lungs and lingered there like a whisper.

a pretty scent and a prettier girl.

he drew in a slow, quiet breath, grounding himself.

he could control himself—he would, but it was getting harder. every moment spent beside her, every glance, every breathe had pulled at something raw inside him.

don’t be reckless, he told himself. not with her.

y/n felt warmth rising in her chest. it was not from fear, but from the man sitting beside her. the creaking of the trees, the rustle of leaves, even the cold night air. they all faded in comparison to the intensity of gojo’s presence. his arm brushed hers slightly, and it was as if the forest disappeared.

“you’re gorgeous yourself, you know,” she said quietly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

immediately, her eyes widened.

what are you doing? heat rushed to her cheeks, and she turned her face away in quiet horror.

get it together, she scolded herself, you don’t say things like that. not to him, but next to her, gojo smirked with his gaze still fixed forward.

oh, he’d heard it and he definitely knew he still had it in him. even in simple rags, women adored him.

“oh, am i?” gojo teased, his voice low, the amusement curling at the edges. “then why can’t you look at me right now? it’s as if you’re scared of my face.”

y/n’s breath caught, her chest rising just a little too fast. slowly, almost hesitantly, she turned to face him. moonlight streamed through the trees, casting silver across his features—softening the sharp angles, lighting up the ocean of his eyes.

and god, they were beautiful.

“i don’t think anyone could be scared of your face,” she murmured, the words quiet but steady. “least of all me.”

their eyes locked in the stillness. her fear, his pride, the cold night, the warmth between them, it all hung in the air like something waiting to fall.

without much of a second thought, y/n leaned toward him, drawn in by the quiet intensity behind his eyes, they were hypnotic. glacial and burning all at once. the kind of gaze that made her forget titles, rules, the world entirely.

she wanted to feel his lips on hers. she wanted to lose herself in this handsome stranger who had risked everything for her and in that moment, it didn’t feel reckless, it felt necessary.

gojo knew it was coming, he knew it probably shouldn’t happen. something in him also knew he wasn’t going to stop it.

he moved in too, slow and steady, as if he could meet her halfway without shattering the delicate thread between impulse and restraint. their faces were just inches apart, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“y/n.”

the voice broke through the stillness, dull and distant, but unmistakable. flat, trying too hard to sound calm. as if someone had buried their panic beneath stone. her name hung between the trees, and everything stopped.

© sathereal 2025 — do not copy or repost as your own.

[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.

⤷ 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 !

[boopiemadz]

popular reader x loser Travis where after a long, stressful day all they need is each other. As in cuddling, wrapped up in each other's arms. Just pure fluff :)

(Don't know if this has been asked before, sorry if it has. Just need some comfort. Having troubles lately) - 🌟

!Populargirl X !LoserTravis

"Wrapped in your arms" (blurb)

(collection masterlist)

The cabin creaked under the weight of wind and snow. Dinner had been miserable - hard to even call it dinner due to the scarce amount of it there was. Melissa and Akilah exchanged some sharp words. Misty snapped at everyone. And Mari kept looking at you like had done something wrong for breathing too loudly.

You were tired of it. The constant tension, the hunger, the silent accusations, the way everyone flinched at shadows now. The way no one really laughed anymore.

Even you.

You used to be loud. Warm. The girl who walked into a room like she belonged there - all mascara and perfume and light.

Now your hands were always cold. And you were so, so tired.

You sat on the floor of the cabin by the back wall, knees hugged to your chest, trying not to cry in front of anyone. Travis hadn’t said a word at dinner either. He’d looked just as worn down. Maybe worse.

You figured he was off sulking somewhere - or freezing outside like he did when the walls felt too tight.

So when he suddenly knelt down beside you, silent and uncertain, it caught you off guard.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Really looked at you.

You stared at him for a second - the furrow between his brows, the rawness under his eyes, the way his hands fidgeted like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. Your voice cracked when you whispered:

“Can I just… be with you right now?”

Travis nodded. Fast. Like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

Without another word, you both stood up and he lead you to the room he had shared with Javi that was now also inhabited by you. You practically flopped down, the mattress was cold and smelled like smoke and damp socks, but when Travis laid beside you, it didn’t matter.

He curled into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he needed to make sure you were real. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, your nose cold against his skin.

For a while, it was just breathing.

Yours and his.

Shaky. Then steady.

“You’re always warm,” you murmured, barely audible.

Travis huffed out a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true,” you whispered. “You’re like… the only warmth that’s real anymore.” His hold on you tightened slightly.

“I hate it here,” you confessed, voice breaking. “But I never hate being with you.”

“I don’t either,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’d survive this without you.” You shifted to look at him.

Travis looked up, eyes suddenly locked on yours. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel like myself. Like I’m not going crazy. Like I’m still… someone.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t look away. His hand reached up, tentative fingers brushing your cheek. Then your hair. Then curling behind your ear like it was muscle memory.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. Like it had been building in his throat for hours. “I don’t say it enough, but I- I do. I love you so much.”

Your heart swelled like it hadn’t in weeks.

You cupped his face, leaned in, and pressed your forehead against his. “I love you too. So much it hurts sometimes.”

The kiss was soft. Slow. Not desperate, not wild - just full. The kind of kiss that said 'thank you for surviving today with me.' The kind that made your whole body ache in the best way.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your head against his chest and breathed in deep.

You both smelled like smoke. Like cold wood and desperation. But under all that, there was still you and him. Still love.

And for once, that night, the cold didn’t feel so sharp.

Because wrapped up in Travis’s arms, in that godforsaken cabin, you were finally home.

A/N-

Reminder that you are loved and important! Also sorry if this came off angsty- kinda a habit...